The Long Highway Pt. 22

At a going-away party for Nelson, there was a young women film student and aspiring film maker who approached and latched onto him but in an agreeable way- aggressive yes, but not annoying. She was a fan, the kind who asked for autographs (though Nelson wasn't that kind of pop idol- his fame extended only through the world of independent cinema, where it resonated loudly).

Nelson's admirer might have been starstruck, but she was intelligent. She had a sense of humor- that stood out as she played the clown a bit. She had a funny face but an ardency about her, something serious like the pit you know is at the center of the sweetest fruit.

It amazed me anew how easily Nelson made out, how his status in the art film community conferred that ability to attract women without his even trying. It's not as if he's especially handsome. He isn't any more- or probably any less- than I am; there's nothing wrong with his face, I mean, mine either; we're both just regular.

He isn't tall and probably wishes he were. But he has a muscular physique. He's worked out, done body-building much of his life, I guess to make up for short stature.

Nelson's pretty self-regarding, hell of a nice guy, good friend and all but definitely a little in love with himself, the kind of guy you'll notice is wearing a hat all the time and wonder why, then realize it's because he has a bald spot he wants to hide, where others wouldn't give a damn who saw the thing. I guess that's part of what makes him the great film artist he is, that concern with image.

The film lover like to joked- maybe it hid the butterflies she felt around her hero- said at one point that she was "the bride of Beverly Hills." I missed the context and didn't know the reference, never saw the show by that name (if there is one; Could it be a movie?) In her way she was delightful, radiated so much energy, like a puppy dog following Nelson, wagging her tail. What was not to like about her?

Attractive, yes. Devoted fan meeting idol, surprised, awed by the opportunity, his presence in the flesh. She was interested in everything he said, hung on his words, as if from each she might learn something.

Class clown type, but attractive: trim body, dynamic, frisky. You sensed she'd be fun in bed.

Dark-eyed like Akemi (also there), with dark hair like her but longer and a bit wild, falling in tousled lengths like lianas. She's pint-sized but endlessly energetic, attentive, seems to say to Nelson she gets that as a man no longer young he may be tired by the party and it didn't matter, she was prepared to supply the vigor, spare him effort, take the active part, look after his needs, he could relax in her worshipful regard.

A true acolyte, the kind Nelson likes. Remember as figure revered among young artists, he's taken on a guru-like mien. His fans, some at least, see him as a spiritual leader, and he doesn't disabuse them of that notion. His ego is not small (or maybe it is and that's why he needs adulation to pump himself up).

I was surprised she didn't go home with Nelson, especially since he's leaving in two days, there wouldn't be another chance. I guess he hadn't told her. They met at the party for the first time.

I saw them exchanging contact information. Akemi did too and seemed a little jealous- it's clear she's got a crush of her own on Nelson- but she didn't say anything. She's very discreet, also has a lot of pride.

--

from Akemi to Nelson

Hiroko translated

Funny strange dream!

I got up from bed with my husband, was leaving the bedroom in the middle of the night and he said "Are you going to him?"

"Him" was you. You were staying as our guest.

My husband seemed to say it without worry but not as a suggestion either.

"No," I said.

"Why not?" he asked, like "Why don't you"?

"Because I don't want to catch influenza from him."

Which is funny. Influenza and Covid are going around here now but there was no reason to think you had either. Maybe I was giving myself a reason for not going to you.

None made sense. My body, my feelings knew more than my mind could concoct.

We have a sofa in the living room, as you know, but in the dream you were on a Japanese futon, which is just a mat spread on the floor, soft but you can feel the firmness of the floor through it. Your bones may have creaked on it. You probably had trouble sleeping, were awake.

Your arms were up to me and I didn't resist. My husband would be going back to sleep in the bedroom anyway.

I lay down beside you, cozy, and you wrapped your arms around me tight and turned us over so I was on top, protected from the hardness of the floor, feeling yours instead, your warmth. You were already hard and I was wet open and you penetrated.

