“Welcome back, everyone,” said the podcast host. “Today we’re talking to the author of Intentionality: The Art Of Something New, Benjamin Sills, and, my brother, I just wanted to confirm something with you.”
“Sure,” said Benjamin, “I’ve got a feeling I know what it’ll be about.” A grin stretched his features.
“Internet scuttlebutt dictates your inspiration behind the book was a woman you met once when you were at your lowest. This Urban Legend true, man?”
Benjamin pointed at the questioner, flashed the whites of his teeth and nodded gleefully. The host punched the air, then pounded the table.
“I knew it!” He cackled and threw his head back, then shuffled across to Benjamin, dapped him up and sat down. “So, you gotta let me and the folks at home in on how this all came about.”
“Okay, strap in.”
***
I was in my late thirties and suffocating from an everlasting funk that forever lingered. Failed relationships, both romantic and familial, along with no offspring, saddled me with little desire to pursue anything. The car had long been abandoned that bright afternoon, parallel-parked on some random street. I walked, forever and ever. My merciless mind pulsed with appalling negativity as I parted bush and branches. The self-pity was thicker than a slather of crunchy peanut butter spread across sliced bread.
My stroll brought me to a bridge, which I never visited but had heard of on many occasions. Supposedly, it was hookup central during my college days. Needless to say, the culture must’ve drastically changed, because not a single soul peeped or whimpered out there except for me – the chirps, gusts and whistles of nature don’t count. It being daytime probably had more to do with it, though.
I lumbered along the tough wooden slats that made up the structure. God knows how long this thing existed or how many repairs it underwent, if any at all. I held over the bannister, thinking of how people would judge this decision. The lake below seemed still, yet accepting. I scanned my left for anyone and then my right, before going for my left again and nearly shooting off into orbit.
“Oh Jesus,” said a slender, leggy blonde bent over the guardrail, “didn’t mean to startle you.”
Too late. Who in the hell just appears out of thin air like that?
“That’s alright,” I lied. “Freaked me out a little, that’s all.”
“Mom always said I’m too light-footed for my own damn good.” She leaned on her tiptoes, accentuating the tone of her calves.
“What does Dad say?” I asked, forming a minuscule smile.
“To stay light-footed to get away from these no-good fellas.” We shared a chuckle. Her bright red lipstick made her lips appear puffier and almost supple. “What are you doing out here, middle of the day and all?”
“Could ask you the same thing.”
“Oh no-no-no, don’t try pulling that on me now.” She shook her index finger, continuing her halved over pose. She shifted her hips so that one leg remained straight.
“Simply put: a bad week. Weeks. Alright, months.”
“Well it’s definitely not to do what college kids come here to do.” She giggled.
“You’re around that age, aren’t you…?”
“Angelica, but everyone calls me Angel.”
“Benjamin.” I walked over, extending my hand, and she reciprocated with a solid handshake. Her good looks kept me magnetized, so I stayed close. “Why are you here on this bright and sunny afternoon?”
Angelica’s face hardened for a moment, but then she cracked a smile. “Business I need to finish up before moving on. Hell, wondering if I ever will be able to.”
My serious expression and stare mirrored hers from earlier. It seemed that everyone had a psychological mountain to climb nowadays, and part of me wondered if adulthood understood the fucking concept of peace.
“I know what you were thinking of doing,” Angelica said, while not looking at me. Her legs straightened and butt arched as she tip-toed again.
“Really,” I said, laughing nervously. “And what pray tell was that?”
“No need to mention it out loud.” Angelica tilted her head while eyeing me through her brows. She swayed her behind to an imaginary beat, and my face and meat hungered to be deeply embedded.
“Well, this is awkward.” My body language relaxed, and I peered over the railing. “At least this view isn’t, though?”
“Thank you.” She laid her nearest hand on my forearm. “Thank you for not saying something corny like ‘This view is pretty but not as pretty as you’.”
“Oh no, that stuff’s long past me at my age. Never told me how old you are.”
