New England Romance

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A lonely intellectual finds sex in an apocalyptic ice storm.
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There was once a curious young scholar who, on a lonely december, decided to escape the frigidity of the city and the ivory tower of academia. Unfortunately, it seemed that the december would remain lonely no matter what: he had no sense of home, and he lived with his nose in books. He spent the wee hours of the night in a damp, dark basement, descending from the fourth floor of the library, where all he could hear were shoes rising from the carpet, to his bedroom, where all he could hear were mice scratching at the locked door.

The basement that he called his apartment served as little more than a place to sleep and to masturbate. When he masturbated he thought he heard a scratching on his door, something that seemed to call to him but that he couldn't locate. He only assumed that mice, on the other side of the basement, tried night after night to nibble their way into his bedroom. But sometimes the scratching intensified and sounded like claws, or at the very least sharp fingernails digging into the wood, gradually scratching so that their nails vibrated against the wood, penetrating through to the other side. The young scholar disregarded this. He preferred to pay attention to the text in front of him, or when he was in bed, his penis. But sometimes his disregard failed him, and the vibrations against the wood sent a shiver down his spine, causing him to shudder when he ejaculated, so that his climax blended orgasm and terror.

He'd had his share of women but they rarely made it to his bedroom. He was earnest, intellectual, and in the darker recesses of his being, opportunistic and brutal. He had an insatiable sexual curiosity. Yet, his curiosity wasn't always expedient in the moment: he doubted his own instincts, and began to step back from the act, viewing a woman's luscious mid-section as a field of study rather than as a body to enjoy. His recent heartbreaks put him more in his head and, if one observed the young man stroking himself, his figure would appear so caved inward, his spine completely curved over like a mountain peak, that the observer may think him crying or desperately studying his own penis. Still, if the young scholar's animal grunts had echoed beyond the basement, any woman with fingernails to scratch and a darker imagination may clench their teeth, shudder, and dig through his wooden door.

The young man was a dreamer. He dreamed of wild romps through Europe with his last love interest, an exotic girl who loved to tease him. The exotic girl knew how the young man desired her and she treated his attention with a coy smile until one day, on Halloween, he lunged at her across a restaurant table for a passionate embrace. She rejected him and almost needed to drag him across the floor so that he could pick up his broken heart and walk away.

But on this day in December, he resolved to mend his broken heart. He craved a valley to roll in, not a basement to descend to. He longed for a woman who made his rigid penis twitch, and as he studied the words in books of the ancient philosopher Heraclitus, strands of flowing brunette hair emerged before his eyes, replacing the sentences on the dog-eared page. The young man only saw the silky hair and its wave-like structure, much more sensual and curved than the linear, mechanical text that he examined day in, day out. The hair seemed to reach out of the book and fall with total abandon, reaching out of the book tossing itself wildly off the desk and brushing against his penis, tickling the tip, slithering around the crown. The hair was endless and, as the pages became blank, an infinite amount of hair bounced off the desk, circling around his cock with tender, teasing strokes, swimming in his drops of precum. Ten circles, a hundred, a thousand, he felt the cool undulations against his shaft until his penis exploded onto the bundle of hair, shooting proof of his manhood everywhere, coating the hair with his semen until the brunette strands looked like a naughty mermaid emerging from Poseidon's ocean, or a nymphomaniac using her lover's sperm as hairspray.

The young scholar shot his glance away from Heraclitus' pages, and looked at his watch. He realized that his plane back to Massachusetts was in two hours. He unzipped his leather bag and threw in two outfits, two romance novels and two boxes of condoms.

Not that he expected to satisfy his sexual fever over the next month. The trip home was to enable him to take time to himself, escape the library and the basement, and perhaps the least promising option, visit his family. But if he wasn't to have erotic encounters, he couldn't imagine to what lengths his family's country road would flood with his genital cream. If he couldn't ravage a woman, he anticipated stroking himself so consistently that she would swim in his semen.

The entire street, the entire town, waving their arms above his phallic fluid, sobbing, crying for help, at the mercy of his penis.

