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“That’s not what I mean,” I tell her. “Will you shut up so I can explain?”
She pouts and I ignore her.
“I’m always horny, if I’m not, I don’t feel alive,” I try again. “I think I could screw anything that’s alive, man, woman, beast, and… it’s not that I would, it’s just that I could. Sometimes I think I’m really obsessed, clinically so, but I know I’m not.”
“How do you know that?” she asks.
“What? Do you think I’m obsessive?” I query her seriously.
“No. But how do you know you’re not?” she asks.
“Because I’m happily erotic. I’m pleasured, I’m healthy, I’m productive, I pay my bills, and I contribute lavishly to anything worthwhile that pleases me. I’m really a regular person. I just live between my thighs. Some time ago…” I begin what could be a long story, even though I know I’d better tell it quickly, since Peach looks sleepy. She’s yawning. “I heard this guy talk, a really cool guy, and he tells me that masturbation is healthy, that it can cure just about anything. Well that seems a little off base. But I was having a horrible year with colds and flu and that kind of thing… I started masturbating a lot and everything cleared up. I started writing dirty books, and being happy, and it’s worked that way ever since.”
> She believes me, I mean really believes me, the first person that I ever shared this secret with that didn’t think I was totally daft. There were two other lovers that knew this, but the whole idea fell so flat on them, I quit believing it while I loved them. Then everything went into the shitter, and I lost all my nerve and my confidence. So I dropped those two and started masturbating again (I never really quit, I just decided to like it again), and everything straightened out.
I tell Peach all this, she smiles and starts to kiss my hand. “So, if I’m to keep you safely under salvation’s wing, I suppose I’d better fuck you regularly,” she says. I think she’s taking this seriously, at least she’s gentle about it, even if she doesn’t completely understand.
I know I’m going to love her forever.
Chapter Three
It’s a miserable summer, the kind where the asphalt melts beneath your feet and you’re skating on a thin coat of slime. The inland air is dry, and I daydream about ocean breezes so often that I convince Peach to go down to Newport for a weekday afternoon, even though I know the traffic will be worse than I want it to be. For late May, I’m thinking of other things besides the thick smog of LA. I want blue skies, and the top down on the Jeep, and a wide open road.
I’m telling Peach of my exasperation and she’s telling me to stop complaining.
“We’ll just leave for awhile,” she says, “let you get your spirit back. You’re much too crabby now for me to want to be around you.” I know she’s kidding, but still, she’s disgusted with me.
“I’m not used to cities,” I explain in my defense. “Especially this one. There are too many directions to move and too many people.”
“That’s okay, we’ll leave,” she repeats.
“Leave? Where?”
“Anywhere, we have the time.” She’s right, no classes until September. I don’t have to teach summer school. I can already feel the freedom surge inside my bones. Peach is already free as a bird. She won’t want to do anything all summer but stay in bed with me. It’s time well spent, though it still doesn’t make LA any more bearable. The heat won’t stop, the smog won’t stop, and my feeling of oppression will go on until the first September breeze, which sometimes doesn’t happen until October.
My decision is nearly made.
We leave for the beach thinking about where we’ll go for our vacation.
After two hours in the beating sun and all the salt water we can stand, we drive up the Pacific Coast Highway for awhile, threading our way through a sprawl of beach towns. Peach driving, she takes a quick left down to the center of one small burg. I’m not sure at first exactly where we are. She spots a parking place, an ice cream store; and though I don’t realize it, something else she wants to see.
After ice cream, we walk down the street, the sun is beating on our backs. We’re not holding hands because our palms get too sweaty, but we’re so close we can feel each other’s atoms passing back and forth. At last she puts her arm around me because Peach cannot help herself. She arouses me with her warm touch, and my hand drops to feel her rear end lightly. Now, I want to be in bed with her, to turn her back against me so I can feel the smooth softness of her ass pressed against my groin. I want to make a journey around all my favorite places. The thought of it consumes me, it always does. I wonder if we can find some semi-public place to get each other off. The idea already has me wet between my legs.
We pass by a shop and Peach stops, standing at the store window looking in. There’s a clutter of bright colored clothes hanging there, and jewelry of odd handmade designs, and artful pottery. I wonder what’s caught her eye.
“They do tattooing, let’s go see.”
She drags me by the hand inside. I’m reeling by the sudden turn, though abrupt changes are common in Peach’s company. The idea of tattooing makes me almost nauseous but I have little choice but to follow her inside.
The shop smells of incense, the air tepid and close, but erotic. Floor to ceiling, the walls are covered with art, and clothes, and things it would take an hour to inspect. I can’t stop staring at everything, though my eyes are confused by all the colors. There’s too much, so I focus on Peach instead, as she moves from rack to rack, counter to counter in wide-eyed wonder. I watch her sumptuous movement, thinking only of how much I’d like our bodies close now. The shop has only made me hornier, my need for her kisses and her cunt more immediate. I can feel the stickiness between my legs where I’m naked under my long skirt.
Following my lover from place to place, I realize she’s distracted by the bright colors and baubles that make the shop look so much like our bedroom at home. I imagine Peach could live here, and I suppose I could too, once I got used to it. I can’t live around unfamiliar things. What surrounds me needs to comfort me, not threaten me; and though these things seem innocent enough, there’s something menacing about this place.
At the back counter Peach stares inside a display case, wanting to see closer. She tells the clerk to pull out a small tray of rings for her to see. These are piercing rings and studs, not for ears, but other places. Her eyes light, as if her imagination has fired off a rocket in her brain. I know her well enough to know what’s on her mind. She talked about it once, about piercing a ring through her nipple or at her belly button, or even through her cunt lips. She’s thinking of it now.
This feels dangerous and that scares me.
The way Peach operates, on the spur of the moment, I know that something’s going to happen.
