Logistics

Eighteen-year-old Suzanne Pomeroy ignored the concrete path to the driveway from the Womack bungalow's porch. Instead, she launched herself straight out and skipped excitedly across the grass. Her black low-heeled flats barely touched the ground as she aimed for her car, which was parked on the street at the curb. Before she turned the key in her ancient, but trusty, gray Honda Civic, she gripped its steering wheel with white knuckles, inhaled deeply and then held her breath before letting it all out in a single great whoosh.

As she crossed her chest with her safety belt and clicked it into place, Suzanne's racing heart pounded through her breast into her elbow. Wide-eyed and struggling to calm herself, she thought, "Oh my gosh! Charlie Womack is so sweet! And smart! I just know I'm going to pass that stupid old English class, now." Then, remembering her plan to dump her star-jock boyfriend, she mused, "I wonder how Mom made out with Butch Carlson, when he showed up for our date at eight?" Aloud, while she started her little coupe, she said to her reflection in the rear-view mirror, "I hope it wasn't super hard for her."

Fifteen minutes later, after parking in the driveway beside her mother's gold Dodge Caravan, Suzanne walked into the Pomeroy house and yelled, "Mom! Hey, Mom, I'm home!" Hearing no answer, she dropped her purse, together with 'The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn', on the entry hall mail table and peeked into the living room, even though her mother would've surely heard her, had she been there. Likewise, as she explored the first-floor, she found the kitchen, den and even the half-bath were empty. Continuing upstairs, she called out again, and this time heard a muffled answer from the master bedroom.

In her parents' bedroom, Suzanne tapped on the closed bathroom door and asked, "Can I come in, Mom? I want to tell you something."

"Uhhn... no, sweetie," Bernice Pomeroy sang out. "You'll let out all my steam! I'm having a nice bubble-soak. But I can hear you. Talk to me through the door, Suzie." Hedging her bet against the possibility that her daughter might enter the room anyway, she lowered her wide-spread legs from the tub edges and sank them back under the sudsy water. At the same time, she scooted herself up into a half-seated position with her back against the cool tiled wall while she pulled her ribbed dildo out from her cunt. "Damn it," Bernice cursed to herself. "So close..." Out loud, she encouraged, "What is it sweetie? I'm listening."

"I'm totally stoked, Mom," Suzie hissed breathlessly against the door's painted panels. "My study-buddy explains things way better than Mrs. Krautheimer does. I just know that I'll pass her class and graduate on time. Aren't you pleased, too?"

"Ohhhnn... that's wonderful, Suzie," Bernice answered with as much enthusiasm as she could muster, while she pinched her clitoris with her right hand and hoped her built-up sexual edge wouldn't dissipate before she could get rid of her daughter.

Suzanne cocked her head against the wood and asked, "Mom? Are you okay? I thought I heard you groan." Putting her hand on the doorknob, she anticipated needing to rush in to assist in an imagined catastrophe.

Bernice saw the horizontal handle on her side of the door dip down as Suzanne turned the outer knob. Quickly, she declared, "No, sweetie! Everything's fine. That was just me being happy for you! Now, go to bed. We can talk more at breakfast before you go to cheer practice." She was relieved to see the door handle return to its neutral position.

"Okay, Mom," Suzanne agreed. Then, remembering how she had left her mother in the lurch earlier, she inquired, "Did Butch come at eight? How did you handle him? I'm sorry I was a coward."

Bernice tipped her head back, closed her eyes and visualized the eighteen-year-old man-child's jizz flying into the air while she milked his pulsing boner. Sighing smugly, she replied, "Actually, sweetie, I wasn't looking at a clock. It might have been eight when he came, or maybe a minute or two after. I had the impression that you didn't want to date him anymore, so I did my best to encourage him to direct his attention elsewhere. There was something of an outburst, and he naturally sputtered a bit for a few moments, but when he finished, that was it."

As Bernice recalled painting Butch's steel-hard stalk with his spewed seed, she flicked her clit and felt her orgasm returning. Throwing caution to the wind, she clenched her pussy tight, plunged her dildo home again with her left hand, and half-gasped, "I, uhn!... hope that was ahhl-right."

Suzie was momentarily conflicted. She had wanted to break-up with Butch, and she had said so to her mother, but now that it seemed to be a done deal, she was left without any boyfriend prospects for the rest of the school year. "Umm, yeah, Mom," she mumbled through the door. Then more loudly, she acknowledged, "That's fine; just what I wanted. You're terrific, Mom, good night!"

