Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Rayanne was on the mend but still traumatized, her travels meant to rejuvenate her youth
with renewed perspective on the rest of her life. Who wouldn't love a holiday after what she'd
been through? Months of anxiety and pain had left her restless as a racehorse at a starting
gate.
Oh, Rayanne wanted to run. But the world back then had no arthroscopic, lathroscopic
or anyoscopic surgical procedure. All surgery required major incision, excision, stitches and
scars. She would reveal her body to nobody, or, as she put it, “No pussy for you. Trust me. You
don't want it in this condition.” Which of course led to pathetic insistence that I did, and then
to the inevitable dilemma of whether special relief should be merely anticipated or directly
requested.
Rayanne didn't need that foolishness. I shrugged. It was only a simple question, and I
couldn't really fault her for not wanting a schwantz lunging at her tonsils. Then again . . .
Never mind, she slowly unbuttoned her frilly blouse, then reached back to unhook the
harness. The front loader was still a few years into the future. Anyway, with no further ado,
rack revealed, she said a suckle would be lovely—not the one I'd requested but with my
puckered lips on her two jugs. It was her version of a better idea. I complied and found it—to
coin a phrase of the day—neat. But strange—Rayanne wanted lips on her nipples, any lips. I
sensed difficulty a few minutes in, which is a long time to suck on tits. And I realized that she
wanted lips sucking indefinitely.
I doubt she had come to terms on the rational plane. She craved nursing in post partum
compensation, and though any lips applying suction would have done, she especially liked
a hundred thirty-five pounds o' motoboy with a Lightning Rocket between his legs. It com-
pensated her loss on a new mode of fitting in, kind of.
Fuck.
And alas. Things soon seemed askew.
Post partum blues leveled out on hummed lullabies. She cradled my head. Don't get me
wrong; I still think of Rayanne, but five minutes was plenty, ten minutes more than enough,
fifteen an imposition. She held me in place.
We soon reached an impasse, a repetition of non-variable friction points that could not
possibly achieve resolution.
In coming weeks another young woman would sit next to me on the bus from Piraeus to
Athens. Carolyn, like Rayanne, would fill the bill on intellect, articulation, womanly wares and
an impressive balance between adventure lust and mental stability. But she would also fit into
a pattern, call it a set piece on the evolution of romance. Also about my age, Carolyn would
seem more mature, and she wore a dress. I loved that. We talked easily for hours and checked
into the same hotel on arrival. She said to give her a few minutes, like twenty, so she could
freshen up. Then I should come on down. To her room. She pecked me on the lips.
