Wedding Day No 10

What is it about a wedding?

I was drinking a beer and getting my breathing back under control after I had been dragged onto the dance floor by my newlywed son to take part in the YMCA-Chicken Dance-Hokie Pokie medley that seems to be part of every wedding. Every one I had ever been to anyway.

So I was standing by myself, watching as partygoers, almost all about half my three-quarters of a century, many more like one-third of my age, danced and chatted and, well, partied.

I had been doing pretty good, I thought. I got along well with my ex, my son's mother, and her new husband. I was civil to the members of her family who still blamed our break-up on me, and pleasant to the few who understood that there are two sides to every story. I had met and enjoyed the company of what seemed to be hundreds of my son and his bride's friends although I suppose it was a couple of dozen in reality. I had even been invited to join a circle passing a joint around.

But now it had reached that point where groups had formed, and I wasn't in one. So it was time to make my graceful exit and get a good night's sleep because I had a LONG trip ahead of me tomorrow.

"Did you know you were my first crush?"

The voice was whisky coarse but clearly a woman's, so I turned.

And I was face to face with a 40-something woman who might have stepped straight off of the set of

Sons of Anarchy

. She was tall, a bit taller than me in the moderately high-heeled boots she wore. My senses were almost overloaded trying to take her in.

The first impression was leather. She had on a leather flight cap, something Marlon Brando might have worn in

The Wild One

or Jemma might have favored in

Sons

. Her sleeveless leather vest was laced up the front and it was obvious there was nothing under it. Her leather skirt was short, showing an expanse of heavily patterned nylons that disappeared into the oddly feminine black stirrup boots she wore.

The second impression was ink. Her right arm was a complete sleeve from the tops of her fingers to where the leather vest covered the tops of her shoulders. And this was true skin art. The colors were vivid, the borders sharp, turning her entire arm into a perfectly rendered snake, making me wonder where the head might be under that vest. I could see designs on her legs showing through the nylons, and the left side of her face featured a rose so perfectly rendered you expected it to smell, well, rosy.

The third impression was piercings. Both ears looked like some crazed ear-piercing machine had run haywire, leaving a dozen assorted studs, several of them chained together, in the shell of each ear. A light ring pierced her left nostril, and a heavy brass ring pierced her septum. Matched studs showed on her upper lip, directly under each nostril, and when she smiled a stud peeked out from her tongue. I couldn't help but wonder what else might be pierced.

Finally, the name came to me.

"Mel?" I asked, recognizing my daughter's "Best Friend Forever" from junior high school.

"Yes, Phillip, Melanie in the flesh," she said, taking my hand, "Now come, dance with me, and let me seduce you."

Okay, I was dazzled. I mean, this sort of thing doesn't happen to 75-year-old men, even in our fantasies.

But I let her lead me onto the floor and then put my hands on her hips, nicely flaring hips I couldn't help but notice, as she wrapped both arms around my neck like we were teenagers at the Prom. I held still for a few seconds, picked up the beat as the Righteous Brothers incomparable version of

The Unchained Melody

played through the PA, and stepped off into a passable box step.

"I wasn't kidding, Phillip," she said, her breath warm little puffs in my ear, her lips were that close, "You were my first crush and I still think about you from time to time. And you, you bastard," and she giggled, "never even realized how many times I came over to see Franny when really all I wanted was for you to notice me."

"Ummmmmm," I said, "Sorry?" I finished, chuckling.

"Oh," she breathed into my ear and I felt a rush deep in my belly when her tongue probed, "You're going to be sorry before this night is over."

When I didn't say anything she pushed me away far enough to meet my eyes.

Her voice was low and the music loud enough that I didn't think anyone could hear her when she said, "Really, Phillip, you're going to ignore a kinky girl who has forgotten how to utter the word 'no?' Really?"

"I didn't say, 'no,'" I said.

Her arms went around my neck again, and her tongue into my ear, before she said, "But you didn't say 'yes' either."

I knew what she wanted and I had no hope of stopping what happened next. All thoughts of my arthritic wife at home nursing her pain left my mind. All thoughts of how many people might see what was happening left my mind. All thoughts but wondering what this weird young woman had in store for me left my mind.

"Yes," I said.