She rubbed my forearm and pursed her lips. “Over eighteen is what’s important.” Angelica’s hand ran up my bicep, massaged a shoulder, and then unclutched before she bent over again, giggling.
“What?”
Her calm blue eyes stared through me as if they foresaw my every urge or possible thought. “If I told you to take me, right here, right now, you’d do it?”
To not consider it would be foolish, but to actually follow through? The “What if a stranger proposes to bang” protocols hadn’t been practiced or executed since my twenties.
“It’s not even dark out,” I said.
“And nobody’s here.”
We had an infinite stare-off, which translated as mere seconds. The sheer audacity of this Hollywood beauty. Didn’t she understand the me of a decade before, never hesitated? Of course not. Heck, I forgot about that guy – how to even pretend being him.
“Why should I?”
“This is a hookup spot without a hookup, maybe? Duh.” Angelica stood and turned to face me. Although not tight, her hiked-up shorts efficiently spelled out the topography of her pudenda.
“Hey, as the guy, that’s my line.”
“Maybe.”
“And why do you want me to take you?”
“Because we need it. Why not?”
“That’s not the way to live life.” I scrunched my features.
“So then what is since you got it all figured out?” Her brows climbed her forehead, then she brushed locks of hair behind her shoulder. “Plus, anytime a guy brought me here, I’ve never orgasmed.”
That dismissed my idea of an entitled Angelica, but simultaneously, why should I care? Me at my ultimate lowest, seeking to engage the irreversible, and she conveniently appears. I acknowledged sayings of “If it’s too good to be true” and such, but with nothing left to lose, I refused to slap a gift horse across the mouth.
“Come here,” I said.
“Not sure I want to now.” She pouted and poked her tongue out before concealing it.
I extended my arms and gently pulled her into me, then stared into her Ocean blues for however long. I slowly went in, and she met me seventy-five percent of the way. Pecks turned into smooches, and before we knew it, her leg curled around my lower back and I hefted her hamstring. It definitely felt meatier than it looked, and the same applied to her tight ass. Angelica sat below my standard weight class, but enough flesh existed that my fingers weren’t vacant or unsatisfied. I kneaded her cheeks as we kissed, then she pushed me with one hand, dropped her shorts and hopped onto the railing, ass first. When she moved her thong to the side, exposing her light fuzz and glistening cunt, I knew what had to be done.
I lowered, kissed her inner thighs, and then made sure to grab her ass firmly. She was already well balanced on the guardrail per her own grip, but I favoured my peace of mind above all. I wasted no time as I licked and sucked the clit, along with fingering her G-spot. A few minutes of performing “come hither” motions and dutiful clitoral sucking left my beautiful stranger squirting over my head, and onto my face. She screamed, rambled gibberish and spasmed while I steadied her. We repeated this cycle until she had enough after orgasm number three and wanted me inside.
“Hurry,” she said, pulling me up by my shirt collar. I dropped my pants simultaneously. “Cock now, quick.”
“Damn, why are you in such a rush?” I asked, aiming my veiny visitor at her entrance. Upon my glans breaching her slick warmth, she gutturally moaned, making eye contact with my sawing dick.
“Yes, that’s it.” She let go of the railing and grabbed my neck with fully extended arms. Being inside her felt like the warmest, most centralized embrace of my penis ever. She writhed and hummed, curling her bottom lip inward and keeping her eyes closed. I leaned away slightly, angling upward to hopefully graze her G-spot again, and when her eyes popped open to confirm, I grunted in appreciation.
“Fuck, you’re so tight.” My words started calm, but devolved into snarl-speak.
“You’re so deep.” She squirmed and whimpered with me hitched to her pubic bone.
I lifted her off her seat, firmly grabbing her lily-white ass and pounded her. Who gave a damn if someone did finally arrive? Too bad. Hookup spots dictate “first-come, first-serve” policies.
“God-fucking-dammit, I’m gonna nut,” I said, my voice gurgly and primal until I pierced the sky with a roaring, audible representation of all that ailed me as I spurted almost endlessly.
“Fuck, don’t stop pumping it into me.” She hugged me tighter and kissed my neck, which I swore drew two to three additional dying shots. “God, I’m so full.”
