Max is NOW!

I’ve started a novel.
Please excuse the formatting, I’m terrible at that.
Comments and critiques welcome.

Also, check out http://www.nanowrimo.org
And http://www.nanowrimo.org/userbook.php?uid=112680

“Sex Machine”
by Max Kirchoff
Chapter One
Heartbreak is about what we didn’t say.
I’ve never actually been in love. At least, I don’t think I have. I guess that’s the problem with love, it’s a concept that must first be understood in order to later understand. Cyclical. Does that make sense? Of course those wretched, so-called romantics will say something about how love is so ethereal, so mystical, that it need not, nor can it ever be understood….only lived. That’s just nonsense. Love is pop slang, not some transcendent experience of sequential moments drifting in the flux of life. It’s pop slang for “im-codependent-and-you-are-available…” I wish I could be this cold. The truth is that I’m really not sure what any of it means. And not in that philosopher, “what does it all mean?!” sort of way, but in my simple, broken, human sort of way. That’s where we begin I guess, the simple, broken, human sort of way.

Wil looked up from his grocery basket to set eyes on the layer over layer of gums and candies beside the checkout line; it resembled the rows and balconies of some magnificent concert hall to him. So many differing colors and shapes, yet so uniformed in the same way. It was beautiful really, packaged commercial beauty, much like the sweet harmony of freeways and highways across the dull landscape of desert. There was this aura of crisp design that radiated wave after wave of vibrant pleasures, an ecstasy of what our fore-father puritans fought so desperately to attain. The consumer delights of freedom. As Wil stared into the terraces of treats, a faintly angelic voice struck his tight ear drums.
“Thank you, sir,” the voice spoke softly to the man in the wheelchair directly in front of Wil at the checkout line. Wil swung his head around with the weight of late night fatigue. The first sight he caught was a woman’s very healthy breasts that were becoming increasingly exposed as she hurried to unload her groceries onto the checkstand, reaching further into the cart for each new item. Wil stared in her lowering shirt V-neck. The woman instantly covered her neckline with an open hand. Wil’s eyes ascended further to her meet her half-scowl, but he quickly looked off into the lotto machine on the other side of her to avoid the embarrassment of seeing her staring back. Wil now took more notice of the smaller gentleman in the wheelchair that was immediately in front of him. The man was helping the young woman to unload her items quickly from the cart and onto the checkstand. Wil was still rattled about being caught. He stood there, slouching. His eyes wondered once more to the expanse of the checkstand, its juxtaposition of such clean, well designed products against the grubby checkstand conveyor belt and cash machine. It was an odd sight despite its regularity in modern life; something he rarely noted.
The checker, herself, looked to be about forty years old, give or take a few. She had long, curly hair with large suspended bangs that hung perfectly over her very elaborate make-up and undoubtedly fake eyelashes. Her fingernails were also quite showy with a particularly long extension from each finger. The checker wore a nametag over the right breast of her large supermarket apron which read, “Peggy.” She reminded Wil a lot of his mother in the height of glam-meets-white-trash, early 90s fashion: the make-up, the fake eyelashes, and the large hair with systematic, curvaceous structure. The man in the wheelchair was unloading two large bottles of dull yellow hair gel onto the checkstand, the sort of yellow you only find in old truck stops, urinals, houses from the late 60s, and hair gel. He then surrounded by the rubber checkstand sticks to denote the separation of his items from Wil’s. The woman in line, with her v-neck now steadily under control, counted out four twenties, six fives, and about thirteen ones. Peggy, the checker, read the cash-machine total and the woman in line handed her the counted cash while simultaneously withdrawing her checkbook from a back pocket. She made out a check for the remainder, grabbed her receipt, and quickly hauled her cartful of items toward the automatic doors. The man in the wheelchair wheeled forward and Wil followed a few steps. As the checkstand conveyor pulled the items into Peggy’s grasp, she scanned his items with pleasant small talk, and then read him the total. The man paid his few bucks and collected his change. An amazement that such a fashionable item as hair gel can be so economically available. Wil made one final, obsessive check that he had obtained all needed items: a three-pack of paper towels, a pack of standard envelopes, twelve ball-point pens, a large bag of apples, one pint of roasted garlic hummus, and 2 liter bottle of Fresca. Although all his items were accounted for, Wil looked irritated. He wanted some fresh French bread, but he also knew he would never eat enough of it to permit the cost. The supermarket supplied warm, delightfully soft French bread at the entrance to every-other checkstand line. Wil could still smell the fresh bread faintly over what was assumed to be Peggy’s cheap perfume. Wil both wanted the bread and didn’t want it; an interesting incidence for paradox in one’s local supermarket. His stomach growled at the thought of such a delicious treat, but his wallet had a much more potent influence.
