Chapter 2

"Catch," she said and tossed the six pack at the dim figure sprawled below her. A thin drizzle fell outside the shelter of the bridge. Cars passing overhead made splashing slithery echoey sounds. She pulled off her raincoat, her sweater, her t-shirt, and bra. She dropped her jeans and panties and sat on the sleeping bag, the thin mattress did little to soften the cement. She bent forward and took off her running shoes and socks and slid her pants the rest of the way over her knees and shins and feet and let them lie in the dirt. In a stillness between cars she heard the pop of the cap and the swirl of the beer. She slipped her legs into the sleeping bag.

"You're cold," he complained.

"Give me a sip of that."

She felt his hot hand on her thigh as she tipped the can and swallowed.

"Two beers a day prevents heart attack," he said, "It's a proven fact."

She snorted.

His hand found her cunt, his fingers worked into it. "You've been catting around."

"Yep. A couple of guys, plumbers, your nephews even."

"Doesn't bother me, honey," he said. His lips slipped along her neck down to her shoulders. She lay back. His lips moved on to her nipples.

She squirmed so she lay against him, feeling his warmth along all her skin.

"I think I've finally gotten lucky," she said.

He murmured, "Let's"

"Fuck." she finished for him. "OK."

She felt his weight upon her and felt the cement hard on her ass. She felt him squirm a bit to get between her thighs. She felt his hands under her knees lifting and spreading her legs. The sleeping bag felt like a tent, cool air flowed down over her shoulders. She felt his cock pressing up against her. Now that she had agreed, he of course had no more interest in foreplay. She reached down and placed him at her entrance. She felt him push in. It felt good. She caught her breath and then let it out in a sigh.

She let herself float in her memories.

He would've only said he was half asleep when the dream kicked in.

His dog lay at the foot of the bed, he could feel her bulk warm through the covers. He heard her make a licking sound and then shift.

The empty silent dark flowed out the bedroom door. It filled the corridor and the stairs. To get downstairs he imagined he'd have to swim like a diver in a sunken ship, intentionally sunk after all of value'd been looted.

Here is the dream as it played in his mind:

He sits on hard wooden bleachers. Thighs and shoulders press against him on either side. His feet are in uncomfortable black boots, resting on rough two-by-fours. His shins and knees push against the kid in front of him. He wears a blue wool uniform, two rows of gold buttons go down the breast of the coat, the pants have gold stripes down the legs. There's a saxophone between his legs. Dark brown hair cascades about either side of his face, fingers of it blow before his eyes. The air is cold and there's a nasty wind. His hands are stuffed inside his coat, under his breasts. Band members have to wear the useless thin white gloves, even in the stands. His breasts' overhang and his stomach form a much needed warmer.

He looks intently at the football field, cocking his head to see around the plumed hat of the bandmember in front of him. Everything about the football field is sharp with hard shadows cast by the brilliant suspended squares of lights. The crisp lines across the field have already been messed, the lime smearing on the grass.

The girl next to him turns and says, "3rd and 7. They'll give it to Steve, Trudy. You watch."

He knows that this neighbor and Steve are going out. Like all his friends, he's desperately envious.

He knows that he is dreaming that he is the girl he met in the cemetery. He has never dreamt of being a girl before, but it doesn't feel odd. In fact, squeezed on either side, elbows poking his ribs, dressed in a wool uniform, feeling it scratch his legs, feeling the frost-cold night air on his neck, every bit of him feels exactly like it's always felt.

It feels great to be pressed on all sides, his sleeping self feels a sense of lost longing.

He watches the players line up. There is the snap and a loud thud and grunt as the lines surge forward and collide. There's a handoff and a player with 37 on his uniform has the ball and is running hard.

They leap to their feet and start yelling.

37 gets to the far sidelines almost back to the line of scrimmage. There's no hope. There's a missed tackle and they shout. 37 turns and runs hard the other way, arcing back, heading for their own goal in fact. Players race in a mob after him. 37 keeps arcing, pounding right in front of the stands.

He knows that this player's name is Steve Arnold. He has a flash of memory of this guy swaggering down the halls, broad shouldered, electrically exciting, a flash of the guy slouching at his desk, hardly paying attention, Steve's father's a plumber and Steve expects to go to work for his father and makes no secret of being bored.

