Erin's Hallmark CardbySikFuk©
(This isn't my story, it's my friend's. He used to meet me for beers now and then. filling me in on all the intimate details. After I moved away, he'd call me late at night and ramble on about his latest adventures. I'd listen, wishing I could do something for the guy, but knowing I couldn't. The last time I heard from him was in a letter that arrived three months after he wrote it. Reading that letter inspired me to write this piece. I'm telling the story from his point of view, so you, the reader, can see what he saw, feel what he felt. There are no hot, predictable sex scenes LIT is known for, but there is X-rated material. The fact that this turned out to be a love story prompted me to submit it for the Valentine's Day Contest. Thanks for stopping by.)
When I think about Erin, I see her sitting on the edge of the bed after we've made love. She's gathering up her long black tresses, her breasts rising and falling with every languid movement. She spins her hair into a bun and secures it with a silver comb. I don't know why this moment sticks with me. Perhaps it's because for that brief space in time, we were no longer two desperate people fighting for survival in a ruthless world, we were simply lovers.
The tattoo on Erin's lower back was a surprise. I didn't even know it was there until the second time we hooked up. The first time we got together was at a party, or rather, a business mixer in a gated community up in the foothills. Something clicked between us, and the next thing I knew, we were in a darkened back bedroom and she was rolling a condom on my dick. I'm surprised no one heard us, the way we thumped that headboard against the wall.
The awkward exchange of phone numbers followed. Her card said "consultant", and I guess in a way it was accurate, although I didn't figure out exactly what kind of consulting she did until the next time we met. It was at a rundown Motel 6 just off the interstate. Yeah, I was shocked; not at her price, but at what I'd gotten myself into. I'd never done that sort of thing before, but there was something about being with her, making love with her, that made her real job title seem irrelevant.
The tattoo on her lower back was an art nouveau butterfly; all swoops and swirls with read and blue spots in the wings. Very classy. Some would call it a tramp stamp, but my Erin was no tramp. She was too smart and sophisticated for that. She'd been to college, she'd worked in the corporate world, but she preferred to blaze her own trail, make her own rules. She definitely did have a talent for her chosen profession. She could cum almost indefinitely, each orgasm accompanied by her helpless little whimper, like a puppy crying out for attention.
"One more baby," she'd moan, her pleading eyes begging me not to stop. With her legs spread wide open, and her pussy all pumped up with arousal, she seemed so vulnerable, so delicate, so precious. is it any wonder that I loved her like a madman loves crazy? Sometimes she'd dribble when she came. It was just so personal, so intimate, I'd have to pull off my condom and ejaculate onto her skin, so that our fluids could mingle and become one.
When we were done having sex, I'd watch her as she strolled to the bathroom, her smooth round ass glistening with our liquid love. Sometimes our juices would be running down the insides of her legs, or dripping from her butt crack. I loved that. It got me so hot I'd try to masturbate while she was in the shower. I never came that way, but I'd try anyway.
She'd usually take a quick shower, since she was always on a tight schedule. She was a very important woman. There were demands on her time. Everyone wanted a piece of her. I considered myself extremely fortunate to have wormed my way into her life.
She'd emerge from the bathroom, a sleepy-satisfied look on her face, and pad over to the bed, her perky breasts bouncing like those of a fashion model. She wouldn't mind that I was watching her while she dressed. She accepted her beauty and the power it had over men like me.
"Clip me?" she'd say, turning her back to me. I knew she didn't need my help to get dressed. She was just offering me a little consolation prize, one more small intimate moment I could reminisce about until next time. Sometimes she'd tease me, climbing into her dress without putting her thong back on. "Oh, silly me" she'd giggle, looking at the little pink puff of fabric crumpled on the carpet.
"I've got it," I'd say. Then she'd hold her dress aloft while I slid her intimate apparel up her long legs. Sometimes I'd kiss her fluffy muff, or rub my cheek on it. I knew it was a futile gesture, but it gave me a couple more precious seconds to savor before she disappeared from my life.
On Valentine's Day I booked a suite at the downtown Hilton. We had to hurry, since I only had an hour for lunch. In spite of the time crunch, we managed to enjoy a leisurely fort-five minutes of tenderness, opting for the slow buildup rather than the multiple O's. She even made out with me, which was a first. Then, perhaps because she felt sorry for me, and she let me fuck her without a condom. If she had known how much I wanted to have a baby with her, she might not have done that, but I couldn't tell her that. She would have thought I was a fool.
