tagCelebrities & Fan FictionBack Door Woman: Sunday, A.M.

Back Door Woman: Sunday, A.M.


Back Door Woman: Sunday, A.M.

When Kiefer awoke, P.J. slept soundly in his arms. He headed to the bathroom, took care of business, then crawled back into the warm space he'd just vacated, back into her bed, their bed, wrapping his arms around her again. His mind wandered as he waited for her to awaken.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Safe. Feel safe holding her. Her holding me. Safe and warm and safe. And warm. Trust. Trust her. More than anyone else in the world. She knows shit. God, she knows shit. Shit she could use. Never has. Never will. I know that. Know that. I trust her. Let me not to the marriage of true minds / admit impediments. She's breathing so softly. My hope. Hope? Maybe my despair. My hope, my despair. My saving grace, my condemnation. Ah, condemn. My safety, my danger. My love, my hate. No. Not love hate. My buoy, my weight. The star to every wandering bark. Bark. A boat. A small boat. My boat. Bobbing aimlessly on the waves without the guiding star when she's not there. When she's gone. I don't know if I can do this again. Fine. She wants to be alone, humph, alone, while she's in L.A. Fine. Let her be alone. She wants him. Fine. It won't be forever. It won't. God, please tell me it won't. Be forever.

Deep breath. Smell her hair. Her skin. Her. Always smells so good. So good. Fresh. Remember the very first time I smelled her hair. A bar. Montana. Drunk. Not too, but drunk. No, I was drunk. She walked in. No, she floated in. We all looked at her. Stared at her. Kids. Sorta kids. Kids compared to her. Lookin' at a woman. Shit. I'll buy her a beer. They laughed. Laughed at me. I'll show 'em. I'll buy her a beer and fuck her, too. They laughed harder. Why are they laughing at me? I'm a cowboy. I'm a skier. I'm fuckin' Kiefer fuckin' Sutherland. She'll be glad to let me fuck her. Hmmm. Yeah, right. How stupid could one man be. One kid.

I walked right up to her. Right up to the bar where she sat. I tapped her right on the shoulder. She turned. My mouth wouldn't work when she looked at me. Straight in the eyes. No flinching. My brain was talking. My mouth wasn't. I heard them laughing. John, was it John, came over, too. You'll have to forgive my friend, ma'am, he said. Said to her. Forgive him. The cat's got his tongue, he said.

She didn't look at him. She looked at me when she answered him. Straight in the eyes.

Well, that's a shame, she said, doesn't he know there are better things to do with his tongue than let the cat get it?

Shit, John, or whoever it was, said. Shit, I guess. Was she talkin' about tongues? God.

My mouth moved. I still wasn't talking. How stupid, how stupid. Had I ever felt more stupid? Yeah. The first time we made love. No. Had sex. No, love. Sex? Whatever. We did it. No, not really. Stupid. Ahhh. At the bar, she turned back around. My head was spinnin.' Dizzy. I fell forward. Right on her. Right on her back. My face fell into her hair. It smelled so good. Fruity. Sweet. Deep, deep breath. Just like it does now. Sweet. I just stayed there on her. John, or whoever it was, pulled me off, away. No, no, don't move me. She smells so good. No. Nobody was moving me away now, though. If anybody was moving, it was J. Was she dreamin' of him? Pablo Schmablo?

Damn that internet shit Sarah gets into. I'd never have known. Well, maybe. Her current events assignment. Focus on service. Top report will be published in L.A. Youth Magazine. Dad, what'll I do for my report? What do you wanna do, Sarah? Something where people help other people. It's about service. Current service. All I could think of was J and her trips to Mexico and South America. No, she'd piss and moan about that . . . . Central and South America. What was the name of that group? Taos something. Yeah. Sarah, look up TAOS-CASA. Texans and Others Serve Central and South America. Went back to what I was doing and suddenly Sarah screamed bloody murder. Thought she'd been shot. God, what's the matter, what's the matter. Daddy, it's J, she screamed. J who I asked. Oh, Daddy, she gave me that look that teenage girls give. You know J who, Daddy. Long time ago. You used to live with her. Sarah didn't know. Know I still saw J. I didn't realize Sarah remembered her. It had been a very long time since J and I had lived together. Had J left her mark on my Sarah, too?

Oh, look at him. He's soooo-ohhhh hot. Who's hot, Sarah? The guy J's with. In the picture on the website. A hottie. Look, Daddy, he's a real hottie. Hottie's ass. Who was this pompous hottie? Antonio Banderas looking. Hair. Long. Lots of long, dark hair. Lots of teeth. White, white teeth. Shiny, shiny riding boots. Polo pony. He held the reins of a polo pony. Who is that, Sarah? The caption says Dr. P.J. Stewart and Dr. Pablo Saavedra outside of Mexico City, Mexico, at Saavedra's ranch. What do you mean hot? He's pompous looking. Oh, he's not, Daddy, not pompous. My own daughter. A hottie, Daddy. Traitor. Was she dreamin' of him? Pablo Schmablo. Not Sarah. J.

