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Message-ID: <37661asstr$1028434202@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Mmtwassel@aol.com
Subject: {ASSM} Mat Twassel: Bird Watching in French Lick 
Date: Sun,  4 Aug 2002 00:10:02 -0400
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<1st attachment, "birdwatch.txt" begin>

   Please visit Mat's Erotic Calendar at:
   http://Calendar.atEROS.com

============================
Bird Watching in French Lick
by Mat Twassel
============================

The weekend in French Lick was my dad's idea.  Rick and 
I were at my dad's house in the suburbs for a late supper,  
Coquilles St. Jacques, one of my dad's specialties--he'd come 
up with these really huge scallops, exquisitely tender, 
bathed in butter.  There were also some delicious noodles 
and that crinkly salad I never liked.

"I always try to get Ann to put a drop of tobasco on it," my 
dad told Rick.  "It's that little sting that really ..."

"I like these just the way they are," I said.  "Why should I 
mess with perfection?"

Rick just nodded, making no effort to reach for the tobasco 
bottle.  Rick likes things bland.

"So how are your two love birds doing?" my dad asked.  "The 
marriage is almost two years old, right?"

"Three weeks from Wednesday," I said.

"Still on that 'fast track to nowhere'?" my dad asked Rick.  
That was what Rick had said about our jobs, our lives, the 
last time my dad has asked two or three months ago.  Rick 
meant it as a little joke, a touch of irony; but, in fact, 
our work loads were immense--as a result we seldom saw each 
other.

"There's a song about us," I said, "Law and Marriage, Law 
and Marriage, go together like a headless cabbage."

"Hey," Rick said, "I'm lucky I could get out here at all 
tonight."

"Easy, boy," my dad broke in.  "Relax.  You two need some 
time off together.  If I can see that, anyone can."

"We're OK, Dad," I said. "A couple more months of this 
grind ..."

"No, really," my dad said.  "You should enjoy each other 
while you're young.  I know what I'm talking about."

"We try to," Rick said.

"What I mean is, get away with each other.  A friend of 
mine, an ex-colleague, has this condo in French Lick.  He's 
always after me to spend a weekend down there.  Enjoy 
nature, peace, solitude, away from all this ... noise.  I'm 
certain he wouldn't mind if you two went in my stead.  There 
a golf course, horseback riding, and a spa--I understand it's 
a tad dilapidated, but my friend says the scenery is 
terrific, quaint, historic, rustic, um ... bucolic?"

I was sure Rick wouldn't go for it.  He'd been working seven 
day weeks for the past five months.  Twelve sometimes 
fourteen hour days.  Often when he got home, first thing 
he'd do is plug in his laptop--connect to his office or the 
client's.

"French Lick?" Rick said,  "Isn't that where Larry Bird grew 
up?"

"Exactly!" my father said.  "Home town of Larry Bird, the 
best basketball player since ..."

"Well, he's no Jordan," Rick grumbled, "And he's no Magic 
Johnson, but I guess he was the best white basketball 
player since ..."

"Right!" my dad agreed.  "So you should check out his home 
town.  See where he grew up, where he went to school."

"Maybe," Rick said.

"No 'maybe,'" my dad said.  "Just do it!  I'll call Josh 
now, set it up." He moved away from the table.  "Some day 
people will be coming to this little burg--check out where 
our cute little redhead grew up, huh, Annie?"  He rustled 
his hand gently through my hair on his way towards the 
telephone.

While Dad was making the call, Rick had second thoughts.  "I 
don't know," he said.  "Maybe you and your dad could go.  I 
just have so much ..."

"So much shit," I said.  "We're going!  You can shoot hoops 
with Larry Bird."

"I'm sure he doesn't live there anymore," Rick said.  He 
gave me a glum smile.

My dad came back to the table to tell us it was all 
arranged--three weekends from now.  "Josh will e-mail you 
directions, where to find the key.   All the good stuff.  
Think of it as a second honeymoon."

I hadn't seen my dad this happy in a long time, maybe not 
since before Mom died.  That was about seven years ago, my 
first year at college.  

After supper Dad led us into his den.  

"We've got to be going pretty soon," Rick said.  "Got a few 
work things to wrap up before morning."  

"I know the feeling," my dad said.  "But sit for just a 
minute.  The work's not going to run away.  I've got some 
good brandy."

"I'm not much for brandy," Rick said.

"Well, Pepsi, then."  My dad went into the kitchen.  Rick 
started rummaging through the silver seaman's chest which 
contained my dad's record collection.

"Your dad should get a CD," Rick told me.  "These things 
are ..."

"Antiques?" my dad said.  He handed Rick a tall soda glass.  
"Those LPs were actually my father's.  He did love music.  
I've inherited some of that."