The man in the wheelchair made way and Peggy began pulling in and scanning Wil’s necessaries. She spoke assertively for so late in the night, “Good evening, Sir.”
“Hey,” Wil responded in a way that slid across his lips and tapered off into the Supermarket easy listening mix and abrupt scan tones of barcodes gliding over the scanning device. Peggy added the items up in her head just as the machine, but unlike the machine she seemed to add up the meaning of the items. The life of a supermarket checker must provide such an exposure to the world we never talk about. Meaning locked not in the singular items we purchase, but in the combinations, the stews of groceries and necessities. Toilet paper, bell peppers, diapers, hair dye, beef steak, fake crab meat, non-fat yogurts, condoms, whiskeys, lunch meat, paper goods, laxatives, imported goat cheese, kosher crackers….all ingredients ready to be fused at the checkstand, ready to open the understanding of who one is. Peggy was in a unique position to understand who Wil was, by simple addition of his items. But all she shared was a simple, “Credit or Debit” as Wil slid his card in the electronic payment device; he rarely dealt in cash. The ease of sliding a small, plastic card through a device was just too simple to pass up. No need to worry about change or loosing bills in the daily routine. Not to mention that almost everywhere was now equip with debit card devices, even if at a small fee to the cardholder. The university food cafeteria, the video-rental place, the Chinese take-out joint, and even some of the local thrift stores allowed this marvel of the future, the plastic payment. Wil glanced up at Peggy as she waited for his payment choice.
“Uhhhh…debit,” he said while also pressing the “debit” button on the electronic payment device. Peggy watched Wil as he watched for the receipt printout. How odd it is on these occasions of everyday life where we don’t meet eyes with others. Wil’s card was approved and Peggy tore the receipt from the printer to hand Wil. He scooped the handles of the two grocery bags that Peggy had filled and relieved her of his copy of the transaction receipt. As Wil did this he looked Peggy strait in the eyes and thanked her with a cold, firm, “Have a good night.” It followed so smoothly, like the many corporate relations shared. The polite gentleman at telephone assistance, the woman who works in the gas station, even the delightful college student at the caf‚: they all share in these brief commercial snippets and half-smiles. This one Peggy and Wil shared, if only for a fleeting half-second.
The two plastic bags fell comfortably into Wil’s large hands with each stride to the automatic doors. In a lasting moment Wil absorbed the passing assortments of cigarettes, firewood, and the last minute advertisements as he exited: so colorful and crisp. Wil also passed the contraption that distributed stickers and temporary tattoos, which caught his eye immediately. Without pause in his stride, Wil remembered his friend Lisa who inevitably purchased temporary tattoos everywhere she ventured. Lisa had become such a part of Wil’s own character that it was hard for him to walk past the dispenser in silence, forgetting her was forgetting himself. But he did walk past, even if hesitantly. The instance, remembering Lisa’s odd compulsion, spiraled Wil into a pattern of reflections. From temporary tattoo dispensers, to Lisa’s toddler-like addictions, to the hours of laughter with her, to Wil’s lack of laughter recently, to Wil’s current emotional disposition: the memories melting into thoughts melting into feelings. If one could slow the frame rate of time, they would see the look of mediocrity turn to smirking turn to confusion turn into hurt in Wil’s face. But Wil simply returned to the unintelligible mass of knots and tangles of his mind or heart or whatever it is. He pressed forward through the doors trying only to think of the good times. Wil was not privilege of simplicity and subtlety. Too easily he would get caught in timeless loops of thoughtful reflection, but not the sort we look for in therapy or self-analysis. It was sick, for him it was folly and death. Many speak of artists as heralds of humankind, the enlightened ones who can speak languages that decipher reality and bring it to others. But this benefit they are thought to have, it is more a curse. Unlike those who can partake in unaltered sleep and beautiful, lazy-minded days, the artist lays awake fearing and cowering and loathing the stillness of evening. We all befall this once in a while, but for those who are truly the tortured souls; they create in order to escape, to see the next morning. It’s their creations of deference that is called “art,” and for some, “philosophy.” Wil knew well the ways of unstoppable thought and unquenched obsessions. And as he walked through the automatic doors of the local supermarket a spark flared behind his eyes, the spark of hope, the illumination waiting to shed its darkness, the human behind the eyes of the artist.
