Night Bus

The Night Bus

The northern Ohio landscape is monotonous, the sky hangs low and grey in the winter, and the air has a palpable texture some days. You can't always decide on the scenery of your emotional attachment, though, and this depressing backdrop has drawn me back again. Not home, but college-home.

It is March and two months from now marks the second year of my graduation from Oberlin College. This is the awkward time after you are expelled from the book womb. My bus ticket includes free stop-overs, affording me a chance to re-connect with college friends who have spread themselves out between my home in Green Bay and my destination in southern Maine.

After a day in Madison and two days in Chicago, I went back to Oberlin to see my friend Peter. Installed in his temporary but regal fellowship back at the College, he was taking advantage of every opportunity on his return from teaching English in rural China. Lately, the opportunity was short, Latina, really friendly and capable of moaning on volume 9 when making love in the middle of the night—repeatedly.

Peter gave me a ride to the Cleveland bus station, so I could catch an express to Boston. I have a few friends in graduate school there, including an ex-girlfriend whose perfect blow job on top of a bunch of dirty clothes in a closet is the memory I often use at that go-to moment when it is the bed, me and a hard-on demanding release.

A Bowl With Two Green Apples

There are at least fifteen folks hanging around the east-bound express part of Cleveland's bus station purgatory. This crowd includes me, thirteen diverse individuals, and a young woman whose every movement I am trying to track without being noticed (by her, by anyone?). She is on the tall side, light brown hair, green eyes, and sort of an athletic build, but not quite. She has neither a pretty face nor the opposite. She has professor glasses, is reading Joan Didion and is wearing a pair of red Converse. Translation: smart, on the way to be over-educated, urban-liberal. Comfortable territory.

And this-- an absolutely stunning set of smaller, pert and unencumbered breasts inside her button-down Oxford shirt. One more look at that Oxford and I have a growing erection. I try willing into flaccidity so as to avoid the public humiliation of tented corduroys.

I notice we have the same Mickey watch. "Nice watch," I say to her, trying to be casual and familiar while holding out my arm with the same.

"Oh, thanks. It's fun when..." Then she notices I am trying to call attention to our similar attire. She blushes at her unawareness. For a guy trying to establish some sort of connection, this tiny gaff is a gift. A slight embarrassment is a slight vulnerability is a chance to trust.

"It is fun," pretending no conversational faux pas has occurred, "and it screams 'I forgot to grow up,' which works for me. I'm heading to Boston and then up to Nashua and hiking with a buddy. You?"

"I'm going back home to New York—more White Plains, really. I was just visiting a friend at Oberlin—it's about 35 miles..."

"...southwest of here," I finish. "Same with me. Peter, my friend, just drove me up here about an hour ago. Is your friend a student, I presume?"

"Yeah. Becca Boardman." I shrug non-recognition. "We went to high school together. She is a senior studio art major at Oberlin. Do you go there?"

"Did until a couple of years ago. Now I am a highly sought after liberal arts, ecology studies B.A." She rewards me with a small laugh. "And you?"

"I'm at Swarthmore, on break. I have no frickin' notion what I am studying other than anything that interests me and too many courses that don't. I think dilettante is my official major. I'm a first semester senior because I took off this fall to work on the Kerry campaign."

"That's a plus on my list. I'm trying to save the planet from global environmental destruction. So far, it's been a complete losing deal."

She commiserates: "You may have noticed that my venture didn't exactly end in triumph."

"Well, at least I sleep easy knowing I voted twelve times. A small felony in service of country."

Then it happens. A big grin. Complete with dimples, a special touch of shyness and a warmth that grabs me and shrinks the space between us. I smile back without any self-consciousness. She continues: "I haven't gotten your name. I'm Julie."

"I'm Zachary McCarthy," I state in a bit of too formal a tone for the nice moment we just shared.

"My last name is Scottish, as well-- Arneson."

"I don't think that is..." is out before I realize she is squaring the score on obliviousness to social cues. I laugh and add, "We're even."

We are deep into discussing her novel, in which finding common ground is remarkably easy, when the bus pulls up. We get a little off center from each other as we gather our bags and board, during which time a big guy fills the gap in the line between Julie and me. Julie is first on board, large guy with the International Harvester cap next, and me third.

