Cookies & Beer

Pulling up to the nondescript stoplight, Mathew lets out a frustrated groan inside of his old, crummy sedan. The ancient brakes squeak, forming an interesting duo, along with the driver's groan. The LED array becomes warped in the grubby windshield, raindrops beginning to fall on this cold and damp November evening. The windshield wipers crudely wipe away the rain, frayed from overuse and a lack of funds for replacement.

Mathew slumps in his seat, his thick, shaggy brown hair covering the expanse of the cracked, sun-damaged leather of the car's headrest. His body language is that of a much older gentleman, and definitely not someone of twenty-two years.

Cigarette smoke streaks out of the small crack in his window. He quickly smokes the cigarette, looking to take the edge off after a long, frustrating day of work at the restaurant. Mathew's eyes drift to the sparsely lit buildings at the university.

"Group project meeting on Tuesday," he reminds himself.

His tired foot lazily pushes against the accelerator as he rounds the last corner before his apartment complex. Approaching the security coded gate, he leaves his cigarette in his mouth, squinting his eyes to avoid the smoke trying to billow in between his eyelid.

He punches in the incorrect code, his fingers sliding against the rain-slicked keypad. He grumbles. Finally, he opens the gate and bounces into the drive, jostled by the superfluous placement of speed bumps.

He exits the car. Mathew is thankful to have an assigned, covered parking spot. He is not thankful, however, for his proximity to the door.

"Get a second floor apartment, they said," he mutters, trudging up the steps, stubby cigarette surviving the growing rainfall in his left hand. The last couple of puffs are finished just before Mathew's entrance, and the cherry is squeezed off and extinguished by the rain soaked concrete.

He opens the unlocked door, and finds himself in the warm confines of his living room. Before he can even enter the room, his roommate Jason readies himself for a night out with friends.

"Hey man. Do you want to hit up the bars?" his friend asks, throwing on his coat, and grabbing for his umbrella.

"Nah. No thanks, man. I'm pretty tired," he responds.

"Alright man. I'll see you later," says Jason. Mathew nods and Jason rushes out into the night.

Mathew's living room sets the tone for the rest of home. Scuffs mar the textured walls, and old dust clings to the abomination that is the cottage cheese ceiling. The well-used sofa points towards the large television, that is located in the corner of the room. Betwixt the two is the coffee table that is negligently cleaned.

Uncomfortable leather shoes are kicked off into the nearby wall, before resting upon the tiled threshold. His hooded jacket is tossed over the couch. His serving apron, itself needing a wash, is thrown onto the table with his car keys. Trudging into the kitchen, he snags a pop from the fridge and some cold pizza. He brings it back to the coffee table.

He collapses into the couch, his six-foot body stretching over the whole region of the sofa. His right arm immediately closes around his face, the joint of his elbow molding against his nose and eyes. He peels his socks off of his feet, curling his big toes to take them off with minimal effort. He leaves them at the end of the couch, a behavioral trait his ex girlfriend was not at all fond off. He takes a deep, long breath, reflecting on his day.

After composing himself, Mathew quickly sits up on the couch, wipes the tired out of his eyes, and grabs for his box of leftover pizza, the Brooklyn style slices encased in a greasy cardboard box. He turns on the TV with the nearby control, and settles on the current talk show. The slices are folded, and devoured with minimal effort. After finishing his dinner, he shuts off the television, and tosses away his empty pop can and box.

Realizing that he is alone after a long, dull day, he shuffles his feet towards his bedroom. The tired young man quickly opens his bedroom door, flips on the light, shuts the door closed and plops into his desk chair. His dress shirt is unbuttoned and thrown on the bed behind him, along with his undershirt. Next, Mathew's belt and pants are taken off and kicked off to the side, piled up on the floor.

Reaching down below, he opens the bottom drawer of his desk. Sticking his hand passed the old binders and notebooks, he pulls out his tube of warming lubricant and places it upon the top of the desk. Mathew opens up the laptop, and is greeted by the bright, white screen of his internet browser. A rapid series of keystrokes brings him to his preferred streaming porn site. As the page loads, he quickly discards his boxer briefs.

