The Boots My Mother Gave Me (18 page)

My hand, trailing with one finger, deliberately traced his body. Starting at the well between his pectoral muscles, I followed that happy little indented trail, brawn dispersing from it in every possible direction. He watched me watch him and how his body reacted. His breathing quickened, his flesh grew taught as I neared his lower abdomen, retracing my steps, with my mouth this time. He pulled me up, turning me onto my back in one effortless motion.

“It’s my turn,” he said, straddling my thighs, sitting back on his heels.

“How about we take turns?” I sat up to meet him, my hands busying themselves on his playground.

“You got your turn, with the massage.” He ran his hands through my hair, kissing my face intermittently, covering all its parts.

“That was professional, business,” I teased.

“I have some
business
of my own,” he said low and seductive, coaxing me to lie back onto the bed, promptly removing every shred of underclothing from my body. His
business
—exploration—he left no part of me unseen, untouched, or untasted. He covered me skillfully from head to toe, front to back. I thought I would just die, sure to erupt from the intensity. He just kept going, fully committed.

“Miah, please,” the words escaped my mouth in a whisper for what seemed the hundredth time, patience never my virtue.

He lifted his head from my body, sitting upright, nestled between my thighs, wiping the moisture from his mouth. I lay there flat out on the bed, my arms limp, my hair scattered, my lips pink and swollen from his devoted attention. My chest heaved with quick, shallow breaths, every nerve fiber of my being stretched to its limit. He covered me, his flesh against mine, his eyes dark, inebriated. “Do you know how many times I’ve had you...in my mind?”

“Not as often as I’ve had you,” I said, my hand stroking his face from his temple to his chin.

He studied my eyes and my mouth as he eased into me. I bit down on my bottom lip, my eyelashes momentarily closed against one another with the size of him, appeased by finally having him inside me. I accepted, meeting his thrust with my own, moaning deep in my throat.

He groaned, his voice low, seething with sex. He stayed with me, his eyes locked on mine, as our bodies followed each other rhythmically, taking turns with the lead. It had been two years since I slept with a man and this was not just any man. Jeremiah Johnson was
the
man. The one I thought about when I pleasured myself in the solitude of my room. And here he dwelled, in the flesh. Our pace remained slow, steady, and strong. Every movement deliberately aware, executed to perfection. I could feel my body growing tense, nearing the point of release.

“Miah,” I moaned breathlessly, my head pushed back into the pillow, my entire body tightening from the waist down. He watched me with anticipation.

“Come for me, baby,” he whispered, his lips wetting mine like a blade of grass in the morning dew.

This man, the things he did to me! My mouth parted as low, intermittent moans escaped, the tension becoming unbearable. My body arched beneath him, into him, against him, any way it possibly could move in its glorious release, before cascading into a state of enchanted relaxation. Refraining momentarily from moving inside me, he allowed me time to fully recuperate. My skin flushed, my body satisfied, a soft smile formed on my lips. He pushed my tousled hair out of my face with his hands. “I wish you could see yourself like this. It’s like nothing else. It’s beautiful, Harley-girl. You’re beautiful.”

“That’s the first time I’ve ever done that,” I confessed, “with a man,” I finished, as an afterthought, a slightly embarrassed giggle escaping me. Orgasms always made me feel like giggling, blissful in their aftermath.

“What?”

“That’s the first time I’ve ever had an orgasm, with a man.”

“So, what else exactly have you had an orgasm with?” He grinned.

I pushed him onto his back playfully, as he took me with him, securing himself inside me. “Now I’m curious. What you look like, when you come.” My smile faded, as my words coupled with sincere intent. I wanted to satisfy him as he had me. Leaning over him, my hair tumbled around his face, my thighs establishing their cadence as I moved against him. “I think about you. When I’m alone,” I said, teasing his lips with my tongue. He tried to cover my mouth with his, but I pulled away flirtatiously, after softly biting his bottom lip.

“How do I measure up?” His hands wound in my hair, he pulled gently, until my mouth hovered over his. “In the flesh?”

I rocked my hips steadily against him, he moaned as I briefly increased the momentum, taking him in at full length. “There’s no comparison.” I pushed myself up off his chest, sitting upright, the motion hitting that delightfully sweet little spot inside me. As I watched him there beneath me, I had never been so turned on.

