Lemonade and White Melons Ch. 02byNigel Debonnaire©
The hot water of the shower banished the shampoo from Chris Jenkins' hair. It was a limpid spray, but effective. He soaped up his pudgy, 30 year old body after rinsing his beard and taking care to cleanse the leftover ejaculate from his genitals and legs. The early morning masturbation gave him long needed release after the night of stimulating dreams, and he was ready to focus on other things once his morning routine was over. Maybe it was time to work on his latest story; he'd been playing with an idea for a quest to rescue a damsel from a dragon, but needed a twist to make the story interesting.
His body washed, he emerged to towel off and complete his ritual. As he brushed his teeth, he focused on what his heroine should look like: a tall redhead with long flowing hair, breasts like turrets of a castle, and an attitude like Marian Ravenswood from the Raiders of the Lost Ark? The hero crossed his mind: perhaps a historian who left a monastery when he came of age and spent his life as a wandering merchant.
Clad in a long flowing bathrobe, he booted up his computer and checked his e-mail. There was an average amount of spam in his folder, as well as a note from an unfamiliar address. Opening it, he read:
I am sorry if I embarrassed you yesterday. Obviously I went too far, too fast and scared you. Please forgive my impulsiveness. In future, I will conduct myself more appropriately.
Your stories online are quite good, and I want to help you get them published in hardcover. There are a few concerns I have about your story telling and would like to speak with you about them. If you could stop by before you go to work today, we can talk about this and anything else on your mind.
Shaking his head, he stood up quickly and got himself a bowl of cereal from his little kitchen. The feel of Frau Pearson's breasts and their milky whiteness haunted him, and his exhausted loins began to stir again. Devouring raisin bran and milk, the embarrassment of his attraction to her returned in force.
He went online to play his favorite game, spending the morning in another world. Being lost in character gave his subconscious a chance to work things out better: there wasn't any reason he couldn't see Frau Pearson. She wanted to help him and she promised to behave. When she was his teacher, she was known for iron discipline, and now she was in her 70's. If he had any improper thoughts, he could control himself, after all, he was 30 years old and not a teenager anymore. He remembered his buddy Dave Chapman's confession how she was his lust interest in High School, and that made Dave weirder than he was. The insight helped him relax. Exiting the game, he took a look at his old stories on the Internet, and checked how often they were downloaded. The numbers weren't bad, but if he could get something published and actually be established as an author, he could kiss the convenience store job goodbye and maybe move out of his mother's basement. His fingers drummed the table as he thought: I need to see her, but. . . If he waited until 2:30PM and went in his working clothes, he could give her a small window of time to say her piece without a chance of anything else developing.
Frau Pearson's clean and neat house was shaded from the hot August afternoon sunlight. He knocked on the front door, and looked down the street to see if anyone he knew spotted him. Stupid, he said to himself, you've been doing the yardwork here for three weeks, nobody's going to think you're strange for being here.
"Good afternoon, Chris," Anna Pearson said, opening the door. She wore a demure, short sleeve brown dress and black flat shoes, her face and hair impeccable and golden stud earrings in her lobes. "Please come into my study upstairs and we'll talk."
They mounted the creaky stairs and took an immediate right into her study. This room was lined with bookcases as well, with new computer equipment resting on an elaborate doily topping an antique desk. Two glasses of lemonade rested on a sideboard across the room and she offered him one. They sipped the drinks, silent and tense, until she tapped a few keys on the computer keyboard and opened a window with his website.
"I have some observations about your work, Chris. You're improved greatly since you were in High School, and you have real promise. My granddaughter is an editor for a publishing house in New York, and agrees with me, however there are a couple of things you need to work on. Are you interested?"
He relaxed at the news, and leaned forward. "Yes, yes. Tell me what I have to do. I'll do anything." Chris immediately wanted to pull the last sentence back before it took effect, but she ignored it.
"You have a vivid imagination, which makes your plot lines very creative and unpredictable. The way you describe your scenes is brilliant: I think I'm actually standing on other worlds when I read your space stories. The dialogue is ingenious, I laughed so hard a couple of times I cried. Your heroes are all in their early 20's: I think you can branch out and try some heroes at different stages in their lives, but we'll talk about that later.
