Mouth to Mouth

"You know, nights like this are rare. It's so quiet and peaceful, nothing but clean white snow blanketing everything. By midday tomorrow, the world will have armed itself and gone to war with it, but right now it's just amazing."

I nodded in agreement. I couldn't talk yet. My throat felt like someone had gone down it with a sandpaper-wrapped...well, you know. Finally, I croaked: "I don't usually do that."

"Usually, it's not 20 degrees outside, either," Richard observed. "You all right?"

"I will be. In a minute, I guess." We had stopped walking, and I was beginning to freeze in place. I put my arm through his and got us moving again. Despite the shoveled sidewalk, despite the two pairs of socks on my feet, despite the thick leather of my boots, my feet were becoming Popsicles.

Richard blew out another streamer of smoke. I clutched the joint in my hand. It wasn't safe to light it yet.

"We could make a snowman," he suggested.

I reminded him of my bare hands.

"A snowball fight would be good."

"Oh, please," I begged. I could imagine myself being pelted with snowballs; a snowman myself with accumulated snow. Or a snowgirl, I guess. I'd be cute though.

"Uh, oh." We halted and watched a late model Ford or Chevy sedan making its way up the street, the rear end fishtailing and turning the vehicle almost 45 degrees to the roadway. Had there been cars parked along the curb, each would have been sideswiped. Another smaller vehicle, a Toyota I thought, patiently trailed 20' behind. The big car's driver pumped and let off the accelerator.

"Will he make it?" I asked.

"Depends on where he's going."

We watched the driver bypass the entrance to the motel, so he wasn't going here. Richard took my arm and started us moving again. His hand came up with the lighter and I relit the joint. I inhaled, experimentally, held it in my lungs while Richard took a series of small nips, each building on the last, filling his lungs and turning the tip of the joint bright red. At some time in the past, Richard had been a serious partaker. I let the smoke carefully exit my lungs this time. No cough.

"That's better," he said.

I nodded, took another hit, re-inflated my lungs. I was beginning to feel a little buzzed now. This was good stuff, medical marijuana that one of my coworkers had sold me. It had some ostentatious name, which I couldn't remember at the moment, even had I cared. We took two more hits each, and the joint became a roach.

"I wish I had brought another," I croaked without breathing. Richard had the nib between his fingertips and was intent on coaxing out the last few shreds of smoke. Actually, he hadn't exhaled yet; I finally did. He dropped the smoldering charcoal onto his tongue, and extinguished it.

Come here, he motioned me.

I blinked at him. Then he did something that totally shocked me. He grabbed me by the arms and drew me to him and put his lips against mine. I knew instantly what it was, what I was supposed to do, but it didn't stop me from going pop-eyed and rigid and exclaiming, startled. It took a shake to make me open my mouth and accept the smoke. I filled my lungs as he emptied his. Then he let me go and I stumbled a step back and stared at him wide-eyed. He laughed. I choked, trying not to laugh. I kept the smoke inhaled until I thought I would pass out, and then I gave it back to him the same way. We did this a total of three times. When I finally exhaled, my breath was no more than billowy steam.

"Wow," I croaked. "I didn't expect that."

"Like a whole 'nother joint," he explained, grinning.

"You didn't learn that in the Marines," I coughed out.

He laughed, tenting his eyebrows. I giggled. I giggle a lot when I'm high. Nick finds it charmingly irresistible. I find it plain silly.

"We should go back," I said, chattering again.

He canted his head, expectant. "To the bar?"

"To my room," I clarified, clarifying further: "I have to go pee. I have to go pee, really bad." I was beginning to fidget like a 6-year-old.

He looked around at the white snow. It took me a moment to understand. "Not on your life!" I exclaimed, giggling again. I grabbed his hand and began dragging him back down the sidewalk, back toward the entrance. He followed obediently, laughing softly, enjoying my behavior, which was juvenile. At the intersection of the driveway sidewalk he caught up, clasping me tightly around the waist. I needed the support it turned out: the sidewalk was icy, just this side of treacherous.

"Thank you,' I said, as he guided me through the front door.

"My pleasure." He kept his arm around my waist over to the elevators, releasing me only when the desk clerk looked up, the same Asian girl from earlier. She smiled again. I think she suspected our mental states, as I couldn't stop giggling. Thankfully, the right-hand elevator was on the ground floor and the doors opened. I fled inside, Richard following more slowly. I pressed myself into the corner, still giggling foolishly. Thank God we were alone.