The field is clear before him. Steve crosses the line of scrimmage, already having run nearly 50 yards. This is the sort of play that can only happen in high school football. He runs and runs, the wildcat decorating the back of his jersey seems to bob and leap like it's alive, all the other players from both teams stream behind. Steve drops dead with exhaustion in the endzone.

He grabs his sax and with the rest of the band begins playing the Wildcat's fight song. Almost any note will do. His fingers are so cold they hardly bend at all. The important thing is to make noise and stay sort of with the beat.

The frantic noise faded and he woke. He thought of the dream and realized that he'd become aroused. Why he didn't exactly know. The details of the dream slipped away. He thought that that was the good thing about dreams, how they faded. All he could remember was drums and excitement. He considered getting up and walking down the dark silent hall to the bathroom to masturbate. It would help him sleep.

Erotic dreams have grown very rare. Even though they always left him feeling sad and forlorn, when he was in them, he didn't want them to stop. He rolled onto his side and thought of how the girl'd looked there in the pale morning light.

Steve grunted and she felt him spend inside her. He slumped and his weight lay full upon her. She stretched, straightening her legs so they lay just outside his, stretching her arms, lifting her bottom and back to relieve some of the stress.

"Shit," she said, staring unsatisfied up at the grimy underside of the bridge.

She pushed and slipped out from under his dead weight. He groaned and rolled onto his back, flopping his arm so it stretched across her chest, his hand on her thigh.

"It was so awful," she said, "There was my sister. She came into the store, like 50 years old and buying pampers. I wanted to say, "Hey! Look at me! Remember me? I'm your sister! But of course I couldn't. I just said that'll be 12.95 and made change."

"Why bother working there? You knew it was going to happen sometime or other? Wait till your mom stops by to buy a scratch ticket or something."

"It's like something to do. And you do like your beer".

"I do," he lifted himself up. "Shit, it's spilled."

She listened to him extract another can from the plastic, open it and drink.

"I live for beer, for sleep, and for fucking. Oh, and for when they're doing bridge or road work. Messing with their tools, shaking their ladders. Remember that pickup? I let the brake out and popped it into neutral, just a little push and down the hill it rolled, right into the creek? Remember all those guys running after it, waving their arms? I about died laughing."

"It was pretty funny."

"And remember that Statey? He pulled some poor kid over for doing 95. Just as he was leaning into the window I pulled down his pants. Broad daylight and there was his fat ass, grinning at the traffic."

His hand shifted from her thigh to her moist cunt. "But you know," he said, "That found beer was OK too. The cans kids threw into the woods there by the cemetery, the cans tossed out car windows onto the shoulder. I really liked the taste of the little bit left in the can."

She sighed. She unzipped the sleeping bag and put her hand down on his limp cock and burrowed into the sleeping bag. Her bottom and thighs and the small of her back felt cold, pushed as they were out into the chill night air. She put her hand under his balls, invisible in the humid inky blackness and touched the base of his cock with her tongue.

He made a surprised pleased grunt and moved his hands into her hair.

She licked along him, following his limp curve, feeling it move and stretch under her tongue. The taste was sour and salty and disagreeable.

"There's hope for you yet," he murmured.

She licked around his head, caressing his base with her fingers. She took him into her mouth, letting him lie on her tongue, feeling him against the roof and back of her mouth. It felt nauseating. She began to suck.

After a moment she lifted her head and slid up next to him and lay on her back.

"Hey," he complained.

"You can take it from here," she said.

"Bitch," he complained, rolling onto her and pushing himself back in.

"Asshole," she replied, squirming under him. She zipped the bag back up and raised her knees against it. As he began to pump, she again let her mind wander.

He did indeed dream again:

He stands in the familiar to him high school corridor, his shoulder against a locker, his back against a cement block wall. A guy is standing in front of him, so close he can smell the guy's cigarette soured breath, smell the spice of his deodorant, the soap of the shower he'd taken after gym. The guy's hands are holding his. They are standing as close as they can get away with, closer, his breasts, well his sweater, just brushes the guy's shirt, blue check button down permapress, the guy's t-shirt is exposed at his open collar.

