Affairs/directns
                                    Christophe 
                                     Directions
                               I don't understand some relationships.
               The weekend after graduation is a particularly dull time for a bottle
              shop.  Everyone that wants booze has either left town, is still nursing
               the worst hangover of their academic life, or is still plowing through
                          leftover alcohol.  Or has to work.  Which I was.
                The late afternoon sun pounded through the dirty glass of the front,
              what little was not covered with signs loudly proclaiming a message of,
               in essence, "Get Drunk!  Cheap!  Here."  The weather in Cambridge had
               been particularly lousy, especially for June, our most promising month
              until October.  But the thunderstorms and rain showers had given way to
                a passably nice day.  The weather was guaranteed by the owner of the
                          shore having scheduled me for an all-day shift.
               The job sucked, but the alternative was home to Lancaster, PA with my
                 parents, a fate I would have gladly licked Mass Ave clean with my
                                          tongue to avoid.
                 I didn't notice her at first, as all my attention was taken up by
                  counting out change for a $100 for a young guy who was buying a
                   newspaper.  He had a smile that I'm certain was intended to be
                apologetic, and if I had been in a better mood it might have worked,
               but I was inconsolable.  A line had formed, and she joined the end of
                 it, not stopping to pick anything up.  With each sale, I noticed a
                                        little more of her.
                            Bottle of wine, $12.95.  Short blonde hair.
                 Two six-packs of Coke, $4.49.  About 5' 8", blue halter top.  Nice
                                              figure.
                             Bottle of gin, $6.80.  Cute, button nose.
                 She reached the front of the line, and gave me a smile that broke
                 through my lousy mood.  Blue eyes.  A little necklace that looked
                          vaguely Southwestern, all turquoise and silver.
                      "I'm looking for Cedar Street?  Any idea where that is?"
                We're at the corner of Mass Ave. and Cedar.  This was going to be a
                                   short encounter.  I told her.
                "No, no, not that Cedar!  Cedar in Somerville.  I love Boston, but I
                                      hate driving in Boston."
               We're in Boston the way New Jersey is in Manhattan, but I wasn't going
                                to start that line of conversation.
                                       "Where are you from?"
                                 "California.  How about yourself?"
               "Lancaster, Pennsylvania.  I'm going to Harvard ..." I started in, but
                               I seemed to have said the magic word.
               "Lancaster!  I have friends in Lancaster."  Reminded me a bit too much
                  of the Pennsylvania license plates, but she's gone on.  "They're
                  members of my sorority, and I just saw them at our June Weekend
                                reunion.  I'm in town for that ..."
               As she went on, a one-person conversation, I took in her voice (quite
               husky, considering her bubbly demeanor) and glanced (with appropriate
                     discretion, I hoped) up and down her body.  She was, well,
                well-stacked.  Unfortunately, my discretion was insufficient for the
                  task, and I looked back up to her face to see her smiling at my
                      regard.  As I blushed, she leaned down over the counter.
               "Some people get all the fun jobs," she said, in a low, conspiratorial
                                               voice.
                "Uh, yeah."  Witty reply.  Clever.  That's right, I thought, wow her
                                        with your intellect.
                 "Place seems quiet, today"  She said, glancing around, stretching
              herself.  Her elbows sunk slowly onto the countertop.  I looked up from
               the view thus created by the lowering of the halter-top fabric to see
              her looking at me with a smile that had switched from conspiratorial to
                                          something else.
                "Think of anything we could do to make the job more fun?" she said.
                 "Well, it's cooler in the back."  Shit, I thought, did I say that?
              "We could fix that," she said, turning around and surveying the back of
                                      the store for the door.
                   "This way," I managed to gasp out with lungs that didn't seem
                completely under my command.  In one fluid motion, I had closed the
                register, grabbed a package of condoms from behind the counter, and
              locked the front door.  No customers in the parking lot, good, just one
                 car, must be her's.  It looks like there's someone in it, but nah,
                                  couldn't be, anyway, who cares?
                I led her into the back room.  It's even worse than the typical back
                 room of a liquor store, whatever that looks like.

