Michael had always preferred the Café Beignet on Royal street over the larger, more touristy place on Decatur. In the afternoon like this, it was just an alcove, almost a hideaway. Once breakfast and brunch had become an afterthought and the afternoon heat brought a perpetual trickle of sweat down the backs of necks, it was usually easy to get a seat here. This afternoon, his theory had worked out perfectly as he took the hot plate and the steamy cup of café au lait to the table with the most shade.
The first bite brought with it a flood of memories; the powdered sugar coated his lips just like it had his first time here and all the subsequent times since then. The grease and the sugar transcended into something almost spiritual. He washed it all down with the coffee. Almost too sweet, it was thick and syrupy and just on the verge of bitter. It was perfect to chase off his numbing afternoon fatigue.
Michael hadn't been prepared for how tired his body was. Sure, when he'd been in the midst of the chemo battle; when his skin had been gray and his face damn near skeletal, he'd been weary of it all. Fuck, it was that or dead so there hadn't seemed to be another choice. He'd felt lucky to have made it that far. But the exhaustion lingered long after the drugs had given up the ghost.
It had taken him three days to drive down. He couldn't spend ten hours behind the wheel. It was more like five before he began to nod off and the car sensed his lack of attention. Even in hick, back road motels, Michael had slept hard. He was regularly clocking ten, sometimes twelve hours a night. He'd also eaten with gusto, with a verve that he'd never had for, well, anything really. He'd had lots of truck stop breakfasts, even at dinner time. Biscuits and gravy, eggs over easy, pancakes with syrup and piles of crispy bacon and he'd wiped the plates clean.
He wondered as he wiped the powdered sugar on a napkin if his body was just acclimating to the invaders. The cancer cells demanded food and sleep and sucked down every morsel like hungry caterpillars as they grew and grew. He was a host for something that wanted to murder him and Michael wondered how long they might have been uneasy roommates.
Or maybe, he thought, as he eased back into the wrought iron chair, maybe it was his new zest for life that must be fed. It was a demanding thing, like an ancient god who required blood sacrifice. This sexual flame that was now ignited like never before was a constant and all of his hungers were more acute than ever before. It was almost as if the blonde in the dressing room had stoked the almost sputtered-out flame. After years of neglect, it had become a raging fire that burned almost out of control.
Michael had gotten a blowjob in the back of a Waffle House somewhere in Arkansas. He'd checked it off the list when he had come back to his mostly lime-green room at the Red Roof Inn. But, he understood now as he let his sugar-sticky fingers linger on the notebook paper, that, like Net, it had been so much more than a single act.
Her name was Naomi and they had touched hands when they both reached for the communal syrup. It was a sticky, tin pot that made a brown ring on the recently disinfected, orange laminate countertop. They had both laughed and insisted that the other one go first until she finally did. Once the introduction had been made, Michael openly watched her as the two of them chewed.
Naomi's thick, chocolate brown hair glinted with gold in the sunlight. She'd had one braid that was almost lost in the wild spray of hair that ran down one shoulder. Naomi had worn faded blue jeans with a rainbow patch over one hole and a bare knee had peeked from another. The neck had been cut out of her black Pink Floyd tee shirt and.it had settled down over one shoulder, revealing that her bra was tan.
He had never seen more of the bra than that strap and looking back, Michael regretted that he hadn't had the opportunity to discover her breasts under the shirt. He would never know whether or not Naomi had panties on either, although he highly suspected that she had been delightfully commando in her hip-hugger jeans.
Michael did have carnal knowledge of Naomi's mouth though. She had worn Chapstick. He'd watched her put some on at the counter as she waited for her check. She'd dug the little black and white stick out of her enormous canvas purse before they had gone outside. She didn't taste like Chapstick though if it had a taste. Her kisses in the back seat of his Acura tasted like maple and bacon grease. She had made little noises as she had breathed into him, soft little sighs that Michael had imagined that she would have made in her sleep.
When her small hand had eased up his inner thigh and crept up to his zipper, Michael had opened his eyes just to make sure that it had been real and not just his imagination. No, sure as shit, her hand had been there and she had made a purposeful outline of his dick in the front of his jeans. She had been patient about it, slow and deliberate. Naomi had known the size and girth of his hardness before she'd unzipped him. He'd watched her study his erection with her small hand that wore jade-colored bands of various sizes and shapes on every finger. She had worn no polish and her nails had been short and chewed. They had looked like hands that had been neglected and worked hard and if there had been time, Michael would have liked to know what she did with those hands. Besides pull his cock out of his jeans and a new pair of black Calvin Klein briefs, anyway.
Once his dick had appeared, Michael had felt the old familiar hesitation well up at first. Overthinking, his mind had been a whirl of what to do, playing chess when the game was actually quite simple. Should he insist that they make this official and go to the room? Should he stop her? Give her money? Naomi had stopped all the questions as she bowed her head. The gush of warm breath had run down all the way to his balls.
Oh yes, that was the answer.
It all came to him in a flash, an epiphany that came with the tip of her tongue. He knew then that he should just ease back into the upholstery and let her have her way with him. He should open his legs a little wider and give himself over to the magic of a wet mouth. With skilled lips and a devilish tongue, Michael had decided that no decision was needed. He'd just drifted off into the ecstasy of Naomi.
Her tongue had washed him, the full length of his cock and her lips had drawn him in, tight and sticky. Fuck, he could almost hear it again as the last of his beignets melted in his mouth. The frantic, animal sounds that had come from deep in his chest. Her rhythm up and down had been impeccable, her tongue had kept steady and her saliva had flowed down his shaft and puddled on his sack.
Michael could clearly remember that he'd curled his fingers in her hair at the end, at the moment of no return. He'd pushed her down just a little. Instead of warning her that he was about to explode and giving her an opportunity to spit him out, Michael thrust deep. When he came, his eyes had closed tight and there was white heat behind his eyelids. He was nothing but sound and sensation.
He'd heard himself whisper, "Fuck," more than once and there had been no holding it back.