"Oh, goody," she said, grabbing my hand and moving away, almost pulling me off of my feet with the sudden movement.

I managed to follow and catch up as we approached the knot of people surrounding the newlyweds.

Mel shouldered her way through the group, me in tow, and got in front of my son, put her palms on his cheeks, and kissed him. And kissed him.

As the kiss lingered I went to Meg, who was looking at the little scene being played out with a scowl on her face, and distracted her by taking her hands in mine, saying, "Welcome to the family my favorite daughter-in-law." She giggled, and said, "Your ONLY daughter-in-law," but kissed me lightly on the cheek.

"They're childhood friends," I said as Mel's kiss lingered.

"Yeah, well, enough," Meg said as she turned and grabbed Mel's arm.

"If I can have my husband back," she said, the snap in her voice reminding me that these weren't young people. My son was 29 and Meg was 31. They were old enough to have self-confidence.

Mel turned, said, "Congratulations," and kissed Meg as thoroughly as she had been kissing Stephen.

Stephen laughed and pulled them apart.

"Your daddy has offered me a ride," Mel said, "so I just wanted to say congratulations again."

Stephen hugged me and we exchanged a few of those lines that you do in such circumstances. You know. "Thanks for coming." "Wouldn't have missed it." "Always remember, you're the lucky one." "Oh, I know." "You take care of her." "I will."

Stuff like that.

Mel finally pulled me away from that scene.

"Come on, Mr. Morgan," she said, "I turn into a pumpkin soon."

She was a force of nature. I barely had time to exchange words with acquaintances, old and new, as she pulled me through the crowd to the front of the building where a golf cart waited to ferry us to the parking lot.

"Well, shit," she said as she saw my little car.

"What?" I asked. I'm actually proud of my little jewel. For a 1975 Fiat 124 Spider to have survived half a century is a minor miracle. For it to be rust-free and reliable ranks up with the loaves and fishes.

"I had planned on sucking your dick all the way back to town but I don't think I can in this," she said, opening the passenger door and getting into the car. I noticed that she knew how to mount a small sports car, butt in the seat, and then swivel her legs in.

"Well, damn," I said, chuckling. I suppose the initial shock had worn off and I was getting used to this weird woman I had known since she was about 10.

"Top down at least?" she said, "A nice breeze to make my nipples hard?" As she said that her fingers were busy at the laces of her vest.

"Sure," I said, and operated the two little levers and pushed the top up and back.

The winding road demanded my attention, and it was dark so I couldn't see details. What I could see was that she definitely had big boobs. I chuckled as I thought that in the circles in which she circulated, they were probably called something like juggs or hooters or headlights or some such.

I was very careful on the twisty drive down the hill and still careful on the highway back to town. I wasn't drunk or stoned, but I didn't want to deal with a roadside sobriety test either. I knew the beer would show up on my breath.

We survived and I pulled in front of the little Airbnb rental house, a little shotgun house downtown.

She didn't wait so I followed her up the walk to the front door, and following her was interesting. I remembered a movie I had seen once, some sort of cop flick, and one of the principal characters was a hooker, a streetwalker actually. I wondered, as I watched that movie, how much coaching it had taken to get the actress to master that no-nonsense way of walking, hips offering sex with each step. Mel had that same walk. It was fun watching her.

I started to key in the access code on the fancy door lock but her hand covered mine and she turned me to her with a pull.

"Let's fuck, right here on the porch," she said, her hands moving down to seek my belt.

"Mel," I said, "Wait a minute."

"Okay, I'll suck your dick, how's that?" she asked and the way she said it, so casually, so conversationally, was surreal.

"In a minute," I said, turning back to the lock.

"Come on," she said, nuzzling the back of my neck as her hands worked around to caress my belly and work down, "I'll give you a trip around the world you won't believe."

Okay, that stopped me.

"A what?" I asked.

She giggled and her tongue traced the outside of the back of my ear.

"A trip around the world, Phillip," she breathed, the words warm and moist in my ear, "You've never had an educated tongue run up your asshole a couple of inches?"

"Ummmm, no," I said, not exactly a lie. I have always been very oral when it comes to lovemaking and never minded licking a woman's asshole, but what she suggested promised to be new.

"Then, pants down Mr. Morgan," she said.