Mathew idly strokes his cock as he focuses on the vast selection porn in front of him. Many minutes pass as he searches through his favorite categories, trying to find the perfect video for him on this drab day. Finally, he settles upon a lengthy video, in which an amateur girlfriend gives her man a hand-job, the camera shooting from the boyfriend's perspective. He nods to himself in agreement, and loads up the video. He sighs as he clicks away from the pop up ads that accompany this smut. He maximizes the video to fit his screen.

He takes the tube of gel into one of hands, and classically places his right hand below the opening. He squeezes a sizable amount into his hand, the smell of the substance surrounding him. He leans back in his seat, poised to spread the substance into his two hands, and then his groin. Disaster strikes. His cell phone rings.

"God dammit," he curses, his eyes zoning in on his pants. The phone glows through the pocket of his trousers. His ears are tortured by his new ring tone.

"... Ring, ring, ring ... Banana Phone!" croons the lounge music coming from the phone.

Not wanting to have to make the return phone call, Mathew rises from his chair. His cock hard and bobbing in the air, he pivots his head, looking for something to dispose the lube with. He settles on a dirty tube sock, and leaves it on the ground, slimy and undesirable. Mathew reaches into the pocket and retrieves the phone. He focuses his eyes towards the screen.

"Connie?" he questions, bemused.

Meeting as classmates in their course of Social Psychology, it didn't take long before Constance and Mathew hit it off quite well. Study group outings routinely ventured to the bar, where they discovered similar interests. Still, they hadn't dated, or even visited since the new semester has begun. The phone call on this Friday evening was indeed strange.

Putting the phone to his ear, he presses the green button. "Hello?" he says, some awkwardness in his voice, understandable, as he stands naked in his room.

"Hey, Mathew," the chipper, higher pitched voice greets. "How are you doing?" she asks.

"I've had a better day or two," he says, hand running through his hair, leaving a tract of lubricant smeared along his scalp. He grimaces.

"Did I catch you at a bad time?" she asks, sensing his discomfort.

"Oh no, no, no" he stammers. His eyes dart to his computer, a moan escaping the lips of the well hung man in the video. He immediately slams the laptop closed, feigning a cough to cover up the sound.

"I'm free, " he says, injecting a side of sunshine into his voice. "How have you been this semester?" he asks her, finally taking a seat on the edge of his unmade queen size bed.

Connie takes a deep breath into her mouthpiece.

"It's been intense!" she exclaims in a very dry tone. "There's really been no stop since August. I've like, been needing to unwind, you know," says Connie, her words bearing more emphasis as she finishes her sentence.

Mathew's eyes close for a moment, oblivious to any hints that Connie is throwing to the wind. He remembers his rough treading at work.

"Oh, I know exactly what you mean. Between...work and school...I think I've seen a couple of gray hairs in the mirror," he fibs, laughing along with Connie.

After a throaty laugh that draws a smile from Mathew, she responds. "I was wondering, since I'm very bored and I have a free night, if you'd like to come over and hang out?" she asks, pausing for just a moment on the last couple of words. The twenty-two year old looks down at his aching feet before responding.

"Uhm, yeah sure. I would invite my roommate Jason to come along, but he's already working on his next stint in the drunk tank," he jokes.

"I was kinda hoping that just you would come over tonight," she responds.

Mathew's heart begins to thunder in his chest, a bit nervous as to what that request means for him.

"I'm not really in the frame of mind to deal with your friends, you know? Let's just keep it simple," she finishes.

"Oh yeah. I get you. So, yeah...do you still live at that place next to the bowling alley?" He asks.

After a chuckle, Connie answers back. "Yes, I still live at the place next to the bowling alley," she says with some self-deprecation.

"Heh, okay then. I have to take a shower, so give me about an hour, alright?" he asks.

"Ooh a shower. You have to wash those rippled abs," she flirtatiously teases.

"Oh, I wish," he chuckles. "I'll give you a call when I get close, okay?"

"Oh, alright then. Bye," she playfully pouts.

They finish the call, and the phone is tossed behind his shoulder and onto the bed.

Already naked, it is a quick trip to the shower for Mathew. Still, he pauses, and looks back at his phone, raising one eyebrow. "Was that a booty call?" The eyebrow lowers, and Mathew, his face a tangled mess of confusion, heads into his bathroom.

