Quicksilver

He submerged and swam a fast underwater lap. He had not told me yet about changed hours! Did he have any more job secrets?

He bobbed up and gasped. "Whew! I need to work on my lung capacity again. A few days off the bike and I'm wheezing already." He regained his breath.

"Do you run? Can you jog to and from home and work? That should substitute for biking uphill."

"No, that won't do. I can't run in the morning and start work sweaty; nowhere to clean up there. But evenings, I'll either jog home or bus here. I could jog around the block at home after dinner."

He swam fast laps on the surface. I swam slower laps with the other women. Julia joined us in the water. Nate caught up and started that weaving pattern; we wove our own webs.

I saw Nate look at the wall clock. "Whoops, gotta go! The tournament is still dragging on and tonight's the night." He swam to me for a hug. "Stay if you like; I can bus home."

I did not release him.

"That's okay, I can drive you home faster. Say, does this game involve stripping?"

Julia laughed. "A stripping game? Like what?"

I blushed. "Wel, when we played chess..."

Shahira grinned. "Wish I'd been there to watch."

I calmed. "No, it was pretty private."

Nate grunted. "You do NOT want to see these wargamers naked. Burn your eyes out, for sure. Clothed, they're bad enough."

I squeezed him tighter. "C'mon, let's get you there in time."

I tugged his arm toward a ladder. I started climbing first. He tickled my bare foot. I fell back into the water, surfaced, and splashed him good! He backed away, hands up in surrender, then cheated and splashed me back.

"No fighting in the pool, children," Julia admonished. Hey, this is HER gym and HER rules.

"You go first," I told Nate. He swarmed up the ladder too fast for me to tickle his foot in revenge. I sighed and followed. He reached out to help me up. Not that I needed help, but I would not refuse his touch.

We emerged from the locker rooms dry and clothed. Romero waved us goodbye through his open office door and returned to paperwork. I took Nate's hand as we walked to my place. I had to release him to drive my Beetle to his front door. "Have a good game," I said.

He held my head and kissed me nicely. "We must play chess more often." Then he was gone.

I drove home for Figgy and dinner, for wine and hashish, for a PBS travelogue on Soviet Kazakhstan or wherever, and for another night fingering myself. Life could be worse.

===== Thursday-Friday, week 3 =====

No trace of Nate at my office for two days. Anthea was bright and cheerful both days. I didn't call his house phone Thursday because... because I was nervous, I guess. Afraid he might be 'busy'. I did call his house Friday and left a message for him to ring me at home.

He called me after Figgy and I had eaten and before I drank too much Almaden Chablis.

"What's up, m'lady? I've got a commitment tonight but I was thinking of singing at the Cannery again tomorrow. You could shill for me in the audience and we'd have another warm swim and a light dinner afterward."

"I have a better idea. It's too late to leave now..." and I was not fit to drive, I thought "...but how about we pack some clothes and drive up the coast? The views are spectacular! I know of good food and lodging in Mendocino. There's a jazz show at a nearby park and we can watch for whales, maybe go splash in the surf if the water's not too cold."

"Overnighting? That sounds like fun, but when did you plan to leave?" he asked.

I guessed at his unspoken question: How early must he kick his 'commitment' from bed and out the front door?

"It's about a three hour drive, maybe more, depending on gawking and snacking along the way, so probably no later than nine or ten."

"If you want to wait that long, then sure, but I can be ready by eight. Give us more time rolling."

Either his 'commitment' is an early riser or she is not an overnighter, I thought. Or maybe he is alone, like me. I almost relaxed.

"Okay, eight it is, then. Will you have eaten or should we stop somewhere? I wouldn't mind a fast meal and a tall coffee." I would definitely need coffee in the morning.

"Sure, I can wait to eat. There's a great little taqueria down the block with killer breakfast burritos and huevos Mexicanos, with fresh coffee almost as good as Suzie's or what Hills Brothers serves. Ring my bell when you get here and I'll be right down."

So he would not invite me up? So I would not smell sex in the air? Or am I paranoid? I tried to calm myself. Maybe just one more glass of wine...

"Okay guy, I'll be there at eight. Will you bring your guitar? My Beetle should have room."

"No, I think I'll bring the tenor 'ukulele I have for bike-camping. It's a lot less bulky and I can do stuff with it that won't work on guitar. It won't disturb the neighbors or wildlife as much, either."

"Funny, I don't see you as a Tiny Tim sort of guy."

Not with Nate's cock and baritone voice.

