Saturday, July 23, 2011
Wobbly times number 120
Victor moved tightly against Sheilaugh’s fragrant body. As he kissed her, she levered her groin into his. Sheilaugh's tongue entered, just touching Victor's own. Then, they broke their embrace, emerging past the handball court wall that had hidden them from public view, strolling onward toward the locker room.
"I wonder how the market's doing."
"Does it matter now?" Sheilaugh dead panned.
"Capital gains", he smiled, "I bought Coke yesterday."
"I see", she grinned. “But, your stock certificates are dated, no?”
“Look, I'll meet you at your place about seven tonight."
At that moment, Victor looked to be deeply engrossed in serious thought. He had forgotten that about the sale dates on his stocks.
“Have I forgotten anything else?” he worried to himself.
"Not getting cold feet are we?" Sheilaugh challenged, looking Victor directly in the eye.
"Oh no. I'm absolutely clear about you and our venture, you above all. No, I'm just wondering whether we've really thought of everything, made all the calculations correctly. There are so many angles to consider. And then, there are the machine calibrations. I've GOT to make them come out perfectly---not one digit off. The mechanism is so delicate."
"Your calculations will be fine, Victor. They always are. Let's get this show on the road. I'm so bored and tired of this life of always hiding. I want us to have a future and I want that future NOW!"
Sheilaugh disappeared beyond the heavy, “W” emblazoned doors to the locker room. A moment later, Victor passed into the steamy, tiled section of the men’s shower immersed in reflection.
"Still, I've got to make sure that it's RIGHT." His cravings for Sheilaugh knew no bounds. It blinded him to all his other needs as well to considerations of what he could do without. Victor had it bad and, as the old blues song goes, “that ain’t good.”
Mark was mowing the lawn when Sheilaugh pulled their Spyder into the driveway. He pushed the 'power off' button, as she opened the candy apple-coloured door of the Fiat.
"Hi Hon! How's your game today?"
"Quite good. My backhand needs some work though."
Mark admired his wife's brown legs. Her shapely body stirred a sensual yearning in all males and he was no exception. He felt an excitement in his loins as his gaze fell on her curvaceousness body. He took Sheilaugh's hand and kissed her cheek while putting his other hand just under the hem of her short white tennis skirt on the fleshy part of her exposed buttocks.
"Mark!" , Sheilaugh groaned. The tone in her voice was noticeably irritated.
"Not now! I've got to get dinner ready. You KNOW, tonight's the night of the 'Big Bras' reading circle. I have to be there by seven. We’re finishing TICKETS this evening and I want to have a shot at selecting the next novel. You know that that won't happen, unless I'm there on time."
"Oh, right, Sheilaugh. I forgot," he said, jerking his hand away from her ass like it was a hot iron. Mark started the mower back up again. He was visibly upset, pushing the cutting machine’s whirring blades vigorously across the grass. At the same time, flash thoughts of hirsute women started popping into his head. After three vengeful back and forth trips over the lawn, he began teasing himself about, among other things, the thickness and shade of the pubic hair in Megan's panties.
"Was it really red?”
As he finished the last row of grass, his thoughts returned to his wife. She would be getting ready for her shower about now. Sheilaugh loved, long, warm showers. Mark thought of the water dropping from her large, rose-coloured nipples, her ample breasts bobbing as she shampooed. He pushed the off switch on the lawnmower again and made his way hurriedly to the house. Once inside, he noisily proceeded up to the top of the stairs and into the bathroom.
"Sheilaugh, I need you," he said as he opened door. She was standing there in the nude, inspecting her face for blemishes.
"Don't be absurd, Mark. It’s 5:15. I've got to shower; make dinner and drive two miles. I don't like it when you put pressure on me. Why do you do that?"
"I'll make the dinner," he said sheepishly. “I’ve got some New York cut steak, I can make with some baked potato, sour cream and French cut green beans. How about it? Hey and I can open that bottle of Fetzer cabernet, we’ve been saving since 1977.”
Hearing nothing in response, except the closing of the shower door and the onrush of the watery spray, he knew that his proposal had been rejected. His blood boiled. He stood for moment, hoping. Then, he quickly wheeled around and walked out.
As he switched the ignition on and started the Ford pickup, he put his other hand between his legs, trying to force his bulge down. Then grabbed the gear shift, put it in first and made his way to the "U" district. He was on his way to his favorite hideout. Here, finally, he would escape the hostility at home. Here, he would find some friendly faces.
As he made his way into the Blue Moon's dimly lit, wooden interior, he noticed the Mirror Pond draft handle was back. Sue Foley's voice came from speakers strategically placed in the ceiling of the joint. Her cool, sexy phrasing wafted just above the crowd noise in the Moon, "Men lies about that. Some of them cries about that."