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  There are boxes
               piled everywhere, both empty and full, the usual collection of posters
              proclaiming that all you have to do is drink some terrible brand of bad
              American liquor and amazingly women who would scrape you off their shoe
               now will fall into bed with you.  Not in so many words, of course, but
                                       the message is clear.
                 She surveyed the scene, with what I assumed was less than complete
              enthusiasm.  Well, it is a bottle shop, not the Marriott.  But when she
             turned around, she still has that infectious lovely smile on her face ...
                  "I can cope with this."  She pulled the tank top over her head,
               revealing her lovely breasts still in a white bra.  The bra came off a
              moment later, and she was in my arms, pulling me down to a kiss.  And a
               very nice kiss it was, very deep and soft.  Even with lots of tongue,
               there are kisses that are very sharp and angular-feeling, but this was
               a lover's kiss.  I still can't completely explain the difference, but
                                           there you are.
               With a plop, the package of condoms dropped to the floor.  She somehow
                  managed to slither out of her shorts while kissing me, and did a
                lovely, slow, descent to her knees, running her hands down my chest.
               Kissing me through my jeans, she unbuttons them, and applies her mouth
                           to my already-hard cock with tremendous skill.
               "Now ..."  Lick.  "I don't ..." Slurp.  "have ..."  Gulp.  "much time
                 for this," she finally managed to get out, between licks with her
                            tongue along my balls, "so let's be quick!"
               Nothing like a little performance anxiety to make an evening special,
                         but I wasn't going to turn this down for anything.
              She retrieved the packaged of condoms, and (with cardboard and wrappers
                 flying everywhere) managed to extract one.  As she stood up, naked
              except for jewelry and shoes, she rolled one onto me with one hand, the
                              other steadying herself on my shoulder.
                "OK, I'll just bend over like this," she said, as businesslike as if
                 she was staging a play.  She turned her back to me, and bent over,
                steadying herself on a pile of Guinness boxes.  She spread her legs,
                  and one hand spread her lips apart.  Amazingly, she was very wet
                                     already, wet enough to...
                  "Well?  C'mon!" she said, always impatient.  OK, OK, I was just
               enjoying the view.  I stepped forward, rubber-clad penis in hand, and
                      slid it.  There was almost no resistance, I was amazed.
                I started slowly, with long strokes, but she was having none of it.
                She started setting the rhythm, pushing back, in, out, in out.  Her
                 free hand was playing with her clit, and she was starting a lovely
                pattern of moans in time with her thrusts.  In, out, in out ... she
                  came once, twice as I finally lost control and pounded into her,
                                         grabbing her hips.
                 She started screaming, loud enough that I was afraid the next door
                dry-cleaners would hear.  "Yes, yes, YES!" she yelled out as I came,
               much faster than I thought I ever would, shaking as my cum poured out
                                               of me.
               I staggered back, a bit unsure of my balance, and came out of her with
               a pop.  She gave a small whimper of displeasure, but was back into her
              shorts and tank top (bra in the pocket of the shorts) before I even had
                                    the condom all the way off.
                "That was very nice, thanks.  I better go, my boyfriend's waiting."
                                            "BOYFRIEND!"
                   "Yeah, he's in the car.  He'll wonder what's taking so long."
                 "Boyfriend?"  OK, I had already said it, but I still wasn't quite
                               getting the answer I was looking for.
               "Relax, he's reading a newspaper, and nothing distracts him from that.
              Anyway, gotta go!  Thank you kindly," she said, with just a touch of an
               affected southern accent.  And with a small peck on the cheek, out she
                went through the store, unlocking the front door and tearing out of
                                                it.
                I staggered into my clothes, cleaned up the condom package debris in
                the storage room, and put one condom-package worth of change in the
                     register (the owner would notice, he's that kind of guy).
               I watched the car pull away, and head down Mass Ave.  Even through the
                grimy windows, I can see that it was the guy with the $100 driving.
                            I still don't understand some relationships.
                                                 --
                                           -- Christophe 
                                                  
                                                   
                                                  
                                                  
              
                                                  

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