Jesus Christ, I wished I could’ve instantly recovered, just to fuck her again. The orgasms that unfurled represented her repressed emotions finally getting to see the light of day. She said no one else that brought her here ever made her nut. I patted myself on the back, and she giggled while staring at me.
“God, I can’t remember the last time I came so hard, if at all,” Angelica said, dropping to her feet, then holding my hands, “Years, probably.” The jizz oozing down her leg ruined the Hallmark photo-op as a rarely found wholesomeness shone in that moment. Oh, who am I kidding? Her being bottomless snatched it out of Hallmark territory, period.
“Feeling pretty confident you deserved it.” I brushed loose strands away from her face, then planted another kiss on her. After we separated, she put her shorts on, and I turned to collect my bottoms to cover up. “Hey, I know this isn’t usually cool or whatever, but maybe we can hang out again in the future. Do a little more of it, if ya please. Whaddya say?”
When I birled for an answer, the bridge held no other occupant.
“Angelica?” I looked over either side, making sure she hadn’t fallen. That didn’t make sense, though, as an audible splash would’ve been hard to miss. “Angel!” I scanned each side of land mass that the bridge connected and saw nothing. Confusion beset and even consumed me in that moment.
So much for hanging out.
***
The podcast host’s head fixated on Benjamin, but his gaze scampered around the room. His tightly knit brows indicated an abundance of queries that couldn’t be answered.
“So,” started the host. “I’m confused. What the hell happened to her?”
“I couldn’t tell you. In fact, I’ve convinced myself for the last twenty years it was all a dream. Hallucination.”
“Brother, that hallucination is cuh-razy.”
“Hey, old school screenwriters and directors always put theirs on screen.”
“Now…” The host pointed like a teacher ready to admonish, but both gentlemen broke down laughing. Afterward, the podcast’s exit banter followed, including promotion of relevant social media handles and where Benjamin’s book could be purchased.
Two Months Later
Sales for Benjamin’s book skyrocketed after his interview’s release three weeks prior. To boast he was quite proud of himself, understated the emotion to an embarrassing level. He enjoyed the luxury of a slow, soothing blowjob from a young lady he was seeing at the time. A short, brown-skinned, pixie cut beauty, bobbing on all fours to his right – a better way to start the morning than most. The news played on mute, but of the few instances his eyes opened, a piece ran about his book. He reached for the remote on the armrest and unmuted. The young lady looked at him, then at the television and continued.
“Rumours spread like wildfire,” said the white-haired, chisel-jawed brown man on-screen, “after Benjamin Sill, author of Intentionality: The Art of Something New, his podcast interview dropped three weeks ago. Comments under said interview indicated that the woman he spoke rather glowingly and graphically of was indeed real. Further comments revealed they were similar sightings of the woman on that bridge before the date Sill mentioned. These sightings and explicit encounters reflected his and could only be described as strange and unbelievable. However, post the date provided by Sill, no one reports encountering her ever again.”
Benjamin sat forward, ruining the young cocksucker’s rhythm. He apologized, but she squinted and sat on her calves, still gripping his meat. During that brief tension, other details were missed from the reading, but what followed made Benjamin straighten.
“A group of four men,” continued the handsome newscaster, “now all in their early fifties, have come forward in connection with twenty-two-year-old Angelica Ford’s disappearance thirty years ago.”
Benjamin’s and his companion’s mouths dropped in sync, and they gawped at each other and then at the television again. Angelica’s existence disproved periods of self-inflicted insanity diagnoses. Tons of guilt, however, washed over him. If he just trusted what he saw and ignored how crazy the story sounded. Justice may have already been served, but perhaps an investigation wouldn’t have yielded much in that era. Also, the fact that others saw her before him and never said anything, either. They probably feared the “cuckoo” labelling too.
That’s when it really hit him. A fact he glossed over so casually above all else: Angelica disappeared thirty years ago, but he saw her twenty years ago. Benjamin’s heart nearly stopped. Unfortunately, busting a nut that morning would have to wait.
