Keira

Romantic Fiction written by a guy

who simply adores one of the world’s Keiras.

Copyright is secured.

I Just Found Out About Love

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

The first girl I ever saw was when I was twelve. Of course, I discovered girls existed the day I entered kindergarten. And before that, women were only known to me as mothers. From birth to age five, I was in the house and Mom was the Source. Mom was food, nurture, punishment, rescue, love, play, rest, learning: every discovery emerged from or took me to my mother. If other humans existed, I paid them no mind. Legos were good. Ice cream was good. But other humans? Could they get past the shield of Mom’s embrace? I was content to know her and know her only.

Kindergarten. I walked in there only under the strong coercion of my mother’s tug. The edge of the door was my first discovery of tenacity. I grabbed it out of some kind of intuitive reflex. My mom never taught me to cling to something when resisting. The clutch of my fingers upon the door jamb, nails pinching the framework just came naturally.

Girls. They looked like candy. Colorful dresses. Bare legs. Long hair. Braids. Headbands. I’d only seen things this colorful in candy stores. Girls were walking, talking candy on display. I say talking but I don’t mean it. They talked, yeah. But not to me. Only about me, to each other.

I didn’t know what separated us from each other. An invisible wall buffeted me back whenever I contemplated asking one of them something. Perhaps they had a jigsaw puzzle I wanted. Their hands would be touching it. Not playing with it. Just on the table where they sat. And I’d want it. But it was too close to the realm of ~ those pensive eyes staring back at me as if in dare. Perhaps at other times I would be walking across the room, lost in my imaginations of that fish tank on the shelf. The pet turtle we had, whether he was on the rock or under the water. I’d be walking to go see, and suddenly alarms would ring in my head, alerting me, reminding me I was not alone. Girls. Quick. Change. Walk the other way. Swerve. A girl is in my path all of a sudden. And then I’d remember, oh yeah, I … um … wanted to read a book today. Book shelf. The other direction. Thus, the wall would knock me back and out of even the remotest contact with a girl. Book. Bury the face in a book. Books were safe. I could control books. Open, close. Books became my friends.

The first girl I ever really saw was when ~ of all things ~ Mom was driving. We were on some country, rural road type thing. Normally, the road between Sebastopol and Rohnert Park / Cotati was an uninterrupted meander between the redwoods. But it did tend to have more traffic accidents than traffic lights. Interesting limitations of options ~ do you want to be in an accident today or just watch other cars collide? So one day, as fate would have it, we had to turn off that highway and onto a side street because we didn’t want to watch the tow trucks yank today’s wreck out of the ditch. I don’t know where we were. Don’t ask me. Suddenly we entered a world where there was a building over here, a barn, and then another person’s home maybe a mile away, way over that pasture land, the corn rows, the grape field. Certainly not the city life I was used to.

We should have passed straight through. Down the pot-holed pavement, over the bridge of the creek, past the eucalyptus grove and on towards home the other way. But no, we saw a make-shift chicken-wire pen at the side of the road. Baby chicks hopping around in it. Drive past it, we would, but a sign begged us to reconsider. Gravenstein Apples. Blackberries. Farm Fresh Produce. Free Range Eggs. Doggone sign. Pulled my mother in like a hook, with a hard crank of the steering wheel and a skitter of the tires across the dirt parking lot. Little shack; four posts and a canopy made the sales booth what it was. Table made a sales counter. And another woman inside of it, so now my mom had someone to talk to. I was certain they’d talk about me. Mom always did. I was trying to outgrow the ‘let’s talk about our babies,’ stage but Mom kept pulling me back into it whenever in the company of like-minded women. I didn’t really see the woman who worked the booth. I wouldn’t recognize her today from Adam. But I saw the girl.

She was older than I was, and as dismantling as a heart attack, and I can say that because she took me to it and I fell apart at the seams. Tall, about 5’8. Blue denim shorts; and I do mean short, with the hem rolled up even higher. The full length of her thighs were bared and possibly some of her bum if she tilted just right. Long, engaging legs that captivated my eyes and my sighs. Hair ~ somewhere between honey and tawny and brown depending on how the sun caught the locks ~ long enough to dapple about her breasts. The display of her robust breasts seemed to encourage a stare, and I did not wish to be caught drooling. Diminutive, not large by common standards, but sunny side up, the twin round blossoms peeking up from under the fluffs. She wore a button-down top ~ unbuttoned, hiked up to a bare midriff and tied together at a bow between the bosoms. They instilled panic into my blood as I felt my self-control embarrassingly falter. My fingers clutched down onto the door handle like the first day of kindergarten. I told Mom, “I feel sick, I think I’ll just stay here.” Hormonal impulses were aroused way too quick, and I’d had no time to prepare myself for the traumatic ecstasy of having to actually, finally interact with a girl.