Again without alteration in his stride, Wil noticed the woman with the momentarily risqu‚ neckline unloading her cart. She heaped bag after bag on her arms, carefully yet dangerously distributing them so as not to fall over immediately from their weight. As a final piece, she sat a large twenty pack of bathroom tissue on top of both loaded arms. It was a mess of flesh and plastic and groceries all frosted by the bright bathroom tissue. Wil remembered a piece from the Christian bible, “those whose burden is heavy, come unto me and I will make it light.” Her burden was heavy, and Wil has a distinct feeling that JC wasn’t going to be shouldering much of the groceries, at least not tonight. Wil met eyes with her as he passed her stooping burden. They shared a novelty of a glance, both emotionless, and then it was gone. Wil continued to his car. But his mind found a new avenue of obsession, it spun it circles wondering, questioning…
“Is she really carrying that somewhere by herself? ALL of it? How far? Should I help? Of course I should help. No, no, I’m just some creepy guy in the parking lot who was staring at her breasts. But really, shouldn’t I help her? It the right thing to do. I think. Right? Who is she? I wonder if she thinks I’m cute. No, probably not. Why not? She’s cute. If I help her maybe… Well..well. Should I? No, she doesn’t think I’m cute.” Another fleeting dilemma, it was not uncommon.
Wil arrived at his car door with groceries in hand and he looked back at the young woman making her way very slowly across the parking lot troubleshooting her grocery transport abilities. As he briefly watched her a bag tore and some goods fell quickly to the asphalt. Wil recognized the blue dishsoap, even from this distance. Some time ago Lisa had said something about the same dishsoap in his apartment. She told Wil that it accented his eyes when he was washing dishes; then she pumped a handful of it and smeared it across his cheeks. Lisa had also explained, after the dishsoap assault, that a little eyeliner would clarify his vibrantly blue eyes for the rest of the world to see. Wil knew the whole time that while it was a nice compliment, it was also part of Lisa’s grand scheme to make him her personal play doll. She tried such tricks all the time, persuading him to dress and act in ways that she found outrageously humorous: all things that made Wil look like an exceeding ass.
The blue dishsoap lying on the ground forced a smile out of him. It was then that Wil’s thoughts stopped and he decided to help the young woman with her burden. Perhaps he felt guilty for the earlier breast-gazing, maybe he wanted to do more, but regardless he made up his mind. Wil opened his car door and flung his groceries onto the middle seat. He swung back around to see the now frustrated young woman attempting to manage all her bagged groceries, the large pack of bathroom tissue, and collect the fallen items. Wil half sprinted to the bottle of blue dishsoap a few feet from the now kneeling woman. He scooped it up along with a small box of fabric softeners and closed in on her. With a frustrated and upset look upon her face, she reached out and looked up at him. Wil handed her the soap and she let out a short gasp with an even more frustrated look, “I wanted help up, not to wash my hands.”
“Uh..oh…well that stuff has freesia in it, it smells really nice,” Wil mustered out only to immediately regret. “I mean..uh..” Wil snatched the dishsoap and gave her his open hand to help her up, “sorry.”
“Thanks, and yes, I know about the freesia,” she shared as she relieved Wil of the dishsoap once more, “any thing you have to say about the fabric softener, or are we just soap experts?”
“Umm…uh..well no, not really, I don’t use it much,” Wil muttered.
“It’s okay; I hear Consumer Reports has the fabric softener industry covered.”
Wil looked even more confused, “yea, yea.”
“You get it? As in they do reports on fabric soft-oh nevermind,” she explained, “were you going to wait around for the rest of my stuff to fall out so you can tell me all about it?”
Wil stood there idly for a second until realizing he was asked a question. He motioned with his hands, “Can I help you with this stuff or give you a ride or something?” This statement started him blushing for some reason; he was somehow embarrassed by the offer. He motioned with his hands again. People do this when they are nervous.
“Hmm, well I don’t normally talk to strangers,” she said in a sarcastic child’s voice. “Actually, yes, I would appreciate the help.” The woman looked at Wil again and added, “one thing though, no more staring at my boobs.”
“I-I’m sorry, I-I-I was just..it was-it wasn’t,” Wil blushed more, “It was just that I was thinking, and-”
“It’s okay, I know, I know, it’s a man thing,” she interrupted, “they love nice knockers.”
