If I Should Fall: The Second Book of Geshichte Falls

THESE SIMPLE ECSTASIES

3

Brad’s mouth was on her throat, on her shoulder, burning everything he touched, moving to the brassiere where he became gentler, laughing as he tried to unhook her bra, rejoicing as she, taking pity, did it for him, gently sucking each nipple, pulling, his mouth going down and down while his hand pulled away her underwear. She was nude while he guided her own soft hands to his waistband. He was naked now and she was sheltered in the glory of warm arms and legs and the narrow hot torso. What entered first were his fingers, awakening Marissa, and she was shamed to think how long she had been asleep. Then her breasts longed for his tongue, and he knew without knowing and his tongue danced on them, his lips gently suckling them again. Brad’s mouth again went down and down her belly. He stopped over her navel, looking up at her, his green eyes hooded and predatory.

“You’re satin, you know?” he said, and for a moment paused to rest his face on her belly. She could feel the stubble of his cheek and he could feel the smoothness of her flesh. Then, where his fingers had been was his mouth. She felt his tongue shocking her more than his hand had. His hands were now caressing her hips and he was speaking tongues rapidly, darting inside of her, thirsty for her pussy.

Marissa planted her hands on Brad’s undulating head then, as he snaked up, the hands went down his back to hold him at his hips. He rose over her, but did not enter. He only kissed her mouth over and over. Her lips were like tangerine slices to him, her body was the world. He pressed himself into her gently, and then began the movement inside of her. It was like... the candy! The sweetness that first touched one part of her before filling all of her until it became part of her and she moved with it. The gentleness became a steady rhythm, a steady burrowing. Slowly Brad lifted her a little, slowly they began rocking as he found her touchstone, and when he did he began to pound it over and over again. He rested his goateed chin on her shoulder, then, as the hammer persisted inside of her. It was like he could rest now that he’d completed his quest. Her hands at his shoulders descended to his smooth back and splayed there, and then she moved with him, judging by his own outcries where his own touchstone lay, until they held a single rhythm.

He had needed this. He had been stiff as a board, and half crazy for days. It was like this when he’d lost his virginity so many years ago. It was like this in some experiences, experiences like the last few with Debbie, when he left the sex and floated above it, almost seeing himself, watching Brad Long play the lover, sway hips in the right way, clench his buttocks, kiss breasts. There had been times when sex carried him into something entirely different, a strange revelation. There were times when orgasms did not end in joy, and now as he rode to his climax, he saw on the edge of it, on the vision of what brought him there, the greatest surprise, before he came. Marissa was on his lap and he was out of himself. His body was utterly still, and it was the most violent rocketing he could remember. He grunted through clenched teeth once—twice—he did not count how many times before it ended, and shuddering, he collapsed into her arms.

 

The little house on Indragal Road was filled with the dark smell of tobacco. Most people found cigars repulsive and Marissa had to admit that up until now she had as well.

They had finished. Brad had made her come in his arms several times before he came himself, and Marissa was locked in his struggling body, the arms that clenched her, the torso pressed to her breast, the chin clamping down on her neck, the cock, thick, brown, round headed, deep inside of her. That one moment she’d almost been embarrassed to be with Brad when he was totally vulnerable to her. And then they’d lain together truly silent.

 

At last he leaned out of bed so that she saw the cleft of his ass as he turned his back to her and reached into his jeans pocket. He pulled out a lighter and a long cigar, and clamping it between his teeth, puffed and sucked on it until the first dark odor of burning tobacco touched her nostrils. The grey smoke rose from the cigar, as his penis, like a brown loaf, rose from the cloud of damp dark hair under his belly, and Brad lay on his back with a look of intense concentration, then turning to her, offered the cigar with its wet base.

This, too, was intimacy, and when she took her first few puffs, Brad lay on his side, propped up by an elbow, smiling at her.

“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” she confessed in a small voice.

“It is just your first time,” Brad told her, taking it back, puffing himself. “Like many a first time, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. But in the end you’ll find that cigars are very sexy. Better to smoke a cigar than a cigarette after making love. I think.”

