In 97 days...

 
Flaxen hair and her school-girl eyes, I close my own, forgetting the thought. It doesn’t suit her, or me. They aren’t, she isn’t, just blue, blue like summer, clear as January. A girl-woman searching for affection in the eyes of strangers. She makes me shake.

I was a stranger. 
 

Then I was ball’s deep in the alley behind a supermarket, sweaty and sweet.
 

I open my caravan door. Slender hands on narrow hips, pastel-pink terry-towelling short-shorts, white tee-shirt no bra, perky, imperfect breasts. She looks at me from the bottom step. It’s a long way up to my teeth in a broken smile.


“I’m at a loose end.” She says, slinking past me into the rattle of the air-conditioning and my dull brown room. In place of food, cigarette butts on a saucer and dried tomato sauce. She pats vinyl in the breakfast nook and I slide in to sit beside her. Full lips in a strawberry Lipsmacker smile and before long, my cock in her deft hands. 


Blow me.” I want. I want. I want to say the words. I can’t get them out and then there’s sticky cum on my belly hairs, small gobs between her fingers. She wipes her hand on my shirt.


She only drinks bourbon because she thinks the boys like it. We go out, to absent ourselves from the closeness of my rooms, from the smell of old cooking oil, too many butts. Out, there are greasy burgers and long, large milkshakes. Booths where the summer heat makes the fabric of the restaurant stick to her thighs. The un-sticking, sucking noise sears my soul. I want to fuck her in circles. 


Holding it in, buying her what I can.


Shouting at one another in another noisy pub, flinging words across Other People and the band. Full lips pursed around bourbon and coke in a glass with a straw. My Wild Turkey is straight up, no ice. Talking about fate, faith, what we’ll do if her Mum dies. 


She takes a drag on my cigarette and in one puff makes it look better than I ever will long fingers tap the ash, pass it back. It’s dark outside and blissfully noiseless. I lean my ringing head against bricks, plunge one hand into my coat pocket to toy with a lighter. 


“Where are you?” she asks. It’s because she doesn’t know.


Later. Later my tongue is rough with tobacco and thick with drink. She grinds her hips against mine. I see kitchen curtains as they catch on the rough chipboard counter-top after each breeze it’s the last thing before I close my eyes, blow my mind. Gasp, ejaculate in plastic inside her. 


Afterwards, her breasts and large nipples depress against my arm. 


“The boys I’ve loved… “ trails a finger down the hair on my belly “Are like five year-olds. Older men are better at hiding it…” Prove me wrong, say her eyes. She finds holes in her socks, mosquito bites on her skin, numerous faults in her reflection. Laughs. Drags on my cigarette. We should go out again. 


Leaving adds a pleasant sensation of direction. Heavy air between us, another bar, more pub food, curly fries, beers interspersed with shots. It’s high summer and the front bar is teaming. The sea beckons from beyond bay windows across four lanes of traffic. 


We aren’t touching this time. I can’t tell if it’s foreplay or the space between us. Her foundation is heavy, hours-old eyeliner slides ingloriously in the heat but I tell her she’s beautiful, kiss her neck. Her throaty giggle, a self-indulgent darkness behind her eyes, chip-fat on my lips.


At the caravan I lie under thin bedding. She showers. Naked in the bathroom, shower-fresh skin in yellow light glows preternaturally. She’s a silk scarf, a tapestry, an oil painting. She looks and looks, turning in the full-length mirror. Is she trying to see what I see? Eventually joins me, “… do you want me?” I don’t say anything. I’m rigid, ready. There’s no space beyond presumption into action. Light-headed, I can’t get enough of her skin. Afterwards she tells me I’m unreadable. 


My moods are molasses. 


“Hold me at arms length,” whilst running a lovers light fingers over my tingling lip. It takes all I have not to shove her, tell her to keep away. My dick responds, we hold it together, as though everything is perfect.


She is often arriving unannounced, keen to fuck. I learn to shower regularly, preparing for the unpredictable. On other days, nothing.


Weeks pass.


“You take the bait from my days…” she calls me. My cell phone rings rarely. I nearly didn’t answer. I thought it was work. I hear how much air there is between her voice and my face. I miss handling her body. 


I tell myself eventually she’ll move away, grow up and old but still yearn for contentment, trying to snatch at six-foot-six-and-bullet-proof like I see her reaching for with me. 


I might tell her she’s dangerous, in a ploy to make things last. I might find a way to enjoy her flat-footed, post-sex explorations of my possessions strewn through my ‘van, her sassiness. I focus unkindly on her acne scars, numerous small scabs on her legs (she picks at each until they bleed again), her fondness for foundation make-up two shades too dark and the frequency with which she applies it. 


Next time she materialises I let her in wordlessly, she plays with my five o’clock shadow. I feel distinguished, harmful and I kiss her lipless forehead deliberately. It feels like the last time. After sucking my cock, strands of her long, light hair cling to the sides of her open mouth.









Comments

  1. Oh clarabelle, I've missed your delightfully wistful erotica. So evocative. So lush. So very present, yet dreamlike. You made my heart smile. X

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