"The main issue Angela and I have is your characters are all 2 dimensional. I know what Princess Brenda and Sir Toadwart look like and what they can do, but I don't know how they think and feel, or why they are the way they are. This is particularly bad with your villains: it's like they're an obstacle course rather than sentient beings. I know a lot of movies these days don't draw their characters up very well, but you're better than that."
Chris bit his lip, then took a sip from his glass. He noticed how she said Ahn-ge-la with a hard G, the wisps of film at the corners of the window, the depth and sparkle of her blue eyes, the rich sonority of her voice. It wasn't far from the husky tone of yesterday. Trembling, he tried to assimilate what she was telling him. No one had given him such feedback since his brief collegiate career. That was why he dropped out: he couldn't take criticism.
"I can see you're hurt, Chris," her face soft and consoling. "Please don't take this personally. If you didn't have promise, I wouldn't have summoned you here today. You need something different in your life, something better. Take a deep breath and relax. I won't hurt you, I promise."
"Oh, I understand, Frau Pearson," he blurted like a teenager. "I never thought about it before. Ah, ah, do you have any suggestions?"
She smiled broadly "Of course. Are you writing a new story now?"
"Yeah, got an idea for a new story."
"After you get the scene set, take a few moments to think through where your major characters come from, what their childhoods were like, who they loved, what they feel their strengths and weakness are, how they reacted to successes and failures. Think about what their favorite food and colors are, how they like to spend their days off. You won't use all that, but it will help you make them more real. It will also help with the scenes between the action sequences, which will make the pacing of the story easier to handle."
They talked a little more and finished their drinks. His head was spinning as she showed him out, and they parted without physical contact. It took him an hour after he got to work to focus on what he was supposed to be doing.
He was sitting at the cash register of his Lawrence, Kansas convenience store the next evening, a slow Friday on a muggy night, staring blankly at a pair of shapely butt cheeks around 11:30PM; the dullness of the evening having sedated him. Jessica Smith, his underling, was mopping the floor with her back to him. The mop passed languidly back and forth and her hips shifted in rhythm. Most men would have found the exhibition tantalizing but Chris was not most men. He'd known Jessica all summer; her lousy work ethic and spoiled girl attitude had permanently disconnected her body's effect on his libido.
She rounded a corner and he returned to his inventory. A car went by, and he checked his watch: 11:35PM. In half an hour, he would be free to return home and cross town to his Dungeons and Dragons game at Dave Chapman's house.
Jessica finished her chore and wheeled the mop bucket in front of the counter. "I think you're gay," she said sharply, a sneer on her face.
He looked up at her in disdain. "What?" he moaned, his shoulders sagging.
"I think you're gay. Not interested in women. Fudge packer. Gay cabellero. Pansy Ass." Shaking his head, he snorted: "Little you know."
"I'll tell everyone you're gay." She tossed her head, flipping back her shoulder length multi colored mane. "Everyone'll think you suck dick."
He put his pen down crispy and glared at her. "Like you don't know what that's like. For starters, this is a university town. Queers and Allies is a recognized group on campus. The only folks who care who's what are a bunch of rednecks I never spend time with. Secondly, just because I'm not turned on by you doesn't mean I'm not attracted to women. You're such a bitch I couldn't get it up if you were standing butt naked in front of me. So it's no test of my gender preference that I'm not interesting in raping you at this instant."
"We'll see about that. You're a liar, liar, queer pants on fire," she huffed and pushed the mop bucket to the back.
After she faded from sight, a huge man with greasy grey hair, a long sleeved plaid shirt, jeans and flip flops strode in through the door. Chris kept his attention to his work until he noticed a gun in his face. "You'll only get fifty bucks," he said calmly, his heart racing inside.
"I doan b'leve yoo." The face in front of his was red and sweating profusely. His dark eyes were extremely bloodshot and his breath reeked of beer. His grisly salt and pepper beard reached down past his sternum.
"Look at the sign." Chris pointed with his pencil to a sign that said ATTENDANT DOES NOT HAVE ACCESS TO THE DROP SAFE. NO MORE THAN $50 DOLLARS IN THE REGISTER.
He peered at the sign, almost putting down his revolver, but brought it up again immediately. "I wannit. Anda 24 pack o' Bud Light."
"You'll have to wait until my clerk comes back from the back room. She'll be back in a minute." Who knows how long it'll take, he thought to himself, she's probably waxing her landing strip.
