Story Notes:
Thank you banner-queen BlackMamba for sharing your talent and making this story better.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
This isn’t your usual love story, because…
One…
I’m not sure what I’m about to tell you could be considered a story (store ‘ri) by the Webster definition of the word. But the more I think on this…yeah, it’s a story and unfinished one true, but a story nonetheless.
And two…
I’m not sure I’m in love, self-delusion at work here, I know it, but I’m going to lie to myself a little while longer while I’m learning to accept the, “in love” part.
They say that any good story has a beginning, middle and end. Well, this story...our story started on a Friday two years ago, because my car died, literally, on the Thursday before and I’d it towed to the local shade tree mechanic. This is important for you to know, why, because I work eleven plus miles from my home, and as I said before it was a Friday. The one-day of the week when everyone with any good sense goes home on time or as early as possible; I’m not putting myself in the good sense category because being the brilliant and dedicated person that I am, I had decided to stay late and finish a project due later the next week.
Anyways…I was ready to leave work but the ride I’d arranged had left the building. Found out this nugget of info at 7:30p after all my co-workers had left hours before. Family members were unavailable, sorry suckers. They have no trouble reaching me with a quickness when they want something, but me, I get nada. So that left me in the office dialing the local cab company or here in the boonies the Trolley. So I called and waited for a ride home.
Forty minutes later I’m standing at the office window watching as a white van with red lettering across the side pulls into the parking lot. I hurry down three flights of stairs, walking as quickly as my fat knees and size 7.5Ws will carry me. At the van I open the door and stare inside until the driver identifies himself and moves his clipboard from the seat so I can get in. I’m tired, disgusted with myself and that piece of rubbish I drive but I’m not so self absorbed that I miss the fact that the driver is cute, handsome, not bad looking. Not that I was searching, but I noticed.
He/we do the usual chitchat but I’m not in the mood for a long conversation and the talk between us dries up. A couple of times I glance over at the speedometer wishing he drive just a little faster than the legal speed limit. But he’s doing his job, being a good driver and citizen, so I sucked it up.
The eleven miles from work to home is usually a quick 10 minute drive but that Friday for some reason it felt like we’re moving at the speed of syrup, and I’m sleepy. Not comfortable closing my eyes with a stranger sitting next to me, I grasp at something to keep my mind busy. My eyes are drawn to the hands lightly holding the bottom of the steering wheel. Okay, confession time, to me one of the most erotic body parts on a man is his hands and his hands were…well all he’d have to do is touch me with a finger and it’s on.
His hands were wide at the palms, pale with a web of deeply etched lines. The backs colored an outdoor bronze with whispers of gold on the fingers. The fingers are long blunt at the ends with nail longer and cleaner than mine at the moment. I crush the urge to pull out a fingernail file and clean mine.
His left hand leaves the wheel long enough to tap the turn signal as he changes lanes. The same hand brushes across a leg encased in a pair of pressed blue jeans. I can’t help the thought that the leg inside the jeans is not the typical white man’s leg. Thighs…this man has thighs. He works out or rides horses or…I start to wonder what they would feel like beneath, between, across and against my own. My eyes travel from where the hand rests to his feet encased in a pair of Timberland, maybe a 13. An old wife’s tale pops into my mind. I’m so busy trying not to be obvious with my cataloging that I’ve tuned out.
His, “Miss!”
Gets my attention. Then I’m gone again as I stare into brownish-green eyes, at a lightly cleft chin and a jaw covered by a sculptured beard.
I promise you I’m an intelligent woman, capable of many things. It’s just that in that moment, that Friday and all the days since I’ve begun to function on a purely primal-emotional-physical level. I feel his eyes on me, but he says nothing. I’m embarrassed and horny. Not a comfortable situation.
We’re a half block from my house before I remember I hadn’t answered him. “Yes.”
“I was asking, what was the name of the tune you’ve been humming?”
“Humming?” I look into his eyes to see if he thinks I sound as addle-brained as I think I sound.
All I see there is kindness and a little humor.
“I have no idea. What did it sound like to you?”
He starts to speak but I interrupt.
“Nope, that’s okay. I’m surprise you recognized it as humming.”
“Why?”
“Old, very old personal anecdote.” I drag my eyes away from his lopsided smile and look out the windshield. Okay, should I digress here and embarrass myself. Why the hell not, it’s my story. The first time I seriously dated and we went further than a kiss, he told me I hummed when I was aroused. I didn’t hear it or realized I did it. Weird, huh? Anyhow back to this tale.
Near the house I can see my sister’s flashy wine-colored Ford hogging my driveway. Warning bells go off, “next to the Ford Escape.” I direct him. “How much do I owe?” I rush the words out, seriously wanting to exit the vehicle before messing up, but even more I want to stay and just look at him.
“Thirteen even.”
I fumble in my purse a moment before pointing a twenty in his direction.
It’s the hands and I’m squirming in the seat. It takes him pointing over my shoulder for me to notice someone standing at the window waiting for me. It’s my niece. The whirl of the window lowering diverts my attention for the moment, but the though of his hands touching certain parts of my anatomy is fighting for prominence.
“Aunty, momma wants you to keep little man.”