Blue bathrobe already lying upon the sparkling clean, closed toilet, Mathew warms up the water. As he checks the rising temperature of the water, the hot water heater having seen better days, he keeps his arms crossed at his ribcage. His tongue snakes through his lips, dragging through his teeth, his mind deep in thought. Finally, satisfied with the warmth, he steps carefully into the bathtub, and pulls the curtain closed, the mosaic pattern distorted towards the front and back of the curtain rod.

"Has it been so long that the moment I get a call, I get a hard on?" he asks himself as he squeezes some shampoo out of it's bottle. "Seven months is all it takes to get delusional about these types of things?" he questions as his fingers work the shampoo through his scalp. After rinsing, he applies conditioner, combing it through his hair. Looking down, he sees the unkempt hair at his groin.

A wet arm reaches from the shower curtain, and grabs both his razor and shave gel. "Well, it's better than safe than sorry," he reminds himself as he lathers up his middle. "Okay. There's nothing crazy here. I'm just doing some routine maintenance," he reassures himself.

Mathew sticks to routine maintenance, indeed. A fresh, tripled bladed razor makes quick work of the hair at the base of his length, the curled hair at his testicles, and hair at even more intimate locations. "Much more reasonable than when I lost my virginity," he says to himself, referencing the embarrassment of when he removed all hair for his first girlfriend.

Before long, he finishes his shower, and steps out onto a mat next to the toilet. His bathrobe is quickly fastened, the belt tied snuggly around his waist. Looking back at himself in the mirror, he continues to talk to himself. "Look, you're just going to grab some beer, and head over there to hang out. It's nothing more," he tells himself.

After exiting the bathroom, he strides over to his closet, and picks out a plain gray t-shirt. He matches these with a pair of his favorite blue jeans. Thankful that laundry day was yesterday, Mathew completes the ritual of swapping his wallet, keys, and other essentials into his new pants and into the same pockets. His look in the mirror satisfies him once all of his clothes are donned.

He hops down the stairs, galloping two at a time. He throws his hooded jacket over his arms, and snagging his umbrella from the closet, he opens and slams the heavy front door of the apartment. The lock snaps vertically behind him.

Now back outside, his trip back to his car is much more hospitable, raindrops shielded from him. He hops into his car, throws the used umbrella to the passenger side floorboard, and rubs together his pale hands before placing them onto the cold steering wheel. Igniting the engine, he is greeted by a rush of cold air coming from the vents, his heater struggling to get up to speed.

"If I'm shrunken, I can just claim that I was in my car. Brilliant," he snickers. With this, he backs his car up out of his spot, and heads down the road.

He rides in silence at the beginning of his trip, nervously puffing on a cancer stick, his mind clearly racing. His blind spots are checked more often on this ride, as if paranoid that the morality police is about to come out of the sky in their apache helicopters, equipped with monogamy rays.

"So what if she's actually interested in sex? People have casual sex all of time. Maybe not me. But, people do," he says.

He pulls into one of the six gas stations placed between him and Connie. It's an older station. The pumps feature many sticker cracks, and old graffiti lining the pump bases, fading by constant washing. He hops out of his car and heads inside, his hand nearly breaking off the old, wobbly handle to the door.

Moving quickly, he picks up a six-pack of beer that is to be enjoyed, and not rapidly consumed. At the checkout, he buys a fresh box of twenty cigarettes, which really, should not be enjoyed by anyone.

He continues his track to Connie's. As he draws nearer, his mind races like an F1 car. His palms go sweaty, and he begins to talk rapidly and mutter to himself like a vagrant at a Chicago subway station.

"Does she just open the door and I kiss her? Do we talk about politics and then go off to bed together? What if I've forgotten how to fuck? No...no...no! It's like tying your shoes. What if I'm actually not any good and word spreads? What if we have sex and she gets attached? What if I get attached? What if she's actually a murderer who's going to chain me to the bedpost and stab me to death with a corkscrew and then crochet with my intestines?!"

"Why didn't I ask someone about this?" he finishes, squeezing the wheel in his hands. "Stupid! Stupid!" he roars, smacking himself in the forehead with the palm of his hand. He lights up another cigarette, and lets out a deep breath of smoke that flattens and fans out against the windshield.

He makes another phone call as he enters the complex. After receiving the pertinent information from Connie, Mathew drives along the road, counting down the building numbers as he nears. He finds a safe spot, free from the annoyance of tow trucks. Slamming his door shut, he takes a deep breath, regaining his bearings. The umbrella propped over his head, he takes with him his bag of beer. He walks up to the front door of the first floor apartment.

