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From: Mmtwassel@aol.com
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Subject: {ASSM} [rom fest] Twassel: Romance
Date: Sat, 22 Jun 2002 09:10:05 -0400
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Romance 
by Mat Twassel 
==============

"Do it," Jenny whispers in his ear. 

"Your mom will here any minute," David says. 

They're waiting in the off-campus apartment Jenny 
shares with two other girls, but both have already 
gone home for semester break. Jenny's mom is due to 
pick her up. Overdue. Jenny's backpack is sitting 
by the door. She and David have been kissing while 
they wait. Kissing and touching. Three weeks since 
they've met, and though they haven't made love yet, 
they've done almost everything else.  Three weeks 
since they've met, and now they're looking at a 
four week separation.

"Come on," Jenny says, tugging him towards the 
overstuffed chair. "We've got plenty of time. We'll 
hear the car." 

David breaks free. "What if we don't?" 

"Come on, you fraidy cat," Jenny says, sitting back 
in the chair and hooking her legs over the padded 
arms. A mischievious smile crosses her lips. She 
flips her skirt up and pulls her panties aside. 
"Come on. My mom's a slow driver." Jenny's cautious 
finger tests an inner slope of secret skin. 
"Especially in this weather," she coos.  "All wet 
and slippy.  You have at least sixty seconds. Don't 
you want something to remember me by?" 

She's just too insistent. Too irresistible. There 
she is, opening herself. David kneels between her 
legs. "Oh, yes," Jenny croons. "Stick your lovely 
tongue into my cunt and make me come. I need you so 
bad. That's it, honey, that's it. Do it. Oh, yes. 
Do it!"


"Call me as soon as you get home," he'd said some 
twenty minutes later. Her mom was just pulling up.

Jenny gave him her "don't worry" look.

Hugging her, David said, "Really. It might be icy 
out there. Wet and slippery."

"I told you, my mom drives like a turtle," Jenny 
assured him. "Even in dry ice Mrs. Stevens never 
speeds." She kissed him one last time and, still 
kissing him, reached down the front of his pants. 
"Mm, talk about wet and slippy."  And then she was 
off.  

Hard to forget that impish smile. That flash of 
naughtiness in her eyes when she teased him. When 
she told him what she was going to do with him once 
she got back from .... He remembers kissing her 
goodbye, the sweetness of her center still on his 
tongue. He remembers her running out to her mom's 
car, her honey brown hair swaying, her frisky skirt 
jouncing, a skyfull of lonley snowflakes drifting 
down. He remembers the sweet lewd urgency in her 
voice when she'd said, "Do it." Before she was an 
hour from campus he'd sent her six emails, each one 
naughtier than the last.

It wasn't the ice or the snow.  A monstrous
tire from one of those huge pieces of earthmoving 
equipment came loose from the flatbed and bounced 
across the Interstate. Numb with grief, David did 
little the second semester but think of Jenny, 
study bones and muscle groups, and swim endless 
laps in the college pool. Abductor magnus, 
gracilis, semitendinosus. Everything drifted 
together. Everything fell apart. Somehow he was able 
to pass his finals, and then he went home. 

"I know you're hurting, but you've got to do 
something," his mother told him after a week in 
which he'd never left the house. She arranged 
through a neighbor for David to get a job as a 
lifeguard down at the lake, a thirty minute bike 
ride away. On the first day of summer David 
reported for duty.

A thunderstorm threatened but for now there was 
sun. The beach was not crowded, just a few mothers 
with toddlers digging holes in the sand, and one 
blanket of three pretty college girls. Chet, the 
head lifeguard, gave David some instruction and a 
whistle, pointed out the lifeguard perch, yanked 
the starter of his rescue boat, and set off across 
the water. Slathered with suntan oil, David sat 
under the red and white umbrella, watched the 
swimmers, and toyed with the whistle. He swung the 
sturdy cord around his finger, and for three or 
four minutes nothing much happened. Languid waves 
lapped the shore. The toddlers dug in the sand, the 
mothers read their novels, the college girls 
unpacked a picnic basket, and the whistle's lanyard 
wrapped around David's wrist. In the far distance, 
storm clouds continued to gather. 

