The Album: Book One (15 page)

“We would love some champagne! I’m Francesca and this is my sister Bianca.” Natalie should really be an actress. “Are you the Decker twins?” she flirtatiously asks.

“We are! Have we met?” The twins surround Natalie, and she looks so petite in comparison to their large frames, which is something I know she enjoys.

“We have not, but after tonight, you will never forget me.” She winks.

Natalie grabs my hand and places a condom and a piece of gum in the palm. She’s the most resourceful and intelligent person I know and I have to assume that this is code for
go find that guy and fuck him.

“Hey, is this your boat? I need to use the restroom,” I say to the twins.

They both look at me and if they answer in unison like some weird twin telepathy thing, I’ll die. Luckily, only one speaks. “No, this is Pablo’s boat. The restroom is down below – do you want me to take you?”

“No, I can find him,” I say. Nat and the twins laugh as I descend the narrow stairs, but that couple on the deck, holy shit . . . she’s standing over him thrusting the guy’s head between her thighs and screaming wildly. The lamppost is illuminating their movement and the freaks standing at the boat slip down below can see everything – but maybe that’s the point? Jesus, her body is phenomenal, and if I wasn’t looking for the man of my dreams, I would have a seat and watch.

I must be staring too long because Natalie taps my shoulder. “Pablo is back there.” She places her hand in front of her chest and points behind her. I look past the twins and spot
him
, languid and sexy as hell – waiting patiently for me.

Pablo’s body is draped over the wheel of the boat, his eyes intently watching me and his hands stroking the leather wrapping. I walk toward him as seductively as I can, which is hard to accomplish in such a short distance, but I’ve mastered the sensual hip sway. He doesn’t even flinch. Damn.

I stop in front of the wheel and stare into his dark eyes. Pablo is incredibly sexy, like an underwear model that knows exactly how to command the silence. Most men think that seducing a woman results in the most pleasurable sex, but real men understand it’s a balance of power that ultimately brings the intimacy to a whole new level . . . but, from his shaggy dark hair, to the movement of his neck when he swallows, and the fullness of his bottom lip – I’m willing to submit to whatever he wants.

His large hand skims my arm, causing uncontrollable goose bumps to cover my skin. Pablo takes my hand and slowly kisses the inside of my palm. He takes my other hand (the one clenching a condom) and smiles adorably. Pablo wraps his hands around my wrists and pulls me to the space between him and the wheel. He lowers my hand below his waist, and I literally perch my fingers like a tiny bird on his gigantic branch.

Pablo kisses my cheek with his warm, wet lips as I move my hands under his shirt and savor his toned stomach. He kisses my other cheek and then I unbutton the last two buttons of his shirt and lick his chest. Holy fuck, his skin is so silky smooth, and I have the urge to claw the shit out of it. I trail my tongue from his chest to his neck and stop around his stubbly chin. Pablo breathes heavily into my forehead as my hands move up and down his fantastic body. He pecks my nose and then his tongue slowly licks around the outline of my lips, clockwise . . . and . . . counter-clockwise.

My mouth parts as he forcefully grabs my cheeks between his hands, pushing my head back. His wet tongue penetrates my lips with a powerful thrust, moving rhythmically inside my mouth. I open my eyes to watch, and the intensity of his mysterious face is breathtaking. Pablo is fucking my mouth with his tongue . . . this is going to be amazing!

Pablo quickly spins me around, pressing me against the hard, steel wheel. I grab onto the leather trim as he bites my shoulder and squeezes my hips. His hand violently rips at my zipper (shit – not my Raquel Welch!) My dress falls to the floor and I’m contemplating the easiest way to snatch it, fold it neatly and place it on the bench . . . Pablo bites my back . . . ah, fuck the dress. He pops open my bra then lowers behind me. I look back over my shoulder and he’s sitting casually on the bench with a dirty little smile and a hard-on the size of his yacht.

He grabs my hips and pulls my ass toward his face. I bend over the wheel as he lowers my panties and kisses my lower back, then my ass, then my inner thighs, then . . . holy shit – his tongue glides along my ass. I can’t deny the intense pleasure, I like it, I like him . . .
oh
, I moan. His finger slides between my lips, forcing me to squeeze the wheel as tight as I can. I may have stopped breathing three minutes ago, but I can feel everything. His tongue goes in, his finger goes out, over and over . . . in and out.