"Yeah, but the fidelity on the CDs ..." Rick said.

"You're probably right," my dad said. "But I like the idea 
of the needle riding those grooves, making the music come 
out."

My dad pulled a record from the collection and stuck it on 
the turntable.  "Someday this is going to be a lost art," he 
said as he adroitly placed the tone-arm right where he 
wanted it.

We listened to the tune, scratchy, a jaunty, good-time beat 
belying something essentially sad.  "That's Billy Banks and 
the Rythmakers,"  my dad said as the song ended.  "'Who's 
Sorry Now,' I think it's called."

"Nice," Rick admitted.  He studied the record jacket.  "This 
Billy Banks, is that a man or a woman?"

"Good question," my dad said, "But does it really matter?"  

Dad leafed through the silver chest, pulled out another 
album.  "Try this one," he told Rick.  "You put it on--track 
four, I think.  Isn't there something sexy about doing it 
yourself?"

"What if I scratch it?" Rick said.

"Wouldn't be the first time," my dad answered.  "Part of the 
thrill."

The song started. Peggy Lee singing "How Long Has This Been 
Going On."

"Not Nine Inch Nails," Rick said when it was over. "But I 
like it.  Is this the stuff you listened to when you were a 
kid?"

"Nope, I was a Beatle fan. Stones.  Led Zep.  Maybe some 
Dylan for spice."

"Hey, we still listen to that stuff."

"You can still listen to Peggy Lee, too."

Rick spent an hour picking through Dad's old records.  He 
seemed to be entranced.  I sat through a few songs and then 
wandered into the next room, the library.  I was looking at 
some of the old pictures--me as a kid.  I stared at those 
photos and hadn't the slightest recollection of what I was 
thinking in those days.  I looked happy, but I don't 
remember being happy.  They could have been photographs of 
someone else.  I felt a hand on my shoulder, and when I 
turned, I was startled to see it was my dad.  I guess I'd 
been expecting it to be Rick.

"Just looking at your old books," I blurted.  I don't know 
why I didn't want to admit I was looking at the photographs.  
"Thought maybe I'd find something to read for French Lick.  
Got any recommendations?"

"That's a tough one," my dad said. "What kind of books do 
you like?"

I admitted I hadn't been reading much lately.  "If you were 
going to French Lick for a weekend," I said, "what book 
would you bring for yourself?"

My dad thought for a minute.  Then he went to a lower shelf 
and pulled out a book with a dark green dust jacket.  "I'm 
not sure this is a good book for a girl--pardon me--woman," he 
said handing it to me.  

"The Followed Man," I read, "Thomas Williams."

"He died a couple of years ago," my dad said.  "Of his 
novels, this was my favorite.  I've read it several times."

"You must really like it," I said.

"Or else I keep forgetting what it's about." Dad chuckled.

"What is it about?" I asked. "Not a mystery?"

"It's about a man's life after his wife and child have 
died," my dad said.  "This journalist, well ... I guess I don't 
remember it all that well."  

I looked at my dad.  He looked as if he might be about to 
cry.

"I'd like to read it," I said.  I hugged him.  We held each 
other for a long minute, so that he could cry if he wanted 
to.

He stepped back then.  "It's a good book for the woods or 
the wilderness," he said, "but I don't know if this is the 
book for you." He paused.  "There are some sexual parts ..."

I had to laugh.  "Daddy, I know about sexual parts."  As I 
was saying this I realized I'd slipped into a little-girl 
voice.

"I know you do, sweetheart," my dad said.

"If it'll make you feel any better, I'll read the sexual 
parts with my eyes closed."

My dad laughed.  We hugged each other again.

"You know, at dinner I was thinking ..." I stopped.

"What were you thinking?" my dad asked.

What I had been about to say was that the scallops reminded 
me very much of sexual parts, specifically of the taste of 
Rick's penis--buttery soft and succulent, a flavor fresh of 
sea and earth and something else, something unnamable.

"I was just thinking what a wonderful meal that was, and how 
sad that Mom couldn't be with us." I felt a tinge of guilt 
for making this up, though the sentiments felt true.

"I know, honey," my dad said, and he hugged me harder.  Now 
I felt like I was going to cry.  When my dad started to 
break away, I held him for a moment longer.

As Rick and I were about to leave, my dad handed me the 
book.  "Don't want to forget The Followed Man," he said.  
"Oh, and I have something else."  He offered a small, worn 
pouch of soft leather.  "My old field glasses," Dad said. 
"They're small, but I think you'll find them more than 
potent enough for bird watching." He winked.

"Your dad's a pretty neat guy," Rick said as we were driving 
back towards the city.

