Part 2
"How are things between you and Jim?", asked Laura, as she held that coveted pair of broom and dustpan. "Pretty good....", Pamela started. Pamela and Jim had been hanging out for a couple of weeks, and, naturally, were seen together at the store enough times that her coworkers had to discuss it, whether she liked it or not. "Kind of funny that you guys hooked up here. Never thought of this place as a meeting area. Everyone else just wants to rent videos, not rent out one of the employees as a side order!" Laura giggled, while Pamela frowned in a thoughtless reaction. She felt a twinge of shame at hearing that last remark. "What can you do?", recovering. "He was smitten with me and my charms -- and my extensive knowledge of cinema!", she sighed falsely. "At least you two have something to do. But.... do you guys have the same taste in films?" Pamela stammered. "Ummm....no...not..really!", she smiled nervously. "Wh...what does that have to do with anything?" "Well, it's peculiar....", Laura began. "....how relationships break off. People have the idea that relationships are almost like some sort of spiritual bond; well, they can be, but most of the time, it's just a lark. But we all act otherwise. We think that affairs are broken off over really important things, when really it all boils down to mannerisms and habits... and how much the other person is willing to tolerate them. If one person has issues about another person's choice of socks, then the whole relationship could go down the toilet! Isn't that simply diabolical??", her face painted with scheming emotion. Pamela's nerves pinched her soul, gripping her concentration to things she did not want to reflect upon. "Well, how about I take that broom and dustpan; they don't seem to be agreeing with you." She carried the two objects along the long corridors of the store. On either side, thousands of boxes and thousands of movies that were picked up by thousands of couples, whose relationships were either maintained or doomed under the flickering indifference of the television set. * "Anything that struck you as interesting tonight?", Jim asked to his guest at his apartment. "We should go somewhere really interesting tonight.....", Pamela answered. "How about this... ", she said, moments later, looking at the newspaper. "There's a play going on at the university tonight... you know one of those productions I told you about. Julie was one of the people I used to work with in these plays, and she's starring in it....." Jim looked away from the TV in a glib fashion. "I don't know about that.", he scoffed lightly. "I don't really want to go to a play." "The play is called Extremities. It's supposed to be quite good... it's not like Shakespeare, with all that archaic language or anything... it was once a Farrah Fawcett movie..." "A who?" "Farrah Fawcett. She was sort of a star in the eighties.", Pamela informed him, uselessly. "Naw!", dismissive. "That's not really my cup of tea, shall I say?" He continued to flip the channels, until he landed on that Canadian favorite, the hockey game. "Hey, Toronto vs. Boston. Ever thought of sitting here on the couch... beside me... and watching a hockey game -- just so you can see how fun it actually is?" He talked in a mocking version of those sorts who think their ideas really are passionately seductive, in hopes that he could get a laugh out of Pamela, before she complained. Pamela didn't complain. She looked to the raucous visions of the screen instead. An impulse jabbed into her brain, suggesting to her that neither of them were going to seen anywhere together tonight except three feet in front of the television. She could have growled. She could have clenched her fists and tore the newspaper to shreds. She could have said get off your ass and get out of the house, and experience something besides a hockey game. She could have just left the apartment herself, saying that she cared about the play, it was something she always went to, every year. But she didn't do any of these things. Her instincts were untrustworthy, she believed. They were apt to backfire, she justified to herself. She was going to have to compromise, before making a complete fool of herself. "Move over!", she said, masking the disappointment. "Let's see if this 'sport' is all it's cracked up to be....." * The two did make themselves seen to the world eventually; the very next evening, to be precise. The play was a no-go; it turned out that the previous evening was it's last performance. That didn't seem to bother Jim, who asked her if she would like to go to one of the clubs, and perhaps play pool or something. God, the club; Pamela