Intoxication

Chapter One-2

I gave the world a tuneful scream no longer caring that I risked exposure in this semi-public palace. I did catch sight of a bum from the corner of my eye, stopping just long enough to get a good look at both our faces in the middle of my ecstasy. Walker’s would have been shamelessly unemotional, mine angelic. I tell all my lovers that I touch God when I get off. Most laugh, think I’m typically girlish, overly romantic and eccentrically New Age. I know I’m telling the happy truth of my existence and I couldn’t care less what Walker or the others think of me.

Walker left me in my underwear on the hood of the car while he tossed his suitcase in the trunk. I jumped off, grabbed the trench coat from the asphalt and scrambled inside.

We were off, me sighing satisfied as we sped through town on our way to Altadena where Walker and I shared his house.

***

I work days at a one-of-a-kind fast-food sandwich shop in Glendale, which offers very little erotic stimulation for my randy mind. On the other hand, there are loads of fascinating glimpses of Americana at each booth of customers—which was why I chose the job in the first place. Or maybe it chose me. Maybe I had to get some money in my pocketbook and this was the first Help Wanted ad I saw. Doesn’t matter. The job suited my need for extended research. There is a PhD mind tucked inside this porn star body. My thesis was on non-verbal communication. My graduation accolades from Stanford undergraduate include Magna c*m Laude, and after graduate school at UCLA I was about to earn a Rhodes fellowship for more when the world of the average woman crooked its finger in my direction and this amazing job stared me in the face. My job at Vicki’s Sandwich Heaven was as unpretentious as I could find in this self-important, ego-centered metropolis. Two weeks after I took the job, I met Walker. We exchanged educational credentials at an all-too-vain Pasadena cocktail party, though I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I was a waitress. Four months later when the truth finally surfaced, he hit the roof, unsure what to do with a bimbo girlfriend who had parlayed her education into no more than a job serving coffee, sandwiches and donuts.

“You… work…as a-a waitress?” he said just that slowly with his eyes bugged out so far I thought they’d fall out. I almost dove for the floor in order to catch them before they bounced until I realized the hilarity of that picture.

“What did you think I did?” I asked innocently, c*****g my head like a six-year-old and smiling with every bit of effervescent charm I could muster—which for me is quite a bit. I’m sure it helped that my hair was tied into two short pigtails, jutting out of the sides of my head. It didn’t look as ridiculous as it sounds. I thought the hairdo was pretty cute—maybe even sexy.

“I don’t know,” he said, now looking completely dumbfounded. “I guess I never asked.”

“Touché,” I smiled, happy to see him sweating this one out. Takes guts to pull off what I did. But that was part of my research, too. Walker was a prince for all he provided me in ammunition against the newly wealthy and upwardly mobile—who I seriously, silently despised.

“You never mentioned your work…” he started remembering.

To think, we’d been living together for nearly a month going together for three and he didn’t know how I paid my bills.

Once Walker knew I was a waitress I think his s****l appetites really kicked in, almost as strongly as if I’d told him I was an X-rated movie actress. I suppose he thought waitresses were by definition slutty. I couldn’t confirm that fact from my experience. I worked hard for what I earned. I learned to put a smile on the face of dozens of minor catastrophes, to carry dirty plates up to my chin, and nurse the blisters on my feet from standing on them eight hours straight. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have had the time to be slutty—except that it’s my nature to be a bit of a w***e. When I was off work, I poured most of my unused energy into s*x—not intellectual game planning or thought-provoking mental exercises, as a truly educated girl should do.

Even before the shock of my career hit him, Walker had been a maniac for my body. We f****d every night. He’d dress me up in hooker outfits and I’d dance for him. My favorite was a black Lycra micro-mini that just barely covered my privates in front and back. Turn too sharply either way, bend, or stretch even just a little and I was showing shaved p***y and the crack of my ass. Covering my breasts I wore a cropped pirate shirt with ruffles at the bottom of the long sleeves and down either side of its low-cut neckline. It would ride up when I danced, showing belly button, tummy and the bottoms of my augmented breasts, and the little jiggle that would catch Walker’s fancy as he stared at me.

He’d sit in a chair, nursing scotch and soda, sipping occasionally while inspecting my body, remaining coolly detached from my dance. As I gyrated my Lycra covered hips, exposed my pubes and gave him generous peeks at my t**s, not a hand would stray to his crotch. I could see his reaction for myself, however. His d**k looked as if it were buoyed on water, gently pushing against the fabric of his pants in a rhythmic beat. Even when I got more provocative, when my hands began to caress my body and my fingers found the center of my s****l universe damp with longing, Walker didn’t act. The first time I danced for him, I broke down crying after fifteen minutes of his stoic reply, to which my boyfriend calmly assured me that this was just his method for getting aroused. He liked to keep it to himself until the very last instant. I danced for him again, every time with the same result, and learned to know his moves—subtle as they were. His c**k was screaming for attention by the time he bolted from the chair and started pawing me like a starved animal. He would quickly take me to his bedroom and silently f**k me not once but several times, until we were both satiated and too exhausted for anything but sleep.

I was surprised one night to find Walker up at two a.m., surfing the web through all of the porno sites he hated.

He was even cool when I caught him.

“What are you doing?’’