Wil grew redder with every word, “No, no, it’s not a man thing. I just didn’t realize, it was curiosity and I wasn’t paying attention, I promise.”
“Curiosity?! Ha! That’s incredible; my bosom is now the great mystery of humankind!”
“No, I meant- I - look it was innocent, okay?”
“Okay, whatever, it’s alright. Just grab some bags and keep your eyes above my neckline,” she said as she ushered an armful of bags to Wil. Wil leaned his left shoulder down with his forearm out. “Jesus!” he yelped as she gave him half the load slid onto his arm.
“Don’t fuck with the Jesus, man!” She pronounced with a giggle to her voice that developed into a chuckle at the end. Wil, with a confused half-smile looked at her oddly. The young woman looked back with expectation, and after a few seconds she explained, “It’s a line from ‘The Big Lebows-’, oh nevermind!” She stood up strait and bagged the fallen items while Wil balanced out his half of the bags. She looked up at him again. “I’m Monica, by the way,” she said pleasantly, “and no, I don’t have a thing for presidents, I don’t give cigars as gifts, and I’ve never owned a stained dress.” Wil let out a jolting half-chuckle. Not because he enjoyed the joke but because he at least understood it as a joke. “Okay, so at least he has enough of a pulse to get that reference. Now do you have a name or should I just call you the breast-man?” The fading embarrassment now flared again as Wil responded, “ohh, sorry, I’m Wil,” he paused, “I don’t really have any jokes about my name, sorry.”
“None at all Mr. Wil? No references to the verb or the legal document dictating a persons last wishes?”
“It’s not W-I-L-L, it’s actually just W-I-L. I guess that’s sort of funny.”
“Not really, but I can give you a courtesy laugh.”
Wil chuckled. Monica looked slightly amused by his chuckle, “apparently it is funny. But look, we should start walking, it’s a little ways. Maybe we can work on a joke for your name or something.” She began walking across the parking lot again as she finished speaking. Wil stood, unmoved and curious about where she was going.
“My car is this way, right over there,” he pointed back towards the car.
She spoke facing away from him, still walking, “I said you could help, so help. Besides,” she turned back and looked at him while walking backwards, “I don’t like cars.”
“Oh, are you vegan or something?” he wondered.
“No, I’m half Lebanese and half Irish, but I really don’t know what this has to do with walking to my place?” she yelled walking farther across the parking lot, “hurry up!”
“Har-har,” Wil responded sarcastically, even though it was hardly a cutting remark.
“Look,” Monica spun around to face Wil across the short distance that now separated them in the empty parking lot, “start walking or I’m on my own and without half of my stuff.” Wil grabbed the plastic bags tighter and quickly began to catch up with Monica. He looked up at her walking away as he approached. Wil caught up to Monica and laughed to himself about the comment she made in response to his question about veganism earlier, just now seeing the humor of it.
“What’s so funny, sport?” she inquired.
“Wait,” he paused, “did you just call me sport?”
“Yea. But what was so funny?” she continued walking.
“Well I was thinking - but wait a second here, you called me sport,” he caught up in a slow jog.
“Thinking about what?” She asked very slowly as to make the point.
“Well, um, Celts,” Wil responded in hopes of inciting a short comical enterprise.
“As in the indo-european people? You think ancient people groups are funny?”
“Well, no, it’s more complex than that-”
“Because, you know,” she interrupted, “I can’t get enough of those Sumerians! Ha, they are a riot!” Monica playfully smirked and joked with Wil. He laughed more fully than the previous half-chuckles.
“Oh really? Sumerians huh? Haha.,” Will played along.
“Oh yes, have you ever read that Gilgamesh bit?! Best period comedy I’ve read,” She smiled more, “oh, hit the button.” Wil leaned over and pressed the crosswalk button on the corner of the traffic intersection as they arrived. Few cars were around this late, and these two continued on to Monica’s destination.
“You know,” Wil began again, “I believe ‘The Epic of Gilgamesh” is Babylonian.”
“Eh, Babylonians, Sumerians, they all look the same, right? Right?” she mocked the contemporary racism of their local communities with an obviously comic undertone. Wil was immediately taken aback by the manifestation of that sort of phrase from her, but he laughed as he understood the humor and mockery of it.
They continued on a few more blocks into the residential parts of the area. Silence crept over the conversation until Wil was compelled by the uncomfortable quiet to offer some disturbance. “So, you go to the University also?” he asked.
“Sometimes. Depends on the time of day.”
“What’s your major?” he asked further.
