His name is James.
We met late one night in the park.
He smokes crystal, grew up in South Carolina and Virginia.
I never learned how he got to the west coast, but he’s here now.
A few kids, mostly grown. His dream is to own a food truck, says he went to culinary school some years back.
First locked up at 16, 17, 18. Floating around ever since.
I sat in the dewy night grass, he had his own lawn chair. We talked for hours, a meaningless exchange as he talked circles around nonsense.
He’d been clean but intentionally started using meth that day. The addict’s story, the user’s creed.
His flirtations meant nothing, like school-kid things. Silly and senseless, meant to be dismissed.
I left with only mosquito bites that night.
Now he sits on my sofa, sand everywhere from his shoes. Organizing his bag, or disorganizing it. Asking me if I’d like to have something to drink, offering to share his airplane Vodkas.
“No thanks,” I pull up a seat and we talk.
About the same circles of nonsense we’ve already discussed. He just got out of jail, clean for 90 days inside. Started hitting the crystal again but it’s okay because he’s doing it on his own terms.
Nothing about James concerns me, like we’re somehow old friends. Addicts don’t scare me, I grew up surrounded by them in every age of abuse and recovery.
I like listening to him talk because it lets me pretend I’m sitting with another man I once loved.
Two blankets and a backpack. Some food, booze, half a toilet-paper roll, a few cigarettes. Two pairs of shoes — black sneakers and slides.
I can smell his breath when he talks close to me. I imagine it should smell bad, instead it’s pleasantly familiar in a way I can’t recall.
Tells me he works out every day to stay fit. To keep his body looking good for when the right person comes along. We talk about tattoos and he’s taking off his shirt to show me his without invitation.
But I don’t find it distressing. He wants to show me his body and I let him. He’s got a snake tattoo on his arm and I’m frustrated he’s not my past lover with the same snake-entwined arm.
I let myself wonder if Jeremy might stop by to say hi tonight or what anyone would think seeing this shirtless man standing in my house, blankets on the floor.
I dare the universe to make it happen just for curiosity-sake, but I’m disappointed.
I secretly beg to be exposed. How far out on the ledge can I crawl before I fall into gravity?
James tells me I’m beautiful and I take the compliments. He asks if I’ll help relieve some tension.
“No,” I decline with the same voice I’d use if someone had mistaken me for a librarian.
Tells me his name is now Black Mamba, a sly smile on his face, wants me to look it up and read to him what it says online.
I do between bouts of laughter. He thinks I’m laughing at Black Mamba but I’m laughing because of the innocent obviousness of this trick. Wants me distracted while he folds one of his blankets onto his lap and sits back down. His hand roaming back and forth to let the mamba loose, work it around.
Like I don’t notice, but for me it’s become a dare somehow.
How far will he take it, will he cum under the blanket or try to take me?
But nothing about this man worries me. He’s just a pigeon in the hand.
He talks about my feet, asks why they aren’t painted. Tells me he’ll paint them for me.
“Okay, you get the paint and you can paint them.”
And I’m staring at him now too deeply. I want him to hurry up and finish so I can go to sleep. Let him cum in my house, who cares. Let him have a moment before he’s back sleeping in another park somewhere.
He’s getting brave, lets the blanket fall some. His dick is still soft as he strokes more anxiously. Asks me to come over to him.
“No,” I decline, still staring harder than him.
Digs in his bag asking still for me to come over, “you don’t have to do anything.”
Finds a bottle of baby oil in his pack and pours it generously in his hand and on his dick. He’s not a show-er but trying hard to get it big.
I just watch with my usual curiousity, how will this play out? I’m almost never bored, except right now.
“You should go, I’m tired.”
And he’s up and off the couch. Reaching for my feet with one hand and pushing his pants down with the other. Pouring baby oil on my toes then mashing them against his dick. Occasional slaps, fap fap fap.
And I let him because it’s new and I want to know how this looks in real life.
Asks me to take my shirt off and show him my tits, so I do. Why not, they’re magnificent.
He must see the boredom on my face, increases his pace. Changes position, moves between my legs, his back to me, I’m the snake now.
I run my hands over his chest and his shoulders and his back uninterestedly. Rub his neck and he coos. His hair is thick and wavy and not at all like my old love. I’m still hoping to find him standing in my house, inside this strangers body.
Turns to face me, wants to suck on my nipples. “No,” I say covering them.
Beyond bored and tired so I’ll move things along. I put my bra back on and start to put my shirt on.
“You’ve got to go,” and he understands.
Hurries to put more baby oil on his dick. I finally get to see the full size.
Stroke game faster, picks my foot up to suck on my toes. Face is all seriousness.
And I stare at him hard as I can, tell him to nut for me, cum for me, show me his seed. All over my toes, white cream.
After, he cleans my feet. Almost lovingly.
Packs up his things, puts on his shirt, a hug and he’s gone back to the beach.
I’ll see James just one more time and then never again. He stopped round on a hot summer afternoon to say hello. Let me know he was finally headed back East to be with family. I gave him $100 he didn’t ask for and told him not to spend it all on Crystal.