didn't do that too often, except for the days that she went to the more quiet pubs with her university companions. But this club was different. This club was unfamiliar to her. It was the local post-teenager hangout, where the women wore tight fitting outfits like they did on the music videos, while the men spent their time bragging and boasting to each other about real or imagined situations with those women, that's if they weren't merely hitting on them. She didn't care for this place. She knew that in the maddeningly pessimistic portion of her brain that often was in a fog, obscured by other concerns, of optimism, of hope, of tolerance. Her survey of the room resulted in scorn and pity in equal measures -- it's not as if Pamela avoided alcohol in all cases, but it was never to the degree that these poor suckers fell into. They seemed like the sorts of people who disregarded rules, who disregarded politeness -- who'd love to have a wild drunken party with only casual regard for property or the sanity of others. "Hey, Pamela, you look like you've got hit in the stomach.", Jim snickered. Was it that obvious? She didn't mean it that way. "Oh, it's...it's just the smoke. I have to squint. Sorry." They walked past the dancing floor, filled with the refuges of adolescence. They skimmed past the bar. Pamela was somewhat surprised that Jim didn't go right up and order anything. That would probably be for later. "Pool's usually my thing around here.", Jim said. "Did you want to play." "Hmmm.... I'm not so good.", she said, smiling. "Great! I'm broke, I need somebody who'd be an easy target.", he laughed. "You're terrible!", she sputtered in amusement. As Pamela replied to his comment, Jim noticed some familiar faces nearby. "Hey, buddy!", Jim bellowed to a few guys across the pool table. "Hey, Jimbo.", came a voice which approached him. "Haven't seen you in a while." "No, I was otherwise involved....", he breezed. Pamela wondered if that was code amongst men or if he was secretive about who or what he was involved in, even with his friends. "Would you like to shoot some darts with us?", the man said. "Ahh, sounds like a good idea.", his voice certain, until he recalled that, yes, he had a guest with him, whose darting ability was probably about as good as her pool. "Oh... ah Pamela, would you like to join us for a little game of darts, and show us your skills of accuracy?", he jibed. "Gee, I hope I'll be able to manage -- I've not played darts before....", she wavered, feeling embarrassed. "well.... it could be fun anyway...." * Pamela confronted the eye of the board. The red lifeless center stared at her in defiance. It goaded her to try and slay it with the silver bullet. It seemed to know, in its unblinking cruelty, that she wouldn't have a chance against it. Nevertheless, she was willing to at least make a valiant attempt. She flung the first dart -- it hit the 7. Good. Second dart -- embedded in the 12. Well, maybe she won't totally embarrass herself. She tossed the final dart, which only managed the ten. So that would be... 29 points. Reasonable enough. She turned around to face Jim, who had a grin even as he rolled his eyes. What for? "Pamela...", he said after approaching her, "I guess I forgot to tell you... you're supposed to double in to start the game." She glanced back at the dart board. Damn red eye, it cursed me. "You're supposed to hit the sections beside any of those numbers before the points can count." "Ah, shit!", she growled in jest. "But... how am I going to do that? You might as well walk right up there and stab that board point blank on its double if you're ever going to get one of those before...." Thump! Pamela turned and noticed a dart jammed inside the red coloring of a double 14, before throwing the other two darts in less precise locations. Thump! Thump! "I'm leading you ... at this moment.", he smirked. "It's your turn again...." Pamela squinted at him. Her eyes were much more lively and fiery than that red eye of the dart board, but vainly she hoped she could put a curse on her partner at least as strongly as that red eye seemed to have done on her. * The night had settled in for the long haul. Streetlights illuminated the city streets, and the only businesses open were places where you can imbibe in either food or drink, or both. Pamela was surprised at how many people were around. She rarely handled the nightlife that these average joes and janes dealt with frequently. Varying groups of people, who were in varying states of drunkenness, seemed to continue on with their own private reverie. Pamela and Jim seemed more like casual observers than participants of