Jackamo

“It’s a good thing we get along so great in bed,” I said, “Because I don’t think we could ever actually share a meal together.”

She agreed. While my cooking skills had warmed the hearts of many, she would not thaw for anything other than deli turkey, like a child. Like her child. Turkey was the one food I generally refuse to eat. But she was the first date I had in over a year who actually contributed weed of her own, and the only girl I knew who had no problem dealing with the snow, thanks to her jeep with a Rudolph head strapped on to the front. She was an awkward, silly girl who always found it funny when I told her I thought she was tough and sexy.

We got stoned and made out, listening to music as she sat on my lap. We sang along to “Iko Iko,” which I only knew from Warren Zevon’s failed debut album, and she only knew from her daughter’s children songs.

My grandma and your grandma were sittin by the fire.

My grandma told your grandma, I’m gonna set your flag on fire.

She broke out into a little pattycake session with her legs up on the table and her head tilted back on my shoulder.

Hey now (hey now), hey now (hey now), I-ko, I-ko, un-day Jock-a-mo fee-no ai na-né, jock-a-mo fee na-né

She knew I wanted her to go in the bedroom by the way I tugged at her dress, so she rose from the couch. She started to walk past me, but I stopped her. This black cocktail dress she put on for no other reason than to take off, I let my hands get to know the fabric. My fingers explored the stitches, folds, wrinkles. My thumb teased the edge of her hem, a gentle reception between her inner thigh and my grasp, which began to wander and intimate itself with her curves.

Look at my king all dressed in red

I-ko, I-ko, un-day.

I betcha five dollars he’ll kill you dead

Jock-a-mo fee na-né

I cupped her ass, placing my face on the side of her hips, embracing her, then started rubbing her pussy from behind, which is my favorite way. But after a moment I pulled back so she could see me lick her coulis from my fingers.

Hey now (hey now), hey now (hey now), I-ko, I-ko, un-day Jock-a-mo fee-no ai na-né, jock-a-mo fee na-né

Then I pulled her dress up just a little so I could run two fingers up the front and finger her as she stood before me. She doubled over, still standing, but supporting herself on my shoulders, leaning in to tease my ear with her lips, then her tongue. It was an awkward position, but I kept the rhythm going – I kept my lips going too, even if I was just kissing parts of her dress. She was wet like wine you spilled in your sleep. Wet like my eyes after a dream. Wet like daybreak. Her legs shook unexpectedly as she started whimpering. She started swaying. She started cursing. She started mumbling unintelligible prayers. She started to cum, gripping my shoulders tighter as she thrust herself on my fingers until she finally crumbled.

Hey now (hey now), hey now (hey now), I-ko, I-ko, un-day Jock-a-mo fee-no ai na-né, jock-a-mo fee na-né

I gave her a moment to recover, then brought up my fingers, fragrant as macerated fruit, sugar syrup now slightly tacky forming a web between my fingers. They disappeared into her mouth. I stroked her hair and brushed it aside to asked her, “Laura?”

She pulled off of my fingers, with a little drip. Still gasping she shook her head and grinned. “No.”

This was the second time she was here, but I still didn’t know her name, yet with each orgasm I was one guess closer to finding out.

Back in the bedroom, I was trying to coerce the information out of her. Hints at least. If I had to make her cum to get a guess I was going to withhold her from cumming until she would have to tell me. And it didn’t work. And it drove me mad. And I decided to just make her cum until that was torture in itself. And as fun as that was, it was more torture for me. And I pulled her hair while she choked on my cock. And I tied her hands behind her back and spanked her and slapped her after every time she came and demanded to know, what does it start with, or how long is it, or what does it end with, or is it from the bible, or what. And somewhere between shudders and moans and the sounds of slapping skin came a confession: she bleated out what letter her name ended with, and that it’s the name of a song I would know. And in that instant I no longer cared what her name might be. I knew that at this point if I really wanted to know, I could easily find out. I liked knowing her, but I was way more turned on by the fact that she was saved in my phone as just a question mark.

Hey now (hey now), hey now (hey now), I-ko, I-ko, un-day Jock-a-mo fee-no ai na-né, jock-a-mo fee na-né

Advertisements

Death of a Mattress

Endeavour_silhouette_STS-130

The Ikea mattress had only been with me a few months and was already destroyed. It was hardly meant to support someone of my own weight, much less two or three people. The rows of pocket coil springs were splayed and bulging and pushed way into my back. It was a temporary replacement anyway since I was tired of sleeping on the couch.

At the store, when they show you the mattress, and the insides, it looks logically beautiful, rationally comfortable. But even a good idea, turned on its head, will hurt your back. And now I tried envisioning the mattresses’ topography, based on how it felt. My right thigh rested within its abyssal plain, while my left was beached on a shore of pillows. My head lay off the face of the earth, staring out into the exosphere.

“No more boots on the bed,” I muttered to myself.

The fissures and faults found a flux of faceless flesh. My breath was still. My mind was still. The world was still. My neighbors didn’t exist. Work was a fiction. I gave no thought to the rotting avocadoes in the kitchen. For all I cared I was dead. And I loved it.  I held on to this little death as long as I could, until I heard someone approaching from the bathroom door. It was a familiar sequence. The water ran, the door latched, the floor creaked, but I panicked as I tried to remember who it was. They were just here, who was it? Fuck fuck who is it? How could I forget? It seemed as though entire civilizations rose and fell in the time since I expired. I ran through a list of names but came to realize they were just failed grunts. until I saw her upside-down face appear, framed by her breasts which she dangled before me, bending down for a kiss.

I told her how prostitutes in the wild west would put a leather blanket at the bottom of the bed, because men didn’t want to take time removing their boots. She didn’t seem to care or understand. She simply groaned, and then drowned herself in my rocky ocean.

I remembered her name now, and how we got here. I said “I told you so” and she didn’t respond. I chuckled because earlier that night she prided herself on her endurance and drive and told me she was always ready for it, always up for a go, always down for more, like I was the bottleneck in her sex diet. I told her I was going to prove her wrong and that no matter how much it hurt me, I was going to hurt her even more.

If she thinks I can simply be swallowed up and forgotten, I will take it as a challenge. Each time she approached the cusp of orgasm she would gasp deeply, holding in her breath. Then she held off the release for as long as she could, each one a little longer, until it pushed forth in a delightfully torturous, weeping convulsion. I would give her a few seconds to calm down, then tell her how to change positions, because that’s what she liked. She wanted to see what I’ve learned.  I gave it to her until she cried out that she couldn’t take anymore, slapping me on the chest. Having recovered for a while now I tugged on her from within the mattress.

“Turn over,” I told her. She waivered. Huffed. “Turn over,” I repeated, pressing my cock against her leg.

She managed to squeeze out a no. “What did you say?”

“No,” she said again, trembling. “Later.”

“When?” I asked.

“Couple days,” she said.

“Yeah,” I said, “that’s what I thought.”