“Get out of the car, right now, as you are, or I will carry you over my shoulder.” I looked out my window. Standing outside my door, she blocked my view. I could not escape the battleship on my shore. She said what she said in all sincerity and she rested her fingertips on the handle of my door to prove it.

Mom was really my best friend. Outside of my books, she was my life. She loved me. Everything about my life thus far had been handed to me on a plate by my mother. I could say anything to her. I don’t think I was ever really punished. Pain, yes. She brought me pain. This event here was a good example of pain. But she protected me in ways uncountable and innumerable. Twelve years of rescuing my sorry ass from my own ignorance-based and self-willed blunders, if only one thing: I simply needed to tell her. “I’m not a mind-reader,” she would always say. “Talk to me,” she would always say. “Use your words.” That being true might have been true in the past, but for today’s situation, I couldn’t say anything. Was there a drop of blood left in my brain for me to even know my own thoughts?

“How old are you?” she asked. I gulped. She looked about nineteen. What would twelve sound like? I didn’t want to be a kid today. I didn’t want her to mother me. I wanted her as my girlfriend. Where was Mom’s rescue today? Why didn’t Mom step up and do some smart-talking for me and tell this girl I was a superhero and then she could fall in love with me? But no, Mom left me to answer my own question, and it left me sounding stupid. “I’ll be going to Rancho Cotati High,” I said though, what with it being summer, school wasn’t in session yet. And it would still be one more summer after that until I would be going to high school. But I would be going there eventually~ so to mention high school was not a lie.

“Nice, plump tomatoes,” we heard Mom say, her eyes dreamy on the vegetable stand, not paying us any mind. But it made me blush. I looked up at the girl, and when I saw her glistening hazel eyes were on mine, I blushed so hard.

“Do you like tomatoes?” the girl asked. “Do you?” Her lips were natural, not wearing any showy lipstick. They were slender like twin slivers of ice cream spooned off the top of an ice cream carton at the candy store. They were that shade of pink which is similar to the sun highlighting the curves of an orchid petal.

I couldn’t even remember how to breathe, let alone figure out how to extract myself from this obvious double-entendre.

“I’m a Seawolf,” she said. That didn’t make sense to me, but I smiled. “I used to be a Cougar. But now I’m a Seawolf. Later in August, anyway. I start this semester.” It still made no sense, what with my depth of ignorance denying me any common sense as the concept of school mascots, Seawolves signifying the local university.

She led me to the other side of the fruit stand, away from the adults. There’s something wicked about grown girls: girls that are older than a boy at any given age, I should say. A boy will be intimidated by age, and girls capitalize on it. They play on that phenomenon. Superior by age, she took on a mood of strategic antagonism. One by one, she would name a fruit or a vegetable, and the way she said it made anything and everything sound like a secret reference to sex. She knew, in the fantastically deep and powerful intuitions of the female mind, she knew I’d never been with a girl before, and she played on that. She knew that her body was something to drool for, and she squeezed saliva out of the naive, gullible schoolboy drop by drop. She would swat a fly ~ that I never saw ~ off her butt with a palm, with so much drama that it would green-light permission to look. “Ow!” she would say, and then look at my eyes with a laugh that would be like, “God, would you look at that?” Yes, I did look. Again and again, she would slap a leg, a thigh, a hind-quarter while turning to me and asking if it made a mark on her skin. I could have fainted.

Beyond that, how can I recall anything of what was said? I recall the mothers dismissing themselves for a moment, off to the barn for some talk about worming and compost and chicken coops. Carrots. The topic of carrots came up, while she was telling me about her mother. “I love carrots. I love to study them. Have you ever studied a carrot?” she asked, sincerity in her eyes and drawing nearer to me. “I have,” she sighed longingly. “Don’t tell my mom,” she whispered, her eyes rolling slowly to the barn. “My mom thinks I’m going to major in Agriculture and Machinery,” she lied. “But I can’t! My mom would kill me if she knew.”

“What are you taking?” I pondered.

“Swear you won’t tell!”

“Ok.” I would have sworn the moon and my eternal allegiance. Her body was almost up against mine, and I was feeling the agony of a good hard compulsion to masturbate. I knew that if I didn’t take care of it soon, it would take care of itself, and I’d have a big wet spot to deal with.