I squeezed Rick's thigh.  "Yeah," I said, "but I think he 
must be lonely."

"Well, he's got all those neat records," Rick said.  "And 
tons of books.  What was that one he gave you, The Lonely 
Man?"

"The Followed Man," I said.  I told Rick about my dad having 
read it three times.

"Must be good," Rick said.

"He says he keeps forgetting the details."

"That's what happens when you get older."

"My dad is not 'older.'"

"He's older than us.  Look what he does all day.  Sits 
around listening to old records and reading books he knows 
by heart."

"That's not a bad life," I said half-heartedly.  "I mean, 
what do we do all day?"

"Well," Rick said, "I wouldn't say we're ready yet for 
Billy Baker and the Rhythm Makers. We've got our work.  
We've got each other ..."

"Is that right?" I said, taking my hand off Rick's thigh.  
"And it's Rhythmakers, not Rhythm Makers."

During the long quiet I thought about my dad.  I wondered 
what he was doing right then.  Probably putting the dishes 
away.  Probably thinking about Rick and me driving home.  
Maybe he was thinking about us, about whether we were 
talking about the dinner, about him.  These thoughts made me 
sad.

"Do you think my dad has anything to look forward to?" I 
asked Rick as we entered the city.

"Like what?" Rick asked.

"I don't know," I said.

"He's probably got plenty to look back upon."

"Yes, but how important is that?"

"I think it's pretty important," Rick said.

"What kind of things do you look back upon?" I asked.

Rick thought for a moment.  I watched his hands on the 
steering wheel.  I liked watching his hands.  His fingers 
seemed the perfect size and shape.  I could tell he'd come 
up with an answer, but that he didn't want to say it.

"What?" I said.  "I won't bite you for it, even if it's 
something like having sex with some girlfriend before you 
met me."

"As a matter of fact, I was thinking about the first time we 
made love," Rick said.

"In my apartment on Indiana Avenue?"

"Right," Rick said.

"What about it?" I asked.

"About how good it was," Rick said.

I put my hand back on Rick's thigh.

"About how wonderfully fortunate I felt ... to be inside you.

"About how hot and warm and wet and tight you were," Rick 
continued.

"Hot and warm?" I said, stressing the "and."

"Hot inside, and warm everywhere else," Rick said.

"You were a sweet boy," I said.

"I remember I was worried about your landlord's cat."

"About Celeste?  What about her?"

"That she didn't like me. That while we were making love 
she'd jump on my back and claw me to shreds."

I laughed.  "Celeste was a very possessive creature."  I 
scratched my nails along the denim of Rick's trousers. 
Closer and closer to the bulge.

"She did bite my toes sometimes," Rick said.

"Oh, that naughty Celeste."  I was rubbing the bulge now, 
soft circling strokes.

"Probably a good thing," Rick said.  "Probably  kept me from 
coming too soon."

Rick parked the car, and we took the garage elevator up.  
"Maybe we should get a cat," I said, leaning against Rick, 
nuzzling.  "A little kitten, a cute little sex kitten?"  I 
was thinking about running my hand down his front, maybe 
slipping inside.  I was wondering if I dared.

"Didn't your dad have a dog?" Rick asked.  The comment came 
out of nowhere.

"No," I said.  "We never had a dog."

"Oh," Rick said.  "I guess I'm confused."  He unlocked the 
door.  Without a moment's hesitation, he strode to his 
laptop and plugged it in.    

"Are you going to be long?"  I was standing next to him with 
my front pressed against his elbow, a breast caressing his 
ear.

"Why?" Rick said, "Do you want to use my machine?"

I took a shower, got ready for bed.  Rick was still at it.  
I got under the covers but couldn't sleep.  I started 
reading The Followed Man. It was good, but thoughts of my 
dad distracted me.  I turned off the light.  I started 
touching myself, but my heart wasn't in it.  I fell asleep 
wondering whether my dad touched himself, and what thoughts 
he had when he did--were they thoughts of some past pleasure 
or were they fantasies about some sensuous future?  Or was 
his mind just a sleepy blank until his fingers produced 
those little jolts of empty ecstasy?  I thought about my 
dad's hands, the way he might stroke himself, but my mind 
refused to picture it, at least not precisely--and in the end 
the image that came into my mind wasn't my dad at all; it 
was Rick, smoothing his perfect hands along the fur of a red 
puppy dog.

For a few days Rick actually seemed excited about the French 
Lick trip.  I convinced him to schedule a couple of vacation 
days--we could make a four day weekend out of this second 
honeymoon.  We planned to leave Thursday right after work--if 
we beat the rush hour swarm out of the city, we'd be in 
French Lick before midnight.