“Spending my time.” He always had an odd way of explaining himself that didn’t quite answer my question. But he obviously wasn’t feeling guilty. A guilty man would have closed the browser in a nervous second and say he discovered the porn by accident.

“I thought you found those sites disgusting.”

“They are. But they are intriguing, too. I keep up with a lot of Internet commerce and entertainment. Keeps me ready.”

“Ready for what.”

“Ready if I ever need the information.”

Information for what reason? I didn’t voice that question. He was still being too vague, and I needed sleep. It didn’t really matter to me if I slept alone or with him.

We’d been going together for nearly nine months, keeping our relationship on an even keel, when Walker’s s****l needs took another unexpected turn.

He wanted me dancing for him one evening, dressed in something “especially slutty” he told me on the phone.

“Greet me at the door. Make sure your t**s are showing.”

This sounded good to me. A bedroom tango was exactly what I was up for. Putting a breathless Tina Turner on the sound system, and a red leather miniskirt around my hips, I thought I was ready for the night. I added cheek color, teased my blond hair into a halo of unruly curls, and massaged by breasts with a light, fragrant oil that would glow by candlelight and taste like something sweet and fruity. With five-inch heels on my feet, I strutted before the full-length bathroom mirror making s****l faces at my image, trying some especially naughty poses. Deciding that my clothes were just a bit too scanty, I added a string of pearls that dangled like tiny stars between my breasts.

The doorbell rang. Who could that be at this hour?

Turning out the lights in the front of the house, I scooted past the windows in the dark and peered through the peephole. Walker was there, but so was someone else.

I cracked the door an inch, whispering, “I’m nearly naked.”

“As you should be,” he said, pushing the door out of my hand with his arm, causing me to stumble back. Following him into the house was a black man, six feet tall, wearing a black skintight T-shirt, covering the kind of muscles I admired on policemen who frequented the sandwich shop in the afternoon. His waist was slim and his hips narrow, and he had one fine round ass I couldn’t wait to squeeze.

“This is Charlie, Glenna.”

Do I hold out my hand to shake, or just stand back and let him try to stop looking at my pearls?

“Nice,” he said, referring to what he saw.

“She’s easy to f**k,” Walker told him.

“What was that?” I asked.

“Easy to f**k, darling,” Walker said running his hands through my golden hair in a gesture quite unlike him. He never called me darling.

“He’s going to f**k me?”

“That is my plan,” Walker said as if I should have understood this without asking questions.

“Do I have some say in this?” I wondered aloud.

“It’s for me, Glenna. I’ll be here.” The natural color of his eyes seemed to alter to a darker hue. “It’s something I want to see and I know you want to experience.”

How could he be that presumptuous and so right on?

“Wish you would have asked,” I said.

“Why, and miss this beautiful objection of yours? Surprises make the most fun.”

Enough of Walker’s games, my attention turned to Charlie, the white-toothed smile, the prizefighter muscles and the telling bulge inside his pants.

“Let’s move into the living room, hon,” Walker pushed me by the arm and I almost stumbled again. These terms of endearment were going to make me puke if he kept on, but I was too fascinated by our houseguest to lodge another protest.

Walker poured three scotch and sodas. I rarely drank but I downed this one in a single gulp, while Charlie sipped his standing, waiting in the middle of the room eyeing me, and Walker did the same from the comfort of his familiar easy chair.

“What would you like to do to him?” my boyfriend asked.

I thought a moment, still trying to get comfortable with these two sets of eyes voyeuring my quandary and my naked chest. I didn’t need the body oil to make my skin glow; I was perspiring freely now, while feeling a certain heat in my groin skyrocket up through my belly to my lips.

“You say we’re going to f**k?” I asked, without turning to Walker, instead focusing my eyes directly on Charlie’s dark chocolate face. He swayed a bit, a sexy sort of come-on I read easily and enjoyed. Walker never made that kind of move. He wasn’t hip, Charlie was.

“Yes, that’s what I want,” Walker answered without any hesitation in his voice.

While thinking of f*****g Charlie, I began to dance. By that time, the CD was over and there was nothing but the background noise of a fire truck in the distance, and the sound of the refrigerator icemaker dropping another load of cubes into the basket. My breasts gravitated toward his dark skin, while my lips savored the promise of our first kiss.

Charlie’s hips began to move with mine, move closer until our breaths crossed and our eyes could stare down the tunnels of green and russet brown in front of our faces. Just dance. Just hip to hip, groin to groin, measure for measure. He must have heard my music, too; his mellow sexy, swaying hips followed my lead as if we’d been practicing for weeks.

Our fingers touched, lightly tickling. His chest brushed mine. My tiny n*****s tightened in reply, feeling both hot and cold: hot like bullets to set his shirt on fire, cold with a chill to send goose bumps down my arms. My lips were in the line of his attack, drawing closer, parting, dispelling breath that smelled of the cinnamon Certs I’d eaten just before the two arrived—perhaps I psychically knew what was coming and was preparing myself. Charlie’s cologne was something I remembered on another boyfriend, but the scent belonged to him, blending with the natural aroma of his body. Grazing my breasts with his chest, he pressed forward until the soft flesh smashed into his muscles. Reaching around my hips he clutched my ass, drawing my mound tightly against that growing bulge.