“Harley,” he groaned.

He closed in, his rhythm steadily picking up speed. Just the thought of him having an orgasm quickly brought me to the same point with rapid intensity. I could feel him growing harder still, a deep guttural moan escaping his throat as he released himself to me. My own insides like liquid heat, quivering, bearing down on him with every contraction.

Our senses hazy, euphoria lingered in the room, in the air, and in the space between. Orgasms do something to people, to the complexion and the spirit, one’s overall aura. That after-sex look, it’s ravishing. And he was glorious, simply stunning. Our eyes fixed on one another, our chests rising and falling in rapid succession.

Years of familiarity allowed us the privilege of remaining in-sync no matter the passage of time. If any two souls were ever meant to be one, we were they. My emotions surfacing, tears knocked at the back of my eyes. Normally I would have attempted to shut them down, calling in my ever-faithful friend, my
almond,
but these tears of the friendly persuasion fell, happy tears. Simultaneously, they trickled down both sides of my face, as I ducked my chin to my chest, diverting my eyes quickly from Jeremiah.

He pulled me to him, rolling onto his side, swiftly guiding my head to the pillow. He propped himself up on one arm, while covering me with the other, his concern growing. I smiled at him purposefully to ease his worry.

“They’re the good tears, happy tears,” I said, wiping at my face, extinguishing the moisture. “I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again.”

“Aw, baby.” He cuddled, pulling the blanket around me. “We’re inseparable. You should know that by now.”

“I know,” I said, but I didn’t really know. No one ever knows anything for certain. “I guess I’m just emotional. I had you for eighteen years, and then I spent the last four without you. And boom, all of a sudden you’re here. I still can’t believe it.” I caressed his face with my hand. “And sex. That can be emotional, too.”

“Making love is emotional.” He caught my hand in his, pressing it to his lips. “You know this wasn’t just sex, right? Nothing’s ever
just
anything with you.”

Uncomfortable with the L-word’s introduction into the conversation, I ridiculed lightly, “How about making whoopee, making bacon, knockin’ da boots?” I giggled. “Why does it always have to be making l-o-v-e,” I spelled it out, rather than actually saying it.

“Knockin’ da boots?” He laughed. “Wasn’t that a song?”

“H-Town,” I replied with the group’s name. “You remember.” I sang the chorus through a wide smile.

“Aw yeah, I liked that song. We should’ve had that on the radio!” He sang out, sending me into a full-fledged laugh, in which he joined. I loved to hear him laugh. He pulled me into him, my back against his chest, his legs wrapped in mine, his arms tightly around the front of me, holding my hand. He kissed me in the curve of my neck before resting his chin on my shoulder, as he spoke soft and low, “I missed you, Harley-girl.”

“I missed you more,” I assured, my eyes heavy with sleep, fully content in his arms.

Two days later, Tuesday, September 11, 2001, the dark hours of the morning found us in what had become our favorite hangout, my bed. We couldn’t get enough of each other. It was impossible. We spent the last two days exploring Maui by day, exploring each other by night. Impulsive and shamelessly needy, we had each other everywhere, in the shower, on the kitchen table, up against the wall, on the bathroom sink and the balcony at sunrise. We slept little, afraid we might miss something, our time limited. My flight back to California was scheduled to depart early that afternoon.

“I want you, I want you, I want you,” I moaned rhythmically, breathlessly through an onslaught of orgasmic relief, his coupled with my own. He collapsed on top of me, both of us physically spent, our chests heaving against one another in hope of finding air. I could feel his heart beat rapidly, as mine kept pace. His body quivered briefly, an aftershock.

Resting his head on my chest, “You got me. I’m all yours,” he said. I ran my fingers through his hair and down the side of his face, feeling the friction of his five o’clock shadow. It felt good in its contrast, his square jaw against the roundness of my breasts, and his coarse stubble against the softness of my skin. He breathed in deep as if preparing to speak. He said nothing, exhaling. Moments later, the words came, “I love you,” he whispered. My response, if in fact I had one, stifled by the ringing of the phone at three in the morning, Hawaii time.

“Hello?” I answered, quickly handing the phone to Jeremiah, the urgency imminent in the man’s tone asking for him.