"He plays a soprano 'uke; that's a lot smaller and higher-pitched. My tenor is meatier."

A meaty man with a meaty instrument. Yes, just what I have hoped for. Wait, have I had too much wine already?

"I don't care about scaring wildlife if they don't attack," I said. "Do you scare your neighbors?"

"Umm, that's a long story. I hope you don't drive off a cliff if I tell you."

"Okay. I think Figgy and I will have dessert now. Vanilla pudding. I get half a dish and he finishes it. Am I blathering?" I heard laughter. "I guess I better go now. See you in the morning, lover."

I hung up and started sweating. I had just called him 'lover'! Yes, more wine was called for. And sleep. Wait, I should call ahead to reserve a room first. And let Figgy loose for his nightly backyard romp. And set the alarm. I would not want to waste any of the weekend.

I fell asleep during another TV monster movie, one with giant ants, and woke when Figgy jumped in my lap. Okay, time to close the window. I staggered to pack a bag for the weekend. I must be ready for an early start. I fell into my bed soon. G'night.

===== Saturday, week 3 =====

The alarm forced me from my sleepy abyss. Nate had promised great coffee with a Mexican breakfast but I could not wait. A cold shower tortured me into consciousness while my coffee perked. A slice of buttered wheat toast detoxified the coffee. I would never appear at work in this state. Why was I like this for Nate?

I rightly judged the morning traffic and parked at his home a minute early. I calmed myself, shook myself, chanted my mantra — owa tagu siam [pause] owa tagu siam [breathe] oh what a goose I am! — until I stopped quaking. I slapped a smile on my lips and faced his doorbell. RIIIING!.

Footsteps bounced down the inside stairs. Something bumped. The door swung open on denim-clad Nate and a not-very-large duffel bag beside him in the entry.

"Lydia!" he said. He reached to me. He hugged me. He kissed me. "Hungry?" he asked. I clung to him and kissed him, hard.

I heard laughter from the hallway above. A male voice called, "Get a room!"

"Got one already, Mikey. Get back to your own, or jump off the roof. Make sure you miss Suzie's birdbath."

More laughter from mixed voices. This sounded like a happy place.

Nate kissed me again, hoisted his duffel, closed the door, and escorted me down the steps. I opened my Beetle's front trunk for his duffel and my overnight bag.

"Let's have breakfast now," he said.

We walked hand-in-hand to the corner taqueria. I ordered moderate huevos rancheros while he had a large chile verde burrito. Coffee was mandatory, of course. Now I thought I could make it through the day.

Food was fine. Coffee demanded refills. We were out before long, hand-holding back to my car, then on the road northbound. We rolled over the Golden Gate Bridge with sailboats littering the Bay and Gate. The Pacific Coast Highway turnoff took us around Mount Tamalpais, past beaches and lagoons, and up the rocky shoreline of the Redwood Coast.

The twisty route is splendid; try it sometime. Stony monoliths and arches mix with estuaries, coves, river mouths, and tide pools; steep mountains swathed in fireproof forests; scattered beach villages draining dollars from travelers; a colonial-era Russian fort. We snacked on seafood salads and iced teas at the Timber Cove Inn with waves smashing below us and Benny Bufano's monumental Peace Obelisk behind us. A wonderful place, but we had further to go.

Hardly a minute passed when we were not at a scenic overlook worthy of capture by paint or camera. We had brought neither — I had my sketch pad and pencils but this was not the time to draw — so we satisfied ourselves with gazing at the glory, and rolling on.

By early afternoon we reached our bed-and-breakfast in central Mendocino, a town that passes for a New England village. The B&B's owner Pat knew me from prior visits and assured me we could have the room soon, but I was not ready yet to move in. Music awaited us at a coastal botanic garden that stretched from the narrow highway to the surf-battered shore's tidepools.

We walked a smooth path along a brook bubbling in a tight green ravine. Mellow saxophone jazz from the sheltered stage above us filtered through overhanging conifers. Seagulls sang along. Badly. We turned back when surf and squawking drowned the music. We found a sheltered bench and cuddled to listen.

=====

The sun was still above the horizon when a chilly sea breeze rose. We escaped back to Mendocino to stroll its boardwalks and peer into quaint shops before checking in at the B&B. We carried our meager luggage to our room; we nuzzled on the soft bed; we kissed.

We were half-dozing when the room phone rang softly with the wake-up call I had arranged.

"Ready for a sunset cocktail and dinner?" I asked. "An upstairs bistro in what used to be a watchtower beckons. Resist everything but temptation, right?"