this weekly tradition. This was a good sign on Pamela's part -- she was worried that Jim was going to be one of those happy people out on the street, and she would be left alone, at least intellectually. "Good dart game.", Jim said, smirking. "It took us about forty minutes, I don't' see what was so good about it.", Pamela rolled her eyes. "Well, I won, that was good." "Oh, it was just a lucky shot -- you took a long time before you could win, so what are you talking about?", she jibed. "I just wanted to give you a fighting chance.", he said, laughing nervously. "I bet, I bet....", she frowned, before betraying it with a smile. "Well, it was fun anyway.", he said. "Ah well, I shouldn't say too much.... I'm not exactly a sports person, per se. Sure, I played hockey back in the good old days of being a teenager. It was great; although you always managed to either piss off your parents or scare them because of all the checking. But that's what makes a man out of you!", he laughed. Pamela let her eyes trail the sidewalk, lest she be compelled to roll them in jest at his flimsy machismo. "What sports do you play?", Jim questioned, not expecting a similar answer. "The only sport I play is life. Every day involves another tough match, but as usual, I win at the end of the day.", she said drily. "Compared to that, all other sports seem pretty silly if you ask me." "Silly?", Jim scoffed. "How could you say that? Sports are what makes our society stay sane. Hockey makes us Canadian, you know!" "You mean, hitting a rubber disk during those moments when you're not hitting someone upside the head with the athletic equivalent of a wooden mallet? God keep our land glorious and free, by arming every man woman and child with a hockey stick!" Jim scrunched his face, a mixture of bafflement and genuine thought. "Well, I never thought about that.... sounds like a good plan to give to the army though!", he said with a toothy grin. "Well, I don't want to sign up.", she said, removing her twisted humor for a brief span of time. "I really don't get interested in all that stuff. People just get too fanatical about these overpaid people. And even just the sports themselves... I don't get excited by them. They don't stimulate me.... I'd rather be touched by thoughts, than by a 200 pound hulking weight crushing me to the cold cold ice." "Well, maybe I can stimulate the mind with the rules of the game. Maybe if you actually knew about these sports, you'd care about them a lot more..." He began to smile wickedly. "... or maybe it's just a guy thing!" "Hey, stop it right there, Spencer!", Pamela started, thinking to herself that he, like Spencer Tracy's character in Woman of the Year, assumed that women were stupid about sports, and that he thought she was Katherine Hepburn's character, clueless about baseball. "I know what the games are. I know that baseball involves running around the bases to get a run for the team. I know that there are nine innings for each team in a game, unless there is a tie at the bottom of the ninth, of course. I know that a team can keep going up to bat until it receives three outs, and, no, I don't think that the point is that the team wants to get three outs; I know the point is that the team wants to score!" She pauses, with a joking smile. "I'm not that stupid." "Well...", laughing. "Sorry then, I'll just go back to my sports and you go back to your plays -- and we'll forget the whole thing." Pamela studied that last comment. What a demonstration of class ignorance, if that indeed what she and Jim represented. Never the twain shall meet, right! She felt amazed that she and him actually managed to have two dates, and a number of conversations. That ought to be a good sign; at least they have something together. Something. That thing was particularly abstract and undefinable, like a wispy fog that was within seconds of complete evaporation. Concerned, she was. Was all of this worth the trouble. "What do you think about relationships?", Pamela asked casually. Jim didn't know how to translate this query. So many TV comics have warned about this. Women asking about where this was going? Let's talk about us! "Whose relationship do you mean?,", he settled upon this line of questioning. "Ah....nothing. Someone at work asked me about this. She claimed that people don't break up over huge calamities, but that they break up over petty things -- like music, or what color socks the other likes....", embellishing the original quite well. "...stuff like that. You always hear about people yo know breaking up and you feel naturally as if something enormous has occurred, and everyone acts as if it is as