When he arrived in his small hometown on the New England countryside, he panicked at the sound of trees swaying and the steady wind whistling. He had grown so accustomed to wind smacking through his coat, in what was seemingly an effort to rip into his skin, that the sudden quietness alarmed him. This is ironic, he thought to himself. In contrast to the city's violent chill, his hometown possessed a romantic frigidity that he had long forgotten. He lay down, in his bed that seemed to sit in the middle of a patch of woods, shut his eyes and plunged into a restless sleep.

The young scholar awoke to the sound of water dripping from the long limbs of the trees outside. He peered out the window and his jaw dropped. Thick ice covered each tree behind his bedroom head-to-toe. He ran to the front door and looked up and down the street, and the smooth, wet ice rendered the rough concrete invisible.

The young man quickly dressed, putting on his jacket and scarf, and ventured outside. It seemed an ice storm had attacked the town. The pine needles drooped toward the ground, and suddenly he felt like he wasn't totally alone. Or, at least he shared the trees' loneliness. His head hung low, his shoulders slumped, his knees bent and arms descended just like the lanky limbs of the trees, weighed down by the smack of mother nature. He felt powerless, just as the pine branches were powerless in a ruthless, subzero grip. The young man longed to stare at the Heraclitus book again, and surrender himself to the gentle grasp of the brunette locks. But as Heraclitus himself said, nobody can step into the same river twice. The hair would never stroke his shaft in the same way again, and he would probably never climax that vigorously again. At least not here—his fantasy hair would freeze and disappear into jagged, apocalyptic ice.

Upon a closer look at the street, the young man stopped obsessing over the drooping trees behind his bedroom. He began to imagine himself as one large tree beside the road, a tree that had fallen smack down and engaged in extended intercourse with the power lines. Felines danced and slinked on top of the ice, showing no sign of cold paws, and the young man thought he could hear the faint sound of purring, a soft, sensual, comforting sound blowing through the branches.

The trees started to sway along with the felines, as if dancing together, moving in some rhythm, possessed by the sound and by the kittens' invitations. The young scholar simply stood and stared at all of this, and started to feel weak in the knees. He closed his eyes, hearing nothing but meows and purrs, and chunks of ice falling from the trees, dissolving, as if the kitties freed the branches and the ice melted at their purrs.

The young man began to melt with the ice and, standing under a tree, felt water drip on the back of his neck as he gently shook his hips to the rhythm of the trees and the cats. The melted ice sent a shiver down his spine and caused his lips to part. He suddenly felt his lips more fully than ever and while they were usually pursed in an intense effort to study, on this day in his driveway they seemed to expand, opening as if in an invitation for a kiss. He let his tongue roll along his upper lip as if he had some agenda, an inner hunger that the trees, the kitties and the lips egged him on to satisfy. He undulated and danced, thinking he was alone.

Suddenly, he heard what sounded like footsteps—but more stomps rather than mere steps. Yes, he heard vigorous feet crushing the ice and giving the ground a long-needed massage. He heard the sound of distinct boots, and those boots sounded familiar, a continuous SMACK that had echoed in his core for years, but that long escaped his consciousness. They were his neighbor's brown boots, and the special neighbor wore boots with a determination at once feminine and transcendent, and could make a man kneel.

The young scholar's mouth watered and he thought of falling to the frigid ground, quivering from lust and hypothermia and clutching at the soles of the special neighbor's boots, hoping that the neighbor would press her foot into his chest, at once shattering his ribcage and sending jolts through his body. That SMACK lingered in his core for years—he had repressed it because she was significantly younger, but today his frenzy demanded attention. He imagined taking her completely, right there in the ice.

The special neighbor approached him and, after a smile, they embraced. She was thin and soft in his arms, breakable in her persona but, as she wore those aggressive boots, she possessed a ravenous self confidence that could eat up the trees, the kitties, the young scholar—that last option the most preferable.