Wednesday night Rick delivered the bad news. "Korhorn has 
some emergency in New York--they've asked me to hold the 
fort."

"Does that mean we're not going?" I said.  I felt weary with 
disappointment, that heavy emptiness.

"No," Rick insisted.  "We can still go. I've just got to 
hang around here an extra day or two."

"You've got that damn laptop," I said, "Can't you use that?"

Rick said there might be the need of some meetings.  "Face 
to face stuff. It's all up in the air, but the bottom line 
is I've got to be here Friday.  I can leave for French Lick 
Saturday, right after my run.  How's that sound?"

Rick held me sweetly, sorrowfully.  "Here's what we should 
do," he said.  "You drive down there Thursday, after work, 
just like we planned.  I'll rent a car and join you sometime 
Saturday.  That way you'll have some free time without me in 
your hair."

I had to laugh at this.  "Since when have you been in my 
hair?" 

"I can return the rental in French Lick, and we can drive 
back together Monday night?  How's that sound?"  Rick kissed 
me then, pecking kisses all over my face and eyelids.

I started to say something, I'm not sure what. I'd just 
opened my mouth to say "I ..." and Rick swallowed my tongue.

"Couldn't you skip your run on Saturday?" I asked Rick 
later.  He was pushing into me from behind, a millionth of 
an inch at a time.  "That wayv..."

"No," he said firmly.  All at once I was filled--there was 
nothing left to say, nothing left to decide.

***

	As I drove down to French Lick Thursday evening, I 
thought about Rick's running.  It was running more than work 
that took him away from me. Rick had always worked late.  
But in the first months of our marriage, we shared the early 
morning hours, sleepy good-morning cuddles and fucks, and 
then we'd shower together, long, seriously silly showers 
often leading to more sex.  I'd feel deliciously satisfied 
all morning and well into the afternoon.  By the time Rick 
got home at seven or eight or nine that night, I'd be keyed 
up with anticipation;  I'd greet him with kisses and a body 
wanton and wet with desire. Sometimes we'd make love before 
and after dinner.  Those were the first few months.  

In the fall I went to Dallas for a three day seminar.  The 
morning after I got back, I reached for Rick and he was 
already getting dressed.  "I thought I'd do a little running 
today," he said.  He'd been on the track team in college, a 
long distance runner.  "You don't want me to get flabby, do 
you?"  

"You're not flabby," I said, reaching for him; but he was 
out of reach.  

I thought it was just going to be a one-time thing, but Rick 
ran every morning, even weekends. 

One Saturday, a wonderfully sunny early November morning,  I 
tried running with him. We'd jogged together a few times 
during our dating days, three or four laps around the 
cemetery back at school, and then some sweaty petting in the 
shade of the tombstones. "This will be fun," I thought, as 
we set off along the lakefront.  I was hoping we'd find 
something like a cemetery along the way, although I knew it 
was a little chilly for grave-side snuggling.  Still, I was 
ready for anything if the opportunity presented itself.  But 
Rick spurted right off.   I'm in pretty good shape, but 
there was no way I could keep up.  "It's too hard on my legs 
to go so slow," Rick admitted.

"Slow!" I said, huffing and puffing after less than a mile.  
"This is ridiculous. This is like lightning." 

"I'm used to doing sixes and we're doing eights."

"Before we were married you didn't mind eights."

"I had more time then," Rick said.  "If we do eights now, I 
won't get in enough miles."

"Enough miles for what?" I asked.

"Enough miles for me," he said.

"Couldn't we just have sex?" I said.

"Running is like sex," Rick said.

I'm sure that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard, but I 
had no answer for it.  Rick continued to get up  at five 
o'clock every morning, and within ten minutes he was off on 
his two hour run.  I was usually on my way to work before he 
got back to the apartment.  Sometimes we still had the 
evenings together.  Sometimes the evenings were fun.  "I 
shouldn't be so greedy," I told myself.

I made only one wrong turn and arrived in French Lick a 
little after midnight.  I called Rick but got the busy 
signal.  That meant he was online with his laptop.  "At 
least I know he's safe at home," I thought, and I fell 
asleep quickly.