serious as a funeral or a disease. But I bet if I could be a fly on the wall during most private break ups, I'd find out that it was based on something really stupid!" "Some people just.... have to grow up.", said he. "People shouldn't fight over stupid things." "Yes.", said she, sensing that maybe there was some hope. "Well, am I on your level?", he asked, attempting to disguise that question with a bit of flippancy. She looked at him, squinting her eyes as if hoping to discover a hidden secret, something that would reveal to all the compatibility of these two people. "Gee, Jim, I don't' know!", she adds sarcastically. "Well, um, what was the last foreign film you saw?" "Well, something where all the actors are dubbed by bad voices in to English, and where the plot involved martial arts and cheesy adventure." "When you think of movies, do you think of them as background noise, or do you take them seriously?" "I watch things that make me laugh, or are fun. What else would I see? I don't waste my time with things I can't understand right away." "When you read books, do you read them and think about them, or are they just squishy words on a page?" "Actually, I'm lucky to get thru the sports section of the newspaper every day. That's enough ink to be smeared over my fingers for one day." Pamela's face softened, her lips smile as if in a warm pity, and her eyes focus on him almost lovingly. "No, Jim.... you're not on my level....". The fog was still wrapped around these two. Jim looked at her carefully, guessing at what lay beneath this detached exterior of hers. "Well... I won't scream and yell at you if you decide to run for your well-being right now.", he said, not cruelly. "Nah..... not in the mood right now.", she laughed. By this time they approached Pamela's residence. Jim had never been there before; she had always visited him. The sidewalk was relatively empty, not nearly as chaotic as the streets near the bars. Only a few people wandered about, most likely returning home. "Are you in the mood for me to run away, then?", he laughed, while his insides churned in paranoia. "No, I think I can use you for a while longer -- come on...", she said, flippantly. The two were near the front door. She grabbed his arm by the elbow as she spoke. "So it's not too late for you?", he asked. "Oh no--- I don't have to work until three pm tomorrow.", she replied. "So only one of us will be tired early in the morning then.... you're so cruel!", he said, nuzzling his face in in hair. Pamela turned her head, kissing him rather quickly and sloppily. "Well, I wouldn't go that far!", she said. "Depends. If you're good, we'll both be tired!", licking at his ear. "Oh God!", he laughed, stunned. "I... didn't bring anything." "I've got the Pill....", she said confidently. "....so don't worry about anything. But it's not a real bed.....it's a couch. Not very romantic, I know....... not like what you have at your place." By this time, Pamela was unlocking the security door to the apartment building. "No silk blankets, then.", he said, squeezing her closely. "No...... just a fuzzy Winnie the Pooh blanket that might make you itchy, I'm afraid....." * They wasted little time in tossing out the formalities, and just breezily entering a more physical state of being. The two sat on the would-be bed, and began kissing hungrily. Jim awkwardly embraced her; one of his arms was wrapped around her back, supporting her, allowing her to relax; the hand of his other arm played with her fiery red hair. He felt Pamela's breath against the warming skin of his face, as he kissed her. Her glasses were a distraction. He took them off slowly, as if afraid of breaking them. His hand rubbed her shoulders, as if he tried loosening the obvious tension they both were feeling at this moment. "Jim...", Pamela spoke. "Touch me... it's no problem." He lowered his hand from her hair to her side. "You feel... good.....", he whispered. They slowly went to rest upon the bed. Their limbs moved like branches from neighboring trees, crashing awkwardly together in the wind, as they loosened their clothes, reaching for closeness. Their hearts were ready to escape, to ooze out from their formerly secure frames. Their skin chilled from the grip of cold air, and the grip of their emotion. Moments seemed to slow down, as Pamela and Jim absorbed each other's presence. Their eyes observed each other's nakedness; their sense surveyed the closeness. Jim moved his hand across Pamela's shuddering terrain. "You have a nice touch...", she whispered, her breathing deep and excited. "You're nice to touch....", he responded, his stomach fluttering. His fingertips graced