Chapter 32: Here We Go
The summer had now passed beyond hot, beyond stuffy. beyond every word they used on the morning radio to try to describe the unrelenting sunshine. It was now just annoying, Keith decided. It would be coming to an end, soon—not soon enough, but it wouldn’t last forever.
He sat in the car—just one or two more minutes, to let the shrieking cold air from the vent wash over him a little longer. He checked his watch; five thirty-two. The air conditioning in the house would have been on for fifteen or twenty minutes at most, assuming Lisa had even remembered to turn it on. The house would be a heavy, sweaty mess, just like him.
Right. He shut off the car.
Here we go.
The first crack in the open car door let in a blade of heat that raked across his skin, his scalp. Then came the hot breath of humidity, emptying his lungs of air and depositing a film of sweat on his arms, his neck, his face.
He hurled himself from the car, his golf shirt already sticking to his shoulders and his boxers bunching up immediately in his crotch. The house was miles away—no, only steps away—he was there, at the safety of the shaded porch. He reached for the handle and—
—crashed heavily into the locked front door. She knew he would be home twenty minutes after her. Why, dear god, why lock the door?
He fumbled for the key, found it, lost it, found it again. Unlocked. In.
The air in the house was delicious and cool after his long progress from the car to the door, and he paused to enjoy a few sweet breaths before lifting his hand to wipe his brow.
Lisa stood at the top of the stairs, looking down at him.
“Hi, honey,” he said before he remembered he was angry about the locked door.
“Hi,” she said. Her voice sounded distant and strange, even though she was still watching him.
Leave the door for now, then. “You okay?” Keith asked.
“I’m fine,” she said, then smiled. “Sorry. Just—a bit hot.”
“Oh, I know.” Keith dropped his briefcase in front of the hall closet. “Must’ve been eighty-five degrees in the wing I was in today.”
“Huh.” She began to walk down the stairs to him.
“And there was a crash on highway ten. Took me forever to get across—” She was looking at him, but clearly wasn’t listening. “Anyhow,” he said, “what’s for dinner?”
She laid a hand on his chest, drew her face close to his.
“I am so horny right now,” she breathed, and came even closer, her hips against him, her breast pressed tightly to his arm.
He drew back slightly, involuntarily, but corrected himself before the mistake became too apparent. He covered by shifting his weight to his other foot. “What’s brought this on?” he asked, unable to keep a nervous laugh from floating out with the question.
She drew back and took his hand. She led him to the living room and turned to him, unbuttoning her blouse in what seemed like a half-second and tossing it quickly, almost violently to the side. She turned her back. “Undo me.”
It took him forever to get the little wire clasps free, and she shrugged the bra off impatiently as soon as the strap release. She turned to face him again.
Keith stood, paralyzed, finding it too strange, too unexpected just to go along with, but also too exciting a prospect—sex, on the couch, in the daytime!—to screw up.
“Take your clothes off,” she ordered, “and lie down.”
He did as he was told, right down to his socks—was he supposed to take off his socks? he didn’t know, so he decided to leave them on to save time. He stretched out on the cushions, his cock above him like a short, tilted flagpole.
She dropped to her knees beside him and fell on him, sliding her lips down, down outside him, clutching his cock tightly.
And she released him, drawing back, gasping for breath, gripping her tits in one hand as her chest rose and fell forcefully.
Then she was on him again, swallowing him deep, deep inside her, her tongue straining against his shaft, her breath stopped short as she eased him deeper, deeper, teeth on his skin, the head of his cock against her throat.
Time stopped again.
And again she released him, a long, shining streamer of drool hanging from her lip, still connecting them. She waited again, gulping air.
“I can’t—” she said between heavy breaths. “—get any lower.”
Keith squirmed a little; it was sweet of her to try. How did Linda Lovelace manage it, anyway? There must be some trick to it, but—
Lisa was on him yet again, her head now bobbing furiously, falling with speed and intensity on his cock. Her hand had disappeared, and he took the opportunity to reach out and take hold of one bouncing tit, warm and soft. He felt for the nipple, taut between his fingers.
