Chapter 41: Erotic writing and Crab Rangoon
But now it’s just another show, You leave ’em laughing when you go
And if you care, don’t let them know
Don’t give yourself away
— Joni Mitchell, Both Sides Now
A few weeks after I saw the Missouri redhead off home from the Denver airport, her email swerved into erotic writing. I found it on the thumb drive holding old floppy-disk texts:
After some serious snuggling…I’ve brought some edible vanilla body massage oil…I tell you to lie on your stomach. I straddle your butt, drop a few drops of oil on your shoulders. Slowly I knead and rub your shoulders. No hurry, want to please my Baby. I lean forward, kiss your ear and tell you how much I love you, my breasts pressed into your back…
Parenthetically she said she actually had the oil and planned to pack it when she came to see me. She was sweet, but her increasing declarations of love meant she was building a private fantasy of forever. Something I didn’t experience with restless wives in my philandering forties. My father told me he stopped such fantasy in its tracks in his own serial philandering. But words he said he used seemed heartless. He shrugged:They’ll still fuck, because they think they’ll change your mind. I hadn’t meant that. Not sure what I meant. Couldn’t bear deliberately inflicting pain, I guess. Not on a woman who salved pain inflicted by another woman. Stupid, really. Pain is implicit in emotional connection.
I gently rub the oil into your back, careful not to tickle. I drop oil on your cheeks…in the crack of your ass. I rub it in a little, then lean down and lick — hey, it is edible. I lick each of your cheeks. Then my tongue finds your crack and lightly licks, my tongue not probing very deep this time. This is fun, but I have more to do. When you roll over, you are very erect…
Easy to envision because I knew her touch and her body, and the Priapic resurgence her passion wrought.
I am pleased with the way I am exciting you. I straddle your waist, wet pussy resting just above your hard cock. I giggle, lock my hands with yours, holding you spread eagle as I lean down and softly lick the oil from one nipple. My hair spills around my face, you can’t see what I’m doing, but you can certainly feel…I suck your nipple harder, nibbling, then switch to the other, sucking and nibbling. I feel your cock grow harder…
Hunting season opened. I patched the hole in my canoe with duct tape and mounted it on my Bronco. Shoddy if I were going duck hunting. But I wasn’t. Canoe and duct tape were a cover story. Final evidence my debauchery was complete, to let sex divert me from duck hunting. I met the Missouri redhead at SeaTac and drove north almost to Canada.
A gas station familiar from previous seasons had expanded into a full outdoor store. I purchased shot-shells on a card I knew to be monitored obsessively — more cover. Pacific Northwest scenery was exotic to my companion, so instead of hunting I was a tour guide. We watched deer amble across the North Cascades Highway and visited a chainsaw artist’s studio to admire his rough-hewn sculpture. We watched a dramatic sunset over the San Juan Islands across the placid Sound from a roadside rest area on Chuckanut Drive, and had dinner.
I lick oil from your thighs, from your balls, hungrily. My tongue finds your cock. I am so horny all I really want is you inside me. I’ll suck your cock later, need you inside me right now. I straddle you, guide your cock inside me, nibble your ear. Fuck me, Ish, god yes, I need you to fuck me — can’t get enough of you. You are biting and sucking a hickey on my neck. Drives me insane and I cum buckets as you do, too…
She had asked if her script was too wild “because I made myself a little hot here.” An hour after we checked into a motel, nostrils full of vanilla and raw sex, I could have answered not too wild at all, just good script-writing. We were comically slippery as greased pigs at a 4-H jamboree. The sheets — man, the sheets. I hoped stains would wash out. We had fun scrubbing off oil and drying each other. Laid the bedspread over the greasy sheets and went at it au naturel. Seemed impossible I ever experienced erectile dysfunction. Miseries of grim real life were walled away.
The neurologist doing nerve-conduction studies to determine if ED was related to neurological damage from sarcoidosis was surprised when I mentioned resurgence with this woman. He wanted to tell my doctor my problem was psychological not physical. Grumbled when I forbade it. I regretted telling him. But I wouldn’t think about that now.
She didn’t have much vacation left, having used most of it in Chicago and Denver. We had another day to sight-see and eat fresh seafood, and we had history now to laugh about. How woozy she got in the rocking train car. How the porter sympathized with my “wife” that my CPAP deterred romance, hilarious because it did — for my actual wife. That wonderful foot rub. Her favorite moment was her Chicago vaginal orgasm, heightened by her delight it wasn’t her last.
There was the bittersweet too, when she said she wished she could “show me” her real life in the Show-Me State. She knew it unlikely, so she’d take this. My father would have said she was angling for a hint of future commitment. But she knew I was married and intended to stay that way. I cared about her and was enormously grateful for the gift of herself that restored my manhood.
Ours was a real affair, but not a love affair. Not for me. I didn’t think English owned a word for it.
She was some sort of data-processing manager for an outfit clueless about computers. Knew they would begin to panic before she got home. Trusted me to get her to the airport in time. But Seattle traffic was justifiably notorious. I suggested we drive down and find an airport motel for an unpressured last night together. She liked the idea.
The motel we selected had one of those vibrating beds and pornographic movies on tap. She laughed and asked if I wanted popcorn. I said what I want is you, not movies. But we can road-test the bed. She liked that too.
She had observed a Chinese restaurant across the lot and wanted to see how it stacked up to Missouri Chinese. The phrase made me laugh. But the Show-Me State showed me, because she was knowledgeable in Chinese cuisine. Introduced me to Crab Rangoon. Evidently Northwest crab was a superb ingredient; she approved.
We ran out of quarters for the bed. Even with the CPAP we slept together comfortably and woke in time for a sweet morning fuck before showers. Still no dysfunction. She said, “You’re always putting me on airplanes. Denver, here. Wish you were coming too.” I never saw her again. The last email came a while later:
There is no easy way to do this, but I’m afraid I won’t be seeing you anymore. I’ve met someone who is single and who’s agenda is the same as mine — he doesn’t like life alone either…I know that you know I loved you. I’m sorry it wasn’t meant to be…Thanks for the great few months. I wish you nothing but the best and I will miss you.