In her own bedroom, Suzanne wrestled with her new dilemma while she wrestled her body-hugging champagne stretch-knit sweater over her head and off. After folding it neatly and putting it back in her sweater drawer, she unzipped, then dropped, her cornflower-blue linen skirt. When that was hung up, and her flats were parked with the rest of the shoes in her closet, she carefully peeled down her sheer navy tights, but then frowned at their damp cotton gusset. Holding them up for closer inspection, she wondered, "What the heck? It's not spotting and it's not pee and I was wearing panties, anyway!"

Letting the tights fall to the floor, Suzie looked down at her aqua hip-huggers and saw they, too, were wet through. She exclaimed under her breath, "Oh my gosh! That's me, like when I masturbate! But why?" Unable to deny the evidence, she walked barefoot in her underwear to the bathroom between her room and the guest bedroom while she furiously tried to sort out the how her pussy had gotten so excited without her even knowing it.

Suzie pushed her cotton panties to mid-thigh and turned on the hot water tap. When it got no warmer than tepid, she thought, "That's right, Mom's been luxuriating in her bath for a while. I'd better hurry." Quickly, she soaked a washcloth, lathered it with the hand-soap at the sink, then scrubbed her stickiness away. Dried off, she returned to her bedroom, fresher, but no closer to solving the riddle.

Pulling her undies down again, Suzie stepped out of them and left them lying in a heap on top of her navy tights while she reached backward to unhook the central clasp on her matching demi-cup bra's strap. Suddenly, as she walked across the carpet to her dresser for a pair of pajamas, she stopped in her tracks and slapped her forehead.

"Charlie!" Suzanne exclaimed. "I was with Charlie 'The Dweeb' Womack for two hours and I thought I was thrilled because he made Mark Twain so easy to understand. But that wouldn't make me wet like that!" As her insight crystalized, she pondered, "Maybe that's why I had to break it off with Butch, too. Maybe I don't like stupid bossy bully-boys. Maybe it's shy, sensitive, sweet boys, like Charlie Womack, that turn me on." Settling the question in her mind, she concluded, "Yeah! That's got to be it!"

Suzanne stepped into some brand-new pastel lilac-grass-and-rose striped gauze wide-legged sleep shorts, then slithered into their matching spaghetti-strap camisole top. Her pert thirty-four-inch bust didn't need any support to fill the triangular pockets above the slightly elasticized empire-waist. Turning to face her dressing mirror, she undid and then retied the string-bow at the top of the key-hole to accentuate her cleavage. Finally, she pulled the long cami's hem down over her bottom.

Satisfied with the gossamer-fine cotton crepe garment's adjusted fit, Suzie smiled at her reflection and said, "That clerk at Nordstrom was right. My figure is perfect for this sleep-set." Then, as she spun around and slipped under the light covers on her double-bed, she advised herself, "Now, forget about Charlie and Butch and get a good night's sleep. The new routines we're going to work on tomorrow are supposed to be tricky!"

At the same time that Bernice Pomeroy was steeping in her bubble-bath, Colleen Womack was also feeling decidedly warm and relaxed at the Chart House restaurant. The Coconut-Lime-Chili Prawns had been an exotic taste sensation while the Chardonnay had precisely blurred life's harder edges just enough. Now, to her right, distracting her from the magical marina-view through the window on her left, their waitress was setting up a cart to prepare a Peach Flambé between her and her brother-in-law. The dreamy dining experience was far more romantic than she had expected when she accepted his impromptu invitation only three-and-a-half hours earlier.

As flames leapt dramatically in Monica's chafing dish, then settled into a rippling blue-orange wave around the caramelized peach halves, Colleen reached in front of the discreetly invisible waitress and clutched Wilford Womack's wrist. "This is all so extravagant, Ford," she protested feebly, while thoroughly enjoying the moment's ebullience. "I'm sorry your girlfriend got suddenly ill." Then, with a nervous little laugh, she said earnestly, "I do hope she gets better soon and doesn't resent you temporarily replacing her with your brother's widow."

Wilford smiled as the heat from his sister-in-law's fingers burned through his sport coat's sleeve and thermally challenged the dessert's dying brandy-fire for supremacy. Removing his arm from her grasp, he bought a few seconds by blotting his lips with his napkin, then replied graciously, "Like I said in the car, Collie, think nothing of it." As he returned the linen to his lap he continued, "Gail isn't my 'girlfriend', anyway. She might have been..." Catching himself, he made a mid-stream correction, "I mean, this would have been only our first date. Stuff happens, you know?"