"Hi!" She licked her lips in a struggle to strike up a conversation. She licked slowly, as if trying to cover all of her lip's territory while she searched her mind for the right words: her tongue's tip touched the middle, then the right corner, then, sliding right along the flesh to the left corner. What is she thinking? He wondered. She thought of the storm in the lip's center, the years that passed since they last saw each other on the right corner and then, the hot sex they would have, the agility with with his penis would enter and leap inside her while they're catching up after all the years of repressed feelings—those thoughts during the tongue's slide from the right corner to the left corner.

"Years since I've seen you walking..." the young scholar heard her say. Her voice floated over the melting ice, and her statement sounded dreamlike, incomplete. She grappled with a timid uncertainty nesting deep in her gut, almost buried in her womb, as she couldn't help gazing into the young man's eyes. As she burned her gaze into him, her eyes opened, wider, wider, until tears started to form around the sockets. The young man stared back, his mouth still open, lips parted from the melted ice trickling down his spine.

The special neighbor searched the recesses of her being, the marrow of her bones, to discover the origin of the deep uncertainty, trepidation and violence inside her. It was similar to feeling butterflies in her stomach, the feeling that she sometimes had when she got crushes on boys as a young girl. But these were violent butterflies: enlarged moths with sharp, black wings, piercing the total width and depth of her feminine insides, soaring through her from head to toe. She wasn't sure if she felt disturbed, excited or both.

She turned away from the young man, eyeing the street, the trees, the ice in all directions—then slowly turned her head back toward him. She rested her chin on the tip of her collarbone, gradually pressing the end of her fine jaw into her shoulder, an expression at once coy and assertive. Her eyes invied him along for a walk, not pleading or begging but drawing him toward her like a magnet. It was clear she needed him, and she didn't need to clarify that any more through begging. All she needed were her deep brown eyes, decadent, reminding him of a dream he once had about rolling in a puddle of dark chocolate with a woman. The young man and the special neighbor began walking down the street.

As they walked next to each other, the young man only saw his neighbor in profile, and no longer lost himself in the infinite depth of her eyes. and her brunette hair that resembled the strands that fell on to his lap, the ones that reached out of the philosophy book, stroking him until he exploded. They watched the branches fall from the trees and crackle against the ground.

The sound of falling branches echoed through the entire street. They passed several trees on the side of the road, and the branches fell just after they walked past. The young scholar felt tempted to study this pattern in his mind, but for now only the sensory quality of it lived in his bones: they walked on the street and the branches snapped off the trees, following their footsteps. CRACK-fall, CRACK-fall, CRACK-fall, until they realized that they had been listening to the trees for so long that they weren't talking to each other. They were lost in a new world that looked like the street they lived on but was quickly transforming into the site of the apocalypse—as the branches fell, the world fell apart. What made the town a part of the country was breaking. Yet, a new world was emerging, something inside of them and that made them not care about the fact that their outside world was falling apart. They turned their attention away from the trees and to each other again.

"So, if you're not walking down this street every day like you used to, what have you been up to?" The neighbor asked, both out of curiosity and obligation.

"Living in the city. Trying to enjoy it. Doing some research work about the ancient philosopher Heraclitus."

"That's cool."

"Well, hot, actually. He described everything in terms of fire. He thought fire was the primary element." The young scholar hated himself for trying to be clever.

"Well, it's good you're doing that. We could use a fire right now, couldn't we?" Something trembled in her voice, probably as a result of the violent uncertainty she felt about the young man since the first moment seeing him. But he loved the awkward tremor in her voice; he detected in her voice a broken eroticism that demanded his attention and demanded to sing a song of its own. Her voice, her figure, her way of holding herself, seemed broken and melancholy, but in fact maybe she was just craving to be broken through. Her quivering voice belied her deliberate stomps as she crushed the ice with her boots. Her hips sashayed and he thought he saw her back arch slightly, much like the felines prowling the street.

"I've been painting still. And drawing." As the young man listened, the neighbor's voice intoxicated him, and it began to sound less like a tremor and more like a purr, as if she blended in with the kitties, their purrs still vaguely heard in the distance, back in the young man's driveway, along with the snapping branches.