I focus on the foredeck couple in front of me, banging the shit out of each other and panting like animals. They’re on their sides facing me and he has stretched her leg all the way to his ear. Damn, she’s a limber bitch. Pablo stands and I try to stand but he pushes me back over the wheel. I hear the rip of the condom wrapper, and that will be my only preparation for the hardest entry I could ever imagine. I wince from the pressure, but then slowly start to feel the warmness of pleasurable pain. Pablo won’t let up, each thrust is harder than the last. The only sound I can distinguish is skin slapping vigorously against skin. I don’t know how much longer I can go in complete silence. But I realize it’s not quiet . . . a crowd has gathered at the boat slip, watching and chanting as the four of us share a very raw, yet highly sensual orgasm.

Oh, and there’s fireworks . . . real explosives, not passion.

July 5, 2003
4:45 a.m.

Pablo’s masculine body is barely covered by the small blanket I found underneath the bench. He fell asleep with me in his arms a few hours ago and it felt right, but then he rolled onto his back and I went tumbling to the floor. Now I’m hunkered behind the wheel of a boat, gazing at the stars, freezing my ass off and once again, waiting for some sort of sign from the universe.

The dock is almost empty and most of the sailboats have long departed up the Atlantic coast. It’s unlikely that I will ever witness something like this ever again – and I’m perfectly okay with that. Natalie climbs out from the cabin doorway and tiptoes toward me. When she passes Pablo she lifts the blanket to check out his package. She gives me a thumbs up and takes another look.

“Chloe, come sit with me.” She reaches for my hand and we walk to the outer deck, choosing a spot closest to the water. Our legs dangle off the side as we sit quietly for a few minutes and stare off into the dawn.

“So? Did you get your double Decker?” I ask.

“Uh, no. We mostly just fooled around – they don’t like to share.” She laughs. Natalie puts her arm around my cold shoulders and hugs me. “Can I tell you something crazy? Like, don’t judge okay?”

“Natalie, you can tell me anything, you know that.”

She looks up into the sky and blurts, “I miss Zach. I love him. Like really, hopelessly love him,” she says sadly.

“Wow. Have you told him that?” I ask.

“Of course not! I was thinking I would tell him in December when he comes home. God, I never pictured myself yearning for a guy, well except for Marky Mark.”

“Nat, I think it’s fantastic. I’ve read some of his letters—” Nat pinches my arm, “sorry but you left them on the dresser! Zach is madly in love with you!”

She smiles happily and toys with the necklace he gave her. “Yeah, he is. And what about you? What were you thinking about up here alone?”

“Well, since we’re admitting crazy things . . . do you remember that psychic?” I ask, embarrassed.

“Vaguely,” she answers. I can’t believe Natalie doesn’t remember the night that has affected my daily life for the past seven years. It’s amazing actually, we’re so much alike and yet we perceive the world so differently.

“Oh? Well, anyway – she told me that I would find love when I’m twenty-five and he would be tall, handsome and quiet.”

“That’s right. Didn’t we have amazing donuts as well?” She giggles.

“Nat, I’m being serious. I think Pablo could be the one!”

Natalie scrunches her nose and tilts her head. She looks back at Pablo sleeping on the bench and shakes her head. “That’s not Pablo.”

“What? Yes he is – this is his boat.” I demand.

“Did he tell you that?”

“We, uh, actually never spoke to each other.” I say quietly.

“Tabernac! Chloe, that hottie is
not
Pablo. The twins told me last night that Pablo is some rich old dude from Portugal . . . maybe that’s his son?”

Motherfucker. I’ve been so distracted by the future that I’ve repressed all my instincts in the present. How could I fall in love with a guy that doesn’t even know me or my name? Ugh, it’s the same cycle over and over and I feel ridiculous. It’s all wrong, it’s been wrong and I’m tired of waiting for the magic. Sex with
that
guy is my much-needed closure . . . meaningless sex with an anonymous man to close out this pointless period of my life.

And with this closure comes wisdom.

“Nat, let me have your cell phone!” I say loudly. She pulls her phone from her bra and stares at me.

“I don’t know what you’re thinking, but you can’t call that poor woman and ask for a refund . . . only a 50% off-coupon.” She snorts. Great, of course she remembers that part.

I take her phone and dial the number to the bar. I know no one will be there this early in the morning, but I can leave a message for Dennis. After like sixteen rings, the answering machine finally beeps.

