 |
|
|
Thank you |
It Had to Be You (Serial #8)My name is bluenote, she writes, passing her notepad to the tall, bearded man, and I can not speak but I can play the saxophone, write poetry with my toes and fuck eighty-one different ways.
"Well, those are good things," the man replies in his French accent, and sits down next to this lovely, black-haired girl on a turquoise blanket. He eyes the balloons soaring overhead, the crowd of people around the bandstand across the park, the yellow legal pad the girl had been passionately writing on for a half hour while he watched. He tries to look at anything but the unfolding and folding of her long tanned legs and the constant hiking of her flimsy dress that kept him at a distance until he could reach some state of gentlemanly control within his jeans.
She looks at him questioningly, yet kindly, as though he might be a wounded bird dropped from the sky, looks at him with eyes the color of the Celtic Sea, a piercing blue that moves toward green with the shifting sunlight. She carefully folds and rips off a quarter-page of a legal sheet and writes: What can you do?
My name is Fabrice, he writes back, and I am a professor here at the university. I am thirty-seven and originally from Quebec.
She laughs, with the bright sound of a sudden breeze twinkling through tiny silver wind chimes, and places her bronze toes in his lap directly on top of his cock. That's boring, she writes, and I can hear perfectly, you may speak. I meant, what can you actually do?
Fabrice pets her toes and considers his worth. Maybe my work? "I can invent synthetic molecules." My hobbies? "I can windsurf...I can build things that last, like furniture." My passions? I must have some...hard to remember...God I am boring. He wraps one hand around her delicate ankles. "Why don't you show me how you write with your toes."
Bluenote pulls her gauzy white skirt up her thighs and tucks it in between her legs. Fabrice catches a glimpse of black curly hair and smiles at the purity of the day. Placing the blue Pentel roller-ball pen between her big and second toe, bluenote props the pad on his lap and begins to write in long sloping curves:
softly falling into darkness
stripped of love
drifting
down
to
the
ground "Why?" Fabrice asks, wrapping his hand in her long black hair and pulling her over to sit in his lap like a child. "Why are you stripped of love? How are you able to laugh and play the saxophone and not speak?" He can feel the undertow beginning, the tug that starts at the edge of a man's heart when he finds a girl in need of his strength, the tug that turns into a series of waves like the rise of oncoming orgasm, and then eventually, willing or not, evolves into a tidal force that can take a man right down to places he'd rather not go.
Bluenote curls up in his arms as though she belongs there and considers which story to tell this new man. Usually she waits until after she has fucked them at least five different ways before she gets anywhere near the truth. I went crazy, she rarely says, three years ago after my lover Sam left me. I went crazy, she doesn't say, because he left me for something evil that I did and I could not get him back. I am still crazy, she never adds, because Sam still lives above me in North Beach and I am unable to move away, not to mention speak, and if I lie very still in my bed at night I can sometimes hear him with his new girlfriend from Colorado who is bright and happy and has children and seems normal. I can hear them loving each other and fucking each other and laughing and dancing and moving through life like real people, and I am only not crazy, she should add but won't, when I play sad, soulful songs on my saxophone every night just before dawn and I know he can hear me even when he's not there, although he mostly ignores me and only nods to me in passing and doesn't even know that I can't speak.
Bluenote looks up at Fabrice and shrugs, never answering out loud, instead running her tongue lightly across his lower lip, often a better answer than anything words have to offer. Language, it has been said, was given us to camouflage our truths.
"I can do one more thing I forgot to mention, sweetheart," Fabrice whispers through her kiss. "I can make a woman come in five minutes with only my mouth, no hands."
Show me, she writes slowly down his neck with her tongue, and she tosses her long pristine skirt over his head like a blanket. Fabrice lowers hungry lips and tongue down between her legs to black curls and it all begins.
|
|
|
Add this to my shopping list
|
|
home | stories | free section | serial | join | info | email | order |