His eyes are level with the guy's chin, his head is tipped up and he is gazing raptly into the guy's eyes. Neither speaks.

The guy is Steve Arnold. They have been dating two weeks.

He is flushed with excitement. Students are pushing past. Intent on getting to their next class, not so intent that they don't glance over at him. He is aware of his knee, an inch below the edge of his skirt, pressing against the guy's leg. He's sharply aware of each girl who passes, especially the ones he envies.

He sees his father come up the hall, heading for the chemistry/physics classroom which is in the new wing of the building. He sees his father's face tighten with disapproval, sees his mouth open to say something then choke it and move on.

The bell rings. Steve says "Let's split. Let's go to Flint Hollows and park." Steve grins down at him and he feels his face flush. He feels hot between his legs. They haven't yet, well, he won't let himself think what they haven't yet done, but it's not for want of Steve's trying.

He's about to agree but then he pushes away and says "No Steve, I gotta get to class."

The dream shifts, the way dreams do.

He stands in the living room of his house. The house he's lived in all the eighteen years of his life. Everything is worn and disgustingly familiar. Old cheap shit. His Mom sits on the couch, he sits on the stuffed chair by the window, his Dad stands by the fireplace. He knows his Dad is angrier than he's ever seen him. He feels both scared and triumphant. He knows that there is nothing they can do that he can't trump.

His mother goes, "Darling, we both think that your seeing this boy is a real mistake."

"Jesus that's an understatement!" his father shouted. "That kid!"

"Dan, you promised to let me handle this," his mother says. What hangs unsaid in the room is this: three weeks ago his Dad gave Steve a failing grade on a test. Steve gave his Dad the finger. After a trip to the office, his Dad had had to, as he'd said, eat large portions of tasty crow stew. What could he've been thinking of? Fail the starting forward and second leading scorer on the basketball team? Fail an ace starting pitcher come spring? Fail the boy whose football heroics had defeated the fiends of Hebron that fall? Fail the boy whose father was Chairman of the School Board? It could never happen. Thinking about Steve and his Dad at the same time makes him feel simultaneously scared and elated.

Her Dad can do nothing for her, Steve, everything.

"Darling," his mother continues, "You're eighteen. You'll be away at college in less than six months. We'll certainly have no say over who you see or how you behave there. There's little we can do now that's sensible. I wish from the bottom of my heart that you saw this boy the way your father and I do. My saying that won't change a thing unfortunately. What I hope is that you'll have some consideration for us and stick to the rules we've laid down. Rules that worked for your older sister and have for the most part worked for you as well. Rules that we made for your own good."

His mind's voice says, "Yeah, right", but without much conviction. Outwardly he just manages to look sullen and uncooperative.

"I'll only add that regardless of what you think of us, you aren't such an idiot as to let your grades slip. You haven't been accepted yet but once you are, they'll insist you graduate with good grades and with roughly your current class rank."

When he doesn't say anything but sullenly stares at his sneakers, his mother goes, "Darling, will you at least promise us that much?"

He jumps up, feigning anger, but really near tears. "Shit Mom, I'm not a baby. Don't treat me like one!" and he stomps out of the room.

"You watch your language," his father shouts, unable to contain himself.

He hears his mother say, "Calm yourself, Dan. Let it go. It'll be alright. She's not stupid."

The dream changes.

As he clatters down the stair, his mother calls, "Tell that boy that we live on a residential street, not a drag strip. Kids ride their bikes out there. He should go slow! And tell him to come to the front door and knock. He shouldn't just sit out there honking!"

He is out on the front porch and down the walk to the waiting yellow Mustang. He hops in and leans over and kisses Steve, feeling his hand on his waist. He is giddily aware of the number of rules he's going to be breaking that night. He skids across the bench seat so his thigh and side press against Steve's. The car screeches into motion and he is pressed firmly back into the cushion.

Red lights flash behind them, old-style retro cop lights. A siren wails.

"Your fucking Dad!" Steve swears as they come to a stop.

30 minutes later they pull up at the party. From outside the music and thump of the beat is quite loud. Inside, with the shout of kids trying to talk and laugh, it's astounding.