The next day I explored French Lick. Soggy.  I drove down a 
steep winding road to the resort hotel and talked to a clerk 
at the registration desk who said it'd been raining for most 
of four days.  "The golf course is closed," he said.  "So 
are the stables.  But there's indoor tennis.  Or I could 
sign you up for a massage."  I told him I'd think about it.  
I was vaguely tempted, but I was leery of the protocol.  I'd 
never had anyone I didn't know really touch me before.  I 
felt funny about the idea of a stranger's hands rubbing my 
skin, kneading my muscles.  Instead I spent the morning 
walking through the hilly town.  Most of the large frame 
houses needed repairs.  The yards were strewn with frazzled 
gardens.  Baggy work clothing fluttered from sagging laundry 
lines. Children scrambled amid stray toys and scrawny pets.  
I wondered what it might be like to grow up amid this wild 
poverty.  I wondered which house might have been Larry 
Bird's.  I spotted one home with a basketball goal attached 
to a lamp pole.  The rim was bent down and there was no net.  
"Hmm," I thought.  But as I continued my walk, I noticed 
that almost every house had a basketball goal set up 
somewhere--on the garage, on a utility pole, on the side of 
the house.

By afternoon I'd returned to the hotel.  I thought maybe I'd 
be bold, try the massage, so I followed the signs down a 
damp hallway which smelled more and more of sulfur. Some 
swinging doors had "spa" stenciled on the glass.  I stepped 
through.  A pair of overly plump women with curiously thin 
necks stood chatting in front of the sign-up counter.  The 
sight of them made me uneasy.  They looked too much like 
turkeys. "How could these women bear to have someone touch 
them?" I found myself thinking. I knew these thoughts were 
unkind and uncharitable and inexact, and truly  I felt a 
trifle abashed at my meanness; nevertheless, I stepped 
quickly away from the smelly spa. 

 From the lobby, I called Rick and left messages at the 
apartment and his office that I was safe in French Lick.  "I 
was thinking about a massage," I whispered daringly in my 
message to Rick's office.  "A white fluffy towel draped over 
my bottom--isn't that the way it's done?  But what happens if 
it slips?"  I let some silence linger on the line.

The sun came out as afternoon wound down.  West of the hotel 
a fat man in a canary yellow shirt stood on a raised piece 
of turf slugging golf balls into a pond.  A half-dozen brown 
ducks swam across the pond, investigating the plopping golf 
balls.  I wondered if the man was aiming at the ducks.

I set off along the little service road, barely more than a 
gravel path bordering the golf course, checking back over my 
shoulder a few times to make sure the man wasn't turning me 
into a target.  The golf course and this little road cut 
through a forest which rose sharply out of the valley.  
Across the soggy fairway, the forest lifted to a hill crest 
covered with buildings, one of them surely my condominium.  
I had a strange thought: that if Rick were up there--maybe 
he'd found a way to leave early--if he were on our little 
bedroom balcony, he could look down and see me.  From that 
distance, he probably wouldn't be able to recognize me. 
Acting on some silly whim, I waved.  Immediately afterwards 
I felt watched.  A shiver ran through me.  Dark clouds 
cruised across the sun.  I thought maybe I should turn back, 
but  I kept on walking, and around the bend I saw something 
strange: an old steam locomotive.  Not a big one, just a 
baby, abandoned on the edge of the golf course. The phrase 
"Let sleeping dogs lie," entered my head--the black hulk did 
indeed resemble a huge hound crouched in the crinkly 
roadside weeds.  I approached it cautiously.

I climbed up into the engineer's cabin.  Strangely cool in 
there, and nothing much to see: a black iron floor, a black 
iron bench, tall rectangular window openings with views, now 
that I was sitting down, of nothing but treetops and sky.  
It felt good to be off my feet.  I braced my hands behind 
me, half reclining on the iron bench, my legs stretched out, 
and a delicious ease crept over me.  A tingling.  I closed 
my eyes.  The tingling almost seemed to have a sound, a 
pleasant little buzz.  When I opened my eyes I saw the 
wasps, three or four, hovering in an upper corner of the 
dark compartment, weaving tight irregular patterns around 
each other.  I watched them for a while.  They didn't seem 
much interested in me. Cautiously, in case their air dance 
might be less amiable than it seemed, I stepped out of the 
locomotive.  By the time I'd strolled back to the hotel, the 
sun was down.

I decided to eat in the hotel's restaurant.  From my table I 
had a view of the lobby where a young woman, fists full of 
pastel chalks, sketched a pair of children while the parents 
looked on with a mixture of pride and apprehension.  

I didn't hurry over the menu.  "A glass of white wine," I 
told the waiter.  It was served cold and tart, perhaps not 
good wine, but it felt good on the tip of my tongue.  When 
the waiter came back to take my order, I asked him how long 
the old train engine had been there.  He said he didn't know 
anything about it.  I noticed grilled scallops on the menu, 
and I was tempted to order them--it seemed fitting--but I 
wasn't sure; and then I thought about the duckling, and I 
wondered if these ducklings came from the flock on the golf 
course pond, not that that would have bothered me.  Rick 
doesn't enjoy my indecision in restaurants.  "Can't you be 
more decisive?" he chides.  

