Mr. Poole

She never left them because they didn’t have enough money, or they couldn’t get it up or they chewed with their mouth open. She didn’t fall out of love when they looked at other women or tracked mud and shit through the house. She didn’t foster resentment over things like halitosis or dirty socks or internet porn addictions.

She wasn’t like that.

The women who knew her chastised her for putting up with those things. They were all divorced or single or feminists, though. She always wondered about that. If you know so much about relationships and men, why aren’t men falling over themselves to be with you? But it never mattered, her opinion.

He was different, though. His name was Ethan Poole. He was short and warm, round and funny, and had a pleasantly handsome face. And last night, he’d ‘failed her.’ Or that’s what he said. She had simply smiled and kissed his face and put his hand on her breast while she finished what he’d started. Afterwards, he’d held her close and breathed into her neck and said he thought he might love her.

She’d been honest with him about her track record. She thought it made him nervous. But she told him all those things, and had left it at that, that none of those were reasons in her book to give up on someone you loved.

“What if I can never satisfy you again?”

She’d told him not to be ridiculous. Not to put such a narrow definition on satisfaction.

“I think men and women are very different,” he said thoughtfully. She agreed.

This morning, she stood at the sink, her hands in the dishwater, and she heard him come in, felt him come close, felt his arms come around her. He teased her neck, from earlobe to nape, with his lips and tongue, and she involuntarily melted against him, her fingers tightening around the edge of the basin.

Then his hands were on her breasts, squeezing, pinching, stroking, pulling. She moaned and rocked her head back on his shoulder. “You like that?” he whispered in her ear.

One hand traveled downward, beneath the elastic band of her pajama bottoms, and his fingers were quick to find her, to slide almost roughly, without preamble, against her clit. Just like he’d watched her do a hundred times. He worked her hard and fast, his mouth still on her neck, and his other hand still fondling her tits. Her breathing grew shallower as she reached for the climax he was offering, and then his fingers were sliding in deep, pressing forward, and he was whispering, “Come for me, Beautiful.”

She exploded, felt the sweet release as she filled his palm with fluid, felt it run down her legs, heard his murmured approval while he held her there, too weak to stand on her own. And when she’d reclaimed her voice, while he took a towel and cleaned her up and kissed her mouth with such tenderness, she said to him, “This is why I’ll never leave you, Mr. Poole.”

510 wds

FFM 2015 Day 5

Familiar

When the rain started the sun was still shining. It had the feeling of a bright, sunny day. Steam rose off the pavement, and the music from the carousel continued its cheerful round. But there were no children.

I walked down the center of the street, a street lined by tidy, cookie-cutter houses and barren of cars or people. Water ran down my forearms, tickling like racing little bugs. Had I lived here once? Did I live here now?

When she stepped from the grass alley formed by two of the neat houses, I couldn’t say I was surprised. Nor was I surprised that the carousel stopped, and the only sounds were my soft sneakers on the wet pavement, and the staccato patter of falling water all round. She fell into step beside me.

We walked up the street in silence. Then her hand slipped inside mine. I squeezed with familiarity, or out of habit… I’m not sure which. I wondered where the cars were, on a summer Sunday afternoon, where the children were. Where the terrier who always threatened to eat my shoelaces was. I wanted to ask her, but words and sounds seemed inappropriate, irreverent.

The rain grew heavier, and the sun disappeared. The striking drops no longer caressed, but stung. I felt her body move in against mine, and I instinctively pulled her in and sheltered her beneath one arm. Our heads low, our steps quick, we turned up the nearest drive and sought shelter beneath the overhang of the garage eave.

There was a flash, and a roar, and her lips were on mine. Her hands cupping my neck and face, her tongue demanding entrance. I didn’t hesitate. I couldn’t. I could never say no to this one. My hands gripped her buttocks and pulled her into my already throbbing cock. Her moan was all I needed to hear. I flipped her around and she braced her hands on the wobbly garage door. I kicked her feet apart, lowered her pants, and ran my cold wet hands up under her shirt while I thrust into her.

I felt the familiarity of her climax, the deliciously predictable nature of her spasms and the way she moved her hips against me. I didn’t stop. I kept fucking her, fucked her right through it and into the next one, until I felt her sway, then I put my arms around her and held her up while I came. And after I came. That was the best part, holding her and listening to her breathe, listening to the soft, satisfied little noises she made while she came down. I felt us running together, out of her, down my balls, and that was delicious, too.

When I woke, I was staring at a whitewashed tile ceiling with its ugly brown water stain directly over me. And the water dripped on my face, slowly, over and over. I’d like to get out of the way, but when I tell myself to move, nothing happens. The beeping comes back in like carousel music, except it’s not beeping anymore. It’s one shrill flat noise. I think about her, and still feel our fucking trickling over my balls. My Marjorie. I didn’t want to be here without her anyway.

544 wds

FFM 2015 Day 4

That Moment

There’s always that moment, right before the world ends. One of quiet clarity where you see your heart beat and hear the electricity crackling along your skin. When the taste of blood and fear are distant memories even while they lurk near the surface.

She had just said, “I can’t believe I forgot to pick up toilet paper.”

He pumped one last time, the sweat running from beneath his receding hairline, his forearms cording with the effort. “That should do it,” he gasped as he struggled to stand.

She smiled and lit a cigarette. “You did that like an old pro, Jer.”

He leaned down and kissed her. “A man of many hidden talents.”

It was as he bent to retrieve the tire iron that her line of sight, momentarily unobstructed, encompassed the swerving minivan with an impossible trajectory. There was no time. Only time to see her heart beat and feel the hairs on her forearms rise in front of the electricity crackling along her skin.

 

167 wds

FFM 2015 Day 2

Dangerous Wishes

They spoke of the future while immersed in a past like a tangle of kudzu vine, spoke of it as though it were around the next corner.

Be careful what you wish for.

He watched the sun, like a red poker chip, fall into Ontario, and listened to the hum of the city behind him. The lap of water. Gulls. Sirens. Her laugh.

It was what longing tasted like.

Her.

He turned and pulled her close. This had been their dream. “I’m not letting you go,” he whispered. He bent his head and kissed the tape covering her mouth.

Be careful what you wish for.

 

105 wds

FFM 2015 Day 1