I always hated the winter. Obnoxious lights blinking at me, fat men in red suits proclaiming that everything was just jolly. And then there's the cold... you can't even walk outside without your fucking knees trembling.
I had this dream from the time I was a small child. I'd write my first masterpiece by the time I was 15, get all kinds of fancy book deals and change the world with my words. Whilst all this was going on, I'd find a partner who could handle my neuroses and adopt a few children from Ethiopia or someplace equally "unfortunate". But there I sat, 28 years old, no masterpiece, no book deal, no wife and only my cats and a collection of OTHER people's books to call my "babies". The lack of suitable material for creative inspiration was mind-numbing. I sat by the freezing cold window day after day watching my snowy prison as its walls grew higher. All that came out of my pen all season were morbid tales of death and blood and evil. When it became painfully aware that I was hardly the next Poe, I decided that I had to get out of my icy Hellhole and find a story worth telling. I didn't know where I was going, but I knew I was headed south.
I packed a bag, already dreading what was sure to be the holiday rush from Hell (this was, after all, just 3 days before Christmas), scattered food and water throughout my frat-boy looking apartment and hopped in my cab for the airport. "JFK", I said, almost shocked by the enthusiasm in my voice. "Going home?" the driver asked. "Something like that."
I had the driver drop me off at terminal "C"- why the hell not?- and I approached the sliding glass doors with an excited sort of caution. I walked slowly passed ticket counter after ticket counter, hoping an idea would strike me. It was 9 am, so as I lurked by the cheery desk clerks in their annoyingly beige attire, I scanned the red-lit lists for the soonest escape. "New York to Austin -- 10:45" Bingo.
I didn't know a lot about Texas- just that it was warmer and where George Bush was from. I boarded the plane early with the other First Class passengers and looked around- consciously taking in the every sight, smell and sound. Planes always freaked me out. Something about being trapped in a big metal cage with dozens of strangers, breathing the same putrid, germ-infested air over and over again always seemed a little grotesque.
I'd always wondered how anybody could fuck in those bathrooms. Not only are they terribly small, but they are so goddamn dirty. Don't get me wrong.... I totally get the whole exhibitionist draw to joining the so-called "Mile High Club", but did the exciting risk outweigh the possible flesh-eating viruses? I wasn't so sure.
Maybe it was her skirt, maybe it was the inevitable ninety-nine glasses of wine she served me, or maybe it was the fact that I hadn't had a good pounding, so to speak, in six months, but something about the hot little blonde teaching me how to survive a crash made me rethink my position. I put my headphones in my ears and closed my eyes. She was cute, but who was she kidding? If that plane went down, the other First Classers and I were dying first. "Your seat can be detached and used as a floatation device..." Okay, got it.
When we landed in Austin 16 days and the Houston layover from Hell later, I thought I might die from exhaustion before I even made it to the hotel room. I'd called from Houston and reserved a room near downtown at the "Driskill". According to my editor (I use that term very loosely) it was an historic hotel that was supposedly haunted. She knew of my morbid fascination with the paranormal so I guess she figured it'd be right up my alley. Whatever. It had a bed.
I trampled through downtown, quickly discovering that this was either a college town or everyone here just drank- a lot. With every intention of climbing into bed and falling asleep, I climbed the marble staircase, flung open the door, threw my bag down and sprawled out across the foot of the over-sized bed.
As soon as my eyes shut, the pounding from the street below made them slam open again. "You have got to be kidding me." I covered my head with the huge down pillow, hummed to myself, crammed my fingers in my ears and nothing... there was no use even trying to sleep at this point. The jet-lag was starting to wear off and a nervous sense of excitement filled me. Suddenly throwing on a dress, putting my shoes back on and going out and seeing what all the ruckus was about didn't seem like such a bad idea.
I strolled along, watching the drunken debauchery and wondering how many unplanned pregnancies and DWI's would ensue at night's end. Not wanting to walk too far from my hotel, I wandered into a bar on the corner and took a seat in the corner booth. The bar wasn't too crowded- just a group of about 20 seated near the stage. I ordered a Rum and Pineapple Juice from the waitress. I'd always heard that you could taste the pineapple in a woman's juices... I'd wondered if there was any truth to that, but I was yet to try out the theory... Besides, I liked pineapples anyway so why not?...
I retrieved my Blackberry from my pocket and started returning the pointless emails I had, until this point, ignored. About twenty minutes into my stay at the bar, a woman stepped onto the wooden platform and tinkered with the microphone. "Check, check, check" she said in a voice that seemed to pour out of her like cream. A patron walked by and said something to her I couldn't hear and she let loose a girlish laugh that made me look away because I could feel myself beginning to blush. Every few seconds I'd glance her way. I traced her body from foot to head over and over again, memorizing every inch. Her shoes were unapologetically slutty: red patent leather with an ankle strap. Ankle straps always scream "fuck me", do they not? Her legs were freshly-shaven. Something told me that she had shaved them only hours before and subsequently lathered them with lotion- she wanted every man in that bar to WANT to touch those legs, but she'd only be teasing them. Her little white shorts rode up every time she moved. I could almost trace the outline of her pussy with my eyes but I didn't. I couldn't stop watching her... those legs had got me wondering what else she had freshly-shaven.
Her waist was exaggerated, like an old pin-up model's. Her hips- set out wide, just yearning to be grasped on either side and pulled near to someone who knew what to do with them. Her breasts, large and firm, stretched her black tank top and demonstrated proudly every breath she took. Her hair fell down on her shoulders softly: paying homage to her beautifully protruding collar bones. Her face was round and healthy, a few freckles thrown here and there on her button nose. Girl next door and vixen all rolled into one. This girl looked like someone who would come over to lunch at my grandma's house and then fuck the shit out of me in Nanna's pink, fluffy bathroom while she made me and "my new friend" dinner.
The lights dimmed and I came back to reality. She sat down on her stool with her guitar and scooted up to the microphone. There were those shorts again. "My name is Sam Samuels. Thanks for coming out tonight." Those were the only words she spoke.
She started off slow: crooning beautifully simple ballads and love songs. Her pace began to pick up with the pace of the free shots the patrons and bar owners all but poured down her throat. Her voice was beautiful, but I can't pretend that I was listening to the lyrics. With every word she sang, I watched her mouth move, just wondering what it would feel like on my lips and even more, what it would feel like between my thighs. As she sang a cover of a song I could've sworn I'd heard a million times, her right leg tapped along with each beat she strummed. Each time her toes hit the wood, the muscles in her calf and thigh strained and trembled. Beads of sweat dripped from underneath her shorts and left a trail down her thigh and past her knee. The room feel silent as I imagined what it would feel like to lick the saltiness from her thigh tracing it all the way back to where it came from. Just the thought of tasting her put my nipples at high salute.
I had another drink. And then another. And then another.