Stupid. Why hadn't she thrown me out that first time we made love. Just thrown me out. Oh, I had to work for it. No fallin' in bed with this one. No, she had to fuckin' know me first. Know me. Trust me. Trust me? For what? Fuckin' what? Then I'd found out. God, I thought I was gonna die. I have to trust that you can be careful, control yourself, the first time. Just the first time. Why? Why would I want to control myself? Because. When it's been a long time for me, when it's been awhile, well, it hurts. I have to trust you to be careful. Hurts why. Because, because I'm small. Hell, I know you're small. I've been chasing you around for six damned months. You're small from running away from me. No, no, no, laugh, laugh, laugh. Here. I'm small here. She points between her legs. Was she fuckin' kidding? Are you fucking KIDDING me?

No. I'm not. That's why I have to trust you. And she did. Trust me, finally. And it didn't make any difference anyway the first time. I thought she was kidding. She wasn't. I entered. She flinched. Once twice three times a lady. No. No. Not this tight. No. I'm gettin' off. I haven't moved yet. Her face in pain. NO. I don't want her face in pain. Never. I'm done. Two seconds. One. So embarrassed. Embarrassed. No, no, baby, she said. No, sugar. It's all right. It's just bi-olllll-uh-gee, she croons. Just bi-ollll-uh-gee she expands the syllables in that Southern drawl. Why was she so nice. So nice.

She stirred beside me now. Made that little noise. A cross between an um and an ah. The one that always made me want to squeeze her. Hold her tight. Hold her. To me. God, could she be more . . . more . . . . Was she, did she, make that noise for him? Was he nailin' her? No, that's not important. The question was is she nailin' him? Yeah, that's the question. Pablo fucking Schmablo can't prounounce your last name. Pediatrician. Famous. Private oil and gas family. Suppliers to Pemex. Freakin' suppliers to Pemex, for Chrissakes. He'd be a fuckin' billionaire one day. Oh, and I'd found out more. Was driven to. Hello, Dr. Saavedra I'd practiced saying the name. Jason Smalley here. L.A. Youth Magazine. Lookin' to do a feature on TAOS-CASA and know you've been a part of it for awhile even though you live in Mexico City. What of the people you work with? I've heard others speak of Dr. Stewart. Oh? You know her? Know her, he said. I've been asking her to marry me for years. Oh? And? I think she's finally softening he laughed. You think I should interview her, too? Not unless you want to fall in love. He laughed again. Laughed. Fuckin' Schmablo.

She stirred again. Began the stretch. The morning stretch she always did, arching in a backwards 'c,' pushing her pelvis forward. The stretch always turned her body over and facing me if she weren't already.

"Owwwww," she moaned as she turned. A higher pitch now.

"Owwwwwwwwwwwww." Not a good sound. She was in pain.

I leaned up on my arm. Leaned down to see her face.

"What is it? What is it, J? What's wrong?"

She shifted her weight again.

"Owwwwcha." The sound drug out.

She looked up at me. Big eyes. Wide-eyed. Big, green eyes. Looking at me so innocently. Blinking, blinking, no other expression on her face. Then they narrowed. The eyes. Looked at me still. Suddenly wicked. Mischievous. A smile now, a smile to match the wicked eyes. She held up her hand, crooked the index finger, and motioned me down to her lips. I turned my ear to her mouth. She began to whisper.

"I'm sore, you big, bad boy." She licked my ear and continued. "You banged me good last night. Good and proper." She pulled away, smiling still.

Ohhhhhhhhh. Good and proper. I don't know how proper it was, but it was definitely good. I rested on the pillow again, my arms tightening around her. My left hand found her breast. Her nipple. I loved these breasts. These nipples. My fingers twirled the right one, pulled and teased. She squirmed and giggled.

"Stop it, you tittie baby," she said.

"Yes, I am," I freely confessed. "Yes, I definitely am." I gave her what I hoped was an engaging smile, continuing my teasing.

I shifted us around, took her breasts into my hands, and buried my face between them, snuggling back and forth until I found just the right position between the soft globes. I loved to hide my head in her breasts. My favorite place in the world. The place I long to be when I am . . . when I am . . . what? Tired, angry, sad, confused, hungry, lonely. Unsure. Afraid? Am I? Afraid? Then she pushed my head up a bit and kissed me and smiled again. Smiled. And sighed. A nice, long sigh. A satisfied sigh. I wanted to wrap my whole body around her and hold her tight. Tight. Keep her satisfied. Smiling. Don't want to lose you. Again. Lose you.