“I’m working on a double-major in English and Gender Studies. But I’m pretty much done with the English part and mostly done with Gender Studies stuff too.” She responded.
“Ah,” Wil exclaimed with a curious look.
“My dad wanted me to change it to Business or some bullshit like that, but really what does one do for four years studying business? And then what? Become a corporate tool? Not my style really….well at least not totally.”
Wil hesitantly pressed, “Well what do you do with an English and Gender Studies double major?”
Monica looked irked by this question. She glanced over at him with a small scowl until she realized that he really was curious and not just being an ass about it. “Well, Captain Curiosity, one can do critical theory, law school, teach, write books, and so on. There is a bunch of stuff to do out there,” she explained, “So what’s your major? What’s your oh-so-valuable asset of study?”
“Business,” Wil responded with a slight smirk.
“Oh,” Monica immediately looked embarrassed about what she said, “I’m sorry-”
“With a concentration on Foreign Imperialism and Exploitative Labor Management” he said.
“Oh, you - wait that’s not a concentration, you suck, you’re not a business major,” Monica now seemed relieved, “so what’s your real major?”
“Okay, okay, you caught me, my real major is Aquatic Choreographic Theory,” he confessed with strait-faced assurance. Monica looked at him for a moment with contempt and then began laughing again. “Yea, we just covered the Bellagio water show in Vegas for my Contemporary Aquatic-Art class.”
“So there is a comedian in there,” she said as they passed another traffic corner in laughter. “Cut the shit though, what’s your really real major? And no more bull.”
“Art,” he answered plainly.
“Oh. We have an artist on our hands huh? Well why didn’t you say so earlier? That explains the idle curiosity about my breasts and ass.”
“I told you - wait when did I look at your ass?” Wil asked as he glanced across Monica’s ass as she quickly looked up to his eyes.
“HA! Besides right then?! You are so caught!” she yelled loudly as a voice shot out from somewhere in the apartments they were now walking in front of.
“SHUT UP!” someone yelled in response. Monica giggled and hurried her pace. Wil followed as he lifted one of the heavy, bag-laden hands to cover his face with amused shame.
“Don’t worry,” she said quieter, “power of suggestion, besides, you’re an artist and I don’t want to inhibit your creative curiosities.” She looked down the street they were now crossing, “If you ask me, art is mostly tits and asses.”
Wil laughed at her assertion, regardless of its overestimated assessment of the appearance of breasts and asses in the art world. Before his laughter stopped, she inquired, “so Wil the artist, what medium do you work in, or mediums, I should say.”
“Well,” Wil began to explain as they passed a large apartment complex, “sculpture.”
“Like ceramics, glass, metal casting?-”
“Actually no, I work with sheet metal and wire mostly.”
“Oh, I don’t know if I’ve seen much with sheet metal, but I’ve seen some wire stuff,” she said as she directed Wil into the newer gated apartment complex they now approached.
Both strode through the dim-lit walkway into an assortment of separate apartment structures that seemed more glamorous than the studio Wil slept in. There were large tropical and subtropical floras riddling the numerous areas between sidewalks. It made things rather dark due to the towering palms and large-leaf bushes. It also provided this distinctly pleasurable and musky odor. Monica stopped at the walk-through gate into the complex. She juggled her groceries obviously searching for her key or some device to open the gate. She insistently searched herself, looking more and more like a street mime from downtown. After a few moments of feeling around she let out a frustrated gasp - much like when Wil handed her the dishsoap earlier - as she dropped all of the plastic bags to the ground in a desperate hope of finding her key.
“Shit, shit, shit…” she murmured.
“Can I help somehow?” Wil asked.
“Do you have a key for the gate?” she snapped at him. He stood there quietly. “I’m sorry,” she explained as she turned to type something in at the keypad terminal next to the gate, “I get frustrated easily.”
The terminal speaker broke into the quiet, musky night with some crude form of a telephone ringer. After a few of the crackling rings - more crackle than ring - a voice on the other end spoke.
“H-hello,” someone mustered through an obviously sleepy voice and a poor buzzing terminal speaker.
“Kate! Kate, it’s me Monica. I forgot my keys again.”
The voice now tired, fuzzy, and seemingly irritated responded, “ahhh, damn you. Alright, I’m gonna unlock the door too, but I’m going back to bed.” Soon after a terrible buzz was emitted from the gate, Monica pushed it open.
