Dreamweavers Ch. 03

Chelsea raises her hips, offering herself to me. "Oh, yes, Patrick!" she says, hard but softly. As I continue to lick her, I open my eyes. In the cool night air, my saliva and her wetness rise as steam. She lifts her top up and caresses her breasts. I kneel higher up to lick them, and she bucks her body up, her cunt against my belly. She pulls my head hard against her. "Suck them. Lick them!" she orders. The car lurches again. My mouth engulfs her. The car sways more. My cock is chafing inside my jeans. Steam arises from her nipples as well.

I return between her legs and continue tonguing her. With every lick, every suck, every kiss, Chelsea twitches and writhes and moans. I have never felt I was God's gift to women in bed, but now I'm thinking…well, maybe I am His gift to Chelsea. For now, anyway.

We've got the car swaying about 20 degrees each way and she is moaning and groaning a shitload. I lift under her ass and she suddenly slides off the bench, pushing me down hard to the floor, her slit coming down full force on my tongue. Her thighs squeeze my head and she grinds down on me, and I think I will pass out from the lack of air and from ecstasy. She cums, with more vitality than I have ever seen, felt, or heard in real life or faked in a movie. I am sure everyone in the city of Chicago knows it. From her mouth comes a scream and groan so deep, sexy, primal. If there was a sound when the universe first exploded, this is it.

Chelsea finally begins to relax her thighs and eases a little of her weight off me. "Jesus!" she says, her head in her hands as she falls back on the bench. Then she looks up.

"Oh, my God!" she yells.

"What?"

"We're the next car off!" She scrambles for her jeans and fumbles with her boots. Runs her hands through her hair—it doesn't help. My face is dripping from her, some of my hair plastered to the side of my head. I wipe what I can of her off with my handkerchief. Just as Chelsea buttons her pants, the door opens. The black teenager who let us on stands there to help us out.

"Folks, the sign says you ain't suppose to rock the car. I told you to stop rocking the car. It's dangerous, you know." At exactly the same moment, the three of us notice something light pink in the corner of the bench. The boy walks in, picks it up, and brings it to Chelsea.

"These yours, ma'am!" he says with a smile a mile wide. "Rockin' ain't always dangerous, I guess. Depends who's in your playground!"

I slip him a sawbuck, take the panties from him, and shove them in my jacket. "Now, y'all come back. Hear?!" We smile and walk, our arms around each other's waist.

"Yo! DreamWeavers. 'Tell us your dream and we'll make someone cream!' Simeon on the line--to do your dream phyne!"

"Simeon, Patrick McGuire here."

"Hey, Paddy-O! My bro'! Like the story, my man?!"

"Yeah, I guess. It's over? That's it? I eat a nice chick on a Ferris wheel? Don't I get to cum? Don't we, like, go out for dinner? Back to my place? Wild middle-aged sex?"

"Me, Paddy," Simeon says. "Ya said ya was wanting a story and I gave ya one."

"Simeon, do me a favor. Promise me you won't try to speak in a brogue and I promise I won't break out in jive?"

"Cool, Patrick. Look it. I followed everything you asked me to. Very sensitive—check! Don't want to fall in love—check! A nice sensual fling—check! A little edgy—check! Boots—check! And you had to dig the castanets part!

"Did you like the poem? Free! And, Christ, she drives 20 miles to follow you so she gots to dig you! I think I'm cool at my end!"

There's a pause. "Okay, how much for Part 2?"

When we are out of earshot of anyone but the gulls, Chelsea turns to me, reaches around my waist, and lays her head on my chest. She squeezes me to her. Then she quivers, off and on, for what must be a minute. It isn't that cold, I think. She sort of giggles. "Aftershocks," she says. "How about the merry-go-round!" and breaks into a laugh that melts my years and memories.

"You could give me head in the bumper cars," I suggest, only half-kidding.

She looks down at the ground and says, "Have you had a woman in your bed since Karen died?" Chelsea asks. Softly. She is right to ask, but I am loathe to answer.

"I haven't had sex since she died. Remember Woody Allen's line about 'Sex Without Partners'? That's me." I laugh. Why did I just tell her that, I ask? Why not impress her with my numerous nonexistent one-night stands? Because, what I told her is true and this isn't the locker room at the gym. She squeezes my waist and we walk a while in silence. Then she stops by a street light, her rosy face glowing like a single ember embossed in the dark sky. She turns to me and kisses me lightly. She looks right into my eyes.