Maybe it was the freshening breeze which brought 
the college girls' voices to David's ears. At first 
he couldn't make out individual words, just the 
chirp of talk mingling with the tinny jangle of 
their radio. Two of the girls were spreading suntan 
lotion on each other. The third girl got up 
abruptly. Her nimble fingers adjusted the bottom of 
her sleek black swimming suit even as she was 
walking into the water. Something about her--her 
walk, the sway of her honey colored hair, the 
innocent swing of her arms, the tight grace of her 
girlish hips--reminded him of Jenny. This girl was 
medium small, like Jenny, slim, gentle, shy, full 
of good-nature, of mirth, of irresistible 
naughtiness. Okay, that was Jenny. This girl could 
be anything. Ilium, ischium, pubis, David muttered 
to himself. The girl was up to her knees now, still 
strolling out. David admired the shape and movement 
of her shoulders, the light playing upon her back, 
the snug yet dreamy dip of her bottom, and most of 
all that scant slip of space between her upper 
thighs. Sacrum, pelvic inlet, pubic symphysis, 
David chanted to himself as a fresh surge of lake 
water flowed between her legs flooding the special 
place. David felt a buzzy tingling in his groin and 
around his ears. He stole a glance back to the 
toddlers and mothers. When his eyes returned to the 
college girl, she was swimming, going straight out 
in smooth easy strokes, and sea gulls were 
shrieking. On the beach, the two remaining girls, 
skin glistening, had untied their top straps but 
hooked them in such a way that their breasts 
remained covered at the crucial points. A crinkle 
of radio static pinched the air.

"Bananas, can you believe it. Who would bring 
bananas to the beach?"

"Blow job practice?"

"Steffie? Ha! Steffie's never sucked a cock in her 
life."

The girls laughed and looked out across the lake. 
David looked out, too. Calm water, no sign of the 
girl. David stood, brushing away a fringe of beach 
umbrella. Little ripples wrinkled in the distance. 
Nothing else--just the faint buzz of Chet's little 
boat way way out, skimming across flat water. And 
yes, there she was, the girl, just a speck, more 
shadow than substance, swimming steadily out 
towards the boat. Obviously she was a strong 
swimmer. Still, that was too far for safety. Maybe 
she was going to meet Chet. It would be 
embarrassing to blow the whistle when she was just 
swimming out to meet the head lifeguard. Definitely 
it seemed she meant to meet him. But if so, Chet's 
boat was going awfully fast, almost bouncing. David 
could hear the hull slapping the water. He could 
hear the pfft of Chet's beer can opening, the 
gurgle of beer going down Chet's throat, the smooth 
suck of Steffie's breath as she glided through the 
water, and then the dull crack--Steffie's head 
glancing Chet's boat. His own head ached with the 
thump of it, his ears rang, and he was blowing his 
whistle. Blowing and blowing, but no sound was 
coming out. It wouldn't work. The air was dead, and 
Chet's boat was veering away, skipping silently 
across the lake. David's feet churned the sand, his 
thighs chopped into the water, he pushed off, 
stroking hard, arms gathering in the liquid 
distance, body lengths of blue roping behind him. 
He sped along the water's skin, silent as light 
gulping empty space, but there was no way he'd be 
in time, no way--that crash was just too hard. 
Still he swam, wrenching himself through the water, 
six strokes for each sliver of breath, a glance, 
six more strokes, six more, six more, six more, and 
there she was, a miracle--he almost collided with 
her, but her body was limp, bobbing face down upon 
the water, bleeding badly, obviously unconscious, 
maybe dead. David grabbed her, flipped her, hugged 
her hard to him, hoping the squeeze would shock her 
into breathing. He squeezed a second time, a third. 
She stayed slack. No cough. No sputter of life. 
Gripping her in the crook of his arm, he side- 
stroked fast for shore.