Afterwards, while she was in the shower, I pulled the Hallmark card out of my jacket pocket and set it on the dresser. I waited till she was dressed before I told her about it.
"Erin?" I said, "I got you something for Valentine's Day."
"Oh honey," she said, catching my eye, "you shouldn't have."
"It's over there with the money," I said, feeling like the proudest man in the world. "It's just a card. It took me forever to find the right one."
"You're so sweet," she said, picking up the envelope, and the three one-hundred-dollar bills laying next to it. "Oh Karl, an extra hundred? You didn't have to do that."
"I wanted to do that," I said, my heart brimming with love for my sweetheart on this very special day.
She smiled. "I'm going to buy something really pretty at Victoria's Secret, and then next time I see you, you can peel it off me nice and slow. Would you like that?"
"Yeah," I mumbled, blushing. I could feel my hard-on coming back. If only we had another five minutes. "Aren't you going to open the card, Erin?"
"No time honey. Gotta run but I'll tell you what. Tonight, when I go to bed, I'll open your card, and I'll read it, and then I'll get myself off thinking about you. Would you like that?"
"I'd love that," I said, my heart aching.
"You'll call me again soon?" she asked, stuffing the bills into her tiny sequined purse.
"Roger that," I confirmed, reaching for her. She gave me a little hug and a peck on the cheek, and then she was gone.
Just like every time before, the hardest part was the drive home. It wasn't the traffic that made it so bad, it was the realization that my fantasy life was over and my real life was returning. If only I could have started over. With Erin. Erin and I, we could have had it all. We could have been living the American dream, and I could have finally escaped from the prison that was my life.
I pulled into the drive just as the sun was setting behind the tile roofs of the subdivision. Bobby's tricycle was by the front door, the plastic streamers dangling from the handle bars like stripper's tassels. Feeling oddly detached that evening, it occurred to me that if I could leave my son with only one bit of advice, it would be the wisdom to make better choices than I did with my life.
I opened the front door. "Honey, I'm home."
"In here, dear," my wife called, her voice distant and small. Taking the death march down the hall, I realized it was getting harder and harder to slip back into the shoes I abandoned every time I could afford Erin's services. I rounded the corner at the end of the hall and stepped into our bedroom. I was greeted with the flickering glow of candles and the sweet-sickening smell of incense.
"Happy Valentines Day honey," my wife gushed, smothering me in a jarring hug. Her double dose of perfume made me crinkle my nose. I kept meaning to ask her not to wear it, but once it's on, it's a little too late to make that request.
"You too," I said, wrapping my arms around her ample waist. She was wearing a red teddy I'd never seen before, her large, saggy breasts straining at the flimsy fabric.
"Bobby's at the sitter's," she said, grinding her puffy tummy against me.
"I got you a card," I said, offering it to her. She disengaged from our hug and fumbled with the envelope. That was so like her - clumsy, always in a hurry. I liked it when we first met; her spontaneity, her impulsiveness, but spontaneity and impulsiveness can lead to consequences - like children. Oh well, we make our choices, and then we live with them.
Finally extracting the card from the envelope, she opened it greedily, barely even reading the rhyming verse on the front. Then her mouth gaped open. She glared at me, her eyes wide. "Erin? Who the fuck is Erin?"
I've got my own place now. It makes it a lot easier to "entertain" if you know what I mean. I admit, it's a dump, but between the child support payments and the lawyer fees and credit card bills, it's all I can afford. Since Erin is no longer in my price range, I've been seeing Trish. She only charges fifty bucks, and, because I'm her number one "special" customer, I don't even have to use a condom when we fuck.
"Come on baby," she purrs in her sex-kitten voice, "shoot inside me! Fill me up!" Then, when my jizz is oozing out of her snatch, she catches a glob on her fingers and drips it into her mouth. She's nasty, alright. When we screw, it's like throwing matches on gasoline. She gets totally frantic, thrashing, gagging, contorting her very soul with the animal urge to cum.
The bad thing about Trish is the waiting. She did call me a couple of hours ago, saying she was on her way, but she's not always on time. Sometimes she never even shows, or when she does, she's so trashed she nods out before I can even get my dick inside her. She's told me many times "just fuck me anyway," but that's not what I want. I want what I had with Erin; the connection, the feeling of utter devotion. I can't get that with Trish if she's passed out.