"I feel 15 years old," I gasped.

Richard pushed the button to my floor with his thumb. "I feel 45. I'm still three times older than you though."

I continued to laugh, non-stop to the 9th floor. The return to warmth kicked me into an uncontrollable bout of shivering. Richard eyed me for a moment, and then pulled me from the corner and wrapped his arms around me and rubbed my back.

"God! I am so cold!" I complained. My words were almost indecipherable. I crossed my arms over my chest and watched the floor numbers advance over his shoulder. For the first time since I'd sat down on the bar stool, I gave serious consideration how the night might end. Not that I wanted it to. Just the opposite, in fact. Right or wrong, I didn't want him to leave me.

"I might need an escort to my door, kind sir. Hotel corridors are dangerous at night."

He laughed softly. "I thought I was invited in."

"I was just checking," I said.

He laughed again. "I might be persuaded. If you ask me nice."

"I thought I already did," I pointed out.

"Maybe I misunderstood."

"A retired Marine? I doubt it. I could repeat it in one syllable words if that would help."

He laughed, hugging me now, instead of holding me. "Are you making a pass at me, Marci?"

"I don't know. Am I?"

We laughed together.

The elevator arrived and we stumbled off onto the 9th floor. The corridor was blessedly empty, but I couldn't keep the awareness of the monitor cameras in their smoked glass spheres out of my mind. Right now, some security guard downstairs was shaking his head at the latest pair of amorous, inebriated, illicit lovers.

"Shusshhhhh," I cautioned. "Big brother is watching." I waved conspiratorially at a camera as we passed beneath it. I then gave it the finger as a goodbye present, giggling helplessly. Richard had to hold me up. That pot had been really, really strong. What Nick-or maybe my little brother--would call "The Bomb."

I had the card ready and stuck it in the lock. When the light shown green (I missed three times before that happened, awakening the angry little red light) I pushed down the handle and banged the door back authoritatively.

"We're home!" I cried childishly. Also childishly, I slid my coat back over my shoulders and let it fall to the floor as I walked in. Richard picked it up and closed the door, not setting the security lock as I had hoped he would. He walked into the room behind me, my coat draped over his arm. His expression was placidly amused. He was not high, like me.

"Take off your coat. I've got to go pee and then we can see how badly I can run up my account by emptying that damn mini bar."

His eyes followed my pointing finger to the mini bar under the counter. He made no attempt to remove his coat, but neither did he lay mine down, a good sign, I thought. He also did not look uncomfortable and on the verge of bailing on me.

I wasted no time going in the bathroom; the faster I accomplished this task, the faster I could return to him and possibly convince him to stay. I know I wanted that. I wondered if he did too.

In the mirror, I tossed my head this way and that, checked my lipstick and my rouge, pinched my cheeks (like they really needed reddening, after the cold), finally remembered why I was there and wiggled down my jeans. The toilet seat was shockingly cold. I flinched, which made me shiver. It took forever to coax the urine out of me. Suddenly, I was bashful?

Out in the bedroom, Richard had removed his coat and was sitting on the bed, in the middle, at the edge. He looked neither comfortable, nor uncomfortable; merely expectant. I wondered if this was his equivalent of looking high? Smiling at him, I kicked off my shoes and crossed to where he sat and kissed the top of his head.

"Thank you for staying. I thought I might come out and find you gone."

He smiled up at me, the smile turning crooked at the obvious blush on my face. Excusing myself quickly, I crossed to the mini bar and opened the door. Surprisingly, there was an O'Doul's in there. Three of them, in fact. I raised an eyebrow in inquiry. He nodded.

"Would you like a glass?"

"Bottle's fine," he said. It sent a shiver down my spine when he bent over and untied his right shoe. Breathless, I looked away before my reddening face could give me away. I removed two bottles from the fridge, one O'Doul's the other a Heineken, and removed both lids. I would drink from the bottle if he did. Shaking despite my best effort not to, I closed the door and made my way back to the bed, intending to deliver his bottle and then sit down a safe distance away on the mattress. Or in the chair. To my horror, the part of my brain not in command picked that moment to stage a coup. I settled shamelessly into his lap.

"I like you," I said.

He took the O'Doul's from my hand and sipped it thoughtfully.