"I see someone didn't listen to their boyfriend," comments, Mathew. Finally reaching the faded brown door, he takes another deep breath. He knocks lightly, taking note of the clay-potted flowers that sit on both sides of the entryway. Before he can decipher what kind of flowers they are, the door swings open, and there stands Connie.

"Mathew! Come in, come in!" she bursts in excitement. "Let's get that jacket off of you," she says, swinging open the nearby closet door.

With a smile on his face, Mathew gives the most basic of greetings. "Hey!" he says, his shoulders rising slightly. His coat is quickly hung up in the closet, and his soggy umbrella dangles from the outside doorknob via hand strap. "You look sensational!" he exclaims. Connie's smile cannot be mistaken, her teeth white as fresh porcelain, her clear skin beaming.

The two officially greet one another with a warm hug, Mathew unable to ignore Connie's breasts pushing against his chest. A nervous twinge shuffles down his back, Connie's tight t-shirt helping to hold back the bra encased bosom. As they relinquish the hug, his fingers glance down her soft sides. At this moment, the familiar smell of baked cookies travel up his nostrils.

"Connie, did you bake for me?" Mathew asks.

"I did," she admits, her smile fading but still evident, her cheeks probably growing sore. "Let me take that," she says, grabbing the beer from Mathew's hands and quickly taking it to her small kitchen. At this point, Mathew kicks off his shoes, leaving them in the foyer.

He watches her walk to the kitchen, his eyes roving down the back of her. She stands at nearly a head shorter than he. Her black hair, which flows magnificently down to her lower back, has recently been modified. A deep purple hue that lingers at her tips suits her well. He had never realized how her curves were in all of the right places.

Crossing the living room to join her in the kitchen, he looks over to the television, catching a few seconds of a hot new act that he had never heard before. Leaving the late night television show behind, he enters the kitchen. Connie squats down, looking into the oven, her adorable socks slide momentarily on the worn tile as she uses her equally adorable oven mitt to extract the cookies from the oven.

Chocolate Chip. A classic. His eyes drift down her exposed lower back, enjoying the womanly curve that trails to her bum. A purple and pink thong peaks out of the top of studded belt supported jeans. Small tingles of excitement stir deep within his scrotum. His eyes divert from the lovely whale tail, and back to the cookies before Connie's mystical hazel eyes can find his light brown eyes. She springs back to her feet, and begins to scoop the perfectly baked cookies with a flexible spatula.

"Cookies and beer. Mom and Dad would be so proud," she jokes, chuckling as she finishes preparing the plate of gooey cookies. She reaches with her off hand, and pulls two brews out of their box, holding them by the necks between her fingers. "Care to do the honors?" she asks Mathew.

"Certainly," he replies, popping them open with his keychain bottle opener, collecting the caps with an open hand. They are quickly discarded. The rest of the beer is tossed into the sparsely filled fridge, and they head back to the living room.

They crash to the couch with a thud, arms mingling together as they fall. The cookies cool on the coffee table, and they both take their first sip of beer. Connie smacks her lips upon swallowing the first taste of the rich beverage.

"Good call, Mathew. This is a nice change of pace from frat party beer," she applauds.

"I know, right. It doesn't come in a red plastic cup that has fallen into the grass five times," he jokes. Upon being greeted, Mathew could not help but notice the wonderful aroma of Connie's hair. Now, her hair tossed about and draping down her arm, he notices this once more. His thumb begins to loosen the label at the base of the beer.

They both lean back into the couch, the passed day weighing on them. The weight is so much that two pairs of cottoned covered feet rest up on the table. A moment passes, as commercials for the next show begin to run.

"It's too bad we don't have any similar classes this semester," comments Mathew, index fingernail probing at the other side of the label.

"Yeah. But I don't think that like, anything could top Professor Rivers," states Connie, smiling over to Mathew, one of her legs crossing over the other, and bobbing up and down.

"I always was quite jealous of her sideburns. There's no way I could grow mine so thick," he quips. Connie has to control herself from spitting her beer. Laughing, she gives Mathew a playful punch to the arm.

"You just had to wait until I was drinking to mention that, didn't you?" she asks, incredulous.