Friday, January 06, 2006
The Museum
I wanted to set the mood for this next story. The inspiration for the mood was this song by Lifehouse "You and Me". I thought about maybe Coldplay's "Fix You". Turn it on instead if you like. It goes nicely with the story as well.
How many years had it been? That long? He could still remember it like it was yesterday. Only it seemed further away. Like looking at pictures in a museum; one at a time, with a slow stroll between each. Each taken with an old 110 millimeter camera so that the pictures were square with the quarter inch border around the edges. Passing by one at a time, pieces of his life in a parade of memories.
The slow stroll brought back sensations he thought he had forgot. The way her perfume smelled, the color of her eyes, the sound of her laugh; captured, packaged and presented in a small 3"x 3" format in his hand. One picture is worth a thousand words because our mind plays back the whole seen captured in time.
What were they, juniors, seniors? What did it matter they were young, bullet-proof and beautiful. Every guy wanted the chest he had then and every woman wanted the butt she had then. Lives without scars yet, physical or emotional. Bruce Springsteen called them "glory days". And all the stories usually start with, "Back in high school."
He remembered many things from, "back in high school." He remember how much she made him laugh. The kind of laugh that turns into a slow burn smile years later. The kind when you read the lable of the bottle of perfume she wore, you get that half grin.
And there was one memory that gave him the full blow infectious smile. It was at an amusement park. Season passes were cheap back then. The rides were mostly roller coasters and the carnival death-traps. And that was the fun of it, wasn't it; the thrill, the excitement, the adrenaline rush of doing something to not only cheat death, but to do it in a way that was safe and with a friend. All for only $35 a year.
French music really affected his memories of that year. Maybe it was because of the music they played in the French section of the park. It was the smallest section, but the most quiet. It was the only place in the park you could escape the roar of "The Widow Maker," the hum of, "Schlitterbahn," or the howl and whine of young children with their parents dressed poorly.
She knew a special place they could go and talk, and ... do other things. Things most kids don't want their parents knowing about. Was there anything really better than making out with your teenage sweetheart? Really? Was there? No, not in his mind.
She actually taught him to kiss, as he figured, she had done to other guys before him. It was a cold January and she had been a little frustrated with his technique. Before he kissed her, she put her red tipped index finger on his lips and said, "A kiss is another way to communicate. What are you going to say next time you kiss me? Let me show you what I am going to say."
And it was honestly the only time he had ever "seen stars," "lightning struck," or been left without a breath. He remembers only her saying about 3 minutes later, "So, what were you going to say to me with that kiss?"
From then on it was different. And the park was a special place they, "spoke" to each other. One night was a special exhibit in his recollections. She had drug him all over the park to see the wonders of "amusement" but neither were really amused.
They found that place they both could sit and relax. It was dark but the lights of the rides were enough to cast reds, greens, yellows, and blues on them. Much like a Christmas display.
She got that look in her eye and he moved in to kiss her and she stopped him, again. Her look changed. She was going to speak, in ways he had not heard that night. She cocked her head and went through her own section of her museum dedicated in shrine like fashion to him.
She placed her fingers on his lips again and then moved in close for a heart starting first kiss. He felt her hand move across that baseball player chest. He could feel the warmth of her hands and knew one day she was going to be someone's mommy, someone's lover, someone's everything.
Tonight she was just his. She moved her hands down to his waist and never left her rhythm with his lips. And between his legs she gently rubbed him making sure he was going to be ready for what was ahead.
At those moments before she was sensual, beautiful, elegant and regal. In those moments her hands moved, she was all those and seductive.
He relaxed enough and made a move in to "make more moves," but his advances were halted. A bit confused his eyebrow unleveled and she simply placed her finger on his lips and continued. This part of the exhibit was a non-verbal section, but a lot of talking was about to happen.
Slowly, she unzipped his pants with the skill not known to boys his age who fumble with bras or buttons. There were no, "Is that it," or "I think I got it." It was smooth and cool confidence she made her gestures with. He pushed against the soft cotton of his boxer briefs. She kissed again and gripped him in her small hands filling her fingers with him.
Slowly she moved his khakis to his ankles and revealed the only thing separating him from the skin his creator sent with him into the world. She moved his boxers down to complete the set with his pants. He was exposed and bare much like his silent soul.
She was small and moved quickly between his legs in sharp contrast to the slow burn she felt for him. This night was not about speed or quick for the end of the Book of Mormon spoke of the "quick and the dead". No this night was artistic and passionate.
Her hands gently gripped his shaft. Not like a golfer about to choke the put on the 18th green, more like a woman who is grasping the arm of her lover amongst a crowd. A gesture to show she was his, but needed his strength and manliness to shelter and lead her in the confusion.
But she was leading him. Her lips went around his cock and she felt his heartbeat through his skin. she stroked with one hand and placed her other on his stomach running over his belly button.
She took him in and out. Slow for a moment speaking in a language only an artist knows. She sucked to pull the pleasure out of him and into her. Stroking like comforting or cajoling him. He leaned back and enjoyed the lights in the night sky. Were they his imagination or were they real?
