Rhapsody in the Rain

The day started off normal enough. Well, normal enough for Melissa Holbrook, if for no one else, including Michael Edward Deford, her riding buddy. Suddenly she stopped peddling, jumped off her bike and sprinted over to a man walking his dog as he puffed on a cigarette. "Excuse me, but don't you know that smoking causes lung cancer and heart disease? Not to mention that it annoys those around you and might cause collateral damage to them. You really should stop."

They had been peddling along on a lightly trafficked, semi-rural road when she saw the man. Straddling the top tube of his custom Seven road bike, Michael watched the scene unfold, somewhat embarrassed. After all, in his book, you didn't tell other people how to live, strangers especially. And that's just what the man told her, cutting off her lecture about Surgeon General's warnings with a lecture of his own on the principle of live and let live. They argued for about five minutes before Melissa gave up and harrumphed her way back to her bike. The man kept puffing away as he watched them peddle down the road.

"You can't get through to some people," Melissa said. "He's killing himself and doesn't know it."

But the man was right—wrong to smoke but right about the live and let live thing, and Michael told her so. "Of course he knows it," he said. "It says as much on the front of every pack of cigarettes he buys. The medical information has been out there for close to fifty years. Believe me, he knows. But he also knows it's his right to smoke without some crusading do-gooder lecturing him on the hazards of taking up a bad habit."

They stood up on the peddles to crest a short but steep hill, then resumed sitting as the road flattened out. Melissa then said, "Maybe you're right. But I still feel compelled to at least reason with people like that. What they're doing isn't rational."

"Nope, but that's the nature of addictions, irrationality to the point of absurdity. I mean, why would anyone do something that's as potentially deadly as smoking? People drink themselves to death, stick needles in their arms, jump off bridges, do all kinds of crazy, dangerous things."

Melissa shrugged, then changed the subject. "So, Michael, any weekend plans?"

"Weekend plans...no, not really. I'll get a ride in, of course. But it's my guess you're asking if I scored a date for Saturday."

"Good guess. Did you?"

"I'm seeing that nurse I told you about. Third date coming up."

"Third date already? Sounds serious." Melissa routinely teased her friend about his checkered social/romance resume: Michael Edward Deford, thirty-nine year old orthopedic surgeon; never married; drops women like a hot iron if he perceives any imperfections, aesthetic or otherwise. In truth, he didn't think he was THAT picky, though Melissa thought otherwise.

"It could be," he responded. "She's got a beautiful pair of gastrocnemius muscles."

"Great calves, you mean," she said proudly. "I read anatomy charts too, Mr. Orthopod."

He believed it, knew that Melissa was a voracious reader of everything, anatomy charts included. And he thought she had some hot looking gastrocnemius herself, firm, shapely, beautifully tapered. In fact, if not for the little inconvenience of her living with a guy she was engaged to, he thought they could be something other than cycling buddies. Sure, her bossy, controlling personality put him off at times. Still, she possessed great wit, made him laugh, and they could discuss things outside cycling: Medicine. Music. History. Food. Philosophy. Sometimes they even got personal—his dating life, her relationship. He got the impression that she was less than satisfied with this guy. Not miserable, not particularly unhappy, but less than satisfied. You spend time with someone, in their case once or twice a week between spring and fall, and a picture forms.

After a series of small hills, they came to a relatively flat stretch of our route. Relatively flat because anyone who's ever ridden a bike knows that there's no such thing as a perfectly flat surface. Cyclists can feel the undulating subtleness of road topography more so than drivers in cars and even pedestrians. This was a fast stretch, a slightly sloping piece of asphalt road that allowed them to ride in their big chain ring while keeping a cadence of around eighty RPMs.

A mile later, the sky darkened and the wind picked up. Then it started raining. "Let's get moving," Michael said. They were about five miles from the parking lot and he figured they wouldn't get too wet if they jacked their pace up to seventeen and the rain didn't escalate beyond a drizzle.

"Go ahead, Michael. I'll stay on your wheel," Melissa said, motioning for him to pull in front of her. Since he was the faster rider, it made sense for him to charge ahead, pulling Melissa along in his slipstream. The air temp felt as if it had dropped a few degrees, still warm enough for the short-sleeve jerseys they wore, though barely. Trees flanked both sides of the road, an ancient wood of thick oaks and poplars, perhaps the most beautiful part of the route. In dry weather, they'd take the time to enjoy it. But the drizzle had morphed into hard rain, so sightseeing was no longer an option.

