Summer Visit Pt 02

Internally debating whether it's a good idea to create yet another alternate ending to that night while I'm on my way to see you in person, I approach the most gorgeous part of my drive. The stretch of I-70 that cuts through the Canyonlands region of Utah may be the most beautiful stretch of highway in America. The rugged, yet elegant landscape is a welcome distraction and I turn the entirety of my consciousness (minus autopilot) to appreciating the sweeping views, the stark emptiness, the wisps of clouds above that seem to mirror the brush-strokes of weathered sandstone below.

In fact, the scenery provides sufficient distraction to carry me the rest of the drive without worrying or fantasizing. I twist through Glenwood Canyon, watching the rapids that churn below the highway and the cliffs that rise on either side. I snack on beef jerky and trail mix, wash it down with a huge can of green tea, and light a joint for dessert. After a few puffs, I switch it for a cigarette and smoke slowly and contentedly as I approach the climb over the Rockies.

There's no traffic to speak of and about an hour and a half later, I'm watching for Denver to appear in the distance as I make my final descent. This part of the drive always takes the longest. Coasting downhill for fifty miles creates the illusion that you'll land at your destination in town any second, but in reality there's another hour to go. I light another cigarette and hope I don't have to piss (I always seem to have to piss halfway down the mountain).

The driving divinities are on my side today, though, and I coast into town with about an hour of daylight left. I consult my GPS for the first time in six hours. It tells me I have 23 minutes to my destination. Your house. Just you. Navigating from GPS to my text messages to let you know how close I am flips the screens in my mind as my fingers flip the screens of my phone. The anticipation that has lain dormant since morning starts to creep up my spine. My heart rate accelerates just enough for me to notice and I feel my posture stiffen. It's actually not troubling though. In fact, it generates a satisfying surge of suspenseful excitement. I feel comfortable and confident as I make the final few turns through your neighborhood. I'm prepared to allow my visit to guide itself and to keep my fantasies from becoming expectations.

The sun is hovering just above the jagged horizon, sending beams of luminescence through cirrus clouds that scatter the horizon and bathing the twilight in an amber glow as I double check the address and pull into your driveway. The concrete slopes uphill to your two car garage, which begins to roll upward as I shift to park, revealing your silhouette in the back of the empty right side and your Subaru parked in the left.

Your loose clothes don't reveal the details of your form, but I can see that you still have long, untamed hair and the same lithe, petite frame. You motion for me to pull forward into the garage, so I pull back down on the gear selector and ease my truck forward. Looking through my windshield with a welcoming (and maybe a little seductive?) smile, you step backwards through the door to the house, sticking your ass out to push it open.

Inside the garage, the dim but consistent light reveals what the glare of the sunset obscured: your long eyelashes fluttering above a welcoming sparkle in your eyes, your mouth settled naturally into a smile, your loose low-cut shirt revealing subtle arcs of white that had been shielded from the sun when it cooked the rest of you a rosy shade of pink, and your satiny harem pants that create a visual puzzle for me to assemble in my mind as they disconnectedly cling to your skin when you move.

Stepping down from my truck and reaching for my overnight bag, I mentally confirm that I'd definitely still touch you should the opportunity present itself. A reflexive nod to myself aptly dismisses that train of thought, which has sufficiently served its (mostly) pragmatic purpose. Approaching the pair of wooden steps that lead to the door that you're holding open for me, I adjust my bag on my arm and look up to return the smile that hasn't left your face. Having to look up at you makes me aware of my posture and a tinge of apprehension tints my otherwise serene composure, but it washes away when I ascend to your level and we embrace in a long, tight, comfortably unforced hug.

We separate slowly, and the easy familiarity in the air puts me completely at ease. We pause when our faces come into frame. We both see expressions of congenial inquisitiveness that quickly relax into expressions of serene affirmation, wordlessly communicating our mutual relief that our first contact in so many years was so natural. That relief allows us to hold each other's gaze so our eyes can transmit what's at the front of both of our minds: we totally expected this not to be awkward, but it's nice to be sure of it.

My smile grows, then opens to say hi, and because I'm speaking I can't hear what you just said at the same exact time. We freeze in tandem and laugh mirthfully, our eyes fastened to one another's by an uncontrived link that never wavers, regardless of the motion of the rest of our bodies. I defer to you when the humor has passed, and scold me playfully. "You drive too fast! I was about to jump in the shower! Come on, we'll put Brown outside and I'll show you your room in case you forgot, then you can make yourself at home while I clean up. There might be a couple beers in the fridge if you're interested."

