It was a very typical “I’m the neighborhood” work day and I dropped in. “Just come on in,” he texted. The door was open. I did. There was no one; the house was silent. Even the four-legged doorbell was missing.

A gorgeous day called for outside exploration. This was a different house. It was my uncle’s in Pico Rivera; the house we lived in for a year while they made regrettable life changes in Las Vegas. It had a front lawn, old cholo neighbors, and Henry’s Shoe Experience only a block away. I miss that place sometimes. A nude gal was posing in the grass, puzzling the public with her frozen, one-legged stance, and her general, erotic darkness.

Her eyes were closed. I got closer. She had my dream body: thin but curvy. We had the same non-existent tush. Her missing limb was a sack of loose skin, inked with stories from other eras, glowing against her ivory body. I got closer still. Her face. It was Rachel. I’ve been wanting to meet her for months. I didn’t remember her missing a leg or having kissing reptiles drawn along her body. Things change. The reference photo in my head was months old.

She opened her eyes and they lit up, just like they always do in my dreams. Her eyes were their own plot.

She extended a hand towards me.

“Hi. I’m –“

“Rachel… I know…J’s told me about you.”

“No, I’m not Rachel.”

Oops. I don’t remember her name; it was too exotic. The meeting went well. I learned that they were having a turbulent riot in bed just minutes ago. J was so taken with her power and sexual imagination that he had to leave the house and go for a walk. Silence and stillness explained.

And I got closer still. She looked nothing like Rachel at tasting distance. Her face was incomprehensible, covered in purchased beauty and applied. (Damn, well though. I’ve only seen eyebrows that perfect on plastic dolls.)

Heavy cosmetics aside, she was a sight — more exotic than even Marcella. This gal was a variation of the ones I dream up for myself: a Pacific Island sex kitten with a body light enough to carry and spin. Her caramel skin was a must have addition to my own, meant to drip and ooze over every flavorless human. And those tobacco brown eyes…they were such a deep and gorgeous brown you’d let her shit in your mouth just to taste the color.

She did look like a great fuck. Point taken.

J returned, seemingly shocked by our meeting, and frantically pushed me from the front yard into the house. We exchanged common courtesies while he scurried me along from room to room. Whatever half boner he left the house with he still had, and he was hiding it in between my legs.

“We met. We’re fine. You don’t have to –”

And we were in his closet.

As deep of a love as I have for his wardrobe, I couldn’t even see what was in front of me. The only focus was on my arms being held behind my back and his hot breath on my neck. I didn’t understand this situation or its purpose. It was neither here nor there. No words were exchanged.

Everything got dark and our mouths were suddenly starving for each other. A last dinner was in front of me and I was licking the plate.

The door opened and there she was. “Hey, guys, I’m heading out. A couple of other girls are here for you, J. Don’t keep them waiting too long.”

For two seconds our skin was sticky with caramel, then she left.

J’s expression, yet another one of shock, told me that he wasn’t expecting her to react so kindly or for there to be other gals waiting.

Back into the world we went and yes, there were two other girls waiting. They weren’t nearly as heart stopping as the first. I didn’t know their purpose; I’m not sure J did either. I stood beside him and looked at him, watching him take a mental dump. Everything that was anything was leaving his body. His dreams and aspirations were breaking down in front of my very eyes.

 

I think it was just what the girls were wearing.  You can’t visit J wearing mom clothes and expect to get a half boner to drag you around the house.