I am fairly certain that the sexual attraction is mutual at this point. I caught her checking out my legs and tight butt (my best feature) when I picked up my bag. I am hoping two empty seats are together. But no such luck. Julie takes a seat in the middle to back, big dude goes in two rows ahead of her, and I do the only thing left and grab the seat across from Julie.

It is about 10:00p.m. and the bus heads toward New York City anticipating a dawn arrival.

An Island With Too Much View

Julie and I chatter away about everything across the aisle. I am so smitten with her that I would work hard to find any common ground, but there is no effort required. She and I share the same interests and perspectives. We both have to drag friends to slow-moving foreign films with subtitles, we both like to get around by bike, and we love to grow vegetables and spend an entire day planning and cooking a beautiful meal for friends.

After about 40 minutes of this, the guy next to me says in the tone of an annoyed long-distance bus rider, "would you two please shut up and let me sleep?." I can't really blame him. We have been utterly without heed to anyone else.

"How about if you switch seats with my girlfriend? We couldn't find seats together when we got on the bus." I don't look at Julie but she sees where this is going and remains silent about the girlfriend part—maybe she likes it. "We'll talk quietly then and let you sleep."

He mulls the offer. On the one hand, we are really bugging him and this will give him a little distance. On the other, I am proposing he exchange a window seat next a young woman for an aisle next to an old dude on an overnight trip. Likely his annoyance, perhaps some compassion for us, wins out and Julie slides into the window seat next me.

We sit silent for a moment and smile at each other. I push up the armrest. We resume our conversation in a lower voice to honor the deal with our neighbor now across the aisle. Before we hit the Pennsylvania border, I lean over and kiss Julie. We kiss once, look at each other for about 10 seconds and then lock-up for the next hour.

How someone kisses matters for me. There is nothing more special than a woman who knows when to lightly graze, when to make it wet, when to suck a little or dart the tongue. There also is a strong correlation, in my experience, between good kissing, a little shy in manner, intelligence and good cock-sucking skills.

Julie is unbelievable. We alternate in who sets the pace-- moving the kisses back and forth from deep to not, from sweet to horny. The other riders start to fall asleep and the bus assumes a dark quietness, underscored by the hum of the road. Julie and I have drawn our own island around aisle 15 on the driver's side.

I unfasten the top two buttons of Julie's light green Oxford. I confirm what I saw the first time I looked at her: there is nothing between my fingers and her perfect breasts. Each breast fits in my large right hand. Her nipples are intensely erect. I remove my hand and lightly trace around Julie's left breast. There are tiny hairs on the side of her breast that are imbedded in goose bumps of arousal. I touch the softness of the underside of her left breast and then slowly drag my entire hand up over the top, letting each finger barely connect with the lower part of her areola and the underside of her nipple. My hand then starts at the top of her left breast and comes down to cup her entire breast and squeeze her nipple between fingers.

For 10, 20, then 30 minutes, I explore everything about her breasts. She is responding with each stroke, each squeeze, each pinch and roll. Julie is trying to be quiet when I know that she wants to moan as much as I do. I pull her shirt out of her jeans and unfasten every button. She is sucking on my neck and running her tongue around the lower part of my ear. She pulls my shirt out of my grey corduroys and runs her left hand everywhere she can reach. I let a sound out as my shirttail runs across my underwear and penis. I have never been more erect. I want to jump on top of Julie and run my stiff prick over every pore in her body. The limits of our bus seats are killing me.

Her shirt is now completely open and I lean in to kiss her breasts. I suck on her nipples, stopping after each to resume our kissing session. Lightly tracing her nipple with my tongue, then gently kissing her, then tongues darting around each other's mouth, then her other nipple- a small bite. She grabs my hair and strokes it and pushes my head deeper into her right breast. I increase the pressure of biting her. She grabs my thigh and kisses the top of my head.

I have to touch her cunt. Julie's wetness is my only thought. I need to touch her. I pause and struggle with her jeans button until it flies apart. I reach in to feel the top of underwear and the coarse hair underneath. My hand plunges further inside her jeans, with the sound of her zipper stretching down. Julie is sopping wet. I hold her in my hand for a second and then reach a finger under the left side of her panties and toward her pussy lips.

