Chances are, if you ever drank to get drunk, once or twice you’ve drank to the point of regret.  I certainly have.  It’s a terrible feeling to awaken to the knowledge that you’re not where you usually expect to be, then wonder what transpired.

The little story that follows tells of such a situation, and a surprising outcome, and through it all, a change in a life, or at least the possibility of one.

Stop, Slow, Stop, Slow

©  Craig J. Sorensen

You promised yourself it would never happen again.  Promised that you’d soothe your restless mind
in another way.  Promised you never again
wake up in . . . well

It looks like a doublewide, at least a quarter century old.  Neat as a pin, but showing its wear.  A train comes by so close, you can feel it in
your ass.

She’s turned away, a sheet over her jackhammer frame, and
you work to recall her face, but the dryness in the mouth and mammoth need to
piss are the only indication of what went on last night.  You remember, bit by bit, the bar you
migrated to starting at a classy pub downtown, just a stone’s throw from work.

You recall the bars, descending strata.  Never happy where you are, move on.  You lose count.  You wish you could remember.

You check the floor, expecting underwear next to the bed,
socks half way across the room, t shirt in the door, the rest an ant crumb
train to the front door, you do it like this. 
Impatience and passion, yes, but also it makes for an orderly retreat.  Step, clothe, step, clothe, step, clothe
until the door closes gently in your wake.

So unlike you, the neat stack of clothes on the Samsonite
chair, a suit and tie, t-shirt, underwear, socks, and her threadbare jeans and
tank top over the back.  What a pair you
two must have been when you left that last bar.

Birds’ songs ascend as the train rumbles its last.

She stirs. 

You freeze, knowing that she’s at that state where your
jostling the old bed will probably wake her. 
You lay still as a worm thrust from the ground by a sudden rain, the
caught in a cymbal crash of sun.  She
turns in profile, still sleeping.

A little more haze lifts, and you recall later last night, pool
played in a dive bar.  A girl who said
she held up construction signs on road repairs. 
Stop, slow, stop slow.  She beat
you at nine ball again and again.  Not a
thing about her was your kind of woman, and you wonder how you got here, no
matter how much you drank, no matter how deep your need.  And that need was deep last night.

That much you remember clearly.

She sighs, and you start to get hard.  Surprise at how you respond after what must
have passed last night.  Your desire is
deep, like it was before you left the office, maybe even more.  It is not the predictable drained sensation
steeped in regret that takes form when reason and cottonmouth set in.

You are harder. 
Harder.  It actually starts to
hurt.  Piss boner.  That’s it.

But you want her, want her bad.  You shouldn’t, especially when you already
had her.  Especially when she’s so . . .
so . . . so wrong.

She casts the sheet aside and shows off her muscular body.  You try not to look at the golden pubic hair
and note the way her knurled knuckles rub there.  Her eyes are on you, her lips are smiling as
her gaze drains down to the tent between your legs.  “Mornin’.”

“Hey.”

Her fingers slide under the covers, up your thigh, and
cradle your balls.  The cool of her hands
is perfect, both soothing and exciting. 
“I’m glad you suggested we wait until the morning.”

Probably couldn’t get it up. 
As much as you drank . . .

Those cool hands join forces, one on your balls, the other
stroking your rod.  “Seem’s you’re glad
we waited too, but I must say, I never had so much fun just hanging out and
talking.  Especially when I was as horny
as I was last night.  And falling asleep
with that hard cock against my back?  Amazing!  Don’t know how you could stand it, but it
made me hot.”

“Uh, yeah, uh, that was great.”  You’re pretty sure you mean it.  You do know, that, as morning after regrets
go, not remembering what you talked about is a first.

She smooths the pre come that has drooled
into her hand up and down your shaft. 
Licks it, with a smile, from her palm like a cat cleaning herself.  She opens her body.  “God, I can’t wait to feel you in me.”  Her fingers feel perfect as she rolls a
rubber down your shaft.

You position between her thighs and savor her slick
walls.  She gives a huge, deep,
resounding, toe curling, lip stretching, jaw cracking sigh. 

You nearly come instantly. 
You’re glad when she says.  “Just hold
still so I can feel it all.”  You stay
still until the come that threatened to escape eases back.  You need to come, you need to piss, you need water, you need to
eat.

You need to breathe.

But you don’t do any of them.  You obey. 
You only obey.  Never your strong
suit, yet you do it well.  Buried to the
balls in her, and yet you push tighter, and are met with an approving grunt.  It’s strangely tender, strangely rough,
painful and yet you don’t want it to end. 
Your arms around her back, your legs entwined in hers.  Still and full of need.

It is Saturday, your day to rush around and get things done at home.  Well, every day is a day to rush around, you’re never stay
still, never patient.  So many reasons to
rush, and really, do you need one?

But your bodies begin to move together.  Slow, stop, slow, stop, she seems to turn
that construction sign, and you obey. 
You are happy, strangely happy.