"Dammit, Melanie," I said, "not right here. Christ. Let me get the damn door open and you can do whatever you want to me."

The grin she flashed then was beyond predatory. It was carnivorous and the teeth she flashed were perfectly white, obviously bleached. I felt a little chill as I entered the four-digit code.

Okay, it was a combination of factors that got me into trouble. I was not drunk but high on beer. I was not stoned but buzzed on the pot. It had been a long three days with about twelve total hours of sleep. It was a wedding and the pheromones had been thick in the air.

All of that was true, of course.

But at bottom, it was knowing this girl since she was ten and puberty was still in her future that let my guard down.

I made one step into the room and felt my jacket pulled down off of my shoulders, effectively pinning my arms.

Now, I have been taking martial arts in one form or another for most of my life. At 14 my stepdad had me in a boxing gym because he had decided I would be the next Welterweight champ of the world. At 20 I started Japanese Karate while stationed in Japan. I dabbled in Kendo but didn't like the idea of sword fighting much. I took Korean TaeKwanDo and Hapkido, American freestyle, and Chinese Shaolin Do. I have a whole rainbow of colored belts in my closet although I never tested for a black belt in any discipline.

In my best days, around age 30, I would have used any of the dozen techniques I had learned over the years to break that hold and knocked her out to find out what the fuck was going on.

But there it was again, that damn three-quarters of a century. My reflexes failed me and I lost the crucial half-second to start the technique. When I failed, it was all over.

Her breath was hot in my ear and she was at me.

I felt teeth on the big muscles at the back of my neck and the image I had seen just a few weeks ago on one of those outdoor shows Paula liked was so clear my knees actually got weak. The lion pride had been running down some big African herbivore, running the beast in circles as they worked in a team. In the end, as one of the lionesses hooked big claws in its hind leg another leaped onto its back and sunk those killing teeth into the back of its neck.

She bit down enough to cause some pain and I felt terror like nothing since I had once been robbed at gunpoint.

She released my neck suddenly and strong hands turned me to face her.

She was smiling. Hell, she was laughing.

"Oh my God," she said through the laughter, "The look on your face."

I took a deep breath and said, "You're a little overwhelming, Mel."

She giggled, a strangely girlish sound from her tattooed and pierced face, and said, "Gee, that's what every girl wants to hear."

I smiled and reached for her but she slapped my hand away with speed and accuracy that made me think her time on the mat in a dojo was much more recent than mine.

"Nuh, uh, Phillip," she said, her smile more a grin than a smile, "I like to be in charge."

"I see," I said, and deep in my belly my body reacted. This was outside of my experience and, if I'm being honest, I felt very strongly that I was out of my depth.

She moved forward with that frightening quickness, dug both hands in my hair, and licked my face, one long lick starting at my chin, up my cheek across my eye, and over my forehead to the hairline.

"Oh," she said, "I bite too," and she bit me on the soft part of my cheek just above the corner of my mouth. The bite was hard enough that I yelled and quickly thought

"How the fuck do I explain that to Paula?"

thinking there would probably be a little bruise.

"So, Phillip," she said, her voice soft and low, "here's your chance to say 'no,' and I'll call an Uber. I'm many things, but rapist is not among them. But if you don't, well, you know what you're getting into."

I was pretty much in a daze, but I knew damn well I wouldn't say "no."

"Y-yes," I said, and I couldn't tell if it was fear or excitement that put the little catch in my voice.

"Well, then," she said and kissed me.

It was a wonderful kiss. Her palms were flat on my cheeks, and her tongue was almost gentle as it examined my lips. It was, in some indefinable way, almost a masculine kiss although those breasts pressed against me were about as far from masculine as you can get.

She broke the kiss and finished getting the suit coat off of me. She carefully folded it and then laid it across the back of the couch.

She turned back, I was standing where she left me, and reached for the tie.

"Do you trust me, Phillip?" she asked, her eyes meeting mine, and I knew this was a test.

"Yes," I said, oddly proud that there was no catch in my voice this time.

Her eyes held mine as her hands went to the tie around my neck.

She didn't loosen it and take it off. Instead, she held the short end and applied pressure, slowly. I felt my face reddening as blood flow was restricted and then the sudden lightheadedness as the pressure on my carotid artery threatened my consciousness. But this was something I understood and had experienced. In the Hapkido class I had taken, taught by a Korean who looked like he had just stepped off the set of

The Manchurian Candidate

or something, the effectiveness of a sleeper hold had been demonstrated.