"If you would like an appetizer, the escargots is very 
nice," the waiter offered.

"Can you come back later?" I told him.

In the end I ordered roast loin of pork; it seemed more 
appropriate to southern Indiana than snails or scallops, and 
it was excellent.  As my sharp silver knife sliced through 
the pale flesh, I remembered (for the first time in many 
years) a dream I'd often had as a child.  In the dream, my 
dad was Robin Hood, and I was a little creature, half-girl 
half-piglet, whom he'd captured in the forest.  My dad 
brought me into the banquet room deliciously nude on a large 
silver tray, which he set down on the long plank table, and 
then, with his razor-sharp sword, he sliced pieces from my 
bottom and served his guests.  The dream, at the time 
anyway, did not disturb me.  Getting cut was completely 
painless, maybe there was even an element of pleasure; and I 
know I felt quite pleased that my dad was able to make use 
of me.  Thinking about it now was a mite unsettling, not so 
much because of the content of the dream, but because it 
might be too intimate to share.  What if my dad and Rick 
were at the table, I thought, and we were all having a fine 
roast pig?  Would I be able to tell them of this dream?  And 
if I did, how would they react?

After dinner I strolled slowly through the old hotel.  So 
many doors.  Maybe Rick was trying to call me.  Maybe he was 
waiting up at the condo right now.  It was pleasant to think 
so.  The wasps in the train seemed so long ago.  I had a 
strange urge to enter one of the guest rooms.  Of course, 
the door would be locked, but I had the feeling that 
whatever door I picked would open.  I didn't test this 
theory--I simply walked to the end of the first floor 
corridor and stood there looking out the windows of a 
doorway which led to a stone patio, and beyond that, a 
little garden.  It was raining, a very slow, slight rain, 
and in the garden behind the hotel a man and a woman, the 
couple with the pastel children, stood with their arms 
around each other.  Ignoring the rain, they kissed.  Tender 
passion.  

I watched the embrace.  The rain fell harder.  The couple 
kept kissing.  The woman moved her hands down the man's 
back, beneath his trousers.  I turned away, walked back down 
the corridor towards the lobby.  Only a few steps down the 
hall, I noticed one of the doors wasn't shut tight.  The 
little pastel boy peered out through the slim crack, a few 
inches of his waifish body bathed by the bright hall light.  
Seeing me, he blinked, and he covered himself with a small 
hand, but not before I'd seen the little waggle of his semi-
shy privates. Puppy dogs and snails, I thought, 
understanding for the first time that children's rhyme about 
what little boys are made of.   "Shut that door," I heard 
his sister say. "Shut it right now or I'm telling."  The boy 
wavered, and I got a final peek at his little penis before 
the door snapped shut.

Back in the condo I called Rick.  Busy.  Laptop time.

Saturday brought little fits of rain. I spent a fretful 
morning, thinking what a bad idea it had been getting here 
early. I calculated the earliest Rick might arrive, counting 
the hours on my fingers.  Three o'clock seemed likely.  Four 
at the latest.  What to do until then?   I drove down the 
hill and watched a pair of middle-aged men play indoor 
tennis.  I drove to a grocery intending to buy supper stuff, 
ending up with wine, cheese, and some cream for Rick's 
coffee.  I drove back to the resort hotel, parked, walked 
into the hotel garden, stood in the very spot where the 
couple had that rain-drenched kiss.  Two o'clock was 
possible.  And what about the time zone?  Should I add or 
subtract for that? I was back in the condo by noon.  

Thunder rolled through the heavy clouds over the valley.  I 
spent half an hour figuring out how to work the corkscrew--
the rest of the day curled up on the couch, sipping wine, 
nibbling cheese, and reading The Followed Man.

Rick arrived shortly after midnight.

"I tried to call," he said.  "Are you sure this phone 
works?"

"I don't know," I said, "I can call out.  Did you have 
trouble with the car?"

"Not exactly," Rick said.  "But I had some stuff to do at 
the office."

"I was worried," I said.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I tried to call."

"Are you sure you have the right number?"

"I don't know, I think so.  It did occur to me that the 
number might be wrong."

"Then why didn't you call my dad?  He could have told you 
what the number was."

"I did try to call your dad.  I tried several times and 
never got an answer."

"That's strange," I said.  "Maybe I should call him now."

"It's too late," Rick said.  "Anyway, I'm here.  You don't 
seem so glad to see me."

"I guess I'm just tired and irritable," I said.  "It's been 
a long day."

"I should have rented a car phone. I'm just going to call 
the office, see if there are any messages."

"Midnight massages?" I said, trying to be sexy-funny.

"Annie," Rick said. "Look, you left the ringer all the way 
down.  No wonder no one could get through."

