To be honest, the accident was my fault as much as hers. My Mazda-6 was idling in the left lane, waiting for the traffic light to turn from green to amber to red. I was trying to squeeze in a quick left turn between the time the oncoming traffic stops and the side street traffic starts up. Because of that two-second delay in lights changing, you know. But I was rummaging for a CD at the same time, and may have started to turn a few seconds too early.
And she was trying to beat the light, probably speeding and talking on the cell phone too. You know the type. She hit her brakes too late. Just as I was turning, her Acura slammed into the rear passenger side of my car with a sickening 'THUNK! sound. The sound that you still hear in your head months later because you don't merely hear it, you feel it down to your bones.
Shaken by what had happened, I pulled over to the side street and stopped. The other car followed and parked behind me. The woman who got out was maybe a little younger than me. She was mad as hell.
"You stupid bastard!" she screamed, "I had the fucking right of way! Didn't you see me!"
My nerves on edge, still hearing that painful crunch, I just lost it then. "You crazy bitch!" I screamed back at her, "you ran a fucking red light, didn't you see that!"
Her hair was dyed ash blonde and cut so short she looked like one of those inmates in a concentration camp after the Nazis have given them a haircut. Deep red lipstick, dark eye shadow. Mini skirt and black lace up boots. I kid you not, a walking horror show. Everything I hate in women's fashion.
By now we were just feet from each other. "You stupid jerk!" she hissed, "if it took an IQ test to get a driver's license, you'd have to ride a fucking bicycle."
"Yeah, and it's a good thing the fashion police aren't around, angel! Jeez, who picked out your outfit, a color-blind hooker?"
"Kiss my fucking ass!"
"Gladly! It's bound to be an improvement over your face, honey!" We were now inches from each other, and I was wondering if she was going to punch me.
But then everything just kinda stopped. We looked at each other, sensing that something strange was going on. And the next thing I know I'm grabbing her and kissing her. I still don't know how it happened. Kissing her as if those full ripe lips are a pool of fresh water and I'm dying of thirst. Pressing my lips into hers, wanting more and more. Tasting the sweetest most unbearably delicious woman in heaven or on earth.
For a second she was startled; then, she grabbed and held me, moaning with unbridled pleasure. But without warning she broke away and pushed me back. "You crazy bastard!" she exclaimed, "I oughta..." Then she just stopped, a dazed look on her face.
And with that she seized me like an octopus, and once again came the indescribable taste of her. There was love and lust and want in that kiss. There was moonlit beaches and peach cobbler and chiming bells and rollicking brooks. I wanted to kiss this woman and never ever stop.
My brain was reeling, stunned by all her subtle flavors. So many nuances of taste and aroma and feel! A man could kiss this crazy bitch a thousand times and each would be different from the others and delightful beyond words. This crazy bitch who had wrecked my car and wrecked my day.
"Excuse me, what's going on here?" came an official sounding voice.
The woman shoved me away again and we both looked at the traffic policemen in his spotless pressed uniform. How do they always look so neat? A small crowd had gathered as well.
"This lame-ass jerk pulled in front of me!" she cried, pointing at me.
"And she ran a red light, dammit!"
The cop eyed us skeptically, trying to figure it out. I suppose he normally doesn't see people involved in a traffic accident suddenly start making out like oversexed teenagers. But then he hadn't tasted this woman's lips. I had. "Do you two know each other?" he asked.
"Ha!" the woman laughed, "yeah, like I'd know a miserable twerp like him!"
The ball in my court, I said, "God in heaven, I pity anyone who knows this bitch, or has the misfortune to be around her!"
"Okay!" said the cop, "that's enough with the profanity! Now, are both your cars functional? Can you still drive them?"
After that came the usual song and dance. Mr. Spotless wrote us up; her for speeding and me for making an illegal turn. We exchanged names and insurance companies. She was Lacy McKie. What a slut. But I ached for her. The accident and what it would cost me was no more than an annoying gnat buzzing around my face. I just wanted those soft lips again.
Her eyes told the same story. But Mr. Spotless stood between us, and after the routine was finished said, "Now, I want you to move on and let the insurance companies settle this, okay?" He sensed the tension, the electricity between us. Probably made him nervous.
"Get outta my way, asshole," she snapped at the cop. With that she pushed him aside and was in my arms again. And I was in seventh heaven, kissing her hungrily, just getting off on the taste of this woman who was so crazy and oh so delicious.
"Now quit it!" yelled the Law. "I could arrest both of you on several charges already, but I won't if you'll just break it up and be on your way!" He pulled us apart, pushing me away like he was her father or something. He shook his head, not understanding it any more than we did. Lacy stared furiously at me, I at her.
Then without a word or backward glance she got into her Acura and sped away, leaking radiator fluid. "Good riddance!" I yelled. By the time I had driven a few blocks the spell was wearing off. It was only then that I realized that my cock was so hard it was painful. And I knew why.
Twenty minutes later I was at my job: assistant manager at Borders bookstore. That's right, I'm one of those bright eager tellers who wears a sweater vest and maybe a polka-dot bow tie. You know, the guys who are so cheerful and helpful. I can tell you exactly where to find that book of Wallace Stevens poetry. Or any other book you may come across to waste your time. I mean, there are girls out there who taste like Lacy McKie, and you want to read a book? Please!
The funny thing is that I was still fuming over what a crazy bitch Lacy McKie was. There was this weird dichotomy toward her in my mind. The woman really was a silly wench. But oh those lips. My god, the taste of her.
You know how sometimes on a mountainside you'll take a rock and set it free just to watch it roll down the mountain? I felt like that rock when evening came, rolling helplessly toward Lacy's apartment in my poor banged-up Mazda, unable to stop myself. I needed to tell her what my insurance agent had said. But not really. That's not what I needed at all.
When I rang her doorbell, this skinny girl in horn-rim glasses, about six feet two, answered. Barely noticing her, I said evenly, "I'm here to see Lacy McKie."
The stork invited me in. "Lacy!" she yelled to the kitchen, "guy here to see you."
Lacy emerged from the kitchen. Black satin pants and a thin cling sweater: pure unadulterated pussy. She came to me and slapped me across the face with all her might. It stung like hell. Then came another blow, equally hard, from the other hand.
