Hola all:
After I had to pull out of contributing to Sheila's upsocming 'zine because the last of my story was eaten by computer (and I didn't have the energy to rebuild), my sad muse pushed me to write the story below. All types of comments are welcome.
This goes out to the chat crew. Thanks, guys, for listening.
Sorry in advance for spelling and/or missing-word weirdnesses. I tried my best . . . just not able to focus much today.
Winston Zeddemore wriggled against the slippery satin sheets beneath his bare bottom they were sticking to his sweaty form and it made him feel clammy and uncomfortable . . . not a very good sensation. Especially not after having spent more than two hours in a haze of sensuality . . . a wonderland of hedonistic, mind-blowing physical pleasure.
Perhaps it had been more than two hours . . . maybe it had been less; he wasn't really sure. What he did know was that it had been absolutely, no-doubt-about-it wonderful while it lasted, anyway.
But now it was over he was sweaty, the sheets were sticking to his ass, and his partner was sleeping contentedly by his side, her soft snores almost musical in the low light of a nearby lamp.
Winston sighed, irritably kicking at the covers wound around his feet. It was, again, time to go. He stared up at the ceiling, noting that in the dark, the pebbly surface almost resembled a stretch of white sand . . . the kind you'd find in Bali, maybe, or Bermuda. It was a relaxing thing to just lie there staring at absolutely nothing. It cleared his mind, wound him down . . . got him ready for to face the inevitable -- namely, the end of the evening.
He knew he wasn't in love -- but the dark man couldn't help but feel a twinge of sadness deep down. He'd always thought he'd be married by this time nice and settled with a sweet wife, a couple of kids . . . a basketball hoop in the backyard and a baseball diamond nearby.
The house he'd always envisioned owning when he "settled down" wasn't any palace - it definitely wasn't anything as big or . . . eclectic as the firehouse -- that was for sure. Just a nice little brownstone in Park Slope or Laurelton, somewhere, with a clean stoop and wrought-iron railings on either side.
The neighbors would be varied and friendly. They were all working people, just like him. With jobs in the city . . . just like him. With mortgages, a family, a lot of bills and vacation time that was going to be spent most likely with the in-laws. Just like him. They lived normal lives, had normal jobs if not always steady went to church on Sundays and cursed out The Powers That Be that inevitably let the potholes grow to gargantuan size and the graffiti dot the walls of the local schools.
Winston always imagined joining that melange of humanity, laughing, fighting, cursing and living with them he and his wife and their two . . . no, three . . . kids. The woman he'd always imagined marrying was a short, powerfully built woman with caramel skin and kind eyes. She worked as hard outside the home as in they both did.
The kids, of course, would have their after-school activities boxing for little Jack, karate for Tania, piano for Eric and would wait patiently for one or both of their parents to come in the sensible family car to take them home. He and his wife would take turns cooking, the dark man thought, or maybe set up a schedule Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays he'd do the deed Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays would be hers. . . Sundays they'd go out or order in.
The schedule would change, of course, during the holiday season or when company dropped by. Every night, they'd help the kids with their homework, watch TV as a family and tuck the little ones in . . . ritually kissing them good night. Then it would be off to their private domain the bedroom to talk, cuddle, make love. Or just sleep. Sleep in each other's arms on a nice, firm, California king-size bed with cotton sheets . . . not silk ones that felt like a fish's skin against sweaty flesh.
It was a pretty dream . . . one he'd fashioned bit by bit as he went from childhood, living through his parents' divorce, his grandmamma's death and Vietnam. The little fantasy that he added to when he was on recon in the jungle . . . when his unit learned that their commanding officer had been captured by the VC . . . when the chopper crashed carrying Chet, his bunkmate and the only guy he'd ever met that could play Spades as good as his grandmamma. It was the sweet idea he'd built a brick at a time when he got back from `Nam disoriented, disillusioned and disgusted, taking odd job after odd job until he lucked into finding Ghostbusters . . . and the best friends he could ever hope to have.
It was a dream he thought that, by the ripe old age of 36, would come true. Not in every detail, perhaps, but in the more important aspects. Maybe the house wouldn't have wrought-iron railings . . . maybe he'd have three daughters or three sons instead of the two boys and a girl he always imagined. Maybe his wife would be as tall or taller than he. Maybe she wouldn't even be African American. Winston had never been so- naοve to think that every detail of his deepest wish would come true.
But if someone were to have told him that at 36, not only was he not married, a father or a homeowner . . . that he was, in fact, still single and still getting into dead-end relationship after dead- end relationship. That he wasn't any closer to buying his dream home than he was to rocketing to Jupiter . . .that, in fact, the only part of the dream life to be realized was that he was in a job he loved, well . . . he wouldn't have believed it.