I kissed him. He held me. We managed to leave the bed anyway.

Our day clothes were only slightly rumpled but this was a night out so I stripped off my sensibles, to Nate's whistles, and slipped my naked body into a long, tight, light worsted dress. Barely-there makeup, evening pumps, and a windproof coat completed me.

Nate's black slacks, long-sleeved midnight shirt, and obsidian loafers gave him a Zorro-ish aspect... except for glasses in a thick black frame instead of a domino mask. He looked swashbuckling-ly hot! The black sweater he pulled on detracted little.

My unbound breasts jiggled as we walked the short path to the repurposed tower and climbed its wide oak steps. Nate did glance at me more than once. We took a table at a big window and scooted our chairs side by side to hold hands while we sipped piña coladas and watched the sun sink into the sea. No clouds of steam, of course. Not like in old cartoons.

More insidious cocktails. Pinot Grigio with our club salads and seafood paella. Lazy conversation about music, art, books, and other insanities. Fruit tarts for dessert, with limoncello to finish. An exemplary meal. I paid for fuel and the B&B but Nate insisted we split the dinner bill.

Unbridled stars and a sliver of moon pierced the night sky. Satisfaction pierced my heart.

Back to our cozy room. We slowly undressed each other. I lounged on the bed while Nate sat cross-legged on the ottoman with his handcrafted 'uke trilling under his fingers. He sang Hawai'ian and bossa nova and ragtime songs but I watched his cock.

He turned up the gas heat, opened windows so a breeze blew through, sat beside me on the bed, and lit a joint. We puffed calmly, and shared Chardonnay. My senses soared.

Inhale a puff. Kiss Nate and blow the smoke into his lungs. Swirl the wine to stave-off the dreaded cotton-mouth. Watch Nate inhale. Feel his kiss and a lungful of smoke. Sip again. Repeat until the smoke and drink are gone. Resume kissing.

We ran our hands and mouths over each others' bodies. He kissed me thoroughly, forehead to toes, then settled between my thighs and licked me to orgasm after orgasm. I kissed him all over and took special care of his cock until I felt him throbbing. That was my cue to sit up, swing a leg over him, and guide him into me. Yeah. Oh. Oh yeah.

I rode him fast and hard, clenching his cock with my cunt muscles, squeezing, gripping and releasing, and squeezing again, and faster, while his hands played my breasts so brilliantly, and his hips rose to thrust with me. Then I felt him shake, so I fucked him harder yet, and his thick rod filled me with fire, blast after blast. My frothy cunt squeezed his cock again, and I came.

And came. And came. A whirlwind of orgasm. A petite mort, the little death of unconsciousness as I collapsed on him.

I woke with his cock still in me, my breasts squishing on his chest, his breath mixed with mine. I whimpered.

"Are you okay?" he whispered.

"Oh fuck, oh ghod, oh crap, I'm so much better than 'okay'. We fucked me senseless. We knocked me out. We've got to do that again!" Another kiss.

"So now," I insisted. "I've got to clean us up and get you going again." I rolled off him and wiped our juices away with a soft cloth. I nestled between his knees again, and kissed his taut groin, and sucked his cock. He was mostly hard when he reached to pull me around on top of him with my cunt at his tongue.

He licked me to more orgasms, mostly small but some fiercely strong. When his cock was revived, I moved off him, turned my body around, opened my legs wide, and said, "Fuck me."

"Good idea," he said. He mounted me. He fucked me for a long, long time. I came and came, like forever. He fucked me faster; his balls refilled; his heat rose. His climax was deep and sincere. I came too, and cried with joy.

We cleaned up. Nate closed one. window, half-closed the other, and cut the room heat. We cuddled and slept, with the usual mild nocturnal annoyances, twitching and feeling and kissing.

===== Sunday, week 3 =====

I got up somewhen in night's magic darkness to pee and ponder. I wrapped myself in a B&B robe and stepped onto the small outside balcony. The onshore breeze had died to a thin zephyr. I sat in a deck chair and sniffed salty air. I strained to hear barking seals and surging surf. I wondered where I, where WE, were going. Salt, seals, and surf did not tell me.

The toilet flushed inside and a robed Nate emerged a few minutes later. He set two steaming mugs on the tea table, touched my shoulder, and sat across in the other club chair. I sipped hot cocoa laced with cheap tequila. I guess he had a bottle stashed in his duffel.

We sat quietly and inhaled the rich mix of ocean air. Our cups were half empty when he spoke. His voice was low.