She smiled and loosened the tie.

"You're brave," she said, "I like that."

I chuckled and said, "No, Mel, just experienced."

Her fingers were busy by then at the buttons of my shirt and I tried to remember the last time I woman had undressed me. I figured it must have been over ten years ago, before the arthritis took Paula's fingers too badly to do it.

And I remembered just how sensual it was to have a woman undress you.

As she got to the bottom three buttons I was aware, and ashamed, of the big belly that had ballooned during the past decade. It wasn't flabby, but if I stood sideways and looked in the mirror I did a pretty good imitation of a pregnant man.

"Well now, Phillip," she said, slapping my belly lightly, not hurting but shaming me, "You haven't missed many meals now, have you."

"The doctor says it's natural," I said, defensively, "hormones and all of that."

She rubbed it, like you might a pregnant woman's belly, smiled, and said, "You keep telling yourself that."

She eased to her knees, strong and graceful, and took my left foot in her lap. She took off the shoe, a slip-on, the only lace-up shoes I own are my tennis shoes, rolled down and removed my sock, and almost made me fall down when she ran her fingernail across the instep where I have always been so damn ticklish. She didn't say anything as she did the other shoe and sock and then, expert fingers undid my belt, the button of my suit pants, the zipper, and then she just let them fall past my skinny ass to pool on the floor at my ankles.

She smiled up at me, kissed my belly button, and then peeled the boxers down in one smooth move.

"Well, that's disappointing," she said, and my ego deflated. I'm one of those men with a short dick, you know. I'm pretty average size but, well, short. Stubby.

But then she made it better, at least a little, when she touched, kind of flipping the

glans

, and said, "Not even a little hard."

I smiled and said, "I'm 75, Mel, I need the pill."

She stood, grinned, and looked down at me, without the little bit of lift from my shoes she was clearly taller than me now, and said, "Hold that thought."

She rummaged through her oversized shoulder bag and came out with two of those plastic amber bottles the pharmacy uses. She shook a little red pill out of one, looked at me doing the one-eye-brow raised thing that I am not genetically equipped to do, shook out a second, held out her hand, and said, "Put these under your tongue."

"What are they?" I asked.

She grabbed my balls, squeezing hard enough to make me go up on my tiptoes to ease the not-quite-pain pressure, and said, "You SAID you trusted me, Phillip. Now put the goddam pills under your tongue."

I opened my mouth, put the two little red pills under my tongue, closed my eyes, and slumped with relaxation when she released me.

The tingling low in my belly was already building as she released me, and she smiled, watching as I came erect.

"There you are," she said, her voice very soft.

She kissed me then, suddenly and hard. She's one of those women who seem to be able to mold her body to yours, and she molded her body to mine. It was like we touched, hell, like we were melding together.

"Now, sweetcheeks, let me show YOU the goodies," she said, stepping back, and shrugging off the unlaced leather vest.

The mystery of where the snake tattoo went was solved. It wrapped over her shoulder and terminated with the big head sinking two-inch-long fangs into her right nipple. The nipple itself was small, almost a boy's nipple perched atop a big areola, wrinkled with big love bumps very distinct on it. Her breasts were big, not huge, but she was a legitimate D cup, with sag that suggested breastfeeding a baby.

Interestingly, that was not her most interesting breast.

Her left nipple was pierced with a bar holding a delicate wire sculpture of a big spider with legs digging deeply into her areola from which a spider web, so realistic you expected it to be sticky if you touched it, radiated.

And even that wasn't the most interesting thing.

Piercing her left breast, an inch below the line where dark areola abruptly became pale breast with the pale roadmap of blue veins looking like GoogleMaps direction to somewhere, was what appeared to be about a ⅜ inch shiny stainless steel bolt.

A beautiful gold and red solar symbol radiated from her belly button, itself pierced with two bars and a shiny diamond chandelier hanging from it.

A well-done seascape stretched hipbone to hipbone under her navel.

Christ, the skin art was amazing.

She was watching my eyes.

"Yeah," she said, her voice soft, "it's addictive."