A crowd had gathered. Up on the access road an 
ambulance light was flashing. Someone must have had 
a cell phone. But could they have responded so 
quickly? Could his swim in have taken so long? The 
paramedics were rushing out, taking the body. David 
stood in the thigh-deep water, but only for a 
moment. He wanted to walk in, but his legs wouldn't 
take him there. His knees buckled. He sank. Water 
coasted over his head. He snorted. He stretched 
out. He lay there for a moment--a perfect dead 
man's float--then stood again and waded in. The 
flashing light was speeding away. David shook his 
head, trying to clear his ears. It wasn't working. 
He shook his head again. The beach was empty. 
Everyone was up at the road. David turned, stood 
there, staring out across the empty water. Way out 
it looked like it might be raining. Lightning 
jigged. David listened, but the crash wouldn't 
come. 

On the college girls' beach blanket a banana peel 
was browning in the morning sun. David picked it 
up. He was holding it when one of the mothers 
appeared holding the child's hand. "Is she ...?" 
David tried to ask, but the words stuck. The woman 
looked at him with sad eyes. Tentatively she 
reached out. David handed her the banana peel. She 
said something. "I'm sorry," David said. "I'm 
sorry. I can't hear you." Then he collapsed.



"Does it hurt?" David's mother typed on her laptop 
keyboard later that evening. She and David were 
sitting side by side on the hospital bed. 

David read the words. He considered the question. 
"No," he said. So odd to say something and not know 
what was coming out. Like talking underwater. He 
was sure his words were unsteady. Wobbly. 
Waterlogged. No way to know.

"The doctors think it could be shock," David's mom 
typed. Her fingers flitted silently over the keys. 
Toy trains of letters chugged across the screen. 
"They think that in a few days most likely it will 
go away. They'll keep you here overnight for 
observation. See how you are in the morning. Maybe 
after you've had some rest. Is there anything I can 
get you?"

"Like what?" David said.

Evidently she understood. "Anything," she typed. 
"You name it."

"I lost my whistle," David said.

"It's not your fault." She stood up, setting the 
laptop to the side, and stroked David's head. She 
pulled him harder against her and patted his head 
and caressed his ears. It felt strange. Like TV 
with the sound off. Like he wasn't quite there. 
Like a dream. He wondered if she was waiting for 
something to happen. Waiting for him to do 
something. He put his arms around her. They hugged 
that way for a long time.

"I'm going to get something from the cafeteria," 
David's mom typed. "Can I bring you anything? A 
sandwich? Some soda? An apple?"

"No, thank you. Not right now." 

Twenty minutes later she was back. She opened the 
laptop. "It's really storming outside," she typed. 
"Are you feeling any better? Any difference?"

David shook his head.

"What is it like?" 

"It's like nothing."

"Nothing at all?"

"Pretty much. A little like being underwater."

"So you feel a pressure?"

"Maybe a little pressure, but mostly nothing. A 
sort of airy emptiness."

Actually it felt like being between Jenny's thighs. 
But how could he say that to his mother? How could 
he say that it felt like her thighs were squeezing 
his ears while he was eating her? Her hands were in 
his hair and her sweetness was in his mouth and her 
muffled moans were way way off in the distance, in 
heaven.

There were more words on the laptop screen. "Out in 
the hall just now I saw one of the doctors. She 
wants to meet you. She wants to thank you."

David looked up. "Thank me? Why? Which doctor?"

His mother shrugged. "I don't know his name," she typed.

"I thought you said it was a her. The doctor who 
wants to meet me."

"Not the doctor." His mother's paused. Her fingers 
wiggled over the keys. "The girl."

"What girl?" 

"The girl you saved. She's still in the hospital."

"She's alive?"

"Oh, honey, didn't you know? Ginny Stevens. Room 
211."

David stood up, shaking his head. His whole body 
shook.

His mother said something. Her eyes flashed with 
worry. David sat down.

"I guess she's doing pretty good," his mother 
typed. "I could see if it's all right if we go over 
there. Do you want to do that?"

"I don't know," David mumbled. "Maybe later."

"Okay. You were very brave. I'm going to go home 
now. I hope I didn't leave any windows open. I'll 
be back first thing in the morning. Is there 
anything you want me to bring?"

"I thought they said I was going home tomorrow?"