"God," I said, "It's not like I didn't flush the toilet."

"Well I was worried about you."

"I'm sorry," I said.  "Why don't we just go to bed."

Rick was asleep instantly.  I was up most of the night.

I awoke to bright sunshine.  Rick wasn't there, but I found 
a note on the table.  "Gone running," it said.  I made some 
coffee and took a shower and took my coffee and the book bag 
out onto the balcony.  

What a glorious day! I sat on the white wrought iron chair 
enjoying the warmth of the sun on my bare feet and bare 
legs.  I had on my fluffy white shower terry, but it didn't 
cover much.  No one to see anything anyway.  I put my feet 
up on the railing and spread my legs apart just a little.  
The sun felt wickedly nice.  I sipped some coffee and closed 
my eyes and enjoyed the sounds of the woods, the rustle of 
the breeze, the flirting songs of countless birds--happy 
squirts of melody amid a soft mix of chuckles, clucks, and 
coos, and, occasionally, the heady hollow rap of a 
woodpecker's hammer.  Above, nothing but blue sky.

 From up here I could see much of the valley: at the base was 
the long green ribbon of the golf course, and just beyond it 
the thin service road. I let my eyes play over the woods, 
those deep in the distance, and those directly below me, and 
suddenly I saw some movement--a bird, I thought at first--a 
bright orange-red bird; but then I thought it was too big 
for a bird ... maybe a fox.  Wouldn't it be something to see a 
fox!

I remembered my dad's field glasses; they were in the book 
bag right next to me, nestled in that little pouch under The 
Followed Man.  I fished out the soft pouch and opened it.  
Little things, these binoculars, but very powerful.  At 
first I couldn't find anything, even after adjusting the 
focus--just twigs with newly burst buds.  I had to locate the 
fox with my bare eyes first.  It was working its way up the 
steep hill, zigzagging patiently through the thick 
underbrush, and now I saw it wasn't a fox at all, it was an 
Irish Setter, a lovely dog, all by itself out there.  
"Where's your master?" I thought as I brought the binoculars 
back to my eyes.  And there he was, a middle-aged man 
reaching down to pet the dog, to tousle the fine red fur.  
The man wore a green-splotched camouflage jacket and a 
hunter's cap.  He had his back turned, but he looked 
familiar.  He looked like my dad.  I took the glasses down 
to get a better overall view, but without the magnification 
the man blended too well into the woods; he might have been 
a small tree; he might not have been there at all.

Again I viewed the scene through the glasses.  This time it 
was easier to find the dog.  The setter stood stock still.  
I could see the slim silver chain.  Any movement, and I was 
sure I'd hear the jingle, but the dog didn't twitch.  I 
inched the glasses upwards: the man's torso, his elbow, his 
face.  I couldn't see his face because the man had his hands 
there; he was holding binoculars to his eyes--he had them 
trained on something to our left.

I looked where the man looked but I wasn't sure what to look 
for.  And then I saw:  At the edge of the golf course a 
small boy was walking.  With the binoculars it was 
different: It was Rick, and he was running.  He looked 
exquisitely graceful, like a streamlined animal whose long, 
plunging strides would take it into the air at any moment.  
I concentrated first on his maroon running shorts, the way 
they creased at the groin in rhythm with his gait, and then 
on the funny flap of his running shirt waggling in the sun, 
and finally on Rick's solemn face:  He looked seriously 
content as he sped across the soft green grass.  I knew the 
look.  It was the look he wore when he was fucking me, when 
he was in that no-man's-land the instant before orgasm.  
Running next to Rick, matching him stride for stride, was a 
young woman, a girl, really.  Her mane of red-blonde hair 
streamed behind her.  Her little breasts bounced shyly, 
almost in slow-motion, against the front of her half-top.  
She had white nylon running shorts with maroon piping, the 
mate to Rick's gear.  I saw that her long lean legs were 
mud-spattered, but she grinned as if she were running in 
heaven.

I rested the glasses on my knees, trying to think whether 
I'd ever seen this girl before.  She could have been my 
younger sister--if I'd had a younger sister. I was sitting on 
my heels now, my legs wide open, my white terry of no 
consequence.  When I looked at the runners without the 
glasses, they could have been one being.  I brought the 
glasses up and propped my elbows against my knees to steady 
the vision.  I wondered if the man with the dog was still 
watching them.  Or had he trained his sight to me, to the 
snug curl of my wet secret center, or even worse, was he 
getting into my eyes, my thoughts, the truly secret center 
of my being.  I didn't dare look.  I just watched Rick and 
the girl.