Strategically ignoring her customers' conversation while, at the same time, efficiently providing for their table needs, was an art-form that Monica had mastered long ago. Quickly, but not intrusively, she took advantage of the break in tempo to place her creations in front of Colleen and Wilford. As she topped the fruit with generous dollops of thick crème Chantilly, she mentioned, "The small crystal pitcher is filled with peach liqueur, in case you care to drizzle it over the whipped cream." Then, with her cart, she vanished.

Wilford picked up where he left off, as he took the waitress's advice and cascaded a rivulet of syrup over the white mountain on his peaches. "Also, like I said, this is just me spending a little quality time with my sister-in-law. I'm not planning on telling Gail what she missed, and you don't even know her. So, there's nothing to fret over, is there?"

"That's all well and good, Ford," Colleen said, while following his lead and pouring the rest of the liqueur onto her dessert. "But the fact remains: I haven't spent 'quality time' like this with anyone since..."

"... since Wally bought it?" Wilford interjected reflexively.

"Yes, since... then," Colleen finished, blinking back an involuntary tear. "So, I don't want to make too much of it, but I do want you to know I appreciate you and I'm having a wonderful time. Thank you!"

Wilford cut a bite from his peach and replied, "You're more than welcome, Collie. Does that mean you wouldn't mind going somewhere else after we finish here? I know a quiet place where we could dance, for instance, if you like."

"Oh, goodness, Ford," Colleen answered. "I... uh, don't know... let me think on it while we eat our dessert, okay?" Avoiding his eyes, she loaded her fork. Although she never before had eaten a Peach Flambé, the warm firm succulent meat, with its sweet heavy cream, stimulated a long-lost taste memory in her mouth while the infused alcoholic sauce and sticky garnish attacked her dopamine center with a thousand pricking arrows. He had the instinctive good sense to dummy up.

As Wilford mindfully worked his way through the fruit on his own dish, he used his girl-watching skills to assess Colleen's mood and behavior, as well as her hitherto unremarked charms. She was, he realized oddly for the first time, quite attractive, with gray-green eyes, an unwrinkled forehead, smooth defined cheekbones and full lips which seemed to beg for closer attention. At age forty, she was maturely full-figured, but comfortably so, rather than fat or blowsy. He estimated that she carried about a hundred-and-forty-five pounds very nicely in a 38-27-39 hourglass on her five-foot-seven frame.

Thirty minutes later, back in his Monte Carlo, Wilford turned toward Colleen and asked in a falsely formal tone, "Where to, then, Princess? Your carriage-driver waits only for his instructions. Dancing until I turn into a pumpkin, or home right away?" Unable to keep a straight face, he chuckled and started the engine while he waited for an answer.

Colleen tipped her head back onto the headrest, buckled in and said simply, "I think I've got enough energy for one dance, anyway. I'm a little light-headed, though. If you swing me around too much, I'll probably stumble. Promise you'll be careful?"

Wilford nodded as he put the coupe in gear and left the parking valet in his rear-view mirror. "Well, I'm happily mellow, myself, so don't worry. We can hold each other up. I'm thinking Foghorn's will be perfect. They've got a live smooth jazz combo, comfy settees, and an adequate dancefloor that's too small for showing off." He risked reaching over the Chevy's console to pat Colleen's thigh lightly between her knee and her sharkskin pencil skirt's hem. "I think you'll like it."

Colleen considered warning Wilford off her leg, but her tummy flip-flopped at his touch and somehow kept her vocal cords in check before his hand was gone as quickly as it landed. Turning her head to face the window, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Her mind spun like a roulette wheel. Wilford tried to focus a hundred-percent on driving, but he couldn't help his sidelong glances at her bolero suit-jacket's rising and falling lapels as he wondered what were the odds that he could get lucky tonight.

The Foghorn Lounge's parking lot was nearly empty. Wilford knew, but hadn't exactly disclosed, that this particular cabaret didn't start jumping until nearly midnight. Until then, the crowd was neighborhood regulars who liked to drink, smoke and listen to the permanently installed quartet, The Round Notes, until it was time to watch the late-night talk-shows on their bedroom televisions. As he opened the passenger door, he stated the obvious, "Quiet, as advertised."

Collen laughed and replied, "Dead, more like." She heard a saxophone riff float on the night air when a couple of who had been in the bar opened the doors and exited. She pointed at them as she clamped her left hand on Wilford's right elbow and said, sarcastically, "C'mon, Daddy-O. We better shag it inside before some other cool cats grab the last available table!"