Playing with myself was discovered accidentally when I was nine and climbing a tree. Something about lifting up by my hands, pushing up with my feet, and rocking up and down simulated a humping action, and I wet myself. It was a wonderful feeling, and I learned to like climbing trees a lot. One night I discovered ~ after slipping into bed naked after a shower, no intentions in mind, it just happened that way that I was naked ~ the sensations of bed linens when being pulled up. The rush of sensations when that linen swept across my penis brought me a wicked erection, eliciting several more good slips of the sheet and bang. I discovered masturbation. Girls not having been discovered yet, it became a lifestyle. A ritual. A happy time of day.

Keira, as she came to introduce herself eventually, had a fascination with being a doctor someday. Not a nurse, but a doctor. The problem was that she didn’t know how to tell her mom, so I was to shut up about it and never mention it. I was fine with that. “I need to practice,” she said, and she didn’t need to open the manual for me to instantly know what she meant. “How can I go to medical school if I don’t know what the human body looks like?” she asked. I didn’t know. Tell me. “If I don’t know what the anatomy feels like?” she continued. “Do you mind?” she asked, but she didn’t really wait for an answer.

She leaned up against me, her breasts pressing against me and stopping my heart. She unzipped my trousers, and when her hand clamped down on my penis, it was the softest bedsheet I’d ever felt. Female fingers are soft and strong, and delicate and delving, and curious and intuitive. And then I felt a tremendous release. “Sorry,” I gasped, realizing helpless little boy me had wet her hand.

“I’ll bet you haven’t seen a girl before.” She looked over her shoulder. No moms in sight. She flipped her blouse open and removed my ignorance like a surgeon. I don’t remember what I said, but I recall the nipples being as pink as her lips. Suddenly I made the connection. All those pretty ‘pink’ flower blossoms, growing wild, lining the roads. Some call them Amaryllis Belladona. My Mom called them Naked Ladies. I never knew why, but suddenly I did.  Images I’ll never forget. Perhaps I simply had a second orgasm. The memories of what we said aren’t a hundred percent clear. She looked at my penis, still hanging out in the air. It was hers. It belonged to her from this day forward. Love hit me hard and knocked me into an addiction. She tucked it back it and zipped me up just in time for her to wrap her bosoms back up without being seen by the women whom we could now overhear the chattering of.

I’ve spent some time now, as an adult, revisiting that road. But is it that road? Or was it another. I no longer see things looking the same as back then. Nothing really fits the familiar.

My mom drove us home, the back seat of the car smelling like the farm’s abundant harvest. What else do women smell? They have incredible olfactory senses. She turned her head to me on several occasions, as if about to ask something, but didn’t. Then she did. Finally at one point she did indeed ask. It was after smelling something in the air, I am certain. “Did you two get along okay?” she asked.

“Uh-huh.”

Suddenly her head shot to me. She acted quick, like on impulse that would only last a moment and she had to ask it immediate. “Did she touch you?”

“Uh-huh,” I grunted. Though a million people in a million crowded hallways might have touched me at any point in life and I’d have not thought a thing of it, this touch was understood by both Mother and myself as something beyond the ordinary touch, and we didn’t need a grand dictionary to arrive at the root of what she’d meant.  I grunted in affirmation, not able to lie to my mom but not willing to discuss any further truths.

“How do you feel about it?” she asked, perched precariously midway between rescue and elation.

“I liked it,” I confessed.

She said nothing else. She just smiled. She relaxed her grip on the wheel, no longer implying that she might hook the car into a tailspin. She drove us on home, and although her smile was one of being mildly tickled by her imaginations, she never drove me down that road again.

The Lights Were On While Someone Else was Home

© is secured
Friday, September 18, 2009

The easiest thing in the world was to put me in the car. Like luggage, toss the boy in the back seat. Then Mom belts herself in up front and away we go. Life. This was the life for me in my teenage years: a view from the back seat and moving forward. There was no reason to argue. Options would include sinking into the sofa in front of a TV set; being pulled up off a bench and thrown into a soccer game so I could get my shins kicked black and blue for the sake of a bouncing ball; sitting on the bench and not getting called at all. Which was a pretty good summation of my teenage years as a whole. The guy who nobody called. Forever and a day, once having met Keira, I just wanted to go back to the fruit stand and find Keira again. As stated in my first blog, my mom never let such a thing happen. Me being twelve and Keira being nineteen? Well she may have molested me once and gotten away with it, but Mom wasn’t about to let me be an older girl’s boy-toy no matter how much I liked it.

Soccer not on the agenda in my life, Mom drove me to a corner on the Gravenstein Highway for some Saturday busy-ness. Keep the boy busy. Dawn. Daybreak in Sonoma County. We met one of Mom’s friends, a lady who was about thirty at the time I suppose ~ best as my figuring’s come to mind. Several things I’ll never be told: what a woman is truly thinking and how old she really is.