She swiveled her head on her neck while he was in her mouth and his pleasure grew. Most girls couldn't do this, most women never understood what it meant. Her tongue became a serpent bent on drawing his venom instead of injecting it. It moved while he was inside her and sucked him viperously.
He felt her tongue and then felt her take him deep in her throat. He was almost guilt ridden when she took him out and smiled. He returned the glance as the acknowledgement of the artistic conversation continued.
Back in he went more aggressively now and with more intent. She sucked harder and drew his tip closer to the edge before plunging him back in all the while swirling her tongue and applying that suction that kept him silent yet wanting to scream.
His breath quickened and he felt her hands move faster up and down his shaft. He felt it coming. The end of their conversation.
The end of the exhibit.
The end was coming and so he was about to as well.
She gripped and released and sucked and swirled and felt herself become wet with excitement that she was pleasing him. Her lips engourged. His eyes closed.
She went as fast as her neck and hands could go and felt her jaw tighten a small amount with pain but was determined to finish her loving conversation with him.
She felt his back tighten as she caressed his inner thighs and cupped his balls.
At that moment he exploded in her mouth. She spoke words in that language that are sometimes un-writable, sometimes unspeakable, sometimes inaudible.
She swallowed and ran her fingers over his body watching how the red, green, blue and yellow colors danced like paints on his skin. He was coming around.
She straightened herself and helped him recover his clothes to their proper order before a member of the cleaning crew or an errant rug rat scurried by.
She sat with him and they watched the moon and stars content with the quality of their conversation. Delighted in the exhibits they were building for their museum of memories.
And suddenly he had reached the end of this exhibit. Exit to the right, thank you for coming.
He laid the flowers on the grave. Beside them a 3"x3" hand painted canvas picture of the spot in the French section of the amusement park. The colors were red, blue, green and yellow. September 28, 1971. December 16, 1992. Loving daughter. Faithful friend. Eternally beautiful.
He turned.
He stepped and looked back. One more kiss. One more stroll. One more. One.
The next time he would be able to go back to the museum would be in another country in funny camouflaged clothes commanding men that were her eternal age. He hoped, none of them would meet her while under his charge.
Love, war and youth. Portraits and stills. Colors and memories.
How many years had it been? That long? He could still remember it like it was yesterday. Only it seemed further away. Like looking at pictures in a museum; one at a time, with a slow stroll between each. Each taken with an old 110 millimeter camera so that the pictures were square with the quarter inch border around the edges. Passing by one at a time, pieces of his life in a parade of memories.
The slow stroll brought back sensations he thought he had forgot. The way her perfume smelled, the color of her eyes, the sound of her laugh; captured, packaged and presented in a small 3"x 3" format in his hand. One picture is worth a thousand words because our mind plays back the whole seen captured in time.
What were they, juniors, seniors? What did it matter they were young, bullet-proof and beautiful. Every guy wanted the chest he had then and every woman wanted the butt she had then. Lives without scars yet, physical or emotional. Bruce Springsteen called them "glory days". And all the stories usually start with, "Back in high school."
He remembered many things from, "back in high school." He remember how much she made him laugh. The kind of laugh that turns into a slow burn smile years later. The kind when you read the lable of the bottle of perfume she wore, you get that half grin.
And there was one memory that gave him the full blow infectious smile. It was at an amusement park. Season passes were cheap back then. The rides were mostly roller coasters and the carnival death-traps. And that was the fun of it, wasn't it; the thrill, the excitement, the adrenaline rush of doing something to not only cheat death, but to do it in a way that was safe and with a friend. All for only $35 a year.
French music really affected his memories of that year. Maybe it was because of the music they played in the French section of the park. It was the smallest section, but the most quiet. It was the only place in the park you could escape the roar of "The Widow Maker," the hum of, "Schlitterbahn," or the howl and whine of young children with their parents dressed poorly.
She knew a special place they could go and talk, and ... do other things. Things most kids don't want their parents knowing about. Was there anything really better than making out with your teenage sweetheart? Really? Was there? No, not in his mind.
She actually taught him to kiss, as he figured, she had done to other guys before him. It was a cold January and she had been a little frustrated with his technique. Before he kissed her, she put her red tipped index finger on his lips and said, "A kiss is another way to communicate. What are you going to say next time you kiss me? Let me show you what I am going to say."
And it was honestly the only time he had ever "seen stars," "lightning struck," or been left without a breath. He remembers only her saying about 3 minutes later, "So, what were you going to say to me with that kiss?"
From then on it was different. And the park was a special place they, "spoke" to each other. One night was a special exhibit in his recollections. She had drug him all over the park to see the wonders of "amusement" but neither were really amused.
They found that place they both could sit and relax. It was dark but the lights of the rides were enough to cast reds, greens, yellows, and blues on them. Much like a Christmas display.
She got that look in her eye and he moved in to kiss her and she stopped him, again. Her look changed. She was going to speak, in ways he had not heard that night. She cocked her head and went through her own section of her museum dedicated in shrine like fashion to him.