“Hey Dennis, it’s Chloe. So, this is what’s going to happen . . . Friday nights, me and my guitar will be having a show. You should probably spring for a legitimate microphone and speakers, because I plan to rock the shit out of
The Bridge.”

I close Natalie’s phone, excited and relieved about my impulsive decision. It’s the first time I’ve not been preoccupied about the future and the first time I’ve welcomed the idea of not knowing. Holy crap, I’m twenty-five! And from now on, I’m living in the fucking moment.

ADAM FORD

Adam Ford
7/4/03
Re: No fireworks

Memo: The Fourth of July – Nostalgia vs. Transitory

T
HE FIRST WEEK
of July was traditionally spent in our family’s rundown cabin on Lake Erie. It was only twenty minutes from our house, but we would pack up the Chevy wagon like we were leaving on a month-long adventure. Man, life was noticeably different then – innocent and unassuming. It was simplistic.

Time was measured by leisurely bike rides, fishing contests, laps in the lake, and moonlit campfires roasting hotdogs and marshmallows. On lazy afternoons, the lake kids would stretch out on that old dock and stare up at the clouds for hours, not a care in the world. After dinner, my little brother and I would pile into the bottom bunk of our cabin and play competitive games of checkers and UNO. And even after Dad passed away in ’92, Mom was adamant about keeping that rustic cabin and taking us there every summer to enjoy our youth.

The lake was also a breeding ground for prepubescent summer romances, some drama-filled and others completely innocent. As for me, I remained quiet and ordinary until the summer I was fifteen and managed to steal a kiss from the hot lifeguard at the drive-in theater. This was huge – I was lake folklore for two years before my friend Tango actually dated and broke her heart. Classic Tango.

There are so many good memories and lasting friendships from those Buffalo summers, but my favorite part of our vacations was the annual fireworks show on the Fourth of July. We would line up our lawn chairs, lather ourselves in bug spray, and prepare to be amazed by the flickers of light erupting in the navy sky. The contrast of dark and light alone was fascinating, but mostly, I was intrigued by the dichotomy of fireworks – some would explode with reverence while others would fizzle into oblivion.

Like life.

As a twenty-five-year-old professional, single male, this day has evolved into a game of bragging discourse and drunken debauchery. The hotdogs have been replaced with organic bratwurst and portabella burgers. The plastic cups of Kool-Aid were switched with goblets of chilled wine. Those carefree bike rides around Lake Erie dissolved with the rest of my childhood memories as soon as I boarded a steamy NJ Path Train to Hoboken. And there will be no sweet, stolen kisses among the fireflies. I expect to get laid.

Luckily, my buddy Anthony lives in a communal-sex apartment complex with revolving doors and plenty of horny singles. It’s designed to resemble loft-living in Manhattan – but with more space and a smaller price tag. There’s even a rooftop courtyard with a small pool, four grills, a dozen lawn chairs, and a stupid fake palm tree.

I find Anthony sitting on an ice chest in the middle of some bikini-clad girls, doing his best to make them swoon. Women love Anthony’s roguish personality, well, until they meet me.

He sees me and waves me over. “Adam-fucking-Ford. I’ve sequestered all the beer and the most attractive ladies in New Jersey. Let’s have some fun!”

Anthony stands to open the cooler and tosses me a cold bottle while I visually lay claim on the strawberry-blonde. Her red bikini, belly button ring, and tiny butterfly tattoo are all I need to classify her type . . . this will be easy.

Shit – Anne Geddes posters.

If those naked babies disguised as vegetables are going to watch me have sex with Kate, then I will be forced to give her the PG-Adam.

We didn’t get a chance to talk much during the barbecue, but my keen perception is never wrong. And this is what I know: Kate is a teacher. Kate takes girls’ trips to Atlantic City where she goes crazy. Kate is Irish and has brothers that could likely kick my ass. Kate is all about pretending to be a good girl, a virgin with morals, but in reality, she’s the ultimate cock-tease. And Kate is sadly mistaken if she thinks her sweet persona will distract me from the truth.

Her apartment is clean and modern, but it has the slight smell of vanilla wafers and hypocrisy. No doubt her bedroom will be pink and frilly and likely contain stuffed animals from her childhood. I have two options: sex in front of those creepy baby posters, or sex in her bubblegum dungeon of plush.