"Pint of Pond Scum, please."
The fresh nut tan ale poured into the glass crowned with a creamy head.
"That'll be $3.50."
"Here's $4. Keep it."
The barkeep smiled. She was young and brown. Her onyx black hair was thick, even to her eyebrows. Alas, her lips were a bit thinner than he would have preferred; however, she was still quite attractive-her olive black eyes, the sway of her skirt just disclosing the outline of her ass, her shapely legs, as she walked over to the next customer. Mark put the pint to his lips. The ale was fresh and very good. Mirror Pond was the best you could get in the Pacific Northwest and, "perhaps even the world", he mused.
His pint began partially quenching his sensual desires. Then, as it worked its way through his body, his mind reversed course. He began mentally undressing Teresa as she sauntered up and back, behind the bar.
"Her pussy has got to be thick with blackness, black on black shadows."
"Oh! Hi Megan." Mark answered, a bit taken aback.
"What are you doing here?"
"It's Sheilaugh's reading circle evening-the 'Big Bras'. Go figure. So, I decided to pop down here and have a couple of pints. What brings you to this neck of the woods?"
"Paul dumped me today."
"Oh no, really?"
"Yeah. So I'm having cakes and ale to celebrate my freedom.”
Megan looked great. Her warm smile made her look more vibrant than ever. She remained charming in spite of her trouble. Her ever alluring red hair made her extremly attractive, much more so than most women. She put her glass next to Marks's and drew up a square bar stool.
"Would you like another pint of, what was that?"
"Grants." She grinned.
It was going to be a good evening.
As Sheilaugh drove towards Seattle's city centre, a furious rain began pelting her car. She had taken the old Toyota four-door. The streets were slick, glistening in the night with shiny, wind swept rainbows. She turned the window defroster on. In spite of the downpour, she rolled her window open a crack to help prevent too much fogging. She also wanted to create a bit of a mess inside the vehicle. Her mind was moving quickly now. She came to the darkened area which she and Victor had agreed would be a good place to abandon the vehicle. Then grimacing, she took a razorblade out of her pocket and cut the tip of her left ring finger. After a few drops of blood fell on the seat, she placed a band aid over her wound and put her hair under her raincoat. She then placed six marbles from her coat pocket to fatten her cheeks. As she exited the driver's side of the automobile, she flicked the button of her umbrella. It shot open with a “ka-clump”.
"Don't forget the hat", she told herself and reaching into her coat pocket, she pulled out a soft, dark blue woolen watch cap and placed it on her head. Then, she slammed the car door shut and proceeded to walk to the cover of the adjacent bus stop, where she waited, out of the rain, exact change in hand.
Victor was engrossed in numerical gymnastics. His dry, warm 2nd story apartment was a flimsy place which had been built back in the 30's. The floors creaked when being walked on; however, it was charmingly located in an old warehouse district of the port and all, quite frankly, he could afford at the moment. Next to him, looking much like a large refrigerator was his '4 D'--- a "dimensional manipulator" was what he called it. He had stolen most of the parts that he used to construct it with from Microsoft, where he was employed as a research assistant. Victor's real interests though, had always been adventure and freedom. He acted his part at work well enough. After all, it put food on the table and electronically sophisticated parts in his hands. He didn't feel he was biting the hand that fed him. Quite the contrary, Victor felt that he was only taking back a small portion of what he had helped produce for the giant corporation. He knew that the wages system was a rip-off, no matter which corporate or State entity you worked for. He was hardly wedded to his profession as some of his co-workers seemed to be. They actually spoke in terms which made it seem as if they owned the companies they worked for. “My company makes this,” and other utter bullshit notions of their actual standing in the scheme of things.
"Bloody damp outside", Sheilaugh said as she slammed the door shut and put her umbrella in the corner to dry.
"Fucking marbles!” She placed them back into her coat pocket.
Victor looked up from his figures and into Sheilaugh's eyes.
He stood up. She put her arms around him and they embraced tightly for a time, saying nothing, just swaying like lovers at some airport departure scene.
"Are we ready?" she asked.
"Yes, Doll. The '4 D' has finally been calibrated.
Sheilaugh moved toward the ‘4 D’.
“Don't bump it!” he cried. Then, noticing that he had startled her, he softly explained,”It's quite sensitive, you know.” Then, with a devilish grin, “We meet here in five years?"
Sheilaugh smiled. Victor could resist no longer. He kissed her hard on the lips while cupping and squeezing her left breast. Sheilaugh's nipples hardened in response; she felt a tingling in her groin and so began shoving her pelvis into his.
"I love you Sheilaugh."