Racks and racks of clothing on that roadside turnout. Like an outdoor Goodwill, rummage sale, yard sale. Amazing how that one woman could haul all that stuff out of one little van. But she spread it out for all the world to peruse and perchance purchase. It came to mind that the loose gravel would hardly slow down any car that would see our stuff at forty five miles an hour, hit the skids and crank the wheel towards. I positioned myself behind the racks completely and even behind the van when possible.

Kim needed my help that day. Mom helped set up for about an hour or two. Get the tables in a row, the racks all rolled into place, signs up, price tags attached. That was my job, price tag marking. Make the numbers legible with a big marker. Follow behind Kim and when she’d stick a tag on the garment and say something, I was to write it on the tag lickity split and keep moving. Hard to do when you got one eye fixed on the cars rounding the bend.

She was an interesting woman; Kim. She liked to talk while she walked and shouted out numbers. Telling me about her life, my life, childhood, adulthood, facts about her life unasked for and un-thought of by me. She wore a button-down smock and blue denim jeans and casual flats. Bright pink nail polish would catch the rising sun, flash into my view. I would close my eyes and I’d still see the image of those nails, only green on a black background now. I’d shut my eyes harder and the nails would dance low, high, all around in my mind’s eye. She wasn’t an ugly woman. She should have had a boyfriend or a husband. But the way she talked on and on about her life made me realize any other man who’d come near probably ran away in search of a moment’s peace. She wasn’t brilliant, not street smart either, but highly industrious. She never slowed down. Frantic kind of busy.

Then my mom left. I tried to get in the car with her but was denied transport. Apparently I was employed for the day. And what a day it started to become. Heat came on quick, just past breakfast time. Kim served me doughnuts and coffee. After that, I found myself participating in conversations more. I couldn’t quite mention Keira. The thought of Kim driving me to Keira’s roadside fruit stand came to mind again and again. Kim would always ask if I had to go pee. When she discovered I didn’t, it truly confused her and she felt guilty about giving me so much coffee. The memories of Keira just made my legs twitch in ways that I couldn’t discuss with Kim no matter how much she divulged truths about her being experienced in the ways of men.

The sun came on much stronger than the customers. A basketball court would be a nice addition out in that corner. Something to do besides wander up and down the aisles of clothes for the rest of the day. Then Kim took to getting warm so she took off her smock. “Do you mind?” she asked, handing it to me with a motion to toss it in the driver’s seat of the van. Her tube top looked sexier to me that it did to her. She truly wasn’t coming on to me for sex. No, she just kept folding clothes, stacking them and talking to me about movies, music, school, local events she’d been to recently, her high school years; failures; heartbreaks, outfits she’d worn to proms and homecomings and dates.

The tube top she wore today was tight around her armpits and clamped down with snug elastic band that pinched the fabric into a bunch and left the fabric hanging in pleats. The fabric was silk or sheer rayon or something. Black and sheer and kind of like a barrel loose around her chest. Everything swung free underneath it. Very airy. A barrel. I don’t know why I call it a barrel. It was more like a lampshade the way it looked. And the lights were definitely on underneath. She tried to keep it in place, all the jostling about with the goods on the tables made it keep sliding down her torso and then she’d yank it back up. But yank it up all the way and it didn’t stop the fact that the elastic band pulled her bosoms together like a plumber’s glowing butt crack.

She was selling women’s clothes mostly. But men started pulling in to shop. They were looking for something for their wife, their sister, their cousin ~ they all had excuses for shopping. Excuses I could see right through but Kim really didn’t. She truly believed that these men were serious customers and that if she showed them this table of goods they’d find something on it they liked. No men really paid anything or bought anything but they didn’t leave either. More men kept coming. Soon she had to draw a line and tell the ones who’d been there a while that they would have to buy or move on so others could shop.

All that did was make the men start offering her money. “I don’t really want anything here,” one man confessed with a shrug. He was a grown man, maybe even with grandkids. He said he really was just looking for a place to sit for a while, and he pulled a lawn chair out of his trunk and offered Kim a few dollars just so he could sit and relax somewhere nice. That didn’t clue her in either. She totally fell for it, saying it made perfect sense. She refused the money. He refused to take it back. Amidst the offers from some other men to do likewise, she simply found herself forced to put out a “tip” can.