Still, there's something about Trish - potential maybe - that I can't ignore. She's very smart, you know. Sometimes, when she's been doing meth or blow and she's too wired to sleep, we spend the whole night just talking. We discuss politics, the environment, the starving children in Africa, important stuff like that. She says she's going to legalize prostitution and set up a union so the girls can get healthcare and retirement benefits. If it wasn't for her arrest record, she'd make a great politician. She's very self-confident, with an air about her that commands respect, even before she takes her top off. Her problem is that she's caught up in a lifestyle that brings out the worst in her, but I'm going to change all that.
Oh crap. She just called collect from the county jail. I'll be bailing her out in the morning. The upside to that is, she'll be drug-free for a change, and maybe I'll be able to get her into some sort of rehab program. She's a really good person you know. She's not an irresponsible flake like everyone says. She's just going through a phase. I'm certain of it.
There were others after Trish. I could make a list, but why bother? They come and they go and that's just the way my life is. Sometimes they charge by the hour, sometimes I pay their price in other ways. I bought Shelly a used Mustang, which she used to drive off into the sunset with a roadie from the Ted Nugent tour. Misty took my flat screen TV one night after slipping me a roofy. Crystal hacked into my computer and I ended up having to close my bank account and cancel my credit card and start over. Of course, when you're living week-to-week, starting over is really not that big of a deal.
Probably the best one was Angel. I found her down at Eddie's bar on a Sunday afternoon. She was shooting pool, bending over in a short denim skirt showing everyone her tits and ass. Why she picked me I'll never know, but it was a good move, for both of us. By the time we got to my place, she'd told me all about her abusive ex-boyfriend down in Milwaukee, and I'd told her all about my bad luck with women. It was a match made in heaven.
It wasn't just the sex that was great. she was also a magnificent cook. Mexican, Italian, Mediterranean, I swear I gained ten pounds while I was with her. I'd come home from work and she'd be standing there by the dining table all grinning in her half-unbuttoned cutoffs and tank top, with her home made enchiladas piled up on the plate and her fresh margaritas in tall stem glasses she'd stolen from someplace.
Angel liked it up the ass. I never saw the appeal in that. Still don't. The hole's too small, there's no lubrication, and when you pull your dick out, it smells like a sewer, but it made her happy so I did it. Looking back now, she was the only one who came close to Erin's orgasmic prowess. Angel could cum four or five times in a row, raging snarling, digging her fingers into me. Then she'd close her eyes and roll up into a ball, twitching and shivering like an injured animal. To tell you the truth, it was kind of freaky, but cuddling seemed to help, so I did what I could.
When Angel offered me a threesome for my birthday, how could I refuse? The girl's name was Harlow; bleached blonde, big kissy lips, perpetually hard nipples. That was my first and last time doing two women at once. The only problem was, Angel was more into Harlow than she was into me, and a couple of weeks later they moved in together.
I suppose it was all for the best. After Erin, no woman could have made me truly happy. Erin was the bar upon which all the others were judged. I suppose it wasn't fair to the other girls, but once you've tasted the best, your palette won't settle for less.
Well how about that? I got a Valentine's Day card from Erin. Surprised the hell out of me. It's been years since she left town. I always wondered what happened to her. Word on the street was that she'd gone to New York City. I'd been looking for her in the magazines at the doctor's offices, thinking perhaps she'd either gotten married to some rich guy and was now a celebrity, or she'd gotten caught up in the Elliot Spitzer prostitution scandal, but she never did turn up. Until today.
Her card came in a puffy red envelope with no return address, although there was a heart drawn on the back. Inside the card was a pink thong, which could have been the very same one she was wearing the last time I saw her all those years ago.
The nurse tech propped up the card right here on my beside table. With all the friends I've made over the years, it's surprising her card is the only one, but when you're diagnosed with AIDS, friends and business associates have a tendency to disappear on you. There is a certain stigma attached to this disease, but I'm okay with that. I mean, what can you do? I'll be dead in another week or two. At least I've got Erin's card to keep me company. I read her personalized inscription over and over again. It says:
"What is life without love? I found out when I lost you. The only thing that keeps me going is knowing that someday, God will bring us back together again. Until then, I remain yours for all eternity."
Love and kisses,