Author's Note:
Beware. The following story is most certainly not for everybody. For those who find graphic depictions of bodily functions erotic, by all means please continue. If farting, pissing and shitting really aren't your thing, then kindly move on to another story.
My intention here was to create a story that incorporates romance along with animal desire. I hope I have succeeded at least a little in achieving this goal. Thank you very much for taking the time to read it.
Oh, and as always, all reference to persons, places or events is entire fictional. Any similarities are entirely coincidental.
I.
Ever so gently the breeze rustled the grass clippings, cut not more than an hour ago and still bleeding freshness and vitality into the air. It crossed the playground, paying little attention to the children running about, their ruddy faces perspiring and their fingernails gathering dirt, but stopped instead to play with the lilac bushes at the far end, where the park met the sidewalk. From there it traveled down the street. It sideswiped garbage pales set out for the following morning and wound around maple, oak and ginkgo trees. It hit Mrs. Green from behind as she was watering her tulips, sending ripples through her floral print dress. It ran up Mr. Weinberg's stubbly cheek as he was bending low, match in cupped hands, attempting to light the charcoal in his grill, and it passed through an open window into Joanne's lesson room. She closed her eyes and took in the sweet august aroma.
The child sitting beside her was restless; she could feel it as she guided his tiny hands across the ivory keys, showing him the positions of the notes with great patience as he fidgeted. He wanted to be outside with the other kids on the playground, swinging high into the air and squeeking with relentless energy as they ran after one another and kicked up the dirt. She wanted to be somewhere else too. She needed to clean yet, and to cook and get dressed. It was a quarter to four. Howard would be coming at six.
They closed the songbook when the doorbell rang, and the child darted from the room to greet his mother on the porch. He hugged her legs and tugged at the bottom of her shirt.
"How was he, Joanne?" she asked as the child ran in circles around her.
"Just fine, like always," Joanne said with a warm smile. She reached down and patted the little boy on the head.
They waved their goodbyes and mother and son climbed into their car. Joanne watched them drive off down the street.
"I don't know how you do it, Joanne."
The voice came from the left. Joanne turned her head to see her neighbor David standing in his yard. A tall man, and thin, he was mostly bald except for a ring of graying hair that ran around the back of his head from temple to temple. She descended the steps and sauntered over, her arms crossed.
"They're not bad at all."
"Oh jeez, I don't know. Brian's been talking about adoption recently, but I don't think I could stand one of those
things
running around the house all day long." As he said this David scrunched his face up into a humorously disgusted look. Joanne couldn't suppress a small chuckle.
"Your in good spirits today, aren't you?" he said.
"I guess so."
"You know, I ran into an old friend of mine yesterday."
Joanne knew where this was going. "Go on," she insisted.
"And I was thinking."
"Uh-hu?"
"That he would be perfect for you!"
She closed her eyes and gently shook her head back and forth.
"But Joanne, he's a great guy. And how long has it been since Richard left? Two years?"
Richard. Once the love of her life. That name used to stop her dead in her tracks. Right now it wasn't the name that hit her, but rather the fact that its impression was negligible. This left her smiling inside.
"That's right, two years."
"So don't you want to get on with your life? Who knows, if you settle down with somebody you might even start playing again."
These words had more of a punch. Her stomach knotted up now at the mere thought of standing on stage in front of a crowd.
"Actually," she said quickly to steer the conversation away from the topic of her failed music career, "I won't be needing your friend."
"Why not?" David asked, his eyes perking up with interest.
Joanne shot him a smile. "I've met someone."
His jaw dropped. "That's great! What's his name?"
"Howard."
"Where did you meet him?"
To give a truthful response to this question or not?
"I met him online," she said. She checked her watch. "Damn. David, I hate to cut it short, but he's actually coming over tonight, and I've still got to get ready."
"Okay I'll let you go. Make sure to stop by sometime and tell me about your date."
David gave her a peck on the cheek and disappeared into his house. She stood there for a few seconds, taking in the smell of the lilacs. They smelled like she felt inside.
Walking back into her house, she let the screen door slam shut and bounce back and forth into equilibrium. She looked about the house and an intense feeling rushed over her, a realization about the last two years that she had been living.
She needed music.
In the living room she placed a CD in her stereo. Ahhh . . . Rachmaninov. Those delicate notes, saturated with passion, swirled around the air like specks of dust illuminated in an afternoon sunbeam. They filled every corner of the house, bringing to it a velvety ambiance. With her head lost in the music Joanne glided into kitchen, the aging floorboards creaking under her feet. There she placed a large pot on the stove, chopped up some vegetables, threw them in, set the burner on low and glided out into the dining room. Here the table was full of old newspaper clippings and scrap-book supplies, remnants of her latest newfound hobby. She swept all of these up into her arms and threw them into a box in the corner for later attention. With an old cloth she polished the dust from the table.
In the living room she pirouetted as she ran a broom across the floor. She picked up cheap romance novels from a large pile at the foot of the recliner, arranging them in no particular order on her several large bookshelves. She pulled up the blinds, cleaned the windowsills and the lampshades, and replaced the potpourri on the coffee table in front of the sofa. She set down two wineglasses and a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon before twirling past the entry hall and up the stairs to the second floor.
Quick facial, shower, nails, stray hair pluck. In her bedroom she fretted over which dress to wear, deciding finally against a dress and opting instead for simple jeans and a blouse. She looked at herself in the closet mirror. Though by no means out of shape, in the two years since Richard had left she had let herself go. They were small things: a tiny bulge around the waist, her cheeks a bit fuller than normal and accentuating her slight overbite and her cute button nose, her naturally curly brown hair longer than usual and slightly unkempt. All of these sights forced themselves upon her in the late afternoon sunlight that crept through her curtains. But then, at the same time none of them seemed to matter all that much.
