The Trophy Case

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Chapter Four

Neither Alana nor George were big drinkers, both having had to maintain control in business and social situations their entire adult lives. They drifted easily through Friday evening on two glasses of wine each, his merlot and her pinot gris. They wandered through the buffet, picking here and there. They hadn’t gone surfing, though both had brought their boards. George took a bit of kidding as he still rode a gun, better suited to Waimea Bay than the central coast of California. He’d bought it in high school, a custom job from the Pittman brothers, his classmates. It was crafted with a foot wide strip of redwood down the center. Alana had a six-foot board, which she also acquired in high school.

Alana drew a lot of stares, which in this particular crowd was unusual as some very impressive women were on display in swim or skimpy attire, but then her beauty was a bit unusual. She kept her hair coal black, which set off her near emerald green eyes. At one-fifteen her thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-seven frame, had been exercised to a soft firmness that didn’t even admit of cellulite, and if you couldn’t see her face, she could have been taken for a teenager. Her face was unusually attractive as well and her five years of being the face of Manet/Porcelain cosmetics were still remembered.

They made small talk and mingled, she held his hand most of the time, and uncharacteristically, at least for her, maintained a smile that actually enhanced her already acknowledged beauty. Business was usually reserved for Saturday night or Sunday. There were too many hours left to realistically sell ‘today’s the day’ the sine qua non of professional salesmen, so business waited in the bushes.

People who knew Alana were taken aback by her new personality. For over twenty years she flirted with everything and anything in pants, even when she was married. She did it straight faced and everyone was convinced she was serious. That evening she only flirted with George, with a smile that told you there was very little doubt that it was serious.

They walked back along the beach when the party started getting too inebriated for their taste. The evening wind had come up started to engage in some nasty wind chill factors. Away from the outdoor heaters on the beach this unfortunate circumstance occasioned a few secluded stops to warm up with some flesh-to-flesh contact, which escalated a bit before they reached the door.

“Why am I suddenly afraid my parents will catch us,” said Alana as they warmed up in front of the gas lit fireplace.

“Don’t make me paranoid,” said George.

“You feel it to?”

“Like we snuck out of the prom into a hotel room?”

“Yeh, that.”

“Realistically, I’m worried the kids will catch us, maybe it’s all the same,” said George. “The plain fact of the matter is that we want privacy. Of course, acting like two teenagers with a bad case of puppy love all night I really don’t think anyone who saw us will be in the dark.”

She pulled his hand tentatively toward her breast, a hint more than anything else. It was really the first time she ever approached the situation this way, had either of her former husbands been next to her on the sofa she’d merely have untied the top of her two-piece and let the testosterone take its course. Nine times out of ten she’d have been mauled, then slammed hard enough to have it hurt the next morning, before he got up and went into bed.

George took the hint, slowly untying her top, brushing her neck with little thrills. He gently massaged her breast, and her nipples, which were just relaxing from the cold, hardened. Very gently, he massaged her back while lightly tracing his finger around her nipple. She wanted to stop, to get in bed before anyone came home, but he was reaching down to untie her thong and the next step was something she was really looking forward to. Then they heard someone on the porch and sped up the stairs to their room laughing.

“We actually almost got caught,” she said between what had faded to giggles.

“Ever actually happen to you?” he asked.

“No, I never really did it until I hit college, and even then, very discretely.”

“It happened to Adele and me, wanna hear?”

“What brought that back?”

“Well we were about as far along as we were downstairs.”

“The old Sunnyvale drive-in,” she said. “The two of you got busted by the flashlight renta cop. They took you into the office, she started to cry, and you finally talked them out of calling the parents. Women aren’t men dear, we can’t really keep a secret and love to brag about our conquests more than guys do. Adele always claimed that her ability to cry on demand saved your bacon more than once, as well as convinced you to do numerous things you thought were unwise.”

“She could cry on demand?”

“She could, often envied the talent.”

“You can’t?”

“I haven’t cried in years. Of course, I haven’t really smiled in about the same time frame, so it may make the same kind of return. You really shocked me back to the time I was seventeen, jilted by a football player and lied about, so I couldn’t go on a date without a hand between my legs. Maybe the emotions I saved up from then are finally getting paid back with interest.”

He didn’t let her get undressed and started over.

His fingers slid inside her easily, and everything came together as she drifted with the feeling of her orgasm until he filled her with molten electricity, blasting everything,

They lay in bed. Plip-plopping their organs back into functionability when he said either the best thing, or the worst thing.

“Tomorrow,” he said, “we have to talk.”

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