“Hold the gate while I get my stuff,” she instructed. Wil walked forward and stuck his heel against the gate to leverage it open. Monica bent over to retrieve her bags and bathroom tissue pack. At first unknowingly, Wil was starring at her somewhat exposed underwear and ass. He chuckled to himself as he realized what he was looking at. It was a nice ass, and Wil thought it right to make use of the earlier allegations against him. For Wil it wasn’t always about sex, he enjoyed watching people, admiring their structures, they way they hold themselves. Some occasions he would form theses about body language and posture. Most went untested, but a few had actually proven to work once in a while, especially the theories about wandering eyes.
Monica now straitened up and brushed past Wil in the gateway. As she passed, Monica turned sideways so as to fit through the slim opening between Wil and the opposite gate post. Monica looked up into Wil’s eyes as she passed and rubbed against him for what seemed to be quite a bit more than necessary to navigate the throughway. He could feel her breasts and hips slide against his torso and thighs. Time lurched slower as Wil felt every inch of friction between them. She smirked as she passed him and turned forward. Wil readjusted his share of the plastic bags and followed again to catch up. They set pace into the somber maze of vegetation and stucco exterior apartment buildings. Only a few short moments passed before Monica was compelled to speak, “so are you working on anything now? A new show or anything?” The semester had just begun a few weeks earlier and Wil was in fact working on a new series of pieces.
“Well, yes, I, um,” Wil still overanalyzing the body friction from the gateway, “I-I’m making some sculptures with copper sheet, binding wire, and acrylics-”
“Ohhhh, paints,” she interrupted, “now I can relate with acrylics and oils.” She parsed her lips while giving Wil an odd glance. “Well?” she demanded.
Wil was unsure what that was about, “Well what?”
“Well do they have concepts behind them, you know, like ‘man with dog in chair’ or ‘this is not a pipe?’”
“Nothing that complex, well, the show is called ‘Emotion in Metal,” and no, not as in Slayer.”
“I think you’re getting funnier my friend,” she said as Wil followed her up a short flight of stairs.
They ascended the few steps to her doorway and she opened the door into a room mixed with incense and cooking odors that was almost overcoming. Everything was fairly dark except for a small amount of light coming through the doorway of what seemed to be the bathroom. The room looked like an advertisement on college ad for Ikea and Target that had the artistic flair of 99› stores. All of the furniture and decoration was bohemian-sheik. A large collection of records sat in front of the television which caught Wil’s attention. Vinyl collections were a mark of something special in this generation, something between thrift store culture and first press Stones records. Monica made way into the kitchen and then returned to relieve Wil of his plastic bags while he surveyed the small apartment. “It’s not too bad, for the size-” Monica shouted from the kitchen before realizing that Kate was sleeping. “I like it, it’s cozy and we both have our own rooms,” she half-whispered as she came back through the main living room where Wil was standing. He explored around a bit as Monica shelved some of her stuff in the bathroom, including the large amount of toilet tissue. Wil knelt over the box of records, fingering through them slowly observing the titles.
“You want to play one?” Monica said in her half-whisper as she settled into the main living room.
“Isn’t your roommate sleeping?” Wil wondered in a quieter whisper.
“It’s okay, she’s probably already out and we can play it softly,” she insisted.
Wil fingered through the records a bit more until he pulled out the one that caught his eye. “Do you know how to work this,” Monica asked as she pointed to the turntable immediately to the left of the television.
“Yea, but where the volume?” he said as he slid the vinyl from its sleeve and lay it on the player. Monica knelt next to him and fiddled with some knobs on the receiver below the turntable.
“That should be okay,” Monica said as she flipped the player switch and sat on the ground in front of the player next to Wil. He descended onto his knees fully and the turntable began with the always present faint hiss of a vinyl record. Wil turned to Monica as Otis Redding’s vocals softly opened into the room. She looked to Wil’s face and put her hand over his on the box of records. Wil looked to her with subtle surprise. He turned partially towards her, placing his face inches from hers. They breathed a few short, hot breaths into each other, both of their eyes probing with anticipation. Monica exhaled deep onto Wil’s lips as she moved slowly closer. Their lips met softly. She gently cupped her hand on his cheek, below his ear. Both impulsively embraced, suddenly quenching lips against lips, until Monica broke the connection. She leaned her face to the side of Wil’s. His heart fluttered and his stomach tweaked with delight at the heat of her skin against his. Monica brought her lips close to Wil’s ear. He fidgeted with emotion and pleasure. She paused, breathing into his neck, and whispered in a quiet, breathless voice, “I don’t normally do this.”

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Stay tuned for Chapter Two
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