As for me, I tried to stay hidden. The men knew I was there: she wasn’t alone. But I was just at that age where if no one tells you what to do, you don’t really know what to do. And she was quite busy, so she didn’t pay me much mind. I found a place to sit, on the open floor of the open doors of the back of the van. I watched as much as the grown men did. She was mildly entertaining to look at. But I still remembered and preferred Keira.

By the end of the day, yes several women had pulled over to shop. Some of them had daughters with them. I made a few friends. None that I recall today as I write. I’m sure they were cute, fun to flirt with. But seriously. If there was a way that I could remember the way back to Keira’s place…

When Kim drove me home, it was after a long, hot day. She pulled up in my driveway, stopped, and told me to apologize to my mom for her that she wouldn’t be coming in, but she was exhausted. I said ok. The she kissed me. In her experiences, it was no doubt a meaningless, nothing kiss. But in my fascinations, it shocked me and made me lean forward for a second one. She giggled and pushed me out the door, slipping a twenty into my hand in the process. “Thank you,” she said. A twenty and a kiss ~ what sort of global changes could occur if only more people treated each other like that.

The Night Becomes a Mask

© is secured
Saturday, September 26, 2009

To imagine an alien spaceship high above the earth would be to imagine a spec on the blue horizon. As it would draw closer, it would become larger in my sight. Eventually its descent would bring it low enough to darken the sky above my house. Continuing to grow in size exponentially as it would draw closer to my eye would make the horizon completely disappear, and all I would see is spaceship. Then, the nuts and bolts and rivets that hold the skin of it together would be in front of my eyes and I would see quite clearly the threads of whatever screw and bolt would press down onto my eye, and I wouldn’t even see the spacecraft itself. Just the bevels of the threaded screw. And the world might still be clear and blue to the rest of society, but in my eyes the world would no longer exist. Perhaps it would not be a screw but a simple black rivet the size of a dime ~ but it would dominate me and absorb my whole field of vision.

Such it was one morning, though not the arrival of a spaceship. No, it was a face. Another person’s face had lowered itself down onto mine while I slept. Her breathing was ever so slight ~ silent as the legendary flying saucers that cross the sky without a sound. I never heard her, nor did I sense her entrance while I slept within my bedroom. But she’d inched her way towards me in stealth and drawn close enough to alert those parts of me that dream.

A dream came to mind. A dream such as what had the aroma of human skin, it was so real. I dreamed she came up from the ocean. I was on the beach and the sun was shining and the weather was the warm kind that brings out the bikinis. She emerged from the sea, coming up out of the waves, with crystalline water slithering down her tanned face, dripping from her almond chin. Liquid paint was what her bikini seemed to be as it clung to her skin in ways that revealed her chilled and hardened nipples. Soft round breasts swaying with every stride but with hardened peaks jutting forward like  hello! Dreams can arouse sensations in a young boy that bring immediate pleasure to a wish for climax. The sight of this woman’s flirting eyes, the grandeur of her lithe, athletic form told the secret parts of my intuition that the world would be much better off with more women like this. Procreate! Procreate! Multiply and fill the earth with women such as this! I awoke naked as usual but with a boner that put me into kamikazi autopilot making a nose dive for those twin-gunned battleships floating on the sea.

Her kiss awakened me. I don’t know how long she’d been kissing me in reality, but when I opened my eyes in waking up, all I saw was her face. It was my cousin. She and my aunt had come over last night, and stayed I guess. She was younger than I. And a deft scientist. She was all about sensations. I’d seen her almost flood the bathroom once for the pleasure of feeling tub water running on her hand. And now here she was studying the sensations of mouth on mouth ~ perhaps too shy to make it with a boy at school but apparently I’d held no intimidations over her. The girl’s lips were on mine, her nose right beneath mine, as her head was significantly smaller, and all I could see was her wide alert, frightened eyes right beneath mine and looking up to see if I was awake.

“What the…?!” I yelled as I sat straight up. Bad enough to lose the bikini girl in my dream but to find out that my little cousin was messing with me while I slept made me shout so loud the women thundered down the hall to see if the house was on fire.

Thunder. I hope they don’t read this. I don’t think they’d like feet that are supposed to be dainty and sexy to be called thunderous.

But call the shots as I may, they came to running hard and full speed ahead.

That was it. No punishment. Stun me again, why don’t ‘cha? Guaranteed, had the tables been turned ~ had it been me in her bedroom I’d be tied, whipped and sent off to therapy. But the girl got off with a mere giggle. Co-conspirators. Women. Women are innocent of any and all insinuations, and guilty only of whatever might make them laugh.

Keira. Ok, it wasn’t her in the dream. Who can control the meanders of the wanderlust when slumbering? But I will ~ and do ~ dream of Keira when awake.