The Long Highway Pt. 26

Hiroko translated

"Smoked"

Is it too much writing? My monumental story for you. Built from feeling. Real.

We're at the college and separate from the people we'd been with and walk to a dorm room where we'll enjoy each other. It's my friend's room. She lent me the key.

We're on the second floor. You look at me in that white narrow corridor with doors to rooms on one side and think for a moment, "Do I really want to be with her?"

The door we'll enter is small and so is the room, like a ship's cabin or Japanese capsule hotel. It has everything one person needs but we are two and you are big. Key in hand, approaching, I look back at you and smile, saying with my eyes, "This will be fun." I'm almost dancing. You feel I'm acting a little like a child but you don't mind. You might be embarrassed if serious friends saw you with me but we are alone. No one else is in the corridor at that time of day. Afternoon and students are out, studying or playing. Most or even all of the rooms must be empty. No one stays in the dorm during the daytime. But you and I are there. I can act as childishly as I like, even shake my bottom at you. Only you will see. And you won't mind. You like it.

But you wonder. The reality of the moment hits you.

Do you really want the responsibility of sleeping with me, the consequences that may come afterward, emotional or other? Who knows what will happen?

You think, what if I fall in love with you? What if my husband finds out?

It's a physical commitment to come inside me, to enter the dorm room. I'm ahead of you, near the door. You have a clear view of my figure, head to foot.

The white door has a black metal handle that turns as a lever not a doorknob. It fits with the modular construction of the dorm, which is both old- in materials, the wood looks ancient- and new- in design. Like a ship well-put-together, efficient, the space well used. We will use it well. Our small space in my friend's cabin-like room.

You're older than me but it's as if I'm leading you- because you don't know the college as I do. You're a visitor and I take classes there.

You think, "Does she look kind of shapeless, flat?" It's because of what I'm wearing, denim overalls. I was at a painting class before we met. The overalls hide my shape. You will see it when we're alone in the room. Your hands, your eyes will enjoy my smooth curves and you'll be glad you didn't yield to your momentary doubt, succumb to a case of nerves.

You talk about former president Clinton, who slept with a young woman. He was married and got in trouble.

"You're not married," I say.

"But you are."

You tell me how President Clinton used a cigar in their sex play. It's a well-known story.

"I want to smoke you like a cigar," I say with my eyes only because I'm afraid if I do out loud you won't like it, will feel disgusted with me.

I say, "I'm not afraid. This is good. Our feeling is." Only the first part is a lie.

I want you to respect me and am shy about saying or doing something that will change your feeling for the worse.

This is true all the time.

My hair is wild in your hands as you kiss my breasts, slide your mouth down my body. I kiss down yours to kiss your thing before we make love, all the friends we left behind far away now.

The single dorm room bed almost isn't big enough for you.

I climb on top of you to use the space and the sounds we make were the only sounds and they may have coursed down the hall outside. The dorm was well-made but the doors of the rooms were flimsy, plywood or hollow board sound penetrated like you did me.

When we finished I was well-made by you.

I get orgasm.

Someone walking in the hall returning to their room to get something they needed for a class, maybe a science project, might hear the sound and feel their aloneness as they didn't usually, the sounds bringing attention to the open interior around them, the sound slipping into corners and swooping through unobstructed zones like the corridor itself, enlivening surfaces, shapes, the way sonar does, like whale sounds. He might have wondered who the woman he hears is and why she's moaning, her moans turning to screams and back to moans and panting  that does not hold back, becomes part of the setting, permeates it. Maybe he goes back to his room and masturbates, thinking of the sound. He's a college student. Sex is on his mind anyway. It doesn't take much. 

He hears us and we don't care. We are beyond caring. We are given to each other and what we do and its effects beyond us don't matter, we believe they can only be good. This is good. You believed me when I said it and I believe it when you say it, grip my thighs around you.

Is it too much writing?

You come inside me. You come in my mouth. And you're glad, You used a condom to make love, stretch it onto you to stretch me and make me orgasm.

You say you don't mind having a condom on, you can go longer with one on because it dulls the sensation that might excite you so much you'd come quickly.

I ask how you feel and you answer with American slang "You smoked me" that you say has a good meaning.

I tell you I'm proud of you.

You say there's no reason to be because this is something you do often.

You say you like my writing, encourage me to write about everything between us and let you read.

You say the writing I do startles you because it is so real you can't get your mind around it, it goes beyond your mind to your body.

You say you'd like to recommend my stories to a publisher if you can ever pull yourself away from reading it. You're joking but serious.

"It's like real everyday conversation between Americans," you say.

I remind you it's only like that at the beginning. Later it gets to sex, always.

"I like your cream sliding on my cheek, sticky against my finger, in my hair."

You point out there's some on my denim overalls.

I say, "That's okay. It looks just like paint stains."

"I'm proud of you," you say.

We walk out of the room, a couple for now at least, happy to have anyone see us together.

-- -- --

We walked from the dorm room and ran into someone Mitchell knew, a woman also on the faculty. She was in front of us talking to a friend and we heard she was telling her about something bad someone she knew had done.

When she saw us, she looked embarrassed.

I said, "It's okay. That's emotional maintenance."

If we have stress, we should release it sometimes, I meant.

She said, "Yes, it's true."

She ran a beauty salon in addition to teaching at the college and said, "You'd be surprised how many of the customers need to talk, to complain about bad things in their days."

You and I had just had a good one in ours. When we were on our own again, nobody else around, I reached to your pants to feel you. You were hard again already.

We went to a bathroom and I put you in my mouth again. You were still slippery wet from being inside me. I made the cream come out. It took longer this time because you had before. It came spurting.

I wanted you to feel good when we finally said goodbye and I licked you like a cat.

Did you think that too bold of me, shameless? No, it was like a kitten. I felt for you.

You said you liked the concavity of my bottom when the muscles contracted, the velvet peach surface.

My tongue slipped on your top. It was shiny and covered with a film, like soap bubbles, it foamed like the head of a beer.

In Japanese Awa wo kuu　泡を食う means "eat bubbles" and also a special feeling, "in a flurry."

We both felt good and we'd call each other later that day, when we had time to ourselves. Separate, we could communicate freely because others weren't around.

We talked in whispers not to hide our conversation but because we liked the soft sound our voices made. The softness closed the distance between us. It was as if we were together again already.

I couldn't forget your top, polished, cute. Not really cute! So strong, hard! Stronger than all of me. I loved it but also felt afraid of it. Sometimes I felt from it your rage along with your love. I knew it was through it that your feelings for me came and I wanted to see you again, to tease it and make it angry.