Melissa pulled alongside him and said, "I think we should find shelter, wait this thing out. It's getting bad. Look, there's lightening." She was right. It was pouring, and riding in electrical storms could get one cooked. Still, if going solo, Michael would have toughed it out and sped to his car, lightening be damned. However, he didn't feel right leaving her alone. One, he was a loyal riding buddy. And two, he knew how pissed she'd be if he left her to fend for herself. Intrepid on the bike, he'd rather face lightening than a woman's scorn.

"Okay, you win," he said, pointing to a house a few yards ahead, just past where the woods gave way to open fields. The house looked to be a century old. It had yellow clapboard siding and a wide porch that wrapped halfway around. The gravel driveway was empty, a good sign the occupants were out.

They hauled their bikes on to the porch, leaning them against the white wooden railing. He admired Melissa's new machine, a black, super light all carbon Scott loaded with high-end Campy parts that cost in the neighborhood of three grand. It was impervious to rust, as was his titanium steed that had served him well for the past few years.

There was nothing to do now but wait until the rain stopped or at least let up. Save for the clash of thunder, it was quiet. Occasionally a car would whoosh by, wipers on full blast, fender wells spitting liquid.

Melissa flapped her arms against her chest and shivered. "I'm getting cold." Goose bumps formed on her smooth, tan skin, and her light brown ponytail, sticking out from beneath her helmet, hung limp and wet.

"Me too," he said, rubbing his arms. "Let's hope this passes over fast." He wanted to wrap his arms around her. They'd both be warmer, though, truth be told, keeping warm wasn't his only reason. He wondered if she was thinking what he was thinking. Her social/romance status gave him pause, tempered his impulse to find out. She gave off no overt signals and besides, getting romantic could jeopardize a nice friendship. So he just stood there, shivering a little himself, watching the storm, debating the pros and cons, when...

"I hope you don't mind," Melissa said, bumping up against him, "but I need to borrow your body. I'm getting really cold." Mind? Hardly, he thought. They hugged each other, sharing body heat as the rain came down and the cars whooshed by and the thunder clapped and lightening lit up the heavens. Melissa was average height for a woman, standing about a half foot shy of his six feet. She pressed the side of her face against his neck. "Your bod feels great, I'm warmer already," she said. He held her tighter, again fighting impulse, this time to lift her face to his and plant a kiss on her full, sensuous mouth.

Just then, a black Dodge Ram pickup pulled up. It drifted just past the entrance, stopped and then backed up into the driveway. Its two occupants, a man and a woman, watched them for a few seconds before alighting from the truck.

Michael and Melissa decoupled fast.

The couple appeared to be in their forties. The woman wore white shorts and a tight v-neck blue short-sleeve shirt, and her fine, dirty blond hair was pinned up in a knot. The man wore jeans and a light maroon rain jacket over a black T-shirt. His reddish brown hair crept below his ears. A cigarette dangled from his mouth.

Melissa leaned slightly over the railing and said, "Is this your house? We were just waiting out the storm. I hope you don't mind."

Without answering, they ran on to the porch. "Not the best day for bike riding, is it?" the man said. He took a long drag, then exhaled.

"It was dry when we started out," Melissa said, batting away the smoke that drifted toward her in the humid air. Michael tensed up, thinking she might launch into another don't smoke lecture. She had that condescending, contemptuous look.

The man tipped his worn baseball cap and said, "Well, you can stay here as long as you need to. But isn't there someone who can pick you up?" Melissa said she'd call her fiancé if need be. The man nodded before he and his wife went inside.

"Okay, Mike, do me again," Melissa said, rubbing her arms and shivering. She kept her arms folded against her chest as he embraced her. He thought she smelled really good, a strange but pleasant mix of perfume, sweat and rain water. He faced her back with his face snuggled against her neck and his crotch against her butt, with nothing in between save for thin black spandex shorts. "Geez, Michael, you're getting a little personal there," she said, obviously aware of his hardening cock pressing against her derriere.

He pulled away, genuinely embarrassed. "Sorry, but that's one body part that I can't always control."

She turned and smiled. "No need to apologize," she said, glancing down at the bulge. "I kind of enjoyed it, to be honest. I've never told you this..." She looked away, said nothing more.