"I want to be in a bed with you, bare-baby naked, hot out of a shower where I soap you up and rub my breasts against you and you feel my hot, hard nipples against your skin. And then I turn around and you soap my ass and I feel your half-hard cock sliding between my cheeks. We'll dry each other off and I'll powder you with a nice talcum. All over. Then you know what, Patrick?" Oh, she has a glint in her eyes!

"I'm going to suck on … your ear lobes and blow hot, passionate air on them! And then I'm going to suck on … your neck and give you hickies so when you buy groceries the checkout girl will do a double-take and giggle—thinking about her own! And then I'm going to suck on … your shoulders. Give you hickies that you'll see when you come out of the shower. Then I'm going to suck your…hmmm…what will I suck next?" She cups her chin in one hand. "Chelsea," I think to myself, "I can help you with this!"

"Yes, your nipples!" she shouts, in mock discovery. "You'll moan wildly, hold my head to them, invite me to suck them longer and harder. Then…where, Patrick? Where do I go next?!"

I grab her to me and kiss her as deeply as I can. Her tease is probably…no, is…the sexiest thing that has ever happened to me. Not the most loving, but, yes, the sexiest! I am rock-fucking-hard.

"Hmmm!" she purrs, her hands behind my neck and her hips grinding against me. "You paid attention to nothing but my own pleasure back there. I'm getting a wonderful picture of you in my head—the coat, the hair, the kiss, the poem, the Ferris wheel.

"I know what a man wants from a woman, Patrick! He wants back what he gives. He wants to please and be pleased. You pleased me so very, very much. I can't give you the best night of love in your life, but I want to give you the best night of sex!" My cock is trapped, throbbing. She feels it and grinds her pelvis against it, squeezing it, rubbing it, and little jolts of electricity scatter throughout me and then explode in my brain.

"You want me to take your balls into my warm mouth, tongue them, suck on them, lick and kiss them, play with them." I grind back, side to side while she continues thrusting against me.

"And as I feel your hot blood flowing into your cock, I'll take it into my mouth, enjoy feeling it grow, suck it to full hardness, use my tongue and lips and even my teeth to make you harder than you ever thought, more sensual than ever, more aroused! I will lick it and enjoy your hardness, the curve, its strength! I will kiss you and lick you and suck you into me! I will let you thrust your cock into me and I will hold your balls to feel them rise and tighten. I'll feel your hands on my head, holding it firm on you, the curve fitting my mouth perfectly. And then I will feel you cum—hot, salty-sweet-tingly jizz shooting, gushing, dripping into me, your seed, your cum, my lover's essence, in my mouth, sliding down my throat and settling into a warm glow in my tummy—Patrick. In me. As I have been in Patrick."

With her last words and last grind into me, I cum. I arch my back and grind against her, and I cum. I am standing out on Navy Pier in 40 degree weather, fully clothed, sober. Roller bladers are skirting past us. Couples walk by arm-in-arm, hand-in-hand, laughing. And my body jerks as I feel the warmth and orgasm of my cum spurt into my jeans because no woman has ever talked to me this way or turned me on like this.

"Oh, sweet Jesus, Chelsea!" I sigh deeply. I thrust my hips to her as the last drops pour into my underwear.

"What's the matter, Patrick? You okay?"

I don't think she quite understands what's happened. "Jesus, Chelsea! Now I know what a cum-in-my-pants woman really is!" She still doesn't quite get it. She reaches into my jeans and underwear and, yes, she is surprised. She takes her hand out, the tips of her fingers glistening in the lights. She licks one and then licks them all.

"I like how you taste, Patrick! Oh, yeah, Baby! I got to get you in the sack real soon." Then she laughs. "Look ma! No hands!" And I crack up with her.

"There's a GAP here somewhere," I say. "I got a little shopping to do!"

I pick out some jeans and Chelsea brings some black satin thongs to me as I stand before the mirror. "Nice ass, Patrick," she says, "as if I didn't already know! I'll like taking these off your sweet tush!" Butt floss isn't my style, but I am flattered she brings them and not some baggy boxers. God, here is a prayer: Please do not let this night end! Amen!

I keep the new jeans (and thong) on and carry the tags and my old stuff to the checkout.

"Have you come here before?" the clerk asks, as innocently as possible, taking my old jeans and setting them on the counter. Chelsea and I both snort.

"No," I say, trying to stop my laugh.

"Want me to toss these?"

"Oh, Lord, no! Had some of my best times in those pants!" Chelsea leaves the store, laughing, doubled-over. The clerk looks at her. "Too many margaritas, you know!?" I say.

We meet outside the store and Chelsea takes the bag from me, drops it in the garbage. "New memories, Patrick. Lots of new, good times in your new jeans!" Then I start to cry. Out of fucking nowhere. This is not what I would have thought would happen, but I know. We sit on a bench. I take her hand.