"I liked getting mouth to mouth resuscitation," I went on before he could answer. A shudder ran through me as he placed his free hand on my thigh.

"I learned that from a hippie girl back in the 70's. I was on leave in San Francisco. Bunch of us decided to visit the famous Haight-Ashbury, kick the shit out of some longhairs. She was in a big group we rousted on the corner of Haight and Ashbury. Things got out of hand and a minor riot broke out. Those Hippie's could fight, long hair or no. This one little bitch climbed on my back and started beating me on the back of the head and biting my damned ear off. Hurt like a bitch. I got really pissed and dragged her off me and threw her on the ground and threatened to punch the shit out of her. I had her by the hair, like this." He demonstrated, though he did so gently. "She was cussing and spitting and kicking at me and digging ravines in my hands with her fingernails. I had to let her go or punch her. I let her go. Later that night she turned me on to the best shit this Marine ever smoked. We dropped acid too, and maybe even PCP. I'm not sure anymore." He grinned as I stared at him open-mouthed. "Anyway, that's how I learned to share a smoke."

"Wow. I'm glad you didn't hit her," I said.

"I'm glad I didn't hit her either. The next year I came back and searched all over the Haight until I found someone who knew who she was. I married her in 1978." He pushed up his sleeve all the way to his still-huge biceps and displayed a tattoo dedicated to a Carol Ann.

"Your wife?" I asked.

"For 22 years. She died in 2000 from breast cancer."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," I whispered. "That's so horrible."

He shrugged. "It was a long time ago."

"Not that long ago. You never remarried?"

"Never found anyone wanted to blow smoke with me," he joked.

I leaned forward and turned my head and closed my eyes and let my mouth find his. The kiss didn't end, but blossomed from a tentative touching of lips, to a joining of lips, to a parting of lips to allow a meeting of tongues, and then he put his arms around me and I put my arms around his neck and the hand with the bottle in it found the small of my back while his free hand found my breasts. I moaned, and melted into him like chocolate. A moment later I was on my back and he was moving me into the middle of the bed and he laid down beside me and we wrapped each other like pretzels, the bottles still in our hands, cold liquid sloshing onto our wrists and the backs of our hands and the bedspread and onto our clothes. I poured half my bottle down his back before he took it away from me.

"Give me that thing! You're dangerous." He drained the bottle in two gulps and tossed it into the chair. His own bottle he finished in one quick gulp, dropping it on the floor before attacking my neck with a vengeance.

"No hickies!" I gasped. "Please, no hickies!" He had a mouthful of my flesh and was trying to extricate it via suction. "Please, no!" I begged. He let my flesh go finally.

"I'm sorry. I haven't been with a woman in 6 years and I'm high to boot. I got carried away."

I groaned, knowing what that meant. I touched the side of my neck. "He'll kill me. He'll absolutely kill me. And then he'll kill you."

He laughed and reattached himself to my lips. Things degenerated quickly.

"Oh, God," I moaned. He had my shirt up to my underarms and my bra pushed over my breasts. His mouth was ravaging both my nipples, one after the other, tormenting them. They ached from being so hard and from being bitten. I squirmed and I writhed and I ran my hands through his clothes and gripped his head, and tore at his shirt and tried to tame my legs, acting like snakes. I could not remember ever being so desperate for a man as I was right now.

"Please get my clothes off," I begged. He didn't need to be asked twice. In short order my shirt was undone and tossed on the floor, my bra taken off and cast aside; we both struggled with my belt. I got the button undone while he got the zipper pulled down, and then wiggling, I got my jeans down and off of me. I was then in my panties alone, but not for long. They joined my other clothing on the floor. I told myself, if my phone rang, I would smash it to pieces with my boot. And then it rang.

"Ignore it," Richard grunted. I obeyed. The call went through to voicemail as I struggled into the middle of the bed and yanked the covers down and covered myself up. There was a short beep signifying a message had been left. Richard was down to his boxer shorts now, his erection plainly visible through the front. He was big, or at least, very long. I didn't care which. I wanted it inside me. And then his shorts were off and he joined me in bed.

"I'm so glad you were in that bar," I choked out.