He passed it back to her.

She accepted.

“When I woke up a few days ago I didn’t even know you,” Brad said. “And then I wanted to go out with you and when I saw you on Main Street, with that candy, in that dress, I wanted to be with you, right here in this bed. I wanted to be part of you and smoke with you and ask you questions and make love to you.”

There was a long silence, and then Marissa said, “I’m four years older than you.”

“My last girlfriend was nine years younger.”

“And I have a job. A regular, steady paying job.”

“Who are you trying to talk out of this relationship: me or you?” Brad reached over to take the cigar, and was now puffing on it.

Marissa was semi alarmed that Brad had quite quickly taken for granted the existence of a relationship.

“Shall I weave you a picture?” Brad asked.

She nodded, comfortable and quiet.

“Sure.”

“I’m better at stories than reality. Part of me kind of hopes these stories can become reality.

“We go to sleep and wake up. I practice with the band. You join me in the pizza place, at the Noble Red. After that we come on back here and spend the night, and the next day and the days after that together. We love out all the bad stuff that ever happened, and make something new.

“Then I’ll work at the library, a lowly shelver who, hopefully, will become someone one day. I’ll be like a poor page, and you’ll be the unattainable queen, the queen of the library and... and.... one day Chilli Comet Sundae will strike gold—no, platinum—”

“Chilli… What the hell is that?”

“My band,” Brad said.

“This is madness!”

Brad grinned wildly, and she felt the wildness within her as he shook his head.

“This is living.

“Just listen,” Brad said. Marissa raised an eyebrow.

“We’ll all—ALL be millionaires. Billionaires!” Brad laughed to himself. “How’s that sound?”

He rocked Marissa a while, and looking down, saw she was asleep. Then, squeezing close to her, he followed suit.

 

As Marissa Gregg stirred from sleep, she rolled over to press herself deeper into Brad, and came to what she found was more mattress, sheets and softness warm with memory of a man.

“Brad?”

Since she was just waking up, Marissa’s voice was not loud. Initially she was not terribly concerned. Perhaps he had gone to look for food in the refrigerator or use the bathroom.

“Or maybe...” Marissa sat up in bed. Ironically, now that she was alone, she was aware of her breasts, her buttocks, of the rising of her nipples for the first time that whole afternoon. Maybe, having gotten his “piece,” he’d left.

Immediately, Marissa rose out of bed and found her housecoat. She needed to be clothed. This had never happened to her, ever. She’d heard about it, surely. She’d known victims of the one night, one afternoon, one morning, stand. She’d known them as whores. They got laughed about. But oh, God, hadn’t she just been one?

How empty the house was right now.

Hadn’t she brought this sweet talking man with no job, no future, really with nothing physically attractive about himself to her home? She could still feel him over her, around her. Yes, inside of her. And the feeling was that of stupidity, of frustration. Not since Stan and his coldness and lies and a lust unlike Brad’s, an Ivy League, white collar, five minute lust that Marissa thought was so dignified it had to be love, had she let a man inside. But then, with the end of Stan, she’d stopped letting anyone inside... And then Brad had come, and what was she now?

Entering the kitchen in the midst of her raving, after a circular pace about the tiny living room, she found the ripped out sheet of notebook paper magneted to the refrigerator door.

 

Dear Marissa,

had to go to get Nehru to practice for tonight.

Chilli Comet Sundae is performing at Noble Red’s Pizza

Parlor at 8:30

TONIGHT.

I didn’t want to wake you, You’re so cute asleep!

Meet me there. I want you to meet everyone.

Love,

Brad

 

P.S. I called the library and told them you wouldn’t be in for

the rest of the day. I would’ve woken you up, but it looked like

you  needed your rest.

 

Marissa was at once relieved and irked by the letter. There was something touchingly childish in it. Not so much as a “please come” or an “I’ll pick you up” But then he couldn’t very well pick anyone up if he was performing on stage. How arrogant of him to just expect her to meet him. But arrogance was something else. This was innocence. He had not ended the message with just his name. He’d been naïve enough, strange enough, childish enough to say, “Love, Brad.”