The gun jerked in his face. "Gimme th' munny naow," he rasped.
"Okay, okay," Chris agreed, opening the drawer, and pulling out the few bills there.
The gun suddenly wobbled and fell on the counter. "What's going on here?" Jessica asked from the area of the doorway.
Chris snatched the gun and saw his would be robber staring at Jessica with his mouth wide open, unaware he'd been disarmed. Looking over, Chris saw Jessica standing stark naked, staring at the beefy intruder with her mouth open. Her breasts stood at attention, as chestnut brown as the rest of her body, her nipples fully erect. A hint of tummy fat and love handles subtly inflated the lines of her abdomen, and a thin strip of public hair pointed upward from her crotch. A secret button was pressed, and Chris held the gun on the fat man, who slowly raised his hands in surrender without a word. "Jessica, you might want to put your clothes back on before the cops get here," he said with uncommon calmness.
She stood there dumbly for several seconds until the wail of the sirens began to pierce the air before she darted to the back. The man stood there dumbly looking after her until the red light dominated the parking lot, then surrendered meekly to the cops as they entered.
There was paperwork after the man was led out, and data downloaded from the surveillance system. Jessica came back out, fully dressed after they finally left, minutes before the next shift was due. Chris shook his head at her. "Jessica, your timing was impeccable. Thank you."
She shook her head. "You're welcome?"
"Yes. You realize we have security cameras all over the place, and this recording will be evidence for this idiot's trial."
"What does that mean?"
"Your bare ass will be seen in court."
"But I bet it'll be on the Internet by morning. And by the way, I'm going to need to think of my wrinkled old mother in her flannel nightgown and oxygen tank in order to ride my bike home comfortably. Thanks, Jess."
After getting off work, Chris rode his bicycle across town to his buddy Dave Chapman's house to find a note on the kitchen door: NO GAME TONIGHT; MEET ME AT PERKINS. "Shit," he said to no-one, "What the fuck is going on here?" Reluctantly, he got going again for the short trip over the 23rd street.
Dave was sitting in a booth toward the front door, sipping a cup of coffee, with his laptop in front of him. "Great," he said, "You got the note."
Chris slid in across from him, facing the door. "What the hell is going on, Dave? Did everybody have somewhere else to go?"
"No, Chris. I've been thinking since Tuesday night."
"Nice idea. Thinking about anything special, or just thinking at random?"
Dave snorted. "That night playing with Troy. The other guys there were pissed you fried him when you got there. They didn't like him, but thought he shoulda stayed."
"You could have resurrected him."
"Yeah, but I was getting tired of his shit, too. That was the straw that broke the camel's back. I've spent years working out these adventures for these guys, hours of detail work invested, and they've done nothing but beat me up. The game's getting complicated, and it's not like the games we used to play. Their attitudes suck."
The waitress came over and gave Chris a menu, bringing out a broad smile for Dave. She was a tall, heavy set girl with dark hair, brown eyes and perfect teeth. Chris took a glance and ordered a double bacon cheeseburger with fries and iced tea. "You want a refill, Dave?" Her voice was high and bright, full of obvious adoration.
"Thanks, I'm fine, babe."
She turned and went to the kitchen, her eyes lingering on Dave momentarily. Chris shook his head and picked up the thread: "I agree, it's not like when we were teenagers. We had fun making up stories as we went along, playing characters, trying to outdo each other. Extemporaneous theater is a better description of what we did."
"I'm tired of it. The guys who're playing now are spoiled brats. Don't give them what they want, and they act like you're slime. Fuck it; I'm done with D and D.."
Dave sipped his coffee and the waitress brought a glass of tea for Chris. She cast googly eyes and a broad smile at Dave as she turned and left. Chris followed her hips, generous and lumpy, and looked at his friend strangely. Dave was smirking to himself.
"I gotta tell you what happened at work tonight." Chris told the story of the attempted robbery and Jessica's naked intervention; Dave fought to keep coffee from coming out his nose. He rocked in the booth and almost fell over: he knew Jessica.
"So how soon do you think it's going to be online?" Dave asked eventually.
"I give it till morning. Frank Schwartz'll have it up by then."
"Schwartzie still working overnight at the station?"
"Comin' up on 8 years."
