“Give you a dollar for a smoke.” The voice is wholly feminine and entices Dave’s attention as well as his insecurities. Dave was not popular with girls in junior high and high school. And college.
“A d-dollar for one s-s-smoke??” he says and turns to face the woman of his dreams. She is objectively gorgeous, even for a mission rat. Dave’s synapses fire at WARP speed: She’s too good for you. You’re not in her league. Where are your balls, man?
“You got two?” she inquires, standing from the cheap, plastic lawn chair. She walks towards him but only a little, as though he is a poisonous yolk encased in a translucent egg.
“T-t-two?” Dave asks, thinking of his balls.
“Yeah, two smokes,” she says and turns away from him.
“Oh y-y-yeah. This is th-the only one I g-g-got,” Dave replies. He holds the smoldering square above his shoulder and notes her fuliginous ponytail held taut by a chunky, red rubber band.
His eyes scour her. She looks to be about five foot six with slight shoulders atop an hourglass figure. She turns to face Dave. She’s wearing jeans as holey as the patron saint of denim stitches. Her tennis shoes don’t match: the left one is baby blue with white Velcro straps; the right, a bright yellow with a tongue lacking its laces. No socks. She is sporting a light pink, tie-dyed T under her frail autumn jacket, and he can make out the shape of her titties. They are smallish but sprightly — probably B-cups. He imagines their nipples erect, ready to play Pit the Pecker.
“Hell, I’ll g-give you t-t-two for a b-b-buck.” She smiles. Dave rejoices — she is the woman of his dreams. “This is th-th-the only one I g-g-got,” Dave repeats. “Gonna have to g-go in and g-get yours in a b-b-bit.” He talks too much and too fast when he’s around beautiful, young women. Stutters like his mind is driving a million miles a minute but his lips are locked at a painful poke. Dave hopes to hop on this speeding locomotive instead of falling to the tracks where his bones would bray. Dave wasn’t popular with girls. You are fuckin’ this up, man. Deep breaths. Slow. Down.
“Okay,” she says and deepens her smile as his eyes shoot from her head to her chest then back to her eyes. Big, sky-blue eyes, so crystalline Dave can see the streetlight in them. She sees him glancing at her funbags and smiles with suggestion. She returns to her chair and sits facing away from him. You’ll never get her; don’t bother trying. Turn around, fool, walk. Don’t you dare look desperate! Feel like a man, act like a man, be a man. Man up! He can see her playing with her hair, a good sign that Dave translates into sexual interest. Don’t say another word. Don’t talk about her hair, her shoes, or her titties. Especially her titties! Just shut the hell up!
Dave hits his square fast and frequent — quick deep breaths in, then exhaling his pollution slowly into the December sky. The night is black as a cursed cat. The nearby grass is frosty, like Santa shattered whiskey bottles over a family Christmas tree then scurried away with the presents.
He hits his square again. Salacious fantasies tease Dave’s libido, and he can feel a slight shift in his jeans. Dave tries to suppress the rush of blood, yet the more he resists the more it insists. His dream woman. He hits his square. Dave’s woman — mismatched shoes, holey jeans, frail jacket — is an easy target. Except he wasn’t popular with girls.
It is midnight cold. Dave thinks of offering her his coat and wrapping it around her, his hands holding her shoulders and massaging the nape of her neck with the meat of his digits. He entertains the idea of tracing her silhouette with his fingernails, her letting out a slight high-pitched giggle at his touch. He imagines reaching up her shirt and tuning her radio, and dropping his ear to her mouth to feel the tempo of her pregnant breath, then gingerly kissing her bottom lip.
She keeps her back to him so he can see her chunky, red rubber band. Is she scared or playing? Both ideas send Dave into a frenzy of pornographic emotions. He wonders what she would look like on all fours, he behind her behind, holding onto her hips and spasmodically filling her tank with his warm love liquid. Dave finishes his square and tosses the butt into the coffee can near her.
“I’ll be back in two,” he says softly. She acknowledges him with a wave of her hand and Dave imagines her wetting its palm, jerking him off with long hard strokes. He can feel his penis charging up the hill, a soldier in battle. Slightly embarrassed, he turns and walks away. Just walk, you perverted bastard! Walk away! And don’tcha come back no more, no more…
Then he is at his bunk. He can’t remember how he got here, the last thirty seconds are a blur of hormones shooting through his veins like semen in a vas deferens. Dave’s member is growing. He thinks of maggots devouring a rhubarb pie, crust crumbs and pie filling sticking to their dermis. That always works.
The dorm is dark and his fellow mission dwellers are asleep. He pushes gently on the fingerprint identification button that unlocks his smarty. A sliver of light bursts onto Dave’s cum-stained sheets. He forgot to make his bed. Hopefully no one notices the remnants of my nightly jizzfests, Dave thinks. He shines the light on the head of his bed and reaches into the front pocket of his laundry bag where he keeps his smokes. There are two packs: one with eight, one unopened. Dave pulls the unopened one out and exits the dorm.
Then he is outside, facing her back. The woman of his dreams. He is unsure how he arrived at this place and how long it took him to get here. Time crinkled. Give her the goddam smokes then get the fuck away from her, you creeper! Leave her alone!
Her legs are crossed so that her pants are highwater. The streetlight reveals a loop of infinity symbols that outline the circumference of her right ankle. She sits, it stands. Long, thoughtful in-breaths; deep, cavernous out-breaths. He fancies that both of them are trying to control themselves with measured exhalations.
Dave spies her heaving breasts. He reaches into his front pocket, his index finger grazing his cock. It grows long and it’s girth balloons to the size of a polish sausage. It is so hard it hurts. Not tree trunk hard, jackhammer hard.
God, if you exist, please let her be receptive. Let her be the woman I know she can be, the vixen for my Dixon, Dave pleads. He approaches. Dixon grows. “H-here are y-y-your s-smokes,” Dave says cautiously. “Y-you c-can have the p-p-pack. K-k-keep your dollar.”
“Thanks, that’s awful sweet of you,” she says, as Dave’s face contorts and grimaces and he releases a deep, cavernous breath through his vas deferens. “Are you okay??” she asks with a smirk.
“Yes, I am good,” Dave says sheepishly to the woman in the mission parking lot, the woman of his dreams.
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