Thrill-Bent

Thrill-Bent Read Free Page B

Book: Thrill-Bent Read Free
Author: Jan Richman
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he’s saying,” says Ralph. “But at least they’re trying to make contact. That’s a good sign.”
    “Yes,” I reply. “These humans might just turn out to be friendly creatures after all.” I yell back to our fellow passengers the good news, complete with extravagant arm gestures, in case they were too busy crying and comforting to have noticed the mouse megaphone. When they see me going through my contortionist act to try to communicate with them, they both wave and smile as though we’re at a cocktail party. Oh hi! We’re just taking in the scene, we’ll come over and chat with you kids later. The guy gives me the thumbs-up sign. Does that mean he heard what the man with the mouse megaphone said, and that it was good news? Perhaps someone in a ninja suit will shimmy up the latticework scaffolding and rescue us. If this were a disaster movie, right about now the woman in the back car would turn out to be Shelley Winters, and she would reveal the fact that she once was a professional trapeze artist in a close-up direct-address monologue. She would be getting sweaty just thinking about the crazy stunts she used to do. Hurry up, Shelley, show us those vine-swinging, toe-grabbing, greatest-of-ease skills already!
    I’m tense and still cold, but Ralph is grinning at me in a giddy, lurid way, and the unidentified couple behind us seems perfectly content. Apparently I alone have a stick up my ass about being stuck motionless in midair. Ralph puts his hand under my lambswool coat, worms between the flaps below the lowest button, and finds his way under my dress. His fingers are warm, so warm, and he is one smooth inveigler, serenely stroking the inside of my thigh with his thumb. He strums in a slow rhythm, up and down the frets of my lament. The pressure of his touch is always the biggest turn-on, firm but almost mindless, as if his thoughts are elsewhere. He’s done this, stroking the soft flesh of a woman’s thigh, delving deep into her fluent pussy, a million times, he could do this in his sleep, he could do this while dreaming of bread pudding fresh from the oven with crusty ridges and steaming amber-colored whiskey sauce raining down all over. I close my eyes and open my legs a tiny bit wider.
    Ralph likes when I wear dresses. He asked me to wear this one today. It wouldn’t matter to him, I don’t think, if I wore a fabulous beaded flapper number or an orange polyester housedress from Wal-Mart. I certainly never thought I’d be taking sartorial suggestions from a perpetually drunk homeboy. But I do, I wear dresses at his request. Once I even went home to change out of pants because he asked me to. Part of me is ashamed, naturally, to be admitting this. But in that moment, when I see the look in his eyes, so directly asking for what he wants, and the delectation he experiences when I perform a certain task, the corner of his lip rising and quivering, it’s so easy for me to give in to him. Of course, part of me wants a lover who gets just as hot for me in chinos and a flannel shirt, hair unwashed and face un-made-up, as he does if I am glammed up in a Wonderbra, lipstick, and heels. I am playing dress-up with Ralph as though it is a game; I feel secure in the notion that I am the more intelligent one of the two of us, that my knowledge of Barthes’ theory of metalanguage (not to mention my lower blood-alcohol level) will somehow protect me from the lasting harm of being pigeonholed, locked inside an intricate snow job.
    Of course, my own mother was the poster child for the fallacy of this logic. She was smart, refined, and beautiful. She held her head up very high while she was being reduced to fluff by my mercurial father. Her big brain may have survived intact, but everything below, including her eyes, was bleached white as new carpet in a house up for sale.
    I’m no longer cold. Now I’m hot. Ralph’s hand has traveled up under the elastic in my underwear, his fingers are circling lazily through my

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