I sat up like riding a horse and felt your vibrations course through all of me.

We tried to stay quiet, to not be heard by Mitchell, and that made each drive in silence feel fine, like a slow sugary drink with an occasional slurp. We would make love but I also wanted to drink your cream, the way a cat does and smile like a cat afterward, daintily cleaning.

I don't know if that idea makes you smile or just think I'm a silly woman.

If you prefer, think of my pussy and not of my face like a cat's. We were in the dark. You could hardly see it. We felt more than we could see, which was moving shadows, curves, the glint of light reflected from us. We felt and also heard, each sound strong up close, the soft thuds of my rising and falling on you.

You held my hips, my thighs. Your hand supported my lower back, keeping control of my motion, as if by restricting it you'd limit the noise, slowing me so I didn't call out in our excitement. That made the feeling build in me, surge as if heat were suddenly turned on high, boil, bubbling.

I rose and fell on you, flesh of my open thighs, my hips, my bottom trembling like a wave riven by wind, rippling with you.

In the night with the lights off my tan thighs looked darker. Your abdomen under me was dark, a shadow plane.

You and I met inside in clear and thick deep wet, both bright and dark- could you see sparks fly between us, there in the flash of my bush against you?

I let myself fall forward, bracing with my hands on your chest and my breasts shot ahead to you and you took them in our mouth, wetting a circle around my nipples and making the nipples flex hard. I looked down, clinging to your head, saw your lips slipping in shadow.

You whispered you felt good and didn't want to stop.

"I don't stop. I don't stop," I said.

Your wand sent its magic in me. Maybe that sounds silly but that's how it felt in my dream. You were a magician of the night, kissing my breast, your wand hypnotizing and training me, making my belly pucker and convulse with your force and my feeling from it, that had become automatic, bigger than me, not in my control, only halfway in yours.

Your penis felt so big! I felt eaten up by it! The room felt too small for us, the big living room smaller than a bedroom.

I was making you lose control too and enjoyed it! Thrashing with my waist like goading a horse to gallop.

You stopped caring about quiet and control.

We were both bigger than life in my dream- and really- and moving with speed, more than just two people can, ghost images this way and that, overlapping. We didn't know who we were anymore and it didn't matter. Our names didn't. Life did and nothing would stop it.

"Do you understand?" you asked.

My hair fell around our faces and seemed to give us a wall of protective silence, our intimacy seeming invisible to the rest of the world.

"Do you understand?" you asked in so many words.

I answered without any that yes, I knew how you felt, I felt it too. Our feelings were separate but also met as one that we were creating, like artists, lovingly building something that went beyond those moments but wouldn't exist after they ended- we both knew and that made them all the more important. Nothing else was.

Do you understand?

Leaning forward set my hips free, to circle out and around, bring your wand into the open air, slide the length of your shaft, up until it almost slipped all the way free of me but not letting it, catching it just in time to slide back down.

"I don't stop."

Sometimes we quieted, stilled, letting time spread around us. My hips juddering, I'd hold you with the lips of my pussy up in the air. We'd be motionless for a moment, poised like a drop of water from a leaf in the dark we could feel but not see.

And my pussy covered you completely, a deep sugary velvet, and you pressed our heat to each other, you pulled me all the way down and yourself in so deep the lips of my pussy met the base of your shaft, I felt the wall of your abdomen, our hair brushed together there, tickled. We ground together, like digging for something buried in us, wanting to break through, break out.

I don't know if we made loud sound in the dream or if it was so low my husband in the next room could sleep through it. We were inside sound and didn't feel any we made as separate from us.

We were like bees enmeshed in honey as we made it, creating, as I sometimes feel when I paint. At the studio, I sometimes think of you, want to see your newest mail again, and my hand wanders to my phone.

I could give some paintings your name as their title. I like feeling your hand on my thighs, on my bush, guiding yourself into me, and into my mouth and saying you don't want to stop until you foam.