Box

34

Zander unbuckles my belt, pulls my pants down to my ankles.

“There goes your first line of defense,” she says. “Now all that’s between your body and my mouth is your underwear.”

“What if someone walks over to the car?” I say. “Or pulls up beside us?”

“That won’t happen.”

“Why not?”

“People around here carry guns. You sneak up on another car, you’re begging for bullets.”

“You’re sure?”

“Trust me. Now, where was I? Oh yeah, I remember!”

This seems too good to be true.

I’ll grant you that.

But remember, I hand-picked these women because they claimed to be sex-obsessed.

You might think Faith Hemphill was a bust, but she had a sexual plan for me that included introductions and an aphrodisiac. I declined her advances. True, Faith’s appearance was shabbier in person than online, and Zander’s exactly as she appeared online. But is it that big a stretch to believe Zander might find me attractive enough to offer a blow job so quickly?

I hear a sound, like she’s rummaging around in her handbag.

“Keep your eyes closed,” she says.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for a condom.”

“You won’t need that.”

“I won’t, huh?”

“I’m clean. Seriously.”

“You know how many times I’ve heard that?”

No. And I don’t want to. But now that the thought has been placed indelibly in my head, I can’t shake it. It’s like telling someone not to picture a banana, or a giraffe.

There’s no way around it.

Images and questions flood my brain. How many guys has she blown on the riverbank? Has she been treated for STDs? How many times? Sobering thought: oral sex is a pipeline for gonorrhea and herpes. Does Zander have herpes? Aids?

My eyes are still closed, and I’m trying my best to ignore the doubts in my mind, but I’m suddenly feeling a lot more room in my underwear than there was a moment ago.

Zander notices it too.

“What’s happened?” she says.

I open my eyes, lift my head slightly as she does what I wanted her to do seconds ago, except that now it’s humiliating.

She pulls my underwear down.

But instead of caressing my manhood, she stares at it.

And frowns.

I shake my head, trying to will myself larger. I close my eyes. Lie back. Try to think sexy thoughts.

But all I can think is how she’s staring at me, wondering where my dick went.

“Gideon?” she says.

“I’m working on it,” I say, but we both know it’s a lost cause.

She waits patiently for minutes while I strain to achieve an erection. But I’ve killed the mood. To her it’s as romantic as waiting for her constipated grandfather to push a pellet into the toilet at the old folks’ home.

“Maybe if you touch it,” I say.

She sighs.

I wish she hadn’t sighed. Now I feel like a charity case.

God, I hate myself sometimes!

I had it made!

She uttered one lousy comment about wanting to use a condom, and I suddenly imagine all sorts of terrible things about her. What the hell is my problem? Did I think I was her first?

I sit up.

We look at each other.

This is as awkward as it gets.

“Maybe you just need to pee,” she says, cheerfully.

Bless her heart! She’s given me a graceful exit. I can pee, or pretend to, regain my composure, come back aroused, ready to roll. She understands this.

“Is there a bathroom nearby?” I ask, pulling up my pants.

She points to a stand of trees a hundred yards away and says, “Boys go there.” Then she uses her thumb to indicate a spot behind us and says, “Girls use the bushes on the other side of the hill.”

“Do you need to go?” I say. “I’ll be glad to wait for you.”

“I’m trying to decide if I need to or not.”

She closes her eyes a second, then says, “I think I’m okay. I used the bathroom at the bowling alley a little while ago.”

“Okay, then,” I say. “I’ll be back in three minutes.”

“You want to take the keys with you?”

It dawns on me for the first time the car’s been running since we parked. I check the temperature gauge. It’s fine.

“I don’t want you to get too hot,” I say. Then laugh.

“What?”

“Wouldn’t it be funny if you stole my car?”

“No. It would be terrible. And why wouldn’t the thought cross your mind? You don’t know me that well. You should take your keys. I’ll be fine till you get back.”

“I trust you completely,” I say.

“Thanks, Gideon. That deserves a kiss!” she says.

I kiss her and say, “Thanks, Zander.”

“For?”

“You know.”

She smiles. “Hey. It can happen to anyone. We’ll make up for it in round two.”

I kiss her again, then get out of the car to pee. It takes a minute to find a secluded area, which I need, because I actually do have to piss. Guess I was too excited to notice.

Halfway back to the car I can already tell she’s gone.

She’s either bailed out on the date or decided to pee after all.

I go with the good thought. After all, she could have stolen my car, and didn’t.

She’s gone up the hill to pee. I’m sure of it.

Otherwise, why give me all that encouragement, and offer a kiss? If she planned to bail, she’d just bail.

Back in the car I consider pressing the button to raise the seat, but decide against it because I want to be ready when Zander returns.

I’m more comfortable with the riverbank scene now. I think part of my problem was worrying someone was going to walk up on us, despite Zander’s reassurance to the contrary. But as I look around I can see that all the cars and trucks are maintaining a respectful distance from each other.

I lie back and close my eyes. Try to imagine Zander naked, but it’s not helping me. She hasn’t given me enough to go on yet, nudity-wise, so I let my thoughts drift to Trudy Lake. I didn’t see her naked, either, but I touched her partially and she touched me thoroughly. I remind myself I had no problem staying erect with Trudy working the controls.

These thoughts of Trudy are doing the trick. I allow my hand to graze my crotch.

I graze it again.

I feel my plumbing start to work, and help it along with a gentle bit of rubbing.

I’m interrupted by a sharp tapping on the window. I grin, expecting to see Zander, proud of what I’ve accomplished while waiting for her.

But it’s not Zander, it’s a policeman.

“I’m not cleanin’ this mess up by myself,” she says.