"Te adoro, Victor."
"I want you now."
Their hands, bodies and lips, moving across each other; they fell on the couch in a heavy breath; the smacking of saliva clearly audible to each, driving each. Victor reached under Sheilaugh's skirt and grabbed the elastic of her panties, then, with a powerful tug, he ripped them from her body. Sheilaugh gasped as Victor kept moving down her body. Putting his head between her legs, he began moving his tongue into her thick, trimmed swatch until he found her clitoris.
"VICTOR! I need you now! Fuck me! Fuck me good like only you can!", Sheilaugh gasped.
Victor fumbled with his belt, then pulled his trousers to his knees. All the time, they kissed on and off, Sheilaugh tasting her own acidic saltiness. Finally, after what seemed eternities to Sheilaugh, his cock sprang out hard as a rock. She put the back of her knees over his shoulders and he entered her stiffly, slowly putting one, two, three then six inches into her wetness. Then he stopped.
"Give it to me, Victor. Give IT-TO-ME!"
He needed no more urging. With that, he thrust his last inch into the V of her crotch then began grinding against her tightly. Sheilaugh matched Victor move for move. Then he pulled out a bit and then in again and out a small way. The couch began shaking. As the movement became more and more intense, it seemed as if the whole apartment began to shake.
Sheilaugh felt an urge coming on. "Harder, Victor, faster." Then she convulsed as she released at the peak of her passion.
"VIC!" Sheilaugh smiled breathlessly. “V-i-c-tor!” Then she loosened and relaxed.
“God, I needed that,” she whispered.
Victor looked at her, replying with low urgency in his voice, "Sheilaugh. I want you to stand up and bend over the couch."
"Not in the ass tonight, Vic. Not tonight." Sheilaugh positioned herself over the back of the couch. Victor put it where it had been only this time from the rear and began a slow, stroking, increasing the rhythm with each repetition. He reached 'round to fondle her left breast and with his right hand as he fingered her clit. His rhythm grew more intense. He noticed the wall shaking as the couch seemed to be banging against it. "The cave" he thought as he lost himself in the pleasure of it all and then he whispered it, "The cave..." And finally, pushing his cock as far up Sheilaugh's cunt as he could get it, "THE CAVE!" He ejaculated wads of cum, as his imagination transported him instantaneously back in time to a dim genetic memory.
Sheilaugh wondered whether..., then felt everything becoming much wetter and smaller.
"The whole Movement began its death spiral when Townsend pushed Abbie off the stage at Woodstock."
"YES!" Megan agreed emphatically, "Yes, that was it! The litmus test was the Airplane. You were just another hippie, if you didn't get the Airplane. The Movement just became an act of cynical rejection with no understanding and then, accommodation with the System a la Yuppiedom. "
"Or" , he countered, "You were just in it for the pleasure, the lyrics lost in the 'smoke rings of your mind' and you ended up getting a day job or pushing a shopping cart around town."
Megan swallowed the last inch of her Grants and smiled knowingly. Mark was excited. It was the first time in years that he had felt this way, this close to a woman. Sheilaugh was always browbeating him and NEVER took him seriously. In fact, most of her conversation towards Mark came in the form of ridicule for one thing or another. That made for a lack of communication and guaranteed an impoverished sex life.
Megan put her hand on Mark's knee. "Want to go home with me now?" she asked. Mark picked up the empty pint glasses and brought them back to the bartendress. Megan tossed her raincoat on. Mark followed her as Miles Davis’ muted, “Kind of Blue” trumpet provided the fanfare for their exit into Seattle’s evening storm.
Victor arrived with a numbing jolt, as if he had been spit out of a lightening bolt. His head ached badly. He noticed a clunky old pinball machine with levers and a coin slider designed to take nickels in what had been his apartment. He turned round and round. The '4 D' had vanished. The weather was cool and gray, quite normal for this time of year. Then, he saw someone out on the deck below.
"Hey, do you know what day it is?"
"Yah sure, buddy. It's Monday. Ain't it grand, Labor Day and all. We don't have to work, although what with the War and all, I'm doing a little patriotic overtime."
And then, after a pause, he muttered, "Damn Japs don't have a Labor Day."
Victor looked out on to the street. Warehouse roofs were everywhere to be seen. A '32 Ford and a '36 Chevy were parked at the curb on the street below.
Sheilaugh got out of the Ford. A child was holding her hand. In a voice filled with contempt, she yelled up to Victor, "It's about bloody time! Five years, Victor, it’s been five bloody years. The ‘4 D’ is gone; there's no use looking for it." Then, she reached into her pocket and rifled four marbles toward the second floor landing. “And by the way, say hello to your five-year-old daughter.”