She placed her fingers on his lips again and then moved in close for a heart starting first kiss. He felt her hand move across that baseball player chest. He could feel the warmth of her hands and knew one day she was going to be someone's mommy, someone's lover, someone's everything.
Tonight she was just his. She moved her hands down to his waist and never left her rhythm with his lips. And between his legs she gently rubbed him making sure he was going to be ready for what was ahead.
At those moments before she was sensual, beautiful, elegant and regal. In those moments her hands moved, she was all those and seductive.
He relaxed enough and made a move in to "make more moves," but his advances were halted. A bit confused his eyebrow unleveled and she simply placed her finger on his lips and continued. This part of the exhibit was a non-verbal section, but a lot of talking was about to happen.
Slowly, she unzipped his pants with the skill not known to boys his age who fumble with bras or buttons. There were no, "Is that it," or "I think I got it." It was smooth and cool confidence she made her gestures with. He pushed against the soft cotton of his boxer briefs. She kissed again and gripped him in her small hands filling her fingers with him.
Slowly she moved his khakis to his ankles and revealed the only thing separating him from the skin his creator sent with him into the world. She moved his boxers down to complete the set with his pants. He was exposed and bare much like his silent soul.
She was small and moved quickly between his legs in sharp contrast to the slow burn she felt for him. This night was not about speed or quick for the end of the Book of Mormon spoke of the "quick and the dead". No this night was artistic and passionate.
Her hands gently gripped his shaft. Not like a golfer about to choke the put on the 18th green, more like a woman who is grasping the arm of her lover amongst a crowd. A gesture to show she was his, but needed his strength and manliness to shelter and lead her in the confusion.
But she was leading him. Her lips went around his cock and she felt his heartbeat through his skin. she stroked with one hand and placed her other on his stomach running over his belly button.
She took him in and out. Slow for a moment speaking in a language only an artist knows. She sucked to pull the pleasure out of him and into her. Stroking like comforting or cajoling him. He leaned back and enjoyed the lights in the night sky. Were they his imagination or were they real?
She swiveled her head on her neck while he was in her mouth and his pleasure grew. Most girls couldn't do this, most women never understood what it meant. Her tongue became a serpent bent on drawing his venom instead of injecting it. It moved while he was inside her and sucked him viperously.
He felt her tongue and then felt her take him deep in her throat. He was almost guilt ridden when she took him out and smiled. He returned the glance as the acknowledgement of the artistic conversation continued.
Back in he went more aggressively now and with more intent. She sucked harder and drew his tip closer to the edge before plunging him back in all the while swirling her tongue and applying that suction that kept him silent yet wanting to scream.
His breath quickened and he felt her hands move faster up and down his shaft. He felt it coming. The end of their conversation.
The end of the exhibit.
The end was coming and so he was about to as well.
She gripped and released and sucked and swirled and felt herself become wet with excitement that she was pleasing him. Her lips engourged. His eyes closed.
She went as fast as her neck and hands could go and felt her jaw tighten a small amount with pain but was determined to finish her loving conversation with him.
She felt his back tighten as she caressed his inner thighs and cupped his balls.
At that moment he exploded in her mouth. She spoke words in that language that are sometimes un-writable, sometimes unspeakable, sometimes inaudible.
She swallowed and ran her fingers over his body watching how the red, green, blue and yellow colors danced like paints on his skin. He was coming around.
She straightened herself and helped him recover his clothes to their proper order before a member of the cleaning crew or an errant rug rat scurried by.
She sat with him and they watched the moon and stars content with the quality of their conversation. Delighted in the exhibits they were building for their museum of memories.
And suddenly he had reached the end of this exhibit. Exit to the right, thank you for coming.
He laid the flowers on the grave. Beside them a 3"x3" hand painted canvas picture of the spot in the French section of the amusement park. The colors were red, blue, green and yellow. September 28, 1971. December 16, 1992. Loving daughter. Faithful friend. Eternally beautiful.
He turned.
He stepped and looked back. One more kiss. One more stroll. One more. One.
The next time he would be able to go back to the museum would be in another country in funny camouflaged clothes commanding men that were her eternal age. He hoped, none of them would meet her while under his charge.
Love, war and youth. Portraits and stills. Colors and memories.
8 Comments:
oh.. geez.... augh. way to sock me in the gut there.. now i'm all melancholy. well written :-)
That was so good. And so sad. The ending caught me off guard and the song added a lot. This might be my favorite...
Alice: I tried something new with this story. I'm glad you got an emotion out of it!
Amber: I love your name, BTW - Your favorite?!? That's so nice of you. A little twist never hurt anyone. Glad you enjoy it!
GNDTX
Wow, what a wonderfully written story!
Wow! Just, wow! VERY nice.
Ok, I am officially horny now... :)
C.
Officially, huh?
GNDTX
Leesa, Jenn: Thank you! The compliments really are my reward. Thank you SO much!
GNDTX
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