Venice Beach

He was quiet, ethereal. His movements languid, slow, and hypnotizing. How had he come to be, she thought. How could a physical body seem to mimic the soul? One could only call him beautiful. There was no other way to explain how he manifested.

How he had come into her life was equally mystifying. A rare, cold, rain-soaked California night where the ocean seemed at war with the shore, she scuttled onto the bus anxious to find a seat. Between the cast of characters she had come to expect on the Venice Beach route, he seemed out of place, perhaps maybe even out of time. He was also in the only seat with a space open.

She slipped quietly beside him, marveling at how someone could sleep with the myriad of sound that enveloped the bus. She had always been a watcher, loved observing the souls that surrounded her. How people moved, spoke, and connected with each other transfixed her, but this time it was different. What made her so compelled to watch him was simply his absolute beauty.

He was thin, with long brown hair that traveled to the middle of his back in a haphazard braid. His face was angelic with the touches of street life that marked passage on his cheeks and lips chapped from ocean air. His hands, resting in his lap, were worn and blistered from what could only be manual labor at its worse manifestation. If only he were awake, she could see his eyes she thought.

If he was street, he handled it well. He was clean with a scent that seemed a combination of lavender and sea salt. It was such an odd combination she found herself breathing him in as if some expensive fragrance on display. His jean jacket was as frayed as much as his Levis. His boots, although scuffed, worn, and untied, were not the usual Doc Martin uniform found on all the disenfranchised of the boardwalk. He was different, in an almost uneasy way. His backpack lay at his feet and seemed almost empty, except for the skateboard jutting out from the top. A wanderer clearly with little to nothing in possessions, a state of grace she wished she possessed at the moment.

She checked herself, suddenly aware that she had been staring at him with avid scrutiny. It brought an unexpected smile as she thought she now had entered the rare ground of being so entranced to almost being perverse. It was then that the bus lurched in such a way that everyone was physically danced out of reverie.

His eyes, which were outlined by the most ungodly long eyelashes, opened quickly with the agility of response of someone assaulted by rapid gunfire. She wasn't sure if he was going to bolt out of the seat or duck and cover. He recovered quickly, but that initial outtake of fear had clearly registered to her. Street life had a way of making people rattle and pounce. He pushed back his hair and looked at her. She was flustered, hoping he hadn't sensed that seconds before she had been eyeing him like a science experiment.

It was his smirk that rattled her as equally as the bus tumble everyone was still bitching about. She couldn't quite get if he was attempting a greeting or silently mimicking a fuck you. Either way, she was compelled to offer a weak smile with an equally disintegrating hello. To her surprise, he responded in a low whispered greeting as well. His smirk then became a shy smile that was an endearing and odd combination to witness.

She realized that his eyes were grey, an alarming haze of ringed dove grey framed so eloquently by those impossible lashes. She also realized that she would never be able to walk away from him. In one shattering second, she was simply—his.

For a whole week, they met on the rough and tumble bus route, slowly dancing around the strange connection that each of them felt for the other. His name was Jaxx and upon hearing her name of Amelia, he immediately nicknamed her "Pilot Girl."

If they couldn't sit together, they would gravitate to the back of the bus, until some opening would appear so they could still be next to each other. One night, a seat appeared which Jaxx took quickly, and just as quickly pulled her onto his lap. It was the first time they had physically touched and it seemed as if the world electrified into stillness. There was no defense available to her, nor did she even want one. She wanted him, had wanted him, God yearned for him and feeling him beneath her she knew his need was just as pronounced. He was hard and their eye contact solidified the desire for each other. As the bus ran its jagged stop and go movements, his hands found their way to her. Under her book-bag and his backpack, she opened to him as his fingers slowly teased her.

Those callused, graceful fingers entered her in a slow rhythmic cadence. With her back against him, he began to whisper in her ear, with each gut wrenching movement. In a low even tone he asked again and again for her to give to him. For his Pilot Girl to flood him, to wet his blisters with her want. When she could not hold on any longer, she muffled her cries to him and pulsing with heat let her muscles contract and release.

Spent, she eased her back and he kissed her neck, thanking her for her wet grace. Keeping his hand cupped on her warmth, she cried softly to him. She had never given like this. She knew how to fuck, how to spread open and pounce. Never had she known such metered give and take. She needed him inside, deep. She needed to feel this unknown loss of will, this abandoned flush of careful touch. This was not fucking. This was not some late night bar bathroom of guttural pushes and pulls. This had a face, a soul, a need. This was Jaxx, and she pleaded with him to come home with her.

In her small studio, he stood before her. She had unbraided his hair and stripped him of his clothing. She took in his smell, his eyes, his sly smile. He was so thin, but every muscle was defined. Down his back were deep scars and she held back tears wondering what pain that must have been to endure. She wanted to know how and why, but she needed him too badly to ask the questions.

She laid back on her bed, opening for him. He lay his head upon her stomach refusing to enter her. Telling her again, in that soft low whisper, that he needed to taste her. His mouth enveloped her and she cried out. The need was too much as she came again and again, pouring her cream onto his parched lips. He drank from her as if he were beyond thirst. When he finally looked up at her, and held her quivering legs until they could subside, she saw the tears. Tears that had welled up in the corner of his eyes, as he cried softly in full need.

He was pulsing, needing release badly and she guided him into her. As all things Jaxx, he was slow, methodical. Going deep and staying deep, keeping a pace that had her clutching him to the point of pain. When he came she opened as wide as she could, wanting every thrust to give to her his precious cum. As each release flooded her, her body lay a mass of nerve endings. Never had she been this affected. Never had she known how her response could be beyond the normal pounding she was used to. She could smell their sex, feel their releases, drown in their combined juices.This was beyond a physical realm.

Those eyes, those dove grey streaked eyes, watched her as her breathing finally returned to normal. Still clutching him, holding him inside, she could do nothing but say his name. The sheets, the bed, the blanket, everything was wet. He told her gently he was pulling out and in a slow, devout sweep, retreated from her. He went into the bathroom and came back with a warm wet towel and wiped her down. In long revered movements, he cleansed her. He took her in his arms when done and placed her in the old overstuffed chair in the corner. She watched him as he found the clean bedding she had pointed to in her laundry basket.With no words between them, he remade the bed and placed her tenderly back into it. He laid his head onto her stomach, and as she began to succumb to sleep, she felt his slow breath covering her as he too closed his eyes to slumber.