"I'm glad I was too." He took my naked body in his arms and drew me against his naked body. He was hard and knobby, like the trunk of an ancient oak tree. I melted into him like hot wax. I wrapped his thigh with my leg and let him position me for entry. He put me atop him, drawing my legs alongside his thighs, gripping the back of my neck with one hand, my hip with his other, and helped me maneuver myself. I have never had a man enter me so smoothly or so painlessly. I was a swamp. I practically squelched when he filled me up. My body reacted and I lost 50 points of IQ in barely a moment. I became a victim of my hormones.

"Oh, my God," I moaned. I tucked my chin against my chest and shuddered as he bore up into me, and then fell away. It felt like my uterus had been compressed to half its length, my vagina stretched to twice its length. I would be sore in the morning. I would be very sore.

"Oh, God, Richard. Oh, my God, Richard." I moved on him, as I never remembered moving on a man before. I sucked greedily at his cock with my vaginal muscles, abused my spine, stressed my cartilage, humiliated myself with my moaning, groaned deeply when he slipped a finger up my ass. Now I wanted anal of all things. Please let me be good, I prayed. Please don't let me humiliate myself.

My left nipple is pierced and he worked at my jewelry with his fingertips until he got it off. He raised me up and arched me so that my breasts were in range of his mouth, and then he fucked me while he sucked my nipples. I was almost insane by then, moaning and writhing like a porno star. I imagined a name for myself: Marcia Always. It has a ring to it, don't you think?

I never fucked a man and felt so totally controlled. Every movement I made, every twist of my body, every breath felt completely orchestrated, as though he moved me by remote control, was hardwired into my brain. It was not just the pot; I've fucked on pot before. It was not just my hormones; I've been this horny before, this out of control. It was he, Richard; he owned me, completely.

"Turn me over," I gasped. "Please turn me over." A moment later I was on my back, my arms wrapped loosely around his neck, my legs drawn back, butterflied for him, watching mesmerized as he rose and fell on me. I panted, watched my chest labor up and down, my nipples pointing like fingertips, my left nipple incongruously bleeding. He had bitten me hard enough to draw blood. I moaned, feeling 8" of retired Marine slide in and out of my body.

It occurred to me that I hadn't thought of a condom, had never let the concept enter my mind. I was in trouble here. I could very well get pregnant. I had no doubt this tough old bird had millions of little Marines just ready to overrun my egg and take it prisoner, to commandeer it, to batter through its defenses and claim the trophy. I should be frantic. I should be beating on his chest and demanding he get off me I should be in mortal fear of my adult life. Instead, I clung to him in exactly the same way I had a moment before, his collaborator, his partner, the possible mother of his child. Why did that idea make me so happy?

I came, and the orgasm was like a tsunami, a rushing, roiling wall of water fifty feet high. It tore through me knocking down trees and toppling power lines and uprooting houses and overturning cars. I made a noise not unlike a highway bridge torn off its foundations. I gurgled and keened as my orgasm ignited his, watching in triumph as he slammed into me in preparation of another tsunami, this one of sperm. It gushed into me, like water from a fire-hose. And then I gripped him tight and wrapped him with my legs and tore at his back with my fingernails, gouging them deeply. In the morning, I'd rub lotion all over his welts, some scabbing over, some showing infection. I laughed, thinking I'd just made up for the hickey.

* * *

I don't remember falling asleep. I know I did, because I woke up at 2 A.M., disoriented and sleepy. A man lay next to me on the bed, on his side, his head propped up by his hand. It took me a moment to remember.

"Hi," I said, pulling the covers up to my chin.

"Hi, yourself," he said. He ran his fingertip down my nose, touching my lips. I kissed it.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm more that okay," I assured him. He mussed my hair and then half-heartedly smoothed it again.

"I haven't had sex like that since I lost my wife."

"I've never, ever had sex like that," I admitted.

He nodded. "Me, either, really. It was something."

"Something," I repeated. I smiled at him. He smiled back. Then he stuck a cigar in his mouth, which broke me into laughter.

"I wondered why I woke up."

"Strictly therapeutic," he assured me, chewing on the end. "But I have to admit though, it tastes better than my typical aromatic."

I stared at him a moment, and then gasped. "You didn't!" I yanked up the covers and stared down my length. He chuckled,

"What was good enough for my good buddy William Jefferson..."

I tucked the covers firmly around my chin again. "I feel so violated."

He waggled his eyebrows at me, Groucho Marx-style. "Had to do something while I laid here."

"You could have woken me," I said fretfully.

"And disturb your beauty sleep? Never. Did you know you snore?"