"He gives you a tender kiss
And you can't even hear them no more -
All the voices of choices
Now only one road remains..."
-Mark Cohn
Strangers in a Car
The partygoers from the office had moved outside leaving just him and her in the living room of her house.
They were a generation apart. He was 42 and she 21. He sat in an overstuffed chair sipping Jameson’s Irish whiskey and smoking non-filtered Camels. She laid across from him on the sofa smoking a joint.
She took a toke and giggled as she released the smoke. “So. Here we are. What are you thinking about over there?”
He took a sip of his drink, a drag from his Camel, blew the smoke out slowly in a blue cloud and smiled. “You. Me. Things.”
She laughed; tossed a pillow from the sofa at him. "You know, ever since I’ve known you, sometimes you can be so full of BULLSHIT!"
"Well, granted. But try this on your bullshit meter, missy. I'm thinking how beautiful you are. I'm thinking that if I could just touch the soft skin between your breasts," he took another drag, "…bury my nose in your hair...I think that the weight of the world would lift from me for a infinite moment in time."
She rolled her eyes, toked. "Oh, yeah; right. That’s a big 10 on the bullshit meter all right.” But she looked back at him and he started to talk again. He talked quietly, in an odd mood.
Maybe it was the weed. Maybe it was her desires stirring. Maybe it was the fact that no one had talked to her like this. Whatever the case, she fell into his mood.
"To touch my lips to the back of your neck; to slowly breathe into your ear.
"To hold your chin in the palm of my hand, my thumb caressing your lips. You'd look at me but you'd say nothing. You'd slowly part your lips and slowly and gently I'd push my thumb in. You'd suck it...I'd close my eyes and hold my breath from the ecstasy."
His voice fell silent.
He took another cigarette from his case. Slowly he tamped it down on his watch face. Slowly he flicked his Zippo to life. He looked out the front window; took another sip of his drink.
She sat transfixed. She didn't laugh. Her breathing increased ever so slightly and started to shallow out.
He continued:
"To caress your throat, your collar bones, that soft delicate place where they meet. To heft a breast and feel its firm softness and its weight, stroke the nipple. Pull it between my thumb and forefinger. Hear you breathe in at the touch.
"Watch as you closed your eyes. Maybe feel you shift your weight, moving your hips forward trying to find something to rub your sex against."
He fell silent again. Took a drag, a sip, looked at the floor. Maybe he was beginning to feel self-conscious. He was older. He was not an attractive man - or, as several female friends told him, politely - he was “unconventionally handsome.” He started to take Viagra on his 41st birthday.
After a long moment, and to her surprise, she found herself speaking.
"Uh, so, what else? You know, like, what else were you thinking...about us - uh, about me?” She felt awkward. None of her male friends had talked to her like this before.
He smiled, slowly blew smoke toward the ceiling. "The softness and slickness and wetness between your legs; the scent of your sex. What it would be like to press my nose in it.
"To taste you, smell you, run my fingers between the slick folds. Feel you move against me."
And then suddenly he was standing in front of her, holding out his hand.
"I want to be with you."
She was breathing in shallow, quick breaths. Her face and chest felt hot and flushed.
She looked up at him and took his hand.
