by Harry Ivanhoe
The bus that Amari is on from Chinatown NYC to Pittsburgh is packed, so I have to get on one that originates here in Philly. She and I won’t sit together this time, but I’m looking forward to listening to music and zoning out. I put on my headphones in the dirty champagne colored waiting room and have to keep scooting forward in the hard blue bucket seat because these pants have a massive tear at the crotch and I can feel the cold plastic on my inner thigh. I hate this damn tear, all my pants seem to eventually suffer. But I can never find anyone to repair them and am too broke to buy new pants.
It is more than chilly waiting in the late night line, but we board quickly so I stay in my stoned happy place, listening to Electrelane. I push my shaggy hair from my eyes and see an empty window seat next to a tall young man with a flat top, skin the color of rich earth, wearing a letterman jacket. He seems quiet, listening to something of his own, so I choose him.
I nod at the seat and he dutifully stands to let me through. I am right about his height - he is about a foot taller than my 5’5” frame, and lanky like a late summer sunflower. My elbow brushes his chest as I sit.
“Sorry about that.”
“All good.”
We sit and buckle in. With a lurch, the bus finally egresses from the station. This is the first time I have ever taken the midnight bus.
About fifteen minutes in, the gentle man next to me pulls out some gummy peach rings. I watch his long fingers gracefully open the bag and pop one into his mouth. He closes his mouth to chew, and his lips react to the sour by puckering in just a little. I don’t know why I am entranced by this motion, but I quickly look away as my own mouth begins to water.
“You want one?” He tilts the open bag my way.
“Sure, thank you. They smell so good.”
He looks at me like you look at someone you’ve never known before, and a small smile ekes from his lips. He presses his face to the opening, inhales deep, like all the oxygen in the world lives in that small crinkly bag. He moves it aside, exhales and smiles.
“Yeah, peach is my favorite.”
“Are you from Philly?”
And our conversation begins. He is from and lives in West Philly, but every May he does a month as a basketball coach for little kids in Pittsburgh. I asked if he was one of the little kids in the program growing up.
“How did you know?”
“It just seems like you have an emotional connection to this camp or whatever.”
He laughs, a sexy, small laugh, where the bass of his voice dances at the back along with his charmed surprise.
“I’m not usually so talkative. How do you get me talking so much?”
Now I laugh, the stoned giggle that slips out when I feel at ease. We chat some more, I don’t even know about what, and then comes the burning question.
“So you have a boyfriend?”
Now I really laughed from my belly. I answer in the negative, but he doesn't and will never know that I have never had a boyfriend. My breakup with Melody had taken me years to heal, and I finally feel like I’m getting over her.
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Nah, we broke up a couple months ago.”
We smile at each other, and he offers me the last peach ring. I take it, because why not - hot and sweet?
His beautiful hand skims my leg. He snatches it away, but I take it back and hold it there. He smiles. His thumb brushes up my thumb at the base, and then all the way up my wrist to my forearm. He leans in, grazes my lips with his, then kisses my lips fully. He licks my mouth as his hand takes the entirety of my breast. He finds my hard nipple underneath my snap-up shirt, and with his forefinger, flicks gentle and expertly. I have never been so touched by a man, and no one has ever been able to hold a boob with one hand.
My hand wanders over to the tent in his pants. He unzips and lets me grab his dick through the hole in his boxers. I stroke as we make out, quietly breathing each other in. The fact that I know how to give a decent handjob is beyond me, but I let my body's knowledge take the wheel. I make quick eye contact with another man at this time, and in his eyes are a mix of intense emotion, one of which is absolute jealousy.
I go only slightly faster, and he pulls away.
“You’re gonna make me come” he whispers in my ear. His breath is warm like a hug and smells like peaches. “Kiss it.”
I shake my head no, and lead both of his hands to my breasts. He massages and grabs me tight, kisses me hard. I am practically on top of him as we kiss like well-versed and horny teenagers. His hands travel down to my pants and go for my crotch, and I can feel their wish: to get inside. Like his hand has a mind of its own, it searches like it knows it would discover a jackpot. Mr. Hand finds the open gap, and, over my underwear, shimmies right to my vulva, rubbing my labia gently while he kisses my mouth, chin, neck. His skin smells like a combination of vanilla, coffee, and fresh tobacco. His hand rubs softly at times, harder at others. I whisper a moan in his ear and he touches faster - this guy knows about the clit. We kiss more, I bite his bottom lip as I come and gasp in his mouth.
He moves his hand to his nose to smell me, and he bites my bottom lip at the corner, ever so small. I kiss him back, smile, and go for my earphones. He does the same. He makes sure I’m comfortable, props up his pillow and even shares his blanket. We fall asleep, head to head, in the night of someone’s morning.
The day makes its way to my shut eyes as we approached downtown Pittsburgh. I wake before him, and love looking at his luscious lips and where they might like to meet parts of my body. We jerk into the station and he wakes up as people already bustle towards the door. Mr. Jealous Angry Man walks by, stares at both of us. I ignore him as my dude rubs his eyes. He turns to me, kind of solemn, and asks,
“Are you okay?”
I nod as I laugh. “Of course!”
We shuffle off and I see Amari, and our friend Calvin, waiting for me. They are two more very tall, penis-having people. Dude turns to me, looks at me with his big brown eyes, awake. He gives me a big hug. Then walks away.
I meet my stunned friends by the head of the bus.
“Whaaaat?” They say this simultaneously.
I shrug, smile, and walk slightly ahead. And then I think - I am so happy I never fixed these jeans.