“Johnson,” he reported. He listened momentarily, sitting up abruptly on the side of the bed, reaching for the television remote.

There it was, breaking news. Planes had flown into the World Trade Center. The Twin Towers ablaze, clouds of black smoke filled the air of lower Manhattan as newscasters frantically gave new insights of information live, on-camera, in real time. The whole country clung to television sets, attempting to make some kind of sense out of the tragic scene.

We sat there on the edge of the bed, my back to his chest, his arms wrapped around my waist, quiet, speechless, for what seemed an eternity. Every minute felt like an hour as new information came in rapid succession. Like a dream, a nightmare, we watched it all unfold.

I
n a flash, he was gone. His recon unit picked him up that morning for their new assignment, Afghanistan. I returned to California, packed Charlene, and drove for Georgia, Pennsylvania as quickly as I could get there. Tragedies have a way of reminding us what’s important in life, redirecting our aspirations.

While the world appeared in a state of full calamity, life at home was strangely encouraging. Dad seemingly found himself in his granddaughter. At two years of age, Megan, my niece, became the apple of his eye. From the moment Mom put her in his arms at the hospital, after it took him a full nine-months to forgive Kat, he was hooked. I never saw him in that light. Thrilled for Kat that Megan might experience her grandfather in a healthy manner, the skeptic in me reared its ugly head, suspicious and unconvinced.

She was the sweetest thing, Megan. Even though not of my own birthing, I considered her mine, as Kat had always been. Kat was a great mom. Concerned with securing a future for herself and Megan, she completed her GED and took night classes at the community college to acquire her prerequisites for fashion design school.

That low-life sperm donor, Joey Harper moved to Philadelphia. He told everyone he took a job in pharmaceutical sales. My guess, he sold pharmaceuticals all right, of the illegal persuasion. He showed up every now and then with a wad of cash in his pocket, as if that excused the past year of missed child support and his absence. Kat defended him vehemently. He was Megan’s dad, and she wouldn’t have anyone talking bad about him, even if it was the truth.

Mom moved swiftly now, enjoying Dad’s civility, determined to
talk some sense
into me for the brief time I visited.

“Harley, I just wish you would start thinking about your future,” she said, standing at the kitchen sink, peeling potatoes for dinner.

“I’d love to Mom, but I’m too busy living in the present.” I took a seat beside Gram at the table, joining her in snapping her green beans.

“I’m proud of you...for getting out of this town. You’ve done more in four years than I’ve done in my lifetime. And I’m thankful for that. I just wish you’d pick something and stick with it.”

“What do you think Gram?” I asked, playfully rolling my eyes.

“I think maybe some things aren’t worth sticking to. She’s young, Marilyn. She’s got plenty of time to figure out what she wants to do,” Gram said.

“I know, Mother, but you know as well as I do how fast time passes. I just want her to start thinking about settling into something, something with security.”

“Security?” Kat questioned, returning from the bathroom with Megan. “You might as well put a wedding band on her finger,” she joked, placing her hands around her neck, mimicking a choking sound.

Megan came to me. “What do you think sweet thing?” I inquired, pulling her onto my lap, showing her how to snap the green beans.

“Aunt Harwey good,” she said, with her limited yet direct, two-year-old vocabulary.

I chuckled, kissing her on the cheek. “I knew I could count on you.”

The front door opened, and Megan turned her head toward the familiar noise. She knew what that meant.
Grampy
was home from work. She jumped down off my lap, meeting him with anticipation. He knelt beside her, handing her his lunch pail, a tradition they had. His farmers, for whom he
carried milk
in the truck he drove, left baked goods for him as a token of thanks. He stored the treats in his lunch pail, carrying them home to Megan. She opened the silver pail, pulling out a bag of chocolate chip cookies, much to her delight. She looked at Grampy, then to the cookies, and then to Kat, standing at the table.

“Just one,” Kat said. “You haven’t had dinner yet.” She walked out of the kitchen.

Megan pulled one cookie from the bag as directed. Dad peeked over his shoulder, clear of Kat, and pulled another cookie out, handing it to Megan. He held his finger up in front of his mouth, “Ssh,” he coaxed, smiling at her.