Julie freezes and goes rigid. I stop in confusion, thinking I have gone too far. She sits up and covers her tits with her shirt. I can't believe she is reacting this way given what I am feeling in her pants, but it is her call. I pull out and look at her. Then I get it. The big guy with an International Harvester cap is out of his seat and starting down the aisle to the john. Shit! As he passes, he pretends not to notice that we have been all but fucking about a foot and a half away from him.

There is nothing to do but come back to earth, while simultaneously panting and giggling. Busted. As if your girlfriend's parents loudly open the front door knowing that you are making-out on the family room couch and not wanting anyone to have the experience of them seeing you in action.

IH cap finally finishes peeing (is he jerking off after seeing us?) and heads back to Aisle 13. Julie relaxes her head into my shoulder. It has been far too long since the feel of a woman cuddling into me was so electrifying and good. I know she wants me as much as I need her right then, but it just isn't going to happen this instant. I stroke her hair and we kiss, again, again and again. She leans into me and we fall asleep together.

When I awake, Julie has her head in my lap. It is 3:30a.m. and the bus is completely dead. Julie's breath on my prick and the view of her sprawled over me elicits an immediate rise in my pants. In a few seconds, my dick is straining desperately against the fabric. I am hard, hard. Maybe it is the sensation of my erection shifting the terrain under her head, or maybe I stirred a little, but now Julie is awake and looking up at me. She sits up, to my disappointment, but it is movement with a plan that I will soon endorse.

Julie grabs her wool coat, settles back into my lap and puts the coat over and around her head. She gently unbuttons my corduroys and begins to kiss all around my stomach while slowing taking down my zipper. I usually wear jockeys, but tonight I have on boxers (lucky call), and my erection rips into the open. Julie lets her fingers drift to the sweet spot between my balls and my asshole. Up and around my sac she touches and then lighten holds the base of my penis. Her mouth is now positioned at the place where my balls transition to my penis. She starts licking. I am out of mind with pleasure, desire and the thrill of the illicit.

The bus has another idea. It slows and starts to exit the highway. This absolutely cannot be happening. Julie stops and waits to see what is happening. In a few seconds, we are coming to a brightly lit area, the bus stops and turns left, into a gas station. FUCK! Passengers begin to sense the change and stir. Julie pulls out her head and puts it on top of her coat. The bus rolls to a stop and the driver gets out.

Julie sits back into her seat, shaking her head and smiling. I am NOT going to receive the most incredible blow job of my life. Julie is NOT going to roll her tongue around every square inch of my cock. I am NOT going to shot two quarts of cum on a bus speeding down 1-80 at 65 miles per hour.

The rest of the trip to New York is uneventful, sexually anyway. Julie tells me about herself and I figure out that this woman is more than just smart, she is probably brilliant. I have always been a sucker (literally and figuratively) for the fellow "A" students, and Julie is definitely that. She is from a very affluent professional family and has traveled extensively. I have gotten out of a violent, decidedly less happy nuclear family partly by being equally smart and partly by having my rich Aunt Florence watch out for my every step and pay the way where needed. It's obvious Julie has never been with anyone from such a confusing class background. She is trying to put together my knife wound from a high school attack with the fact that I have read as much as she has and speak as many languages. She is having no more luck making sense of this contradiction than is anyone else I know. I am an outsider everywhere, an insider most places and, at some basic level, I sense this odd combination of isolation and acceptance will never change. We fall sleep at about 5:00 and wake up when the bus takes its place in the chaos on the New Jersey side of the Holland tunnel. It's only 6:30. Julie wakes first and is looking at me.

We are about to be expelled from our cocoon in Aisle 15. "Will you come with me to Boston?," I ask.

Made In Manhattan

"I've never said anything like this to anyone," she responds and blushes. More quietly: "I am going to explode if I don't have you inside me before breakfast. I am beyond horny—I want to fuck with you and cum and I want you to cum in me, and..." she pauses ad collects herself, "I just want to go somewhere and fuck. And I would give anything to then go to Boston with you, but my sister's wedding is day after tomorrow. We've been so into each other I haven't even told you that. So I can't go to Boston. My parents are picking up Frank, my sister Francine, in DC right now and heading back to Dobbs Ferry- that's where we live, another fact I haven't gotten around to telling you. Come out to my house and we'll be alone until at least mid-afternoon."