"Gotta pee," she said, and rolled from under me and out of bed and was half way to the bathroom door before I knew it. She didn't close the door. She just sat down on the toilet. She never had. Closed the door. Not self-conscious at all. Sometimes I wondered if I should put a post-it note on the back door to remind her to put on clothes before she went outside. She simply wasn't uncomfortable without clothes. She wasn't uncomfortable with bodily functions. Uh, oh. That face again.


I crossed the space between bed and open bath and was kneeling in front of her in seconds.

"What is it?"

She'd had her eyes closed. She snapped them open.

"How'd you get here so fast, you little booger?" she asked. "I'm all right," she assured me.

She kissed my forehead. I loved it when she kissed my forehead.

"It hurts when I pee." She explained after my questioning look. "The urine. Raw insides. Don't mix. Owwwwwwwwww."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, baby," I started. She interrupted my apology with another wicked smile.

"You may be sorry," she said, stressing the you, as she leaned her forehead to mine, "but I'm not!" she exclaimed. She leaned back and tilted her head to one side. Her smile was no longer wicked, but sweet.

She finished urinating and reached for some toilet tissue. She wiped herself and began to stand up, reaching behind her to flush as she rose. I rose, too.

"I think I'll sit in a tub full of hot water for a few minutes. Might make me feel better."

"Do you think that'll help?" I asked.

"I dunno. It's probably like fallin' off a horse. You know what they say."

"Yeah. You break your fuckin' neck," I laughed.

"No, silly. You have to get back on. Maybe I should forget the bath and just jump your hot bones!" She grinned a depraved grin as she reached down and tweaked my cock.

All right with me, I thought. But she was already reaching inside the bathtub to turn on the faucet. God, what a backside. All of it. The ass. The back. The thighs. Shit. Calm down. Calm down. Buttocks like two peeled cantaloupe halves, nestled side by side. Round. So round. The back. Soft. Soft and muscular. Defined. Thank you, Bowflex. She did it faithfully. Bowflexed, that is. Ohhhhhh. God. God. She'd let me fuck her on the Bowflex once. Shit. How hot. How hot had that been? I couldn't talk for two days. Fucked her on the fuckin' Bowflex. God. See it when I close my eyes.

She continued to adjust the water temperature, getting it just right. Moving to get the bubble bath, pour it in, leaning over to pour it in. I could reach out, grab her, and fuck her now, too. But that's not what I want. I want to fuck her slow. Slow and easy and long and let her know how much I care. Last night? Last night was all about Pablo Schmablo. I wanted to fuck him out of her mind. Wanted her to think I was the best fuck she'd ever had. But now, this morning, I want to ease in and ride her slow, slow, slow. Snuggle into my hobbit hole. Hold her and watch her face. Watch her expressions. Watch those eyes. So few wrinkles around those eyes. I had a hundred times more. Wrinkles. So few signs of her aging though I knew she had. Gray hair that she refused to cover, claiming petulantly that I'd given her each and every one and they were a testament to her fortitude. Within his bending sickle's compass come. Make her happy. Want to.

"Want coffee? I'll go down and make the coffee. Bring it up. And some toast? Want toast?" I asked.

"Coffee and toast would be wonderful," she acknowledged. "You want in the bath, too?" she inquired with a delicious grin, winking at me.

Hell, why not. Shit. Do I have a choice? Do men have choices when we . . . we . . . Never mind.

"Sure," I said. "Leave room for me. And don't play with yourself while I'm gone. No sweeping out the hobbit hole." She stuck out her tongue. Then she wiggled it in an evil motion.

I shook my head, feigning embarrassment. "I'll be back up as soon as I get the coffee and toast made."

I headed down to the kitchen, glancing back long enough to see her ease into the tub full of bubbles. Graceful. Lithe. Bendable. The positions she could manage. Yoga. Yes. Yessssssssss shaking my head back and forth in wonder. Down the stairs and into the kitchen to make coffee and toast. Should I make regular coffee, or flavored. Or tea. She likes that, too. Does he know that? Know that hot tea soothes her? Does he know that sometimes Miss Stubborn needs a firm hand? My firm hand? On her bottom? That she likes it? That she cries when she watches the Blue Angels fly? Calls me 'daddy' when she's had too much wine? Can hold more tequila shots than a boatload of Marines? Moans when I touch her special place? Place. Do you know that place, Pablo Wablo? Probably not. Because you're a fuckin' Schmablo, that's why. You don't know anything about her. Ask her to marry you. Stupid. You're stupid, Schmablo. Would she? Will she? Is she? Is that what she wants? No, no, no, no, no.

Filter in. Coffee in. Regular. Water in. Turn it on. Turn broiler on. Get the bread. Butter. Knife. Make the toast. Put in oven.