"Yes? You never told me what?"

"Look, let's just resume what we were doing, okay?"

And so they did. But after a few minutes, he became restless as his cock pressed against the spandex, yearning to break free. He started to pump her from behind while he kissed the back of her neck. She rolled her head and moaned, then reached back and rubbed her hand over the bulge. Then they slipped off their helmets, dropped them on the porch and began to smooch. He had one arm around her back, the other grabbing her butt, pressing it hard against his crotch. The downpour continued as they kissed and dry pumped. "Your poor balls must be on fire," she said, sensing that his nuts felt ready to explode. He stood there with a pained smile, confirming her assessment. "Well, maybe I can help." She reached inside his shorts, closed her hand around his stiff cock and began to jerk him off. "This might be the most compromising of compromising situations I've ever been in," she said.

"I, I doubt that fiancé of yours would approve," he said, breathing heavy.

"That fiancé of mine—"

She stopped at the sound of rapping against the window. They jumped, spun around and saw the scowling faces of the couple pressed against the glass. Seconds later, the man was on the porch, waving a scolding finger at them. The other hand held a lit cigarette. "Where the hell do you two think you are? You ain't gonna do that shit around here. Rain or no rain, off the property! Now!"

"Sir, I was about to call my fiancé to pick us up," Melissa said, looking contrite. "He's not too far away."

The guy guffawed, took a drag and shook his head. "Your fiancé, huh? What would he think if he saw you with your hand down another man's pants? If you were my old lady, I'd stuff your head down the toilet."

"We were trying to keep warm, sir," Michael said, knowing full well how lame that sounded.

The man flicked his smoke off the porch. "I bet you were. Look, don't make me do something we'll both regret. Now take your bikes and get moving." A bolt of lightning, followed by a thunderclap added a sense of menace to his presence.

"Not until I call my fiancé!" Melissa barked. Zipping open her saddle bag, she pulled out her cell and hit the speed dial button. "Stanley, it's me. Look, we're stranded in the rain on some guy's porch at 854 Tamar Road. Can you drive over and—"

They both froze when the guy pulled out a small handgun from the pocket of his jeans. Melissa felt paralyzed with fear. She dropped her phone and stepped back. As Michael hugged her in a protective embrace, the guy rushed forward, stooped down and snatched the phone from the floor. One hand held the gun, the other the cell. He shouted into the phone. "Stanley is it? Okay, Stanley, for your information, your fiancé or girlfriend or whatever the fuck she is, is here on my porch gettin' dick from another man. Just lettin' you know, dude."

Melissa's fear turned to rage. "You're fucking crazy, you know that, you self righteous bastard!" More lightning and thunder shook the sky. A sadistic smile creased the man's thin lips. Without a word, he tossed the phone in the air. Reaching out, Michael caught it with one hand, then gave it to Melissa.

The man tucked the gun into his pocket and stepped inside his door. "Twenty minutes," he said. "You got twenty minutes. So if I were you, I'd tell Stanley to get his sorry ass over here in a hurry. And no more hanky panky. Got it?"

"I'll explain everything when you get here, Stanley. Just hurry, please," Melissa pleaded before flipping her phone off. They debated the merits of calling the police, then decided against it. All they wanted at that point was to get the hell away. But lightening still flashed through sheets of liquid, and this guy's damn porch afforded the only shelter for the next couple miles. The man's wife continued to watch them through her window. Melissa and Michael kept their distance, silent, walking around in circles, rubbing their arms and legs.

Ten minutes passed before he spoke up. "So, what will you tell Stanley when he gets here?"

"Not a damn thing unless he asks. And then I'll tell him what you told that redneck, that we were trying to keep warm."

A sound strategy, he thought. He had met Stanley a few times. He and Melissa belonged to a cycling group that held cookouts about twice a year. Stanley didn't ride, but she usually brought him along. In fact, save for seasonal lawn work, he didn't do much of anything in the way of exercise, which Michael suspected was one reason Melissa wasn't too happy with him. He was an out of shape accountant, a couch potato more attuned to watching ball games on weekends than using his muscles for anything more than channel surfing. "Michelin Man" was a favorite pet name she'd throw around.

