A Love Letter for Jean Martel

Okay, I'll admit it. I'm a little jealous. Not proud of it.

--

The furniture store. Two PM on a Tuesday. Half a week since I had tasted Jean's pussy.

Jean bounded up to me with a bright grin on her face. "You've got to see this, Dave. We've got a busker outside."

"A what?"

"You know, like a street performer?"

"Oh. I think that's a first." We were nestled away in a dull residential area that rarely saw a lot of foot traffic. But summer was winding down, and the school year was approaching, so the place was packed with kids going off to college. I guess if you were going to busk here it this would be this time of year.

We drifted through the crowds and reached the front of the store, where we could see and hear a silver-haired man strumming out the old standards on an acoustic guitar. Judging from the money haphazardly dropped in his case, he wasn't doing too badly. I don't think the guy was a hobo – or if he was, he pulled it off with a remarkable amount of dignity.

Jean put an arm around my waist and rested her head on my shoulder. I was startled at the public contact. "I still owe you from last weekend," she said.

"You'd better be careful," I said, teasing her. "I charge interest."

"Well, I guess I'd better pay it back right away, then."

"How about Thursday night?"

"How about right now?"

Once again I was startled. "You serious? We're kind of busy..."

"Fuck the customers. I don't get horny that often." (This was a lie.) "So you'd better take advantage when that happens."

What can I say? I followed her into the employee bathroom, feeling my cock begin to stiffen in my pants.

Jean shut the door and pulled open my fly. She moved quickly, unbuttoning my jeans and dropping them around my ankles. She reached up and rubbed her hand along my boxer shorts, rubbing the fabric across my cock and teasing my balls. She was grinning ear to ear. I don't think I'd ever seen a girl look this excited about giving head.

She tugged my shorts down and my cock flopped out, almost hitting her in the face. Jean took this all in stride. On her knees she rubbed my prick up and down, pumping her soft fist around the shaft. I groaned, and groaned some more when she leaned forward to take my balls into her mouth. Jean sucked one then the other, releasing each from the warm bath of her mouth with a satisfying smack of her lips. And then it was time for the main course.

Jean rose a little on her knees and began licking the head of my cock – short, darting, almost teasing touches of her pale pink tongue. She kissed it up and down, leaving warm fingerprints, and then she enveloped it whole. I gasped out. She slurped and bobbed and sucked and blew and all those wonderful things that girls do. When she broke off for a breath of air, she kept pumping my now-slick cock rapidly, and gave me that wide-eyed grin again. Looking at her smile I began to feel that lurch of the heart, that feels a bit like a subway train as it starts moving, that so-long-sought-after feeling. It was probably just erotic delirium, but I started falling in love.

She returned to her enthusiastic sucking and it wasn't long before I was groaning and yelping out a warning. That didn't deter her. She pressed her lips down as far as she could go and I just started shooting, sending spurt after spurt of cum down her throat. Finally I staggered away, weak-kneed, and had to lean against a sink to stop from falling down.

"Whew," was all I could say.

"You're welcome," Jean said as she got up. She paced around for a second, shaking out her knees. "But I'd really probably get back to work."

"You've got a bit of jizz on your cheek," I said.

She wiped it off with a paper towel and smiled at me. "That's what I need a man for: to tell me when I've got cum on my lips. You know Dave, I think this might just work out."

--

Here are some things of Jean's that I still have: two Tori Amos CDs, which she refused to take back until I started liking them. A calendar for college night classes, plans for a future that never happened. One of her bras, which still smells of our collective scent. A picture of the two of us on some bridge, posed like she's trying to throw me over. A half-empty bottle of toothpaste.

If it weren't for those things there would be no evidence that she ever existed, that we ever met, and that seems wrong. Maybe I'll return them to her some day. I still believe, probably wrongly, that she'll come back for them.

--

For our second date we went to a concert. I don't even remember the band, but one of Jean's friends – Angela's boyfriend then -- was opening for them, so we went. It was weird electronic music. I didn't really know what to do – you couldn't dance to it, and moshing to it seemed like a joke. So the crowd just stood there, mostly, and clapped after the end of every song. It was bizarre.

