Thursday, January 28, 2010

The Visit

Mona called from a pay phone about an hour up the road. She had gotten a late start and then made a wrong turn on the outer belt around the state capital. That added another half hour. I was already anxious about her coming for the weekend and the fact that she was late just made it worse. Was Chet out of the picture? Was I just being used to get back at Chet? I had no idea.

My apartment outside of dear old college town was basically half of a second story above a business by the highway. There was no stairway inside—the only way to my door was a long, black metal stair on the side of the building. It was kind of like a fire escape bolted to the wall. There was a long climb up to a landing where my door was. One of the benefits of this odd setup was that, as long as my stereo wasn’t blaring, I could hear anyone coming up the stairs. I was sitting in the living room watching my 10” B&W TV that got 3 stations via rabbit ears when I heard footsteps on the stairs. I opened the door before Mona got to the landing.

I welcomed her into my humble home. We hugged. Her hair smelled like cigarette smoke. I have never been a smoker but most of the women I, er, spent time with back in those days were smokers. I struggle to remember what brand of soda or beer any of them preferred but I remember well the favorite cigarette brand of each. (for example: Sharon- Winston and, incongruously, Marlboro occasionally, Denise- Tareyton at first, then Benson & Hedges 100’s, then Virginia Slims, Suzanne- Salem, Kendra- Virginia Slims, Jackie- non-smoker… and on and on.) Why is that, I wonder? I have a theory but I won’t bore you with it. So, of course Mona smelled like smoke; she had, no doubt, been working her way through a pack of Winstons all the way down the road.

I went clomping down to her Camaro to haul her luggage up. She had a gigantic light blue Samsonite suitcase and one of those matching box-like cases with the handle on the top that held cosmetics and toiletries. You don’t see those much any more. They were designed like a tackle box with cantilevered trays under the lid and a mirror built-in to the underside of the top. Well, the mirror part wasn’t like a tackle box. But you knew that. So I got her stuff moved in and put it in the bedroom. I gave her the quick tour: this is the living room, there’s the kitchen, the bathroom is there and the bedroom is across form the bath. That took about 10 seconds.

Mona reported that she was exhausted from the drive and plopped down on the couch while I got her a beer. We talked for a while and she was barely able to keep her eyes open. I'm such a sparkling conversationalist. She got ready for bed first and I followed her ten minutes later nervous with anticipation. When I got into bed I could hear her slow breathing—not snoring exactly, that would sound really unromantic. I said her name softly and got no response. I stared at the ceiling in the dark for a long time before I too fell asleep. What an exciting reunion!

I awoke Saturday morning before dawn with Mona pressed on top of me kissing my chest.
“I’m sorry I fell asleep last night, sweetie” she said.
I said nothing, but put my hands on her shoulders and pushed her down my body until her mouth found my stiffening cock.
Winston magazine ad from mid- 1970's