"I loved Karen so!" I pause. "No two people could have loved each other more. This is all happening so fast, so unexpected! I thought I would just mope through the rest of my life feeling sorry for myself. You come into a meeting from nowhere. Shit, in less than an hour, you've changed my life! And you're fucking married! And I have to fucking care! I'm not a fuck and suck kind of guy. Couldn't be. Not even in fantasies."

None of what happened tonight could have ever happened with Karen. This is not her. "Karen's dead, Patrick. Move on." It's what I've been saying for a year and everyone else has told me for a year and a half. I stop crying now. "I'm sorry. I would have had to talk about her, you know, to you, once, at some point. It's another part of the picture. A huge part. I'm just telling you about me. You are not another woman in a long list of sexual conquests, of flirtations or puppy loves. Oh, God, Chelsea, tonight's been so fucking wonderful! I needed to move on. You're my ride out of the past."

"I know I can't be Karen, Patrick. I'm Chelsea. Chelsea in the Morning. I'm your butterfly. Keep Karen in a warm place in your heart. But I'd like room there too." She hugs me. "Let's walk a little and get something junky to eat." We get Chicago-style hot-dogs—with everything! Overprocessed, nitrates, nitrites, salty, fatty—the oh-so-delicious fruit of indulgence. It is a night of indulgence. There's loud music coming from Joe's Be-Bop Café & Jazz Emporium. Dance music. Is that disco? The Bee Gees? Everything I'm wearing is cotton, my red leisure suit still gathering dust in an attic closet, on the floor, because polyester never wrinkles. Collars like the wings of sea gulls.

"I want to go in, Patrick. For a coke and a dance!" she says, so eagerly.

"Chelsea," I say, "Dancing is not a skill I have lost. I never could dance. Maybe a waltz at a wedding. Why do women always think dancing is so natural? Have I asked you to write me a poem? That's natural for me!" I pause, because I am whining. "Plus, we have no reason to go into a bar. Too much of the look and smell of booze. We can get a coke out here on the walk."

"C'mon, Patrick—one coke and one slow dance! I feel so alive and vibrant! Don't you?" I agree. But this is not a good idea. For maybe a million reasons. Cal would just fill my pockets with rocks, punch me in the head, and push me over the pier. "There's a million of you losers who die over a skirt. Fucking join them!"

I walk in with her. After looking around, I want to announce I am the official chaperone of Joe's. My 31-year-old daughter could be the mother of half of these people. Okay, an older sister, then. We sidle up to the bar and Chelsea's starting to boogie to "Stayin' Alive." I have to admit that I had one enormous, hard-on crush on Donna Summer! I wore out my copy of Bad Girls."

Two cokes," I say to the bartender. "Make mine a Long Island Iced Tea," Chelsea chirps in. This drink is nothing but booze and a splash of cola for color. It's the alkie way—get it now, hard and fast, stick the hairpin in the outlet and light yourself fucking up. I'd like to join her, but I would not stop at one or two. I would start with one and then order shots and then doubles and I would be off again until I killed myself, someone else, or worst-case scenario— keep on living and drinking. The only question I must ask is, not will this hurt her but will it hurt me. I don't know. I like her—a lot--and I think she likes me. I am horny. It is so easy to confuse the two and make us seem more than we are, which is, basically, two people who have known each other for a total of about an hour and 20 minutes. She looks at me. I am as white as Johnny Winter's hair.

"We're leaving, Chelsea. Now. Or whatever you and I are is done. Kaput. Over."

"A drink or two? I just want to get higher after how hot we got each other! Please!"

"If you can't think it through, you want me to think it through for you? Come on, let's leave. You loved what we did. I loved what we did—clean, sober, no chemicals, artificial flavors, or fucking preservatives added!"

"Are you going to stop me?"

If someone is really an alkie, you can break both their arms and legs and they will somehow crawl to the phone, knock it to the floor, and tap out with their tongue the number of a liquor store or dealer. That is why it is a disease of sanity and spirit, not of will power.

"Nope. Can't. Resigned from the Booze Patrol a long time ago." I say. "But it changes everything. Every fuck-ing thing!"

"Like fucking what?"

"I don't fucking know. Yet!" I yell at her. I don't know, but I should.

A slow number comes on. "Let's dance," I offer. "This is a white boy's song!" And I grin at her.

There is so little room to move on the dance floor that I could have tried to be John Travolta without making a fool of myself. Instead, Chelsea holds me to her tight and grinds against me once again. "Thanks." she whispers.