Ask her, you pussy. Just ask her. But what if she says 'yes' and invites you to the wedding. Fuck. I didn't invite her to mine. No. No, I didn't. What a strange time. Weird. The first part of my marriage. Second marriage. Strange but not bad. Then the middle of it, the marriage. The year of the freeze. The iceberg. The time that land forgot the land that time forgot. The year that taught me that no matter where I was I needed to know she was there, she, J, not my wife, somewhere, that I could hear her voice if I called. That she wouldn't hang up when she saw my number on caller ID or heard my voice when she picked up. The year I learned that she, J, not my wife, meant what she said. Not like the others. Learned that she is strong enough to follow through. Although I already knew that. Already knew. The year I learned that I could not live, no, function, no. Function yes, live no. Unless I could keep in touch. Touch my touchstone. But not that year. Bad. Bad.

I shook off the feeling I had worked myself into, checked the toast. Be reasonable.

I'm not a jealous man. Why am I letting this Schmablo thing get to me? Why? It's so stupid. What if she is fuckin' him? So what? She's had relationships since ours ended. I know that. I'm not stupid. She told me of one. The one that started in the iceberg year and lasted for almost one more. Wonder what stupid thing he did to fuck it up. She didn't say. Wonder how stupid he feels now? How lost? Bereft? Is that the word? Bereft? Did he feel as vacant and useless as I did when I fucked up? Not once, but twice? When the light in his universe went out? His loss, his loss, his loss . . . . Should I take something up for the toast? Jelly? Preserves? God, I love J's preserves. Pear. Is there pear in here? Door. Refrigerator door. That's where they, ah, there they are. I'm glad I decided on the coffee. Good with the pears.

I laughed at myself on the way up the stairs. What a fuckin' idiot I must look like. Tea tray. Good china. No clothes. Fuckin' naked. Huh.

I entered the bedroom, glanced to the right into the semi-open bathroom. O.K. She's paying attention, looking at me. Just ask her. Do it. She's always saying just get it out. Whatever is bothering you. Here goes. Deep breath. Another deep breath. Open your mouth and speak. Why does she look unhappy. Well, maybe not unhappy. Sad. Eyes sad. Sad eyes. Shit. Too late. She's talking now.

"Why are you here?" she said softly as I crossed the room to the tub.

"What do you mean, why am I here? I've brought the toast and coffee. You said I could get in the bath, too," I grinned.

"No. Not here," she pointed her finger down to the bottom of the tub. "I mean here, here," she said as she swept both arms in front of her and then out to her sides.

I placed the tray with the tea and toast on the wide edge of the huge bathtub. I crawled in facing J. I awaited her explanation.

She continued. "Are you here," she halted, then began again. "Are you here to tell me goodbye?" she asked.

I was stunned. Goodbye. Is that what she's saying? To me?

"What the hell are you talkin' about, goodbye?" I managed to get out.

"Are you here to end it? Us? I just want to know now. Before you leave. Please tell me. It's not fair not to."

"End it? Me? Are you sure you're not the one ending it?"

"Me? Why would you say that?" She stared at me. "Why?" she asked again.

I paused. "I thought you were ending it," I barely got out, as if it would not be true if I whispered it.

She looked baffled. Not defensive. Baffled. Her eyes widened, then narrowed, then widened again. She spoke slowly.

"What in the world have I done that would lead you to believe that?" she asked me.

She continued. "Why is it that you think I'd want to stop seeing you? Please explain. I really don't understand." Her head shook slightly from side to side.

So. What do I tell her. That I know about Pablo Schmablo.

Deep breath. Just say it, you idiot.

"I . . . uh . . . I," I started. I became resolved. Raised my head high. "I thought you were more interested in Doctor," I emphasized the word doctor, "Pablo Saavedra." I got it out, but probably not pronounced right.

Her eyes widened. "Paaahhhhbbbbloooooooo?" she asked, making his name at least four syllables.

"Yes," I hissed. "Pablo. Dr. Pablo Sah-sah-sah whatever it is."

She was laughing. Well, her eyes were laughing anyway. Why the fuck is she laughing? Just because I can't pronounce that name?

From her smile came these words.

"Kiefer. Are you kidding?" She looked astonished. Her hands came up out of the water, palms turned upward. "Pablo? Where'd you get that? Pablo is a friend." She looked at me expectantly.

"Only a friend?" I asked. "What kind of a friend? Am I," I stressed the I, "a friend?"

She was chuckling. Fucking chuckling. How could she chuckle? Fuckle chuckle.

Her head was moving back and forth, side to side in disbelief. Green eyes sparkling.

"Of course you're my friend," she stressed 'course.' "You're the only person in the universe who knows about my husband. The only person in the universe who has ever been to my West Texas hideaway. The only person in the universe who can make me laugh until I puke!"

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