The Book of Joe

organ, her breasts straining against the dark fabric of her sweater, her smooth, tanned legs, and the soft curves of her thigh muscles where the hemline of her skirt bisects them.
    We say a few more things to each other, but the sound of our conversation fades, seems to be coming from off in the distance, as we draw closer. I take a step back, clutching the towel at my waist with both hands, telling her that I’ll just run upstairs and put some clothing on, but Lucy lunges forward and puts a restraining hand on my arm and says don’t, and her voice is the radio signal and my anatomy the receiver, and I begin to shiver and say but I’m all wet, and she presses herself up against me, pulling my hand forcefully away from my body and guiding it up and under her skirt to the junction of her legs as she presses her lips against me and whispers so am I, and the towel hits the floor only a scant second before her skirt does.
    We stumble up the stairs, kissing and clinging to each other with animal intensity, but once in my room she pushes me away so that I can watch her undress. She does it slowly, illuminated in the doorway by the soft light from the hallway behind her. And then, unbelievably, she is standing before me, unabashedly naked, as my eyes greedily drink up every inch of her magnificent body. Lucy has to be over fifty years old, but her body resolutely refuses to act its age. Her skin still shines with vitality, her breasts hang remarkably firm and full, her belly smooth and flat. You would think, after years of the fantasy, that the reality can’t possibly measure up, but somehow it does. The odd imperfections, the dim ples and creases and even a red birthmark in the shape of Italy just below her left hip, only serve as foils to her perfection, the exceptions that prove the rule. She walks slowly over to my bed and climbs onto it, stretching out on all fours, the upward curve of her age-defying, apple-shaped ass raised slightly as she turns to look over her shoulder and down her back at me. “Fuck me, Joe,” she moans, lifting her upper body off the bed with her arms in a push-up so that through her spread thighs I can see the tips of her breasts grazing the rumpled sheets beneath her. “Fuck me hard.”
    I do. And she is warm and soft and wet and supple and smooth, and on some level it’s how I’ve always imagined it.
    The soft roundness of her breasts in my hands, the cherry hardness of her nipples between my teeth, the taste of her tongue as it pushes its way into my mouth, seeking out my own, and the press of her moist lips on me. We kiss and lick and suck and stroke each other at a fevered pitch, not allowing even a moment’s respite for rational thought to intrude, and when I enter her, she comes almost immediately, crying out and digging her nails into my ass as she pulls me deeper inside. Her quick finish is highly fortunate, because after six months of celibacy, I’m like an exposed nerve ending down there, and any demonstration of tantric endurance is out of the question. I follow a moment later, and as I heave with the last convulsions of my orgasm, I think of Carly and feel ashamed.
    We lie absolutely still for a few moments, our mingled sweat and juices drying on us in the conditioned air and becoming sticky on our skin. Only as I roll off her do I realize that she’s crying softly. I brush the hair out of her face and see tears streaming out of her eyes. I open my mouth to say something, but there’s really nothing I can say that will matter, so instead I just lie on my side next to her, holding her against me as she sobs, until, after an indeterminate amount of time, she falls asleep. Once her breathing becomes slow and regular, I disentangle myself from her and go to the bathroom. My haggard, lipstick-scarred face stares back at me in the mirror as I urinate, and as I lean forward to study the jagged lines of burst blood vessels in my eyes, I find myself repeating the last thing Lucy said to me before we went to bed. “Fuck me,” I say slowly, shaking my head at the face in the mirror. The face just frowns sadly back at me, disappointed that I can’t come up with anything better.
    Lucy is up before daybreak. I hear her furtive rustling as she moves quietly about the room, locating her discarded clothing. Once dressed, she comes over to the bed and kneels beside me, gently brushing my hair with her fingers. I would like to see the expression on her face, but I keep my eyes closed,