Looking up, they saw Michelin Man approach, just under their twenty minute "deadline." He pulled his white Ford Excursion in the driveway behind the Dodge Ram, then climbed out wearing a hooded forest green rain jacket, plaid knee-length shorts, a blue T-shirt and tan dock siders. Stanley was a big man, big boned and tall, standing about six-foot-two, tipping the scales at about two-fifty. His thinning, poker-straight black hair hung loosely over his forehead.

"Thanks for coming out," Michael said, receiving in return Stanley's cold nod as he opened the rear door of his SUV. Just then, the man came out and stood on his porch, arms crossed against his chest. He watched as they shoved their bikes inside, smirking.

Stanley shifted his eyes between Melissa and the man. Then he asked, "Is that the guy I spoke with?"

Melissa glanced at Michael, then faced Stanley "Yeah, that's him." The man kept smirking. Stanley looked at him again before slamming shut the Ford's rear door. Then they climbed in, Stanley behind the wheel, Melissa in the front seat, Michael in back. Stanley popped a wad of gum in his mouth before easing out of the driveway.

"So start your splaining, Melissa," he said after they were about a mile down the road. He raised his voice in deference to the rain crashing against the roof and windshield.

She glanced out her window, then turned toward Stanley. "The guy's nuts. He pulled a gun on us." She looked back at Michael for confirmation.

"She's right," Michael said, watching Stanley's prominent jaw muscles flex as he chewed.

"So what's this about you getting dick from another man?" He glanced over at Melissa, flashed a bemused smile.

"Like I said, the guy's nuts. He got pissed because he felt we had worn out our welcome. Well, what were we supposed to do, risk getting struck by lightning? Not to mention getting soaked.

He nodded, craned his head backward. "Would you know anything about that, Michael?"

"Stanley, the only dick I know about was the one tucked firmly in my bike shorts, Michael said, trying to pacify. "He was obviously trying to make trouble." Not a total lie—his dick HAD stayed in his pants as Melissa stroked it.

"Oh, okay." It came out as a sarcastic snort, Stanley's signal to them that he was anything but pacified. Then he added, "So maybe it was HIS dick he was talking about. Could that be it, Melissa?"

She took a deep breath, squirmed in her seat. "Cut it out, okay? I'm not in the mood."

"You're never in the mood," he shot back. "That's the problem."

"Whatever," Melissa said, staring out her passenger side window. Michael looked away too, wishing he were elsewhere. It was moments like this that convinced him he was better off single. Relationships could be tough enough when he was just dating, when he could retreat to his own digs after feuding with his lover de jour. Not so those two; they shared the same space.

Nothing was said for the remainder of the ride to the parking lot, a newly resurfaced piece of asphalt set next to a wooded stream valley off the main highway. Commuters used it as a park&ride during the week. After they unloaded the bikes, Stanley gave Melissa a parting shot, his tone stern and hostile: "I'll see you at home."

By the time they racked their bikes, the worst of the storm appeared over. It still drizzled, but the dark thunder boomers were drifting eastward and behind them, on the far western horizon, a rainbow.

"Thanks for shielding me from possible harm on that porch," Melissa said, opening her arms for a goodbye hug. "We could have been killed." She then embraced and kissed him the way he had always fantasized, deep and passionate. After about a minute of that, she said, "You know, my pussy is wetter than the rest of me. And I can feel that you've got your own issues; specifically, inflation—and I'm not talking in monetary terms here."

"And you've got an angry fiancé who wants you home ASAP. So, unless you leave soon, my epididymal hypertension is only going to get more hyper."

Melissa looked at him quizzically for a few seconds. "In laymen's terms, blue balls, right?

"You are correct. Not that you can do anything about it now."

She smiled and focused her eyes on his car, a dark blue, late model Audi A4. "Hmm. Do your seats fold down?"

"You're not serious."

She sighed. "Michael, back on the porch, I started to tell you something."

"Yes, something about this thing you never told me."

"Right, well, sometimes it's not easy simply being your friend and riding buddy."

He played coy. "No? And why is that?"

"I think I just showed you why. Do I need to spell it out? Or would you rather me demonstrate?" When he mentioned Stanley, she waved her hand. "Like he said in the car, I'm never in the mood. With him, that is. It's been over a year."

Her revelation took him aback. He knew their sex life had to be less than stellar. Even so, he never imagined it was THAT bad. "Wow, you must be starved," he said.