I turn my back to the disturbing, pumpkin-head babies and kiss her. She’s a very dramatic, forceful kisser, but doesn’t contain an ounce of impulsive behavior. She moans my name as she pulls my t-shirt over my head and runs her red nails down my chest, stopping inside my shorts. This is a routine for her – I need to take control and get the fuck away from those creepy babies.

My jaw tightens as I give her a stern look. “Kate, as much as you want to be pinned against a wall – your bedroom, now.” She bites her lip timidly, trying to manipulate my control.

No woman will
ever
sexually control me.

She turns in the direction of her bedroom and I follow closely behind her, unhooking her top and tossing it on the floor. I fondle her tits, small, but a nice change from Fiona’s water balloons. She stops, falls back into my chest and moans.

“Oh Adam,” Kate whimpers.

Really? That didn’t take much. I remove my hand and push her forward with my legs. She opens the door and hits the light switch . . . shit, it’s worse than I imagined. There’s so much hot pink and zebra print that Safari Barbie must’ve puked in her room after a rough trip through the Serengeti.

Kate quickly moves toward the bed to hide her worn, stuffed monkey under the surplus of pink pillows. She then crawls with her ass in the air to the center of the bed, “mmm-ing” with each stride. Where do women learn this shit?

She turns her head seductively to summon me. “Take me,” Kate purrs.

I narrow my eyes and say, “Be quiet.”

She pouts and crosses her arms as I walk to her bookcase. Below the rows of trashy romance novels is a crappy stereo. I thumb through her collection of perfectly stacked CDs . . . Bon Jovi, Celine Dion, Dave Matthews Band, and Green Day. Highly predictable and completely lame.

I shut off the light and listen to her rustle in the bed – moving to a ready position. The bedside table is my next stop. I yank the dangling chain to the feathered lamp, wobbling and illuminating the room in more pink. I pick up a framed photo of Kate and her red-headed family on a cruise – yep, three rugby-type brothers that appear very protective.

“You don’t talk much,” Kate says sweetly.

“Take it all off,” I command. I know this is what she wants – no need in acknowledging her with foreplay.

I return the photo to the nightstand as she tosses her red bikini bottom at my head. Let’s see what Kate likes . . . I pull out the top drawer of the table to find the XXX items I knew she would have: ribbons of condoms, handcuffs, lube, three vibrators and a large, black velvet bag.

“Adam, please get out of there. That’s private.” She begs with a smile.

“Private?” I smirk. She has no idea who she’s dealing with. I rip off one of the condoms, place it next to her family photo, and shut off the lamp.

I remove my swim trunks and stroke my erection in preparation for the condom. Kate moves toward the headboard so I grab her ankle and stretch her leg to my mouth, licking, and then biting her calf. She squeals and shudders, but her body language is very relaxed and accommodating. Why do girls assume we want them to be comfortable with sex; like they’re
the
cool girl
that will do anything in the bedroom?

I want a girl with an erratic heartbeat. I want a girl to feel anxious and alive. I want a girl to surprise
me
.

Kate robotically opens her legs as I lick her inner thigh. I force two fingers inside her, slowly pull them out, and then slide them in her mouth. After I position the condom, I spread her legs further apart, pin her down by her wrists, and enter her with one hard thrust. Moving to my knees, I pull Kate toward me, my arms tight around her waist, bouncing her on my hips.

“Oh God, oh shit! Yes, yes! Harder!” Kate mechanically groans like a low-budget porno, but underneath her high-pitched pleasure, I can hear the faint sound of fireworks.

I pull out and flip her face down in her satin pillows, hoping to muffle some of her background noise. Fortunately for me, she really enjoys submission and she’s really close to orgasm. I pull her arms behind her back and tighten my grasp around her wrists. She’s making a vibrato noise that could herd a pack of goats, so I continue to pump her until she eventually spasms. Loudly. I concentrate on finishing – which is pretty easy with her being so wet and comfortable – and silent.

I move to her side, kiss her back and rub her cute little ass. She continues to moan and flinch with her face buried in the pillows. I slap her ass and turn her over to reveal her post-coital glow and perky tits.

“Wow, that was amazing!” Kate closes her eyes – elated, tired and satisfied.

I carefully roll out of the bed, but clumsily trip on a box of photos. I take another look at her CDs, illuminated by the glow of her computer screen, and then toss my condom in her zebra-print trashcan.

No passion. No intrigue. And no fucking fireworks.