"Remember a song from a few years ago? 'Mendocino' by the Sir Douglas Quintet, a band of Tex-Mex kids pretending to be Brits, making Mexican music with English lyrics that had nothing to do with this place. Crazy stuff. But it's the town's theme song now 'cause it draws tourists."

He drank again and set his mug down, still holding the handle. I drank, set mine down, and put my hand on his. We shared warmth and thoughts. His soft voice stroked me again.

"I've been through here before. I had a friend from Berkeley renting a cabin one summer, up above town in this temperate jungle. Her guy here worked a fishing boat out of Noyo. We barbecued lots of salmon, drank lots of Red Mountain pink piss, I mean pink Chablis, and sang rude songs around a campfire. We didn't search for psilocybe mushrooms on the cow patties, though."

I squeezed his knuckles, drank from my mug again, set it down again. Our hands met on the table. Our fingers interlaced. It was my turn.

"My plein air friends and I have been up here on many weekends. I usually bring Louis and Claudia and their stuff, all that can fit in this Beetle. We stay at various inns and B&Bs, wherever is close to the targets of our eyes and brushes. Here, they usually have this room, and I'm at the other end of the hall."

A memory caught me. "Once we were painting coastscapes up above Inglenook when a Goodyear blimp sailed overhead. Don't see THAT in much outdoor art." I giggled.

"I've loved painting a lot of coastal California and hilly Ecotopia. The City evaporates. Of course, without The City, we couldn't afford to be here. What's that song? 'Every form of refuge has its price'. Work is the price of escape."

Or are hard times the price of good times? I wondered.

Minutes passed. He drained his mug. I drained mine. "Probably time for more sleep," he said. "Might want to do something tomorrow before the drive back."

He pressed my hand and stood. I rose and pulled him to the door inside. We bedded and fucked again... no, we made love once more, slow and easy. I dreamt of rainbows until dawn lit the undraped windows.

I knew this B&B, and breakfast was as good as usual, with country spuds, fresh eggs, maiz corn muffins with local blueberry jam, and yogurt for safety. Enough coffee woke us up. We had dressed warmly to survive walking the small windy beach past the coast highway bridge over the mouth of Noyo Harbor.

======

I parked next to a luxury van conversion under the bridge. Other masochists, I mean sightseers, were there already. Winds drove high, splashy waves against the breakwater's dredged rocks.

I saw a large swell break not far out and pointed it to Nate. We saw the wave sweep in... and sweep away a woman standing at the breakwater's end. I could not hear her scream. The small group behind her only stood immobile; stunned, I guess.

Nate reacted instantly, slipping his sneakers and socks off, then his jeans, jacket, flannel shirt, and thick glasses. "Call 911!" he yelled. Wearing only black briefs and tee, he raced down the breakwater, waited a moment for the wave to pull back, and jumped in.

I saw his arms stroke through sizzling seawater. I saw him reach the woman, grab her long black hair, and stroke one-armed to the nearest sandy strand. I heard a voice behind me, turned, and saw a stocky man in a sharp suit shouting in the emergency phone on the bridge support.

Nate hunched over the woman, pressing her chest, blowing in her mouth. Basic CPR. A siren wailed and an ambulance appeared very quickly. I recalled that Coast Hospital was less than a mile away. I wondered how often they responded down here.

Two paramedics ran toward the sandy strand I pointed them to, one carrying a folding stretcher, the other holding towels, a medic's bag slung over his shoulder. I ran after them. They toweled the woman and laid her on the stretcher. A medic felt Nate's forehead and arm but Nate shook her off.

"I'm okay," he said. "She's in shock. Get her to hospital. I've been a beach lifeguard. She needs help, not me."

I wrapped a towel around Nate. He did not shiver much.

The medics carried the woman to the ambulance and sped away. Nate started shivering now so I toweled him as dry as I could, led him to his discarded clothes, and helped him dress.

A tall, pale, well-dressed man from the group near the woman ran to us. He pulled a pencil and reporter's notepad from his coat pocket.

"Dave Reynolds, Sunrise News. You just saved Wilona Smithers! Tell me what happened!"

Nate looked at him, then looked away. "No comment." He let me lead him back to my car.

Another too-snazzy man ran up snapping photos with a Nikon camera.

I was mad. I don't know what was worse: seeing Nate's mouth on the woman's lips, his hands on her chest, or this news weasel following us.

"I have a statement," I told him. "Fuck off." The cameraman got too close. I grabbed the Nikon and snapped it open to ruin his film. "Totally fuck off," I growled.