"You Never Had It"
This is a personal entry, not a writing prompt. It's influenced by just watching the documentary, "You Never Had It: An Evening With Charles Bukowski." I'm kinda having fun. It's day one of my vacation.
So the fourth of July happened this year. Just like it always does.
We went to St. Martin's, visiting a friend of hers who was sailing through the area. Literally, that is: we went out to his boat for an hour or two to chit chat. But I'll discuss that more later.
I met her friend: an older, retired guy who had a lot of money from something. He was a Navy vet and I liked him immediately. We sat in the 95-degree heat under an umbrella too small for the three of us, so my back was baking in the heat until the Earth moved over a bit. Until it did, we talked and laughed and listened to him tell stories. He was sniffing me out even then, before he had much to drink.
The three of us wandered around a little bit, then loaded into his dinghy so we could spend some time on his boat. We bobbed like a cork, lost in a bathtub filled with million-dollar rubber duckies.
We alighted his boat, and he was a gracious host. On our tour he made it a point to indicate that the forward bedroom was nicknamed the Stabbin' Cabin, "though there ain't been much stabbin' in the cabin, if you catch my drift." She and I both laughed.
Up on deck, we swayed back and forth, despite hearing the new-country radio. A couple round, sunburned real estate guys joined us on deck after pulling up in their jet skis. I think one guy was a construction contract manager or something similar. They grabbed a beer, talked about going to dinner that night, then rolled down the steps and back onto their jet-skis.
Every moment on that boat was pleasant. That must have been the life. Eventually we went back to shore. We wandered into a woodworking shop, and she flip-flopped about buying one of those layered woodcut terrain maps, with different levels of elevation indicated with another layer of wood. The guy and I busied ourselves with deciphering a Ben Franklin folding chair as she discussed prices with the shopkeeper. She eventually balked on purchasing the woodcut, perhaps swayed by the knowledge that I could make her one with my own laser cutter, and we had talked about it previously.
A local watering hole was next on the list, and he dug into me then. She had to visit the restroom and instantly he gave me that meat-cleaver stare, his demeanor gaining a layer of fatherly protectiveness, almost a malice. He would cut my balls off if I hurt her, I could tell. That was the subtext to everything he said as she was conveniently absent from the table. Even then, I suppose I didn't care.
She returned, and he instantly code-switched again, back to the garrulous father figure. We were both rolling at his stories - he really was a funny guy - and eventually wandered further down the block to a wine bar, as the distillery was closed to the public.
He retold his stories to impress the polite bartender. I sneaked my credit card to her while he wasn't looking so I could cover the tab that time. He was surprised. I hope he didn't take it wrong. It was just my turn. If he did feel salty about it, it quickly dissolved.
And our time there dissolved as well. We bid him a fond farewell, escorted him back to his dinghy, and went back to her car. I drove us home that time, since she had been drinking along with him all day. The drive was calm and without incident. I think we both really enjoyed one anothers company on that ride back. Being in the car together is something we've done well about 90% of the time. But that other 10% is for another time.
Back at the house, her dogs were anxious and shaking due to the prevalence of neighbourhood fireworks. We calmed the elder dog as best we could. She had invested in a lavender-scented collar and a "thundershirt" compression vest to help her dog stay calm. They worked marginally well, but the fact she had returned to the house was a much more significant help in settling her elder dog's nerves.
We lay down for a "nap." More clothes came off. She put a can of shitty beer in my hand, expecting me to chug it, ostensibly so I'd be in the mood to fuck. I didn't want to put my penis in her, but after mutilating her nipples to her satisfaction she insisted. She was on the rag though, so I couldn't go down on her - which is what I really wanted to do. I'm good at that. She even pushed my hands away, clamoring only for my dick.
After two false starts, we gave up. I wasn't there for that, and my body didn't even attempt to lie. Thanks a lot. Made her feel golden, for sure, and I wasn't feeling much better about that.
The backyard was where the fireworks went off. The sun was almost down, it was past 9 in the evening. We sat in her pergola, apart from one another. For a couple reasons.
That was the beginning of the end. God bless America.