"Shit, I remember when he was played in the games."
"He was hysterical."
The food arrived, and Chris applied condiments before digging in. The waitress lingered to check Dave's coffee, giving him another broad smile as she poured the dark liquid. Dave nodded in gratitude and pecked at his keyboard. After she wandered away, Chris leaned over and wiggled his eyebrows at the waitress, inquiring. "Anything going on between you two?"
"I don't know what you mean?" Dave said with mock innocence.
"She's got you in her sights, man. You're being targeted. You got your protection from insatiable mating female spell working?"
Dave shook his head. "Tina's a nice girl, I like her. Sure, she's a little chunky, but she's the kindest girl I've ever met, and isn't trying to remake me yet."
" 'Yet' is the operant term. You doing your pushin' on that cushion by now?"
"Shut up. Don't be gross. We went out last night and had a good time; I kissed her good night on the cheek."
"Welcome back to the Seventh Grade."
He closed his laptop and looked to see she was out of earshot. "Look, she's a nice girl who likes me. I haven't run into anyone like that for a while. Yes, it may take a while to figure out what to do. . ."
"I'll loan you a video if you're forgotten."
". . .thank you, nerdface, but my standards have changed."
"Look who's talking. No, I'm tired of being in Limbo. I need somebody, and not just because I'm horny. I need somebody to tell how my day went, and somebody to snuggle with."
"She's a good snuggler, I'm sure." She was pouring coffee for a patron on the other side of the restaurant. "Whatever floats your boat, man."
Chris had another difficult night trying to sleep, with vague dreams he couldn't remember on awakening. Once daylight roused him, he booted up his computer and opened his word processor, working feverishly all Saturday, taking breaks to eat and sleep, until it was time to go to work on Sunday. A half hour after he got there, he met a new co-worker, a college student on summer break from Nigeria, tall and graceful, her skin ebony and her hair short. They got acquainted and he spent most of the evening showing her the paces.
Dave wandered in just before closing. "Didja hear about Jessica?" he began.
"You have been preoccupied all day. Her clips been on the Internet since dawn yesterday. Pretty fuzzy, but you see enough. The look on the stupid robber's face is priceless."
"Did you see me?"
"Fortunately, it's from the wrong angle to see your face."
"She come in today?"
"Nope. Got a new worker. Guess Jessica wants to hide for a while."
His friend looked at his watch. "Yeah. You raking leaves for Frau Pearson tomorrow?" Dave gave him a raised eyebrow and a lilt in his voice.
"Nope," he replied, ignoring his friend's instigation. "Working on a new story. Got an idea."
"Great. Wanna see a midnight movie?"
"Indiana Jones. Tina and I thought you'd like to tag along."
Chris sat up straight and looked Dave in the face. Dave shrugged his shoulders and looked sheepish. "No thanks, Dave," Chris said at last. "I really want to work on my story. You know how it is."
The next few days were a blur. Chris spent every spare moment on the new story, drawing out bios of his characters, working out his storylines, shaping the dialogue. Once he finished the first chapter just after work, he reeled off another six in as many days. His hands shook as he sent them to Frau Pearson at 4:00AM on a Saturday morning, and spent most of the weekend pacing like a caged tiger waiting for a response.
Monday morning it was in his inbox when he awakened from a tense night's sleep at 8:00 AM:
You're off to an excellent start. Keep up the good work. By the way, does Queen Maat have to wear a solid gold bustier that reveals most of her breasts all the time? It might be all right for ceremonial occasions, but in the field it would be impractical. She definitely wouldn't be able to do all the sword play and acrobatics wearing that kind of thing unless she trained all the time, and running a kingdom would make that difficult. Paperwork takes a little time and effort, to put it mildly. Gold is a very soft metal as well, and wouldn't stop a lot of offensive weaponry. How about putting her in chain mail out on the trail like your hero? She would also blend into her surroundings better as an ordinary warrior, and the opposition is better off not knowing she's royalty.
He wanted to turn hand springs and kiss her full on the lips, then he wanted to crawl into a hole. Queen Maat's description was almost identical to Frau Pearson's: tall, solid, strong, voluptuous, dignified with long flowing white hair and an ageless, tanned face. "Why did I do this?" he murmured to himself. Embarrassment made his cheeks blush for his oversight. What is she thinking of him?