Necey looks past me to the driver, smiles and waves at him. “Hi, Mr. Raison.”
“Hi, Necey.”
“Why?” I blurt out without thinking.
Necey looks at me, like I should know why.
“Momma said, since your hooptie is not ready yet, you shouldn’t have any plans.”
All my attention plus my eyes have gone back to the hands and I stare at the fingers still gripping onto the twenty. His fingers touching mine. I stare into those eyes; looking for the strength to say, stay with me. Because it’s a Friday and I’ve found something I want to do more than sitting at home with little man reading about other women finding love. Because it’s a Friday and I want the man setting next to me, holding onto my twenty.
He lets go of the twenty and stares past me to Necey. “Tell your momma, your aunt has a date and she’ll be back sometime tonight.”
“She gonna sh… a brick.”
Reluctantly I turn and stare at my niece, who clamps her mouth shut on whatever else she was going to say. “Little girl you know better.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Necey steps away from the van. My heart beats faster and something in my stomach flutters as we leave the neighborhood.
I turn in the seat staring at him.
He says something but I’m focused on his second best feature. Lips that look soft and knowledgeable and shaped like those we were taught to draw in Art 102. I promise you I’m an intelligent woman, capable of many things. But the minute he smiled at me, spoke up for me I was his.
We stop in the parking lot of the First Southern Baptist Church and he calls in.
“Candace, this is Jace.”
His name is Jace Raison.
“Yeah, I’m calling off shift. Naw, not ill. Found something interesting to do on a Friday night. Yep, first thing Tuesday. No, no problem. Bye.”
I keep thinking that situations like this only happen in the movies or in books to women who look a whole lot different than I do. So I’m functioning on two different levels but I have presence enough to ask the important questions. “Where are we going? Why are you with me? Are you going to hurt me?”
“We’re going grocery shopping then to my house.”
First question answered.
“You don’t know me.”
In the parking lot of the local grocery Jace maneuvers into the first available parking spot. Turning off the ignition he turns to face me. He smiles then reaches across and pushes open my door. He spells of fresh laundry and cologne.
“That small fact doesn’t stop me for wanting to be with you. Besides we have all night to know each other.”
Second question answered.
“Oh, okay.” I can feel a blush burning beneath my skin.
He gets out and walks around the car. He stands at the open door waiting for me to get out. His hand reaches for mine. His fingers wrap around mine and the fluttering in my stomach grows. I stand and we’re breaths apart and I think I shouldn’t kiss that space on his jaw closes to me because we’re in a public place.
“I think the two of us can cook a decent meal, watch a movie and when you’re ready we’ll make love the rest of the night.”
I take a deep breath but it’s not enough so I take another. “Good, you’ve got a plan.”
He stares at me, his eyes saying everything, I will never hurt you. And I believe him as he steps back pulling me away from the car. I’m aware of everything around me, the car door shutting, the snap of the door lock, the smell of gasoline and heat rising from the parking lot. The swishing of the electric doors opening and sound of shopping carts.
I promise you I’m an intelligent woman, capable of many things and I know it’s dangerous to go to a stranger’s house but I want to. I’ve heard women say they’d never do an ONS. I use to be one of them but I know once we’re alone I’ll make love to him as much as he wants.
The night goes pretty much as he outlined, we cooked dinner, watched two movies instead of one, showered together and made love in almost every room of his house. The first time we made love was a little awkward. You know getting the right body part into the right places but we made it work. The second time was easier. We were past the fumbling stage. He held me with those hands, kissed me with those lips and let me love him in my own way.
I promise you I’m an intelligent woman, capable of many things and I know that making love to a man does not equal a lifetime of love, respect and “I’ll see you again.” So I’m holding onto the memories. The anticipation I felt as we sat on the floor, our backs against the sofa and I kissed him on that spot I’d been thinking about since the parking lot. The feeling of being needed when he surprised me at the bedroom door and after a moment or two during that toe curling kiss I became aware of the doorknob poking me in the hinny. It took several tries before I was able to still his hands long enough to get his attention. He laughed when I told him, “I’m too old and too big for you to be pushing my behind up this door. I’d prefer your bed.” The feeling of daring and freedom as I nip at the space behind his right ear. The feeling of his skin as my hands memorized every inch of him. The taste of each time we made love. I have those memories.
Sunday afternoon came sooner than I wanted reminding me that our time together as special as it is has to end like everything else. As I dress I think I’ll never have him this way again. I know I’ll see him walking around town or we’ll meet in the grocery or at the next high school basketball game. But the passion between us will only be in the memories I hold.
Two weeks later, Mr. Raison proves me wrong by showing up on my doorstep with food and the promise of more Friday nights together. It’s been two years now. We’re doing what you’d call seeing each other for some intense quality time. Real intense with some quality kinky, at least kinky to me. I’ll never mixed food and sex, but silk and sex, candle wax and sex, lotion cold from the refrigerator and sex, poetry and sex, outdoors drive-in and sex is definitely on my list of things to do over and over and over.
Okay at the beginning of this tale I said I wasn’t sure this was a love story. Well, hell Jace just called and said that he loves me. He loves me. Damn does it mean I have to say it back? Must figure this out before Friday night.
the end