"Do you really like this?" I asked Jean after her friend had left the stage.

"Not really, but I wanted to support him. I respect people who care about something most people don't."

"You've supported him now," I said. "You want to get out of here?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

The show was at a small venue down on the docks. The buses didn't come out this far at night, so we had to walk for a while through the encroaching chill of a fall night.

"You know it's funny," Jean said. "Every year I hope a little that summer's never going to end. And from June it seems so eternal, you know? Like a new era to save us from the evil of the previous regime. And then in fall I always feel a little betrayed."

"I feel sort of the same way, except about winter," I said. "It feels like it's the new state of the world. By the way, you may be the first person I know to say an interesting thing about the weather."

"Thanks, but I think I was more talking about myself."

We talked for a long time on that night,walking on the city's concrete veins that slowly flowed into its heart. We didn't hold hands, didn't even touch each other. It would have been a distraction. I can't remember much of what we talked about. I only remember the above bit because I think of it every autumn. But I do remember the feeling of that conversation, that childish wonder of discovery, of finding ever new facets to life. By the time we got to her apartment I was convinced that Jean Martel was the most brilliant human being on the planet. That train I felt lurch forward in the employee's bathroom was now racing forward.

"So I guess this is your stop," I said.

"You can come up," Jean said. "The night is still young. We can watch a movie or something."

I was interested to see her apartment, and to think about how it reflected her. Mine seemed a perfect metaphor for myself. It was plain, barely decorated at all, functional but small. I was a small, plain man – that was how I thought of myself at least. I never did figure out what Jean saw in me. Maybe that was the root of the problems.

But this was long before, when everything bad was safely underground.

I didn't get much of a chance to see her place, though, before she pounced on me. Her mouth devoured mine as we both toppled to the nearest couch. It wasn't quite big enough, and our legs hung off the end, but we didn't care. Our hands were like lightning, racing over each others' bodies, immediately making up for the intimacy we had forgone on the street.

Jean covered my face in licks and kisses. She was on top of me, grinding, and I was hard and she was wet and we could feel both through our pants.

"I want you," she whispered, her breath hot against my ear.

She pulled her top over her head and unclasped her bra, exposing her small, soft, dimpled, lovely breasts. My shaky hands were unbuttoning my shirt as fast as I could. But we couldn't get all our clothes off before we were once again overcome by the urge to kiss rabidly, to press our bodies against each other, rubbing skin against skin, smothering each other with our warmth.

Jean reared back, tossing her short straw-yellow hair back, and tugged down my jeans. She lost hers somewhere along the way too. We kept our socks on – in the hurry we were in, why care about socks? And then she was covering me again, kissing and rubbing and caressing, and my cock slid along her soft golden pussy hair, bathing in her nectar, until she impaled herself upon it.

Her cunt was warm and wet and tight, and its embrace felt loving. Jean breathed a deep sigh. And then she began to work, pumping her ass up and down rapidly, fucking me like she had been waiting all her life for it. My hands were still wildfire, wandering across her torso and her breasts, flicking her stiff nipples.

Jean slammed her pelvis down on mine, and I thrust back, striving for more of that addictive warm grip. We were fucking, we were making love, we were rutting madly, all at the same time. It was fast, and hard, and as we felt our pleasure growing out of control we lost control of our tongues as well, letting out gasps and fucks and oh gods.

She came first, grinding herself against me, her face clenched in an expression of bliss. That was all it took for me to orgasm too, every muscle in my body tensing as I poured my seed into her.

It was a while before we could speak. The two of us lay on her couch, sweaty, panting, amazed. She held my soft dick inside her.

"Wow," I said.

"Uh huh."

"I guess we didn't get around to that movie."

She laughed. "I think we found something better to do. By the way, don't worry, I'm on the pill." What would my life be like now if she hadn't been?

"I hadn't even thought about it."

We didn't move from that couch for a while.

--

What is there left to tell? I feel like what I've written until now is only the beginning of the story of me and Jean, but what's the rest? Happy months of dating, witty banter, and great sex? Nobody wants to read about that, at least not the first part, and even the second two would get dull after a while. And later, when things went wrong... I don't want to write about that. I don't want to remember Jean in that way.