Catching the mood and the joke, Wilford retorted, "I'm hip to that, Baby!" Once inside, he led Colleen to a dark corner booth far removed from the only other couple in the lounge as well as from the two people standing at the bar talking. Even before they could seat themselves, a shadowy figure appeared beside them at their table's edge. In the dimness, their unadjusted eyes discerned a medium-sized woman of indeterminant age, while their noses notified them that she bought her perfume by the quart at The Dollar Store.

The waitress pleasantly greeted, in a whiskey-baritone, "Welcome to Foghorn's." Then she guffawed, "That's me, in case you couldn't guess from my dainty voice. What can I bring you to eat, drink, smoke or chew?"

Wilford casually dropped his right arm along the banquet seatback behind Colleen's neck and loosely cupped her far shoulder as he answered, "I'll have an I.W. Harper, rocks." Then turning his head, he asked, "What would you like, Collie?"

Feeling trapped, but unsure if she wanted to break out, Colleen said the first cocktail name that popped into her head. "A Rob Roy, please." As soon as she said it, she mentally kicked herself for not asking for something tall, light, and with lots of mixer, like a Seven-and-Seven.

"Okay, Dear," replied Foghorn, genially. "You want that straight-up or on ice? Cherry or lemon? Well-Scotch or top-shelf?"

Colleen chastised herself as the options list grew. "Oh, you really put your foot in it, didn't you? Stupid, stupid, stupid!" Drawing on her limited knowledge from seeing magazine ads, she said aloud, confidently, "I'm sorry... straight-up with a cherry. Either Johnny Walker Red or J&B."

Foghorn chuckled and said, "They're both standard pours. I'll surprise you." As she walked away, she thought, perspicaciously, "That poor little rabbit doesn't know a Rob Roy from a Roy Rogers, or my name isn't Elsa McDougal! I hope she can protect herself from that rascal she's with."

Alone in the booth, Colleen looked at Wilford then carefully, deliberately, lifted his hand from her shoulder and returned his arm to its natural normal position. Without any rancor, but using a mother's no-nonsense tone, she cautioned, "When I said that I had enough energy to dance, I didn't mean while we were sitting down."

"Strike one," thought Wilford. He kept a smile on his face as he glibly fibbed, "Of course, Collie. I was actually just trying to help you shrug out of that suit-coat. It's already pretty warm in here. I'm shedding my jacket." Proving his point, he shook his shoulders and wiggled out of his olive twill blazer. Then for good measure, he loosened the knot in his olive-gold-and brown muted paisley patterned silk tie and rolled his white dress shirt's sleeves to the middle of his forearms.

"Okay, Ford," Colleen replied, accepting his words as truth. "It is close in here and the table makes things awkward." Swiveling her torso to her right, she unbuttoned her bolero and bowed her shoulders back as she said, "Can you get it from there, then?" The lined sharkskin slipped easily down her arms as Wilford had no trouble finishing what she started. When she was resettled, she smiled and said, "Thanks. That really is much more comfortable."

"Well, that's what I thought, Collie," Wilford said evenly. He had noted that her white broadcloth V-neck blouse had only a single button keeping it closed at her nape. He itched to open to it and kiss his way down her exposed vertebrae to her wide bra-strap's back hooks. As he formulated how he might get past that little guardian, Foghorn arrived with the drinks.

"Here you go, folks," the lounge owner said as she set down the glasses. Winking at Colleen, she added, "I told you I'd surprise you, but I'm not gonna quiz you. I'm sure you're a gal who knows her Scotches. Drink up and just whistle when you want another round. We're not too formal around here." Then, seeing the bassist step up on the elevated platform against the far wall, she clapped her hands softly and informed, "The guys are going to kick it, again. Enjoy yourselves!"

The saxophonist squinted out at the non-existent crowd and spoke into the mike, the same as if he were at The Monterey Festival, "Welcome back for the smoothest jazz you'll ever dig. We're 'The Round Notes' and we have our own thing, but if it isn't your thing, just name a tune. If we can't wing it, we'll buy your next round!" He screeched out a piercing note, then brought it down and began 'Fly Me To The Moon' while he tapped his foot to the beat.

Wilford slugged back his highball and looked at Colleen. "Come on, Collie, down the hatch and let's have that dance!"

Colleen, again feeling pressure to keep up the appearance that she knew what she was doing, bravely quaffed two-thirds of her cocktail in a single draught. While her first glass of wine, over three hours ago, had long since lost its effect, the potent Scotch and bitters punched her throat. She didn't choke, though she feared she might. Finishing the last swallow, she was glad that the room's general darkness hid her welling tears as she set down the martini glass, slid out her side of the booth, and then exclaimed, "Yes, lets!"