Even keeping up her enthusiastic pace, she managed to free one hand and clamp it over Keith’s, the two of them now squeezing her breast tightly, locked together. Finally she released his hand, and his cock as well, heaving in a long, gurgling sigh.
“Don’t move,” she ordered, her eyes shut. She clambered on top of him, but not, as he expected, to get him inside of her; instead, she crouched further down, her face at his belly.
Her tits had never seemed so huge, so round and soft. They enveloped him; she pressed her arms together and her tits took his cock in a warm, moist embrace.
“You like that?” she hissed, looking deep into his eyes.
He never knew how to answer that. Wasn’t it obvious? “Yeah,” he offered.
“Lie still,” she said. “I’m going to make you come on me.”
She lifted and dropped her tits, still pressing them together around his hardened shaft. The slight resistance shot a beam of pleasure through him, landing deep in his belly. Involuntarily his hips lifted, the need to thrust harder, deeper, overcoming him.
“Lie still,” she said again, and lifted again, her skin drawing across the head of his cock and firing another bolt of pleasure into him.
He raised his hands and placed them on her, helping to squeeze himself even more tightly in her cleavage. She dropped one arm away and Keith felt her worm her hand between them, between his thigh and her body, back to her waiting pussy. He thought of her fingers working between the quivering, wet lips, finding the slick bead buried between them, making the tight little circles around it the way she liked to do—
“Ah!” she cried, her body pressing even closer to him. She shut her eyes again, and her voice strained between short, sharp breaths. “I’m—so—swollen—” Her head fell down onto his chest. “Oh god—I’m—”
Keith came, came hard, came as hard as he’d ever done before, his body taking over and pushing his cock violently against her. He could feel his semen leave him, each pulse shooting hot and wet from his engorged head. He threw his head back and gritted his teeth, still gripping her tits as tightly as he could around himself.
Time stopped, slipped away, and then she was relaxing, slowly lowering herself to lie against him.
She shifted up slightly, and even the small movement of her tits releasing him was a sweet agony that sent a shudder all through him.
She stopped, lay still, just raising one hand to touch his cheek with her fingers.
“I love you,” she whispered.
“That was—” he began, then corrected himself. “I love you, too,” he said, and he meant it.
She traced a figure eight on the bare skin of his shoulder, over and over again, loop after slow loop.
“I’m sorry things have been so...” she started.
Keith waited a moment to make sure he wasn’t interrupting. “Sh, sh,” he said. “It’s okay.”
“It isn’t. I shouldn’t be so—so—”
“So upset, I think I mean,” she said, apparently not hearing him. “The whole thing—the peeping Tom thing—was just so surreal. I shouldn’t let it affect me so much.”
“That wasn’t just some little thing, though,” Keith said. He had been getting more and more sleepy, and it was difficult to put the words together correctly. “It was a serious invasion on, of—a violation—of you. Your self, I mean—”
Luckily she still wasn’t paying him much attention. “I think it’s all because of these tapes,” she said. “It’s just a bit too far beyond my... level of... what I’m used to.”
“Of course. Me too.”
“It’s exciting to make them. In a totally different way from—from everything. I just...”
Keith gave her a second, but she was done. “We could still tape ourselves,” he suggested, “but not share them around.”
“No. That would—I can’t explain it, but I’m pretty sure that the sharing is the point, for me.”
It was a slight relief; Keith could have lived without watching the others’ tapes, but he wouldn’t have liked to tell them he was leaving the circle. “Whatever you want. We can take it slow, or—”
“I’m going to try to put whoever it was out of my mind,” she said. “But I really want you to put better locks on the windows.”
Right—he had promised to do that but had forgotten. “Of course. I can go over to the hardware store tonight, before they close.”
