Calendar of events:
- 12-19, Christmas break begins
- 12-20, Amtrak south to Tootletown, cab to Old Pines Home for Old Pines Residentials, a "park-like [oldster] campus on the gentle shores of Tootle Creek, where [the yet-to-be departed] residents can enjoy their golden [fogged-in] years in one-bedroom cottages, each with country kitchens, separate bath and compact washer-dryer [-- and lots of room for those weekly, oldster-swinger get-togethers ('Move it right, Edgar!' Eunice shouts. 'What?!!?' 'RIGHT!!!!' 'Oh. Right.' 'Right.' 'What?!!?']."
The quote above from a recent Old Pines brochure with my revisions. I'm writing this on the train, passing the corn and soybean fields of industrial-agricultural heartland America, half way between the ivy-clingy walls of acrid-dame-ee-ya, a mental institution with classes in higher education, and my Christmas with the ancients.
Not that I don't like Great-Aunt Frissie like a bee butt likes a flower. And school's been actually okay this year, after "the glottis" -- the opera diva tart in training -- finally moved out and left the rental house in a silence that was truly missed by her remaining roommates. And not that I don't like opera, either. Just not constantly and without intermissions.
"Hey," the girl I spoke to briefly at the station, says, after moving back down the aisle and sitting beside me.
"Interrupting?" She's peering at what's on my notebook screen.
"Just a fiction-journal thing. Writing down what happens over Christmas break."
"And the fiction part is that you're making the whole thing up?"
"So I don't exist."
"Right. We are both characters in a story. Two intermittently hot-and-horny college students on their way to new adventures over Christmas."
"Why do I only get to be 'intermittently' hot-and-horny?"
"Let's see ... because the difference between stories with sex, and porn, is the story parts without sex. Like --"
"-- sex intermissions," she says, finishing the line.
"Right. And also intermittently hot-and-horny because that's how it goes with me. Not that I'm necessarily 'hot' in the 'dream boy wrap your thingy round my leg' sense."
"You're okay." She's smiling and I'm not sure if it's about my general dream-boy qualities, or the 'thingy round my leg' line.
"So another English major?" she asks, still smiling.
"What gave it away?"
She's reading the story as I type it, now, her right hand resting on my thigh. "And when we get to the sex part later, how many orgasms will I get to have?"
"Pick a number."
"Twenty-seven," she answers.
"Okay. Twenty-seven it is. And remind me about this later, okay? You know, in case my own involvement in the scene has somehow clouded-up my short-term memory."
If I have to spend two weeks in "the gloom" -- my name for the general over-theme for both the Old Pines Home and its "residentials" -- I can at least have an intermittently orgasmic fictional traveling companion, no? The answer of course is "yes." Sure. Go for it. What's the point of life if not to accumulate a collection of events worth remembering in the country-kitchen cottage of your own, golden fogged-in years?
"I'm thinking this might be fun," the girl says now, hand still on my leg, as she stretches out her own legs, rests her head against the seat back and closes her eyes. Which gives me the fiction-journal opening to describe her.
Twentyish, slim, maybe five-foot-seven and a hundred-five, light brown hair that's shoulder length and brushed maybe twice a day, after rising in the morning and her usual bathing in the evening. No makeup. Her body, resting now quietly beside me, smells of bath soap, maybe Jergens, like she showered this morning before leaving for the station. She's wearing jeans and canvas-leather half-boots, and a light pink t-shirt that has "Anchor Beer" across the front. Her breasts beneath are small, round humps, like covered bushes in the snow.
"You're looking at my body," she says now, eyes still closed.
"And experiencing the beginning of a blood-flow redirection?"
"The paragraph description was little on the blood-flow upside. But not too heavy."
"Good. Leave room to build."
There's a pause. I'm about to look away when she says: "And I'm not wearing a bra."
As she says this I just begin to see the barely hardened outline of her nipples through the t-shirt, and I realize there is some blood-flow redirection going on, at least for me, an early twenty-something male still swimming in a sea of hormones, and riding on a giant train-vibrator, with a cute girl's hand resting on my leg.
2012-12-07 12:20:37 (829 words)