Those sounds eventually faded completely. The young scholar and the neighbor reached a dark region of the forest on the side of the road. The neighbor stopped, opened her mouth and stared.

The young man felt a mixture of apprehension and desire as he and his neighbor stopped in front of the woods.

"What if a tree falls?" he thought aloud. But the neighbor seemed to say nothing in response, for the young man didn't see her mouth move, nor did he hear her speak. She walked ahead, first stiff, raising her shoulders and straightening her spine in defense. But in defense of what? He wondered. Why should we go into these woods, with no path? Branches have been falling since we began our walk.

"I don't want to be like a falling branch" he blurted out.

"Yeah," she responded. But she charged ahead, and it seemed she moved toward a light, something flowing beneath two tree branches. She grew smaller as she charged ahead of him and he stood there, paralyzed.

SNAP! A branch fell inches from his head. He breathed loudly. The neighbor turned around and removed her jacket. She stood, for a moment frozen, and slowly pulled her shirt underneath downward, exposing her shoulders. She shivered—out of coldness or arousal? The young man wondered. He moved toward her, losing himself again in her deep brown eyes, and every breath turned into a heave. He felt like her hand reached inside him and stroked his lungs, carressed them and manipulated his breath, and if she wanted to, she could suffocate him. He stood there, sighing, panting, and almost had an orgasm through his breathing alone. With every sigh, he imagined rolling in the forest leaves with her while the ice coating the trees metamorphosed into melted chocolate, dripping on them, raining on the lovers. He salivated, tasting chocolate, skin, and earth all at once.

Meanwhile, the neighbor stripped for him, and it seemed that they continued to walk forward at the same time that she stripped. Her hips shook, sometimes softly, other times jerking from side to side, and he knew that those were the convulsions she'd make while he was inside her.

She knew, at the same time, that her hips' gestures only hinted at what her body would do when he buried himself in her; that her composure, power and self-control in the present moment was all a facade. She ripped through the threads of her tattered green t-shirt with seeming effortlessness, and her thumb followed a line down her center, tearing through the shirt, exposing her stomach, her chest, her collarbone and her beautiful breasts. She wore no bra and, once she ripped the line through the shirt, she pulled it behind her and revealed her full upper womanness.

At this moment, she expressed not the coquettish control that she displayed at the beginning of their entrance into the woods, but an innocent wonder and awe. Her eyes widened in genuine curiosity and discovery, searching her own breasts that were big enough for her to look at from above, playing with her own breasts, making them move with every breath.

Once her shirt came off, the young man wasn't the only one who sighed and panted. Her breaths began to quake, and then they shortened, so that she was panting herself, and her breasts seemed to expand with every pant. In every nanosecond, the young man watched her breathe, captivated, as if she conjured an ancient female superpower and sculpted her own body right before his eyes, breathing so that her prodigious breasts became rounder, fuller. Her eyelids fluttered shut and her teeth made up-down motions; her jaw opened and closed, and the young man leaned in because he thought she was saying something. She spoke to her body in her own language that came out in guttural noises and jaw gestures that looked like bites. She dictated a personality to her own breasts, and they continued to grow rounder—they were exhibitionistic breasts, ready to be seen and touched.

As he stared at every inch of her breasts, his eyes not missing one detail of her smooth, tender, tanned skin, her sighs reversed into gasps. His gaze possessed her body, sending her into a fit of arousal. While she expanded her own breasts with her womanly powers for the young scholar to feast his eyes upon, he stared and seemed to posess them himself. Her nipples hardened, awakening from a deep sleep underneath her skin, popping out, eager for his lips to massage them.

The neighbor's jeans dropped, seemingly by a force other than her own will, for her hands weren't anywhere near her pants. Her hands delicately followed her own breasts. She stroked her breasts like they were entities separate from her, and at first she touched them as if she were petting a cat. As her carresses continued, it looked more like she tended a fire, pressing her fingers into her mammaries and nipples the way a survivor in the wilderness teases firewood with a stick.