the curve of her upper thigh, and across her pubic hair. He moved his touch aimlessly, unsure about whether he had her authority to enter the most private portion of her physical being. "....what are you waiting for?", she whispered. "I want you... to make love to me...." He cupped her sex in his hand, before introducing two fingers, plunging them deep within her pool of sensuality. Pamela smiled when she noticed that her cheeks had flushed. "So....", she murmured,"....did you ever think you'd sleep with a video store chick?" "I've always wanted to date a girl who knew how to handle Return in Seven Days stickers.....", he grinned. "I'm much better..... than any of those movies.... don't you say??, she purred, her face melting in to the heat of the moment. "You're better than any story, babe....", he said, kissing her even more strongly than before. Pamela felt more intense within her frame, and rolled over until she was above him; her stomach relaxed over his, her breasts resting upon his chest. Their bodies became one now, no longer just two forms looking for each other. Pamela began riding him slowly, cumbersomely, but still able to stir her partner and herself. Jim clutched Pamela's bottom, feeling the tension within her muscles, and feeling the holding of his sex, swimming deep within her fierce ocean. Tossed about like a drowning creature, he nevertheless felt secure in his passion. He didn't need rescuing. Pamela adjusted her body until she was sitting on him, her legs bent as if kneeling, her body facing him. She continued riding him. The curls of her orange hair swung as her body moved. Her body itself enjoyed this event. Her nipples were so erect she thought she would break. Her sex was liquid from her joy and arousal. Her heart ached for this spontaneous moment to continue. Pamela was in a haze, the sort that could only be formulated by a complete devotion to the carnal. Her memory was playing funny tricks on her -- suddenly the frames of mental celluloid flickering in her mind's eye were Susan Sarandon and James Spader in White Palace. It was an infamous moment where Susan, as an obviously sexual character, seduced James, and the high point was when she went on top, riding him vigorously. She felt like her at this moment, as the curls of her red hair breezed against her forehead and eyes. Her hair wasn't exactly the proper shade of red, or the proper length but certainly at this moment she was at least as in the passionate moment as that character was. Then more jagged memories swirled in the chaos of her head; those two-dimensional figures on the screen were drunk, and not in full possession of their senses. They were also far apart in terms of age, and were far apart in terms of background and interest. Pamela and Jim were allegedly sober, or at least sober enough to make proper decisions. But beyond the bedroom, their differences clashed, and at this moment, they were possibly rewriting the movie, for their own time and situation. "I don't ...... think I "ll last much longer...",Jim gasped. "I'm almost there too..... ", Pamela exhaled, thrusting wantonly,feeling like a block of ice tortured by an attack of the noon sun. Jim sat up, wrapping his arms around her lower back, securing himself as well as her. He felt her force upon him, her sex trembling over his. He saw Pamela's mouth, proud in its emotion,as she bit gently on her own lower lip. He felt above this earth; his mind was no longer within rational thought. "Shit!", she spat out, with passion, not fury. Her eyes broke open, stunned at her word choice...... she thought of nothing else but sex at this moment. The sounds of her breathing were more intense, more uncontrollable. She gently tugged at Jim's hair, and watched his eyes closing tightly, knowing that he was about to climax. Jim buried his face within her bosom, and stirred her nipples with his tongue. "Yes...... it "s good. ", she cried. "Ahh.... keep down what....ooooh... you're doing." feeling his tongue playing with her nipple. As he played more with her nipple, nipping at its tip, sliding his tongue around the edge, he reached his final physical point. He had no choice but to bury his face within Pamela's bosom again, as he panted nosily. "Oh, Jim....", she panted. "I'm coming!" She was nearly spent; her orgasm rippled across her frame. "Ahhhh, yes, yes, ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh......... " She fell back onto the bed, her body relaxed, her demeanor fully pleased. Jim looked at her, through his own erotic stupor, and for one moment, they saw eye to eye, their agreement, on at least one subject.
Copyright © 2002 David MacDonald |