“This weekend is fine. Just don’t forget.”
“I just want to stay in tonight.” She squeezed her arm across his chest. “Okay?”
“Why don’t we order in, then? So you don’t have to cook.”
She still had him pinned with her arm, but he decided calling the Chinese place could wait a bit. He was more tired than hungry, anyway.
“Also,” she said in a small voice.
He waited again. What did she have to tell him now? A dozen possible revelations flitted through his mind. She didn’t like sex any more. She wanted to have sex with one of the neighbours. She was having sex with one of the neighbours. She wanted a divorce. She—
“I just wanted to ask you not to drink tonight,” she said. “You’ve been drinking a lot lately, and—”
“No, come on, don’t—I’m just worried. I don’t want it to become a problem.”
He mustered all the positive energy he could. “No, it’s fine. I don’t need to have anything.”
She pulled him closer. “I love you, you know.”
“I know.” He started to move her arm so he could sit up, but realised that he couldn’t leave it there. “I love you too,” he added.
She moved her arm and he could breathe again; he was free. He stood up and pulled on some track pants, ignoring the sticky stains he was adding to them on the inside. “Anything in particular you want?” That didn’t sound quite right. “From the Bamboo House?” he clarified.
“Mm-mm,” she mumbled into a cushion, already part way asleep. Keith fled to the kitchen to hunt down a Chinese food menu.
Once more, Keith decided. Once more through the channels, and if there was absolutely nothing watchable, he’d go to bed, where Lisa was already snoring.
Channel two, same black and white movie, same two indistinguishable men in neat haircuts and three-piece suits.
He lifted the glass to his lips. Coke, sickly-sweet and disgusting. Funny how a bit of rye made it so drinkable—earthy, broad undertones of wood and grain, the roughness of the alcohol offsetting the sweetness of the sugar.
Three, test pattern; four, commercial, something about making money in real estate.
He shouldn’t be drinking this stuff anyway—all the caffeine and sugar would only make him less able to sleep, and more likely to be groggy in the morning.
Five, a baseball game. Keith had never been much of a baseball fan, but the strike back in ’81 had been the absolute end for him. The Blue Jays had even done well a couple of years ago, but he hadn’t paid much attention. This game, the Yankees against... he couldn’t even tell, the Cubs maybe? Who cared, anyway.
The thing was, other than pop, what was he supposed to drink? Not milk, he wasn’t ten years old. Same with juice, and it was too expensive anyway. Water? Why not just kill himself, here and now?
Channel six, fishing show. The only way on earth to make fishing more boring: put it on TV.
That’s where alcohol came in: it was what adults drank, what you drank for pleasure. Lisa’s father had been a drinker, and that was the real issue. Keith didn’t have a problem—he never hit Lisa, never stayed in bed hung over for the day, never got out of control at family gatherings.
Seven, eight, nine, commercials.
The trouble was this boredom. Everything was fine till nine, nine-thirty at night; there were things to do, shopping, cooking, cleaning. Then by ten, sometimes earlier but never later, you were in jogging pants on the couch, and what was the point, you couldn’t go to bed, too early. Couldn’t read a book, too late to try to concentrate on that. You had to smooth out the edges a bit so you could take the nice, slow slide down to sleep.
Ten, test pattern. Eleven, commercial, some cheerful bitch with a massive smile and Farrah Fawcett hair, selling—who cared?
Keith tossed the remote on the table, got up and hit the on/off button with his foot. It felt pretty good, giving the box a kick and shutting it up.
Should he just have a drink? Just a small one, and just one, not to get drunk, just to get to sleep.
They said it wasn’t the drinking that showed you had a problem, it was the habit, the need to drink at any given time. He liked to drink; did he need to? Stupid Reader’s Digest, putting this stuff in his head. He just needed a way not to think about drinking—then he’d be fine.
He went back over to the TV, punched the on/off button, and started over. Two, black-and-white movie.