“God yes, you feel so good in me,” she whispers in your ear.

Slow, stop, slow, stop, you listen to her breaths, her moans
her sighs as they ascend to a strangely gentle orgasm like a refined lady
sneezing.  Bad as your needs are, they are
superseded by the need to bring her another, see if you can make her writhe and
come like a grenade.

And you do, pounding hard in her, but slowly, slowly
ascending, your balls are hard as a wrecking ball.  You don’t want to come, but your body won’t
listen, and you shoot so hard in the rubber you feel you must have burst it.

She unfurls the rubber, and lets you go to the bathroom
first.  While she cleans up, you could
leave.  You look back at the bed.  Looks nice, and you lie down and wait for
her.

Waiting, not your strong suit.  Glad when she comes to bed, and curls up
against you.  “Mind if I stay a little
longer?”  You ask.

“I was kind of hoping you would.”

You wonder how long it might be, and for once, you don’t
worry about it being too long.

By: Craig Sorensen

Collisions happen. 
Sometimes they are fatal, sometimes they are life changing.  Sometimes they are just a tiny space in time.

Perhaps a space that will be as easily forgotten as it
occurred.

In my prior job, the corporate offices were in a building
constructed on a former pier that jutted out into the Hudson River.  Standing at one end, looking to the other,
could look like a three mile walk.

Naturally a fast walker myself, this could lead to a
less-than-appropriate pace.

One day, I was late for a meeting on the Manhattan end, a
woman stepped around the corner from the endless cube farm down the middle of
the building at just the wrong time.

No one was hurt in the collision, but I did feel awful about
running into her, and she was rightfully pissed at me, but the rapidity that
her expression softened stuck in my head.

It was no more than three seconds in my half-century of life,
an inconsequential moment, certainly not a pivot point in my life.  It might well have been forgotten if my
fiction writing mind hadn’t taken firm hold of the idea and begun to turn it
over.

I wrote the formative ideas for the below not too long after
the collision, then set it aside.  I came
back to it, changed it, shifted it and grew it. 
Could it really work into a story someone might like to read?  I don’t know; this was what came
out.  I guess this was a flash fiction
exercise in “iceberg writing.”  Not
really a story itself, I built it on the idea of these two people, and set out
to illustrate them in tiny fragments of a single moment where they crossed,
showing only their gut reactions to an event, and hinted at a future.

Collision, ©2012 Craig J.
Sorensen

It seems this building has no end.  Narrow aisles like ladder steps, the
crossbars occupied by the oblivious staff members of our most recent
acquisition. 

A Nevada desert road stretches to infinity.

No terrain.  No
rain.  My meeting is at the far end,
somewhere up there.  Ledger sheets will
lead to decisions that will affect the lives of every face that lies behind the
nameplates along the hall.  Nameplates I’ve
never bothered to read.  I turn my
wrist.  My steps lengthen and pound a
fast rhythm.

My arms rise in reflex, one hand braces on a wool clad hip,
the other arm steadies a narrow waist. 
Full breasts cushion my ribs like airbags deploy on collision.

“Bastard!”  I don’t
know the flower in her perfume; her breath is cayenne.

My voice goes up two octaves like a knee to the nuts.  “Goddamn!”

Juicy tears dangle from both sides of her chin.  Did I do that?  I grope for an apology.  Her pinpoint pupils are a tiny dot in a field
of cobalt – the cold winter sun through an old bottle.  Her porcelain skin gleams against the black
business suit, jacket half way on, her arms are suspended mid frame,
helpless.  Helpless.  I should ease away from her respectfully.

Astaire and Rogers wait for the music to start, but the
ensuing silence is more like the Novocain on an abscessed tooth.  We remain, frozen.  Her hand gathers my pink dress shirt into a
tight fist.  Her hip presses slightly
forward into the hasty embrace.

I release her.  “I’m
really am sor—”

“You should watch where you’re going.”  Her words are a whisper.  She gently pats my heart.  Her pupils widen, suddenly black as a
mourner’s dress.  Her nicked, thick
wedding band reflects the endless row of fluorescent tubes above.

“God, I am really sorry, Ms, um . . .”  I lift my brow.

She sniffs hard, pulls back, finishes putting on her coat
and wipes both cheeks.  “Huddleston.  I—me too. 
I didn’t mean it—I shouldn’t have called you—a—I mean, that.”  She smiles then continues in the opposite
direction.

I savor the last hints of her scent and my sudden, rare, ripe
guilt.  I look back and watch her walk
away.  She doesn’t look back.  Her pace looks angry, faster than my pace
when I ran into her.

I turn my popcorn hard on, something I regret almost as much
as asking her name, to twelve O’clock.  “Well
I am.  A bastard, that is, Ms
Huddleston.”  I say too quiet for anyone
to hear.  “Usually I am.”  I am late for my meeting, but walk slowly, and consider.