So I'll give you a few more memories. These aren't the most important memories, or the most representative, but they're the ones I want to tell.

The first one is from the dead of winter, one of those strangely endless Februaries. I woke up in the middle of the night, needing to piss like a racehorse. Jean was staying the night at my place, but she wasn't in bed when I woke.

After I went to the bathroom I flipped a light on, looking for my girlfriend. She was standing at a window, in her underwear, staring out at the falling snow. It had been lightly gliding down to the streets when we left, but now it was coming down harder. All those kids' prayers for a snow day might be paying off, I thought.

I approached Jean, and it was in her reflected expression that I noticed an unfamiliar sadness, a kind of defeat. I walked up and put my arms around her. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," she said. I gave her a look that let her know I wasn't buying it. "It's just... I'm exhausted and I can't sleep."

"So tired after a day off?"

Jean sighed. "It's just... I feel like everywhere I go I'm pretending to be somebody. Somebody smarter, sexier, more dedicated than I really am. And I can't let the mask slip because I don't know whether anyone would like the real me. I'm a con artist, Dave."

"You don't have to pretend around me," I said. "I love you."

"You don't love me," she said. "You're just the biggest mark."

"Listen here," I said. "You think I'm a rube? I've known you for months now... hell, almost a year. And I think I have the authority to say that I love you, and don't you dare try to take that away from me."

Jean sighed. "You're in love with a phony."

"You aren't a phony. You're the most real person I know."

She turned around and offered me a weak smile. "Let's go back to bed."

At the time I thought I reacted well. I'm not sure now. Maybe all I loved about Jean – her unique style, her quirks, her enthusiasm in life and in bed – maybe it was all her way of striving for attention, of playing a manic pixie dream girl like in the movies. Who can keep that up all the time?

--

The second memory is from towards the end.

"Hey Dave!" Jean shouted. "Guess what the U-Haul fairy brought me?"

We had been sitting in her apartment just hanging out when a mysterious delivery had arrived for Jean. "If I guess right, do I win a new car?" I said.

"Sadly, no." Jean walked into the room carrying a big crate of books. "My great-aunt Marie back in Quebec passed away, and I guess she remembered that I was an English major for a semester, so she left me all her books. Come and help me take these things in."

After moving a couple of heavy crates, we now had a tall stack of milk cartons filled with yellowing classics (which showed no sign of ever being read) and a ton of romance novels. "What are we going to do with all this?" I said.

Jean was going through the bodice-rippers and giggling. "Oh man, some of these are FRENCH romance novels. This one is about a strong-willed but vulnerable country girl who falls in love with a sexy but dangerous FLQ terrorist. Thrill to it!"

I laughed. "It's kind of amazing that there are so many of these. They're all essentially the same book."

"But the prose!" Jean said. She had that manic smile on her face, the one I loved. She picked up one of the English-language ones. "Just listen to this... 'He poured chocolate sauce over her breasts and slowly, sensuously licked it off. 'It's sweet,' he said. 'But not as sweet as you.'"

"God, she's a woman, not a desert," I said. "What are these, cannibal romances?"

"Cannibal Romance would be a great band name."

"I'll add it to the list."

"And there's more... 'Finally, he slid between her legs and put his sex in her sex. She cried out as he ravaged her, slowly and lovingly. When she came' – sorry, 'when she reached the point of no return white sparks exploded in front of her eyes.'"

We both spent a long time giggling after that. Jean dropped the book into the box and came up to put her arms around me. It was weird, feeling our laughing chests bump up against each other, like they were at war.

"David," she said with a fake 50s-movie-accent. "I want you to ravage me."

"You want me to put my sex in your sex?"

"Until white sparks explode in front of my eyes."

"Well if that happens I might have to take you to a doctor."

She pressed herself against my knee and I realized that she was serious about the fucking part. I started to back her towards the bedroom while kissing her.

"No, you're supposed to carry me," she said. "That's how all the studs do it."

"Really?"

"Don't you know it's what every girl dreams of? To be carried to the bedroom and ravaged by a handsome douchebag?"

"Well okay." I strained myself and scooped Jean up in my arms. "You're a lot heavier than the romance novel heroines."