"You are. But just in case. A change of clothes for 
the trip home?"

"I guess."

"Okay. Maybe I should stay."

"Go," David said. "I'll be fine. I feel fine. Don't 
worry."

"Should I leave the laptop? In case you have to 
talk to someone?"

"No. Take it. I'll be okay."

About to close the laptop lid, his mom paused. "I 
talked to your ..." She paused again. "Dad."

"What did he say?"

"He'll check back first thing in the morning. I 
told him you'd be fine. I told him he should wait. 
He wouldn't get a plane anyway. I didn't know what 
else to say. I told him that you saved the girl. 
He's very proud of you. I'm very proud of you. I 
should go now. Let you get some sleep. It's very 
late."

She closed the laptop. Nearly opened it again, but 
instead she opened her purse and handed David a 
banana. "You never know when hunger is going to 
strike," she mouthed.

"Thank you," David said. He watched his mother 
leave the room. He set the banana on the bedside 
table. He lay back on the bed on top of the 
hospital covers and closed his eyes. He tried to 
remember the feel of her in the water. The slack 
weight in his arms. Dead weight. But alive. He'd 
saved her. She was alive. She wanted to see him. 
211. Was that it? 

David got out of bed. Maybe she'd like the banana. 
He took it. Cautiously he stepped into the hall. A 
center island, but no nurses about. Hallways 
leading out in several directions. Stepping 
purposefully, David set off.

Fifteen minutes later he found the right wing. 202, 
203, 204. Only a few doors to go. 205. He risked 
looking in. An old man on his back on the bed. 
Tubes coming out his nose. Tubes on his wrist. 
Pouches of fluid suspended above. 206, 207, 208. 
Steffie. Steffie in 211. He slowed as he 
approached. Last door in that section, then the 
hall veered away, but the door to 211 was closed. 

"Do it," a voice whispers in his ear. It sounds 
like Jenny. David shakes his head. He stands at the 
door. He listens. He listens as hard as he can, but 
he doesn't hear anything. His fingers touch the 
handle. He feels the click but doesn't hear it. The 
door opens the tiniest slit. Inside it is dark. 
Completely black. He can't see anything. "I love 
you," he hears. "I love you so much." 

Her voice is soft and sweet and liquidy. David 
drinks in the sound. He is about to open the door 
fully, to step into the room, when he hears the 
almost moist nuzzle of a zipper crawling open. He 
hears the rustle and scrape of cotton cloth on 
secret skin. He hears a low moan. A sweet sigh. A 
hiss of breath. "Oh, Chet," she says. "Oh, Chet, 
you're so big." And then the soft slurp. The kiss 
and tickle of tongue against penis tip. Plump lips 
nibbling the tight knot. A wash of slow soft 
sucking sounds. Pleasure humming in her throat as 
her hand jerks the stiffened flesh. The rasp and 
huff of Chet's breath. His fingertips caressing her 
cheeks. The syrupy squish of sex seep mixing with 
saliva. Juicy friction. Faster. Harder. More. Oh 
God. Oh fuck. Oh sweet fucking God.

David steps back into the hall. The fire alarm is 
right there. The blare is glorious.



She slips into his room. 

"Hello?" he says.

She steps nearer the bed. A foot away she stops. In 
the dim light David can just make out the white 
bandage circling her head. 

"Did I wake you?" she whispers.

"Maybe," David says. "I'm not sure."

"I thought maybe you'd be up. With all the noise 
and stuff. Someone said lightning must have made 
the fire alarm go off."

"Oh?"

"But that's right--they said you couldn't hear. 
That you'd lost your hearing. So I guess it makes 
sense that you'd sleep through it."

"I guess it would." 

"But you can hear now?"

"I can hear you."

"So you know who I am, right?"

"I think so." 

"I just wanted to thank you."

"Sure." 

"And I'm sorry you got hurt."

"How about you? Are you okay?"

"I'm pretty good. A slight concussion. I can 
probably go home tomorrow."

"Me, too."

"Well, I'm sorry I woke you. I just wanted to ... 
well, I guess I told you. Thank you."

"Wait. Can you stay for a minute?"