You turn to lead me and my eyes instinctively go into "find your favorite parts" mode. First they take in your hair, dark strands falling chaotically from a hastily tied bun. They follow the creamy curve of your neck to your shoulders, which are squared confidently and sway with your petite frame as you stride down the hall. I zoom out a little to see how the rest of your body moves when you walk. Your loose clothes don't give much away, but your butt is incredible. I think I've found my favorite part!

Of course checking you out awakens my impish imagination. Watching the curves of your butt flex behind the curtain of your loose pants inspires a quick little daydream about how they'd feel in my hands, pulling you into me while we make out furiously. For a moment I'm transfixed, and in that very moment you stop and turn to face me, raising your right arm to gesture into the guest room.

There's no way you didn't catch me looking straight at your ass, but you give absolutely no outward indication of it, but as I move my eyes hastily up your body, I notice two cute perky bulges in your shirt that send an uncontrollable rush of blood from my brain to what I'm presently thinking with instead. I've always admired your small, sprightly tits and tracing their outline revealed by your shirt confirms they're still a favorite part.

Before I stare long enough for it to be obvious (I hope), I shake the lusty thoughts from my mind and turn into the room. There's a comfy looking twin bed adorned with fleecy bedsheets and three pillows. The bed is flanked by a nightstand with a lamp, alarm clock, and electronics charging station. On the other side of the room is a five drawer dresser supporting a large mirror and a lounge chair. I notice and admire the fact that there is no television in the room. It's also free of clutter, with a wide path to the bed via the plush rug centered on the polished hardwood floor.

I set my bag carefully on the chair in my room, careful not to snag the velour, and drift down the hall to the kitchen with a sprightly stride encouraged by the anticipation of savoring a cold beer after my long drive. I hear the shower running when I pass the bathroom, and impulsively imagine your hands gliding along your wet body, slick with soap and glistening in the misty glare of the bathroom light. I slow my stride as my pulse accelerates with the thought of your smooth rosy skin, the lines of white creating a bikini around your small, perky tits and ridiculously voluptuous ass. Right now I'm more in the mood for refreshment, though, and that image is replaced with one of cracking the lid off a bottle and the feel of cold, malty carbonation rolling down my gullet.

I dig through the fridge and find a few Alaskan Ambers, one of my favorite "out west" beers. You can't get it back east, and you can't get Yuengling, one of my favorite "back east" beers out west. I grin at the serendipity and pop the top with the lighter, my good mood expanding like a rolling snowball with the first satisfying swig. I drink down to the label before lowering the bottle from my lips and surveying my surroundings.

The kitchen is the same as I remember: tiny, with a small counter next to the door to the garage that continues around the corner. Along this wall the counter stretches about ten feen, housing the sink in the middle. The curtained window above the sink shows the backyard carpeted with green summer grass that's interrupted in patches by the protruding roots of the huge oak in the center. The circular wooden dining room table and four chairs are the same as I remembered on my drive, and I grin naughtily before I finish my beer in a few generous gulps.

I walk around the wall that partitions the kitchen from the hallway and I don't hear the shower. I figure by the time I finish the cigarette I've taken out of my pocket, you'll be ready. I practically skip over to the fridge and fish out another beer, resting my cigarette in my ear as I crack the top with my lighter. Sliding my cigarette from my ear to my lips, I turn around and sidestep the dining room table and pull the sliding glass door open. James Brown slowly pulls himself up from his improvised bed in the grass and comes wagging towards me.

The weather is perfect. The sun has disappeared behind the mountains and a light breeze filters through the fabric of my jersey, tickling my skin. I light my smoke and Brown leads me on a stroll around the grass. The movement and the fresh mountain air help my body stretch itself from the kinks of a long drive. I usually feel grungy and exhausted after being in the car for so long, but this time I'm fresh and energized. My jersey feels light and airy, not musty and worn. Although my hair could use a brushing, it's not oily or scraggly.

After a few more circuits of the yard, Brown finds his patch of grass and I find the ashtray on the porch table. Another quick flash of this morning's musings overtakes my thoughts as I press my cigarette into the ashtray, drink the last sip of beer from my bottle, and slide the door open. I practically strut over the threshold into the dining room, propelled by lusty daydreaming, serendipitous comfort, and two beers.