"I think you're just a pipsqueak."

I carried her down the hall and gently placed her on the bed, that single bed that we could both fit in if we squeezed tight enough. I pulled my shirt over my head and got on top of her. We kissed each other softly, lovingly, unironically. I laid a wet kiss on her chin and on her throat. She leaned forward and licked my ear, leaving a warm, wet trail down my face.

I worked my way down to her collarbone before her shirt got in the way. She pulled it over her head, and unclasped her bra, opening up to me a sea of that clammy white skin I loved. I left a trail of butterfly kisses down to her nipples, which I lavished attention on. She groaned as I took the hard pink nubs, like erasers at the end of grade-school pencils, into my mouth, one after the other. I licked the pale valley in between them, making it shine with my saliva.

I travelled further down Jean's body. My legs were now dangling off the end of her too-small bed, but I barely even noticed. I gave a kiss to her belly-button, an outie, and to the fleshy loveliness of her hips. Her jeans vanish, like a magic trick. And then I cut across her thigh and reach my destination, that honey-coloured triangle of hair that marks her sexual core.

Jean groaned and reached down to hold my hair, caressing my scalp while making sure I wouldn't leave her unfulfilled. I kissed and sucked and licked, writing my name across her clitoris, slowly finger-fucking her as my tongue lapped her labia. My activities down there were a haze. All I could think about was her rich, bountiful scent (how could anyone find this repulsive?) and her symphony of moans.

This was normally around the time I would speed up, bring her to a crashing climax, but not today. Today I pulled back, slowed down, drawing her away from the end. More soft nibbles, more gentle caresses of her thighs. I brought Jean to the edge again and then pulled back. I did it again, relishing my control, my mastery of this beautiful instrument I have before me. There was now a frustrated element to her groans. Release dangled before her, but when she tried to reach for it, it was so far away.

Jean forcibly shoved my face into her muff, and I picked up the tempo, my fingers sawing in and out of her pussy, my tongue flicking and sucking her engorged clit, until she came. Her climax was almost a monstrous thing, a loud yelp, a spasming off the body, a waterfall of of sticky fluids.

I stood up, taking off my jeans to release my hard cock. Jean was lying on the bed, panting, her face red. "Don't just stand there," she said, trying to mimic mockery through an uncontrollable grin. "Fuck me already."

I got on top of her again, pressing flesh against flesh, feeling as if our bodies were about to melt together. My cock slid up and down her damp pussy, gathering moisture before I reached down to position myself. I sunk inside Jean with one stroke. She wrapped her legs around me. This was a girl who wanted to make sure you weren't going anywhere.

I pumped Jean slowly, grinding against her, kissing more than I thrust. We weren't in a hurry, and this wasn't about orgasms. We stayed there, slowly loving each other, touching every part of each others bodies, all centred around that connection, that shared part of us that wasn't entirely mine and wasn't entirely hers.

We both came together, after what seemed like eternity. She let out a soft whimper, and I gritted my teeth as I shot my seed inside of her. It was getting dark now, and we had places to be half an hour ago, but we didn't move. We just lay there, my cock shrinking in her pussy. I wanted to stay there forever.

It's weird how there can be these moments of perfection even when you're headed irrevocably for catastrophe. There were cracks beneath the surface, and by that time they were starting to become visible, but we thought days like this would pull us through. But in the end – no, I said I wouldn't talk about that.

--

One last memory, against my will:

Years later, her with long hair and in business casual, with slim fashionable glasses and an engagement ring on her finger.

"You look like a normal girl now," I said despairingly.

"Oh, Dave," Jean said. "I was always just a normal girl."

I wanted to scream.

--

I started writing this because I wanted to capture Jean Martel in writing. I wanted to trap my experience with her, like a bug pressed between an entomologist's pages, so that other people could see why I loved her. But in the end I've just created pornography. He eats her out, she sucks him off, and then they fuck – is there any older storyline? Any that needs less retelling? There's even a money shot or two.

But the Jean I loved might have always been a fiction. We fall in love with who we think people are, but that's always just a character we create, "based on a true story". Or maybe that's just me. I should leave everyone else out of it.