They stopped suddenly, and hand in hand they ambled directly 
away from me.  They'd found the old locomotive, and in a 
moment they were climbing aboard--Rick helped hoist her into 
that cool compartment, a place I couldn't follow.  Did I 
even want to?  I kept my dad's field glasses steady on the 
engine's dark window, the upper corner, where three or four 
wasps worried the sunny air, while inside Rick crouched on 
the black iron floor, the girl's white running shorts 
puddled near his feet--and the girl, braced on the engineer's 
black bench, studied Rick's perfect hand, two glistening 
fingers easing into her slim sexual recess.

Believe me, Rick knows how to fingerfuck. Rick's technique: 
middle finger curled up to rub the inside spot; other finger 
extended, pressed down, to stretch the hole, to coax the 
mucous, the cloudy love-milk which soon pooled in the 
opening of her cunt:  I know how intensely distracting this 
can be--that is, nothing matters, nothing but the intense 
pleasure, the incipience of release.  It is understandable, 
therefore, that the girl would not at first notice that a 
wasp had alighted on her tummy less than two inches below 
her belly-button.  It would have felt like little more than 
a couple of sweat droplets joining up for a tickly little 
ride.

But Rick noticed.  Instantly Rick stopped the motion of his 
fingers, leaving them deep in the slick wet place.  And the 
girl, curious about this cruelty of Rick's teasing her this 
way,  pausing while she was poised at the sharp edge of 
orgasm ... the girl looked down.

"Oh, Rick," she whispered.

"Just be still, maybe he'll go away."

The wasp, in no hurry, undulated its plump abdomen and began 
a syrup-slow strut down the tummy.

"Oh, Rick," the girl whispered.

Wasp paused before climbing the little hill, and then with a 
waggle marched right up the mound to the plateau of that 
plump little sexual shelf.  The girl had no hair of 
consequence, nothing tangled or tufty to impede the wasp's 
progress, just a few wispy red-blonde strands; down matted 
with moisture.

"I think you better ..." the girl said.

Maybe Rick misunderstood.  His fingers, still inside, 
resumed their rubbing.

The wasp, almost at the apex, rode the undulations which 
mimicked his own up and down dance.

"Oh, Rick," the girl said. "What are you doing?  If you 
make me come I'm going to kill you."

Half-perched on the fattened hood of the girl's clitoris, 
half straddling it, the wasp seemed to cock its little head 
before abruptly lowering its prick-tipped belly into the 
rhythmic tremors.

I heard the scream the moment I put the glasses down.  Maybe 
it wasn't a scream, maybe it was a cry.  Some sounds are 
hard to categorize.  This one was strange:  it could have 
been pleasure, it could have been pain, it could have been a 
bird of prey ripping into a plump bunny.  I listened hard, 
but the sound did not repeat.  I took a deep breath, closed 
my legs together, and went back to my reading.

Sometime later I heard Rick come in.  "There's coffee," I 
called out.  A moment later Rick stepped out onto the 
balcony holding a ceramic mug.  He was still in his running 
shorts, and he had a towel draped over his shoulders.

"How was your run?" I asked.

"Good," he said.  "This is good coffee."

"Come here," I said.

"I have to take a shower," Rick said.

"Just for a second," I said.

Reluctantly, Rick stepped closer.

I reached behind him, felt the sheen of sweat on the heavy 
muscles just below his buttocks.

"The coffee's good, huh?" I said as I worked my fingers 
against the muscle.

"Annie, I really need to shower."

"You're OK," I said.  I liked the slightly swampy smell, a 
scant hint of sea, of freshly turned earth.

"Did anything unusual happen down there?" I asked.

"Where?" Rick said.

I pulled down his running shorts.  His bundle nestled like a 
fat little frog--a sleepy creature unsure what to make of 
the sudden sunlight and fresh air. "Time to get up," I said, 
tweaking the nose.  I bent forward and swallowed it all, 
kept it there until it grew out of my mouth.  When it was 
full-size I let it rest on my tongue.  I felt certain the 
man with the binoculars had us sighted in. 

"Rick," I asked, "What would you do if a big bee landed 
right on your penis?"  While he was thinking about this, I 
took the tip of his penis between my teeth.  I held the rest 
of him firmly with both hands.  I bit down.  Just hard 
enough to make him scream.  I was curious whether his scream 
would sound at all like the earlier scream, like that bird 
or whatever it was.  It didn't, but it surprised me how far 
away the scream sounded, and it surprised me that the blood 
tasted like cum.  "Oh, Rick," I thought, "I do love you."  
Then I finished him off.

	THE END

   Please visit Mat's Erotic Calendar at:
   http://Calendar.atEROS.com

============================
Bird Watching in French Lick
by Mat Twassel
============================
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