"Sure."

"You're a good swimmer."

"So are you, from what I hear. Lucky for me."

"Do you think maybe when you're better you might 
want to go swimming sometime? With me?"

"Sure. I think I'd like that."

"Good. I'd like that, too."

"I'm really glad you rescued me. I'm mean I'm glad 
it was you. Not that I'm not glad just to be 
rescued but ..."

"Would you like a banana?" 

"A banana?"

"Yeah. I have one. Here on the table. In case I get 
hungry. But I thought maybe you might be hungry."

"I am a little hungry."

"Me, too."

"So maybe we could share it?"

"Yeah. Share it. Would you peel it?"

"Sure. Should I peel it all at once, or a little at 
a time?"

"What do you normally do?"

"A little at a time, normally, unless I'm in a big 
hurry."

"Then let's do it that way. A little at a time."

A little at a time, she peels the banana. She feeds 
David a bite. She peels the skin back a little 
more. Then she takes a bite herself. She sits on 
the bed, and they share the banana. Finally it is 
gone.

"I'll put the peel up here, so no one will slip on 
it," she says.

"That would be good," David says.

She sets the empty banana peel on David's bedside 
table. Then she lies down on the bed next to him. 
They hold each other. After a while they fall 
asleep.

When they wake up they will kiss.

============== 
Romance 
by Mat Twassel

 
How "Romance" came to be written.  Let's see.  When I was 
little I'm not sure which I was afraid of more, water or 
girls.  Water came first.  I had scads of swimming 
lessons, but none of them took.  Invariably I sank.  Not 
enough fat, too much bone and muscle.  That's what they 
said.  In truth I wasn't afraid of water, not 
consciously, but being in it gave me no pleasure.  And 
maybe deep down I was afraid of it, but on the surface 
that wasn't it!  It was just that I'd sink.  I still 
sink.

Girls came later.  In junior high and into high school 
not being able to swim was a major disadvantage, because 
everyone hung out at the beach during the summer.  All 
that innocent skin and sun.  Teasing and checking each 
other out and acting cool.  But if you couldn't swim to 
the raft you might as well not go.  Probably I could have 
made it to the raft.  Maybe it would have been worth the 
risk. Make it to the raft or drown trying.  Yeah!  I 
didn't see it that way back then.  I stuck to other 
sports, and at night when it was too dark for baseball 
and some of the couples were sneaking of to the quarry 
for beer and skinny dipping and perhaps even sex,  I 
stayed in my room and played seasons of Spinner Baseball 
and listened to Top 40 radio and made slightly naughty 
sketches of Julie and Beth and Dottie and Linda and did 
the things lonely boys  do.  I did a lot of that.

Oh, right--I shouldn't blame my whole miserable social 
life on not being able to swim.  In reality back then I 
never connected the two.  Even if I'd been a fearless 
swimmer, I'd probably have been shy around girls.  Too 
shy to speak to them much less ask them on a date.  I 
mean, what if they'd said yes? Yikes!

All this is of course long in the past.  I still can't 
swim, but sometimes I have wonderful dreams about 
swimming.  My swimming dreams are generally good dreams; 
my golfing dreams are generally bad dreams, though I'm a 
pretty good golfer.  Figure that out.  Anyway, I'm still 
a little shy about talking to girls, but lucky for me I 
met a girl in college who was ... well, who was 
everything.  Who is everything.  I couldn't resist her. I 
can't resist her.  Ironically, Laura is a wonderful 
swimmer, and of all sports, swimming is what she loves 
best.  So that's the background.  What I've tried to do 
here is write a story about a guy who is a great swimmer, 
a story which more or less follows the boy meets girl, 
boy loses girl, boy gets girl formula, a story which 
features a swimming date.  Ah! That romantic life I 
managed to miss--that was my target.  Whether this story 
hits or misses is for you to judge.  Let me know.

--Mat Twassel

PS  If you liked this story you might want to check out 
my new calendar website.  http://calendar.atEROS.com       
Every day there's a new piece of erotica. It's by 
subscription, but the price is very modest and Fridays 
are always free.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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