softly on the blonde hairs of Helen's pubis. They float and shimmer, just barely visible in the little light from the parking lot that edges around the shades and into the room. I blow this way, then that way until she shifts her hips in her sleep. Then I lick once or twice, and blow again. Her hips are moving a bit, but she's pretending to be asleep. I'm sure she's awake, though she keeps her eyes closed when I penetrate her. She moans softly, arms and legs stretched wide. She comes so quickly, but I can't get off.
"Oh God, Luther. I'm so far gone," she murmurs.
I keep at it, looking down at her spread-eagled, just letting things happen to her.
Nothing happens for me.
5
Hate Sundays. Have since I was a little kid, so little I hadn't even started school yet. Woke depressed and got more depressed as the day wore on until the very last hours of light, when it got almost unbearable. It was worse in the autumn and winter, when the days were so short. My mother used to hold me then and ask why I was so sad.
I never had any answer. Not even a lie. Just, "Hate Sundays."
I take Helen for brunch at Le Petite Marmot. Yeah, it's in a mall, but everything out here is in a mall, and at least this is an upscale mall and the Marmot owners are trying. They bake their own croissants and muffins, they make really dark, rich coffee, they can sling together decent eggs Benedict if you remind them to go light on the hollandaise.
"Today I get to be a cop," she says when we're walking back toward my apartment.
"What piece you gonna carry, Smith and Wesson?"
"A clipboard!" she says. "The seniors have to show all the freshies around, get 'em into their dorms okay, explain the rules, give some tours of campus facilities, that crap."
"Cool," I say. "How about we switch? I go guide all the new girls, the really nervous and impressionable ones, and you take the day off? I can be very reassuring."
"You know, I had a Lab like you once, Luther, he'd hump..."
"Can't believe I'm hearing this from the product of a fine women's educational institution," I say.
"You believe it when I suck your cock, though," Helen laughs, sliding into the new lime-green Volkswagen Bug she got over the summer. Her change of clothes turned out to be lime-green capri pants.
"It's a pandemic, capris and Bugs." I smile at her. "Who fixes things so thousands of girls all want the same thing at the same time?"
"We all get together over the Internet and take a vote on what boys are going to like seeing us in best."
She's bright, she's shiny, she's a happy kid. I wonder if any of that is due to me, or if she's just naturally this way all the time. Never any Sunday blues for her. She waves as she drives off.
I decide it's natural. All I give anyone is grief and sorrow. Or much worse, if I don't like them. I decide to go to work. Just jump in the Camaro and drive. The SIG's already on my ankle and I don't need anything else, off-duty on an August Sunday.
The engine stutters, then grumbles to life. Sounds like it's got grit in its cylinders. Used to love driving that car, used to love the low rumble it made. Now it just irritates me.
A lot of things I used to feel okay about just irritate me now. Mostly my brain. My damaged brain. Running ragged as the Camaro's engine too many days, these days. The Swiss doctors warned me that could happen, that there could be deterioration.
Should get a new one.
But no trade-in value on either. They're junkers only.
Cruising down York Road in moderate traffic. Nothing but garbage on the radio, static in my head. Do I feel one fucking thing that isn't physical? Am I alive emotionally, or just going through the motions? Basic inventory: Hate? Oh yeah, plenty. Love? No, just lust really. Well-being? Maybe sometimes in the old days with the team, in the old days with Gunny and Momma, sometimes with IB and Mary Jo, sometimes with Annie. But I always feel like I'm taking and never giving anything back. Joy? Only if you can call the rush of
"Oh God, Luther. I'm so far gone," she murmurs.
I keep at it, looking down at her spread-eagled, just letting things happen to her.
Nothing happens for me.
5
Hate Sundays. Have since I was a little kid, so little I hadn't even started school yet. Woke depressed and got more depressed as the day wore on until the very last hours of light, when it got almost unbearable. It was worse in the autumn and winter, when the days were so short. My mother used to hold me then and ask why I was so sad.
I never had any answer. Not even a lie. Just, "Hate Sundays."
I take Helen for brunch at Le Petite Marmot. Yeah, it's in a mall, but everything out here is in a mall, and at least this is an upscale mall and the Marmot owners are trying. They bake their own croissants and muffins, they make really dark, rich coffee, they can sling together decent eggs Benedict if you remind them to go light on the hollandaise.
"Today I get to be a cop," she says when we're walking back toward my apartment.
"What piece you gonna carry, Smith and Wesson?"
"A clipboard!" she says. "The seniors have to show all the freshies around, get 'em into their dorms okay, explain the rules, give some tours of campus facilities, that crap."
"Cool," I say. "How about we switch? I go guide all the new girls, the really nervous and impressionable ones, and you take the day off? I can be very reassuring."
"You know, I had a Lab like you once, Luther, he'd hump..."
"Can't believe I'm hearing this from the product of a fine women's educational institution," I say.
"You believe it when I suck your cock, though," Helen laughs, sliding into the new lime-green Volkswagen Bug she got over the summer. Her change of clothes turned out to be lime-green capri pants.
"It's a pandemic, capris and Bugs." I smile at her. "Who fixes things so thousands of girls all want the same thing at the same time?"
"We all get together over the Internet and take a vote on what boys are going to like seeing us in best."
She's bright, she's shiny, she's a happy kid. I wonder if any of that is due to me, or if she's just naturally this way all the time. Never any Sunday blues for her. She waves as she drives off.
I decide it's natural. All I give anyone is grief and sorrow. Or much worse, if I don't like them. I decide to go to work. Just jump in the Camaro and drive. The SIG's already on my ankle and I don't need anything else, off-duty on an August Sunday.
The engine stutters, then grumbles to life. Sounds like it's got grit in its cylinders. Used to love driving that car, used to love the low rumble it made. Now it just irritates me.
A lot of things I used to feel okay about just irritate me now. Mostly my brain. My damaged brain. Running ragged as the Camaro's engine too many days, these days. The Swiss doctors warned me that could happen, that there could be deterioration.
Should get a new one.
But no trade-in value on either. They're junkers only.
Cruising down York Road in moderate traffic. Nothing but garbage on the radio, static in my head. Do I feel one fucking thing that isn't physical? Am I alive emotionally, or just going through the motions? Basic inventory: Hate? Oh yeah, plenty. Love? No, just lust really. Well-being? Maybe sometimes in the old days with the team, in the old days with Gunny and Momma, sometimes with IB and Mary Jo, sometimes with Annie. But I always feel like I'm taking and never giving anything back. Joy? Only if you can call the rush of
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