"Hey, Baby. It's always your choice now. You chose not to. That drink is still on the bar. Paid for. You can pick it up anytime."

"I really do like being clean and sober…with you. Patrick…?"

"What?"

"Could we keep each other straight?"

"B, Chelsea," I say. "'That no human power could relieve us of our alcoholism….'"

"I loved everything about the way you touched me," she says, not caring who hears. "It was incredible! The light. The air. You on me." She thrusts against me, and then as I grind against her, I see she turns ashen.

"Shit!" I hear her say under her breath. Her face sinks within herself. She turns to me, hiding her head against me. "We've go to go! Now!" She grabs me. I'm guessing husband here.

"Of all the gin joints in the world…." she says. Who hasn't seen Casablanca?

"Can you take one more lie, Patrick? See the platinum-blonde black woman at the door?" I look. An incredibly stunning—and stunning does not do her justice—woman stands near the door, dressed in silver, from her boots to her dress to her necklace and earrings and eye shadow and lip gloss and hair. She is elegant, sexual, sensual, dominant, and stunning—did I say that? She has been The Silver Slut in my sexual fantasies for as long as I have been alive. Since I carried useless condoms in my wallet. Since Wonder Woman was a weekly TV series. This bitch can make an entrance!

"You seem to have an open mind, Patrick," Chelsea says. "How open?"

The black woman surveys the room. When her eyes land on Chelsea, disbelief blossoms and then withers like a rose in the snow. Chelsea puts her hands to my chest.

"I am going to have to give you the ten-second version rather than the one-hour one you might like. The one I would've given you—eventually. One day, you'll talk to me about Karen for hours, and I'll have to talk to you about D'Arcy. D'Arcy and I were lovers once. Until recently." D'Arcy begins walking toward us. My butterfly a lesbo? I do believe D'Arcy could beat the shit out of me. I know she could out of Chelsea.

"Well, well, well! Find yourself an AA daddy or something!?" she says looking directly at Chelsea. And, yes, her fists are on her hips, clenched. My height. She could bench press my weight. Hell, she could bench press me!

"D'Arcy," Chelsea says quickly, "This is Patrick. Patrick, excuse me while I talk to D'Arcy." They walk a few feet away. I've gone from a newly-recovering alcoholic widower to a man who's just brought a woman to orgasm on a Ferris wheel and who has made me cum in my pants—a bisexual woman who lives with a gorgeous black woman who almost instantly rejuvenated my erection. Up close, she is more than any man could possibly want, physically. This evening has become my personal Theater of the Absurd!

The words poet and poem and beautiful ring out. I also hear widower, which stings like a wasp. We're through! I told you! Chelsea shouts. I learn that D'Arcy came to Navy Pier to see Dance Chicago with her gay friend Keith, who will be joining this lovely social event after a trip to the Buoy's Room. (Yes, the women's is the Gull's Room!) She just stopped by for a drink. Does he know? D'Arcy yells at Chelsea. She shakes her head. I decide to become part of this conversation because, for the moment, at least, Chelsea and I are on a date. No trouble. I just need to become a part of this dialogue.

"D'Arcy," I say, and she shoots me a look. "You can put that ghetto-mama look back in your purse, bitch! That shit don't cut it with me, and this isn't your call. Chelsea's here with me. She's my date tonight. You two will have to deal with it however you want to later." I pause and turn to Chelsea. "I just want to know if I'm taking you home with me tonight, are you driving yourself back to your place, or if you're riding back with D'Arcy. Can I have a Quarter-Pounder with some fucking Truth on the side, for Chrissakes? And super-size it?"

"Okay!" Chelsea says, holding her hands up, palms out. "Okay, okay, okay!" She could be Joe Pesce. She takes a breath and sighs. Oh, and now Keith joins us to complete this rosy-cheeked, All-American quartet. "I am married, and this is my wedding ring. But my marriage is over. Right D'Arcy—we're through, aren't we?!"

"Uh, excuse me for being a little slow," I interrupt. "But aren't same sex marriages illegal?"

"You or me, D'Arcy?" Chelsea asks.

"Oh, you, Chelsea! You're the better storyteller!"

"D'Arcy was not always D'Arcy. I married a handsome black man, who, after a few months, I discovered, liked wearing my panties under his suit. Fine, I said, a little weird but….." And Chelsea shrugs. "Not too long after that, I come home from work early and he is not only in my panties but my pantyhose. He's wearing a wig and jewelry and sports four-inch heeled thigh-high boots. He begs me to have sex with him and for some reason known only to God, I go along. He goes nuts in excitement and he and I really do have some great sex. I'm thinking, okay, once a week, my husband gets in drag and we do some kinky shit.