Now it was my turn to balk, and to scheme a bed for us. Her parent's house. They are arriving god knows when and we're doing god knows what when they get there. I had a different idea. "I'll get a room in the city. You stay the night and go back home tomorrow. We'll fuck each others brains out and you'll cum five times before breakfast. I promise."

"I'm counting the seconds," she agrees. We hold hands and wait for the bus to lumber itself to the Port Authority Terminal. Once or twice she runs her hand over my dick to make sure it is still there, for her.

We bolt out of the bus and I head for a phone book. Amazingly for New York City, there is a phonebook at a payphone within 100 yards of our debarking. I let Julie be the expert on the city because I don't want to take the time to explain that Aunt Flo loved to bring me to Manhattan every year for theater, so I know midtown as well as does she. I have one question for each hotel: do you have a room available now, with no waiting? On the third try, we hit pay dirt six blocks away and fly out the door, each carrying a bag for ourselves and a hard-on for each other. Our only stop is a drug store for condoms—Julie's treat.

When you are a couple who is totally in love, or in heat, or whatever state it is we are in, people around you just sense it and treat you with a conspiratorially light touch. Five blocks of speed walking and we are standing at the front desk. I rip-out the card (this time, really, really, really thank you Aunt Flo—I promise I'll be charming at 15 old lady tea parties this summer). We are on speed; the clerk is a chatty gay guy on Quaaludes. But his amused manner and his willingness to speed things up at the end tell me that he is rooting for us to get to that room quickly as possible.

We are alone in the elevator and stand silently, not even touching. We are skiers waiting for the beep to start our run down the hill. The elevator opens and it is almost a sprint for Room 2338. She undresses herself, then me, then herself, while I am doing the same to the two of us. It must look funny, but it just feels amazingly liberating once we are standing naked in front of each other.

I barely have time to register that Julie is even more sexy than I imagined. A perfect handful of a butt, sleek legs and...

She is on her knees momentarily sucking the erection that has been stuck in my pants since about Youngstown, then quickly sliding a condom on me. We jump on the bed and Julie drags me on top of her and guides me inside her cunt in one motion. There is nothing slow or teasing or subtle now. We are a couple of over-educated nerds that just want to fuck each other blind.

Before I can even breathe deeply Julie is screaming, "god you feel good, I'm cumming, fuck, fuck." Now I'm just pounding away with abandon. Julie has the tightest pussy I have ever felt. She is screaming that she is cumming again and I unload with a vengeance. Julie clutches my butt and then digs her nails into my back as my movements slow and my cock shrivels. Release. I start to take out my dick to remove the condom and Julie shoves me back inside.

We hold each and murmur the things you say when you don't need to even think about whether the sex felt right for both of you. It did, we know. I take a nipple into my mouth and just lightly suck it.

I'm a guy. A guy who got two hours of sleep at best last night and has just finished the best fucking of his life. I fall asleep.

I wake up to Julie putting a condom on my next erection while she sits over me. Round two is more leisurely. Julie is guiding me into her and starting to move my dick in and out of her pussy with a steady beat. I groan with pleasure while I am looking at the most perfect breasts of the 21st century rock up and down with the movement of her tight pussy grabbing my dick. I put my hands all over sides and then cup each breast and experience her extending nipples. I pull Julie slightly toward me and start kissing her neck while we fuck and fuck and fuck in a sweet rhythm. "Julie, I love fucking you. I love this. You are amazingly beautiful. Fuck."

This time Julie gets off first, takes the condom with her and kisses my balls a couple of times. She leaves me to the bed while she heads for the shower. I drag into there when she is almost done and Julie cleans me from one end to the other. She slips the small, wet bar of hotel soap slightly in my ass and I encourage her with a mumble and a low gasp. She probes a little farther while reaching a hand under my balls. She drags soap across the top of my dick, over my engorged head and then uses two fingers to soap down each side of me. Both hands are on my dick while I feel her slick, soapy breasts dragging across my back. Her tongue darts across my neck and ends in a sucking kiss of my ear. Her hands have never stopped moving around every inch of my dick in slick motion.