He couldn't have believed it. After all, he'd had it all planned. He'd had it planned for so long. . .
He sighed again, and sat up, stretching his arms as far overhead as they could go. In his mind's eye, the events of the evening and played themselves out like a first-run film. . He saw the dinner they'd eaten, the wine they'd drank, the movie they'd watched, and the passion with which they'd attacked each other as soon as they were alone. As the evening replayed itself in vivid detail in his brain, in full-color, full sound, too, he remembered the sensations, the breathtaking physical actions, the sighs, the moans, the creaking of the bedsprings.
Winston remembered it all, and was conscious as the image began to fade, that he'd never felt so alone and so much like a failure.
"Winston?" the voice beside him was slumber-tinged and soft. "You up?"
"Uh . . . yeah," he murmured. "Couldn't sleep, I guess."
"Oh yeah?" the woman turned toward him, laying her head on a stretched-out arm. "Does that mean you're game for another go-round?" she batted her eyes coquettishly.
"Actually . . . no," he bit his lip. "I think I'd better get going. We've got an early bust tomorrow and I . .. I think I just better leave."
Winston saw a pout cross the beautiful face beside him. "Now? But the night is still young . .. and I'm ready to have some more fun."
He wavered a moment. The woman's eyes were bright and predatory, full lips slightly parted, hair tousled sexily about her bare shoulders. The come-hither look coupled with the sensuous form being outlined by the clingy sheets would weaken a priest . . .
But the time for fun was past, he knew. He didn't feel like playing anymore that night.
"It sounds good, but I can't," he replied. "Thank you for the . . . uh . . .evening, It was . . . um . . ."
"Intense," she smiled lazily and let her head loll back onto her arm. "You're something else, you know that?"
"Yeah . . ." he looked at her thoughtfully, suddenly feeling the urge to ask her how she felt about brownstones. .. karate lessons, cooking and wrought-iron railings. Perhaps . . .
No. He waved the thought away. She was beautiful, yes, and smart, and sexy as hell . . . but she wasn't the one he'd envisioned . . . not even remotely. And besides . . . she was nuts about someone else. She hadn't been able to stop talking about him during their date that night. It'd be pointless to think of her as anything other than what she was a beautiful woman, a wonderful lay . . . a friend and nothing more.
"So, you're leaving," she sat up and shook out her hair. "Want me to call you a cab?"
"Nah . . . I'll be all right," he smiled, standing up from the bed, collecting his clothes in short, purposeful movements. "We've . . . gotta do this again sometime."
"I hope so," her voice was dreamy. "I haven't had four orgasms in one night in a while."
"Well . . . I aim to please."
"And your aim is certainly good," she giggled softly. "You should give lessons."
"Mmmm," he listened with half an ear, his eyes catching sight of the clock's glaring neon numbers flashing 12:00 a.m. Midnight on the dot.
"Well, you know the way out," her voice was sounding sleepy again. "Sorry you can't stay . . ."
"Yeah," his voice was sad. "Me, too."
He meant it. He was sorry . . . not sorry for what happened, but sorry that he kept getting himself into such half-assed predicaments.
"Good night, Winston . . . I'll see you."
"Yeah, you will," he turned to look at her again she had her back to him, the tantalizing curve of her back and creamy, freckle-dotted shoulders peeking from outside the covers. "We'll be back about ten. I guess I'll see you then."
"Uh huh," her breathing was becoming heavy. "G'night, then . . ."
"Good night . . . Janine." He squelched the urge to brush the errant strands of auburn hair off her shoulders. But he stopped himself in time . . . if he touched her, he knew he'd be unable to leave . . . and it'd be too dangerous to stay. As it was, he'd have to lie to the guys about where he'd been . . . and if any of them were to find out.
If Egon were to find out . . .
He pulled on his shirt. No need to worry about that. He wouldn't tell and neither would she. It wasn't as if it would last, anyway. The sex was great, yes, but she'd patch up whatever differences she had with Egon . . . and he would be on the lookout for the person that he settle down with. Someone that would be his and his alone and would help him in the building of his long-deferred dream.
The dark man smiled sadly as he heard Janine's soft snores mingle with the sounds of the night filtering from outside her bedroom window. All of a sudden, he felt out of place, half-dressed and conflicted.
Winston finished dressing quickly, and, before tiptoeing out to leave Janine to her slumber, did as thorough a check as he could do in the darkness until he was satisfied that he wasn't leaving anything . . . anything at all . . . behind.
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