Arsenal Impromptu

Arsenal Impromptu
By Mantis

I'm not going to beat around the bush. Friday was a stressful bitch of a day.

It started with one of the dispatchers for our trucking company being MIA upon my arrival. Apparently, Josh Grunsfeld had decided that Fridays were more closely akin to weekends than they were work days.

As such, he'd taken the day off, without so much as a phony claim professing the onset of flu – replete with the obligatory contrived coughing fits and phlegmy sniffles over the phone, which were otherwise his forte – or even a beleaguered pining about wife or kid problems. When he did call, hours late and well into the morning rush of business, he'd said only that today marked the Penguins game against the Rangers at the Console Energy Center, as if that fact alone was a perfectly sound and understandable reason for his leaving us in the lurch. Not that it mattered to him that Penguins home games generally start around 7:00pm. “Game day is game day, baby!”

The smug bastard. He knows I can't afford to fire him – just yet. I had to recruit Amber Romanelli, from customer service, to fill in.

“I didn't know truck drivers could whine like such fuckin' babies the way they do,” Amber complained. She'd bitched and moaned about numerous other things during the course of the day, but it hurts my temples to relate such twaddle now.

“If that bitch tells me one more time that I gotta take this load 'a steel down to Mobile, I'm gonna bid Carmike Trucking fond adieu… sans the fond!" gurgled the wizened driver in a smoker's wheeze. "I told her I was out of hours, Mike. Jeez… does she even have a clue about DOT logbook regulations?”

That joyous conversation was part of the phone call I'd received from Hank Flaugherty, no doubt on his cell from the cab of his fierce, cherry-red Peterbilt 379. I'd felt drained already at 9:08am, having finally convinced him, with great effort, not to leave. Hank's a good driver.

Then Robin Irish thought it would be funny to dare Roslyn Labayo to zerox a copy of her butt, then send it – scribed with choice, steamy innuendo – to be left on some pallets in the loading dock where the hunky stevedore, Roland Volducci, could find it. Such a thing should have passed right by my attention as manager, and I would have been exceedingly grateful had it done so. But of course, Roslyn's herculean derriere was too much for the glass photo surface atop the zerox machine, had cracked it, and made all our copies emit from the thing with lines resembling the slash of Zorro across the pages.

The phones rang constantly, numerous calls left unanswered, business lost. Pete Zamukus made the morning coffee, a sad and dire misfortune for us all, leaving a chalky, bitter taste like stale cocoa and brimstone lingering in our mouths. Mail was misplaced. Two drivers reported accidents, the subsequent skyrocketing of our insurance premiums looming ominously in the back of my mind like the onset of Ebola. Snarled traffic jams – one of them described by driver Nino Esperanza in Cleveland as, “...a Hell Spawn of chrome and exhaust.” – caused a few blown delivery deadlines.

And now you know the half of it.

When I'd looked up from my work in the late afternoon, my opinion of humanity reduced to a moan of despair for its continued survival, and saw that it was really only 11:04am, I'd felt certain God was playing a little trick on me, rewinding time over and over again to prolong my agony, laughing giddily at my tribulations.

Although, when I finally made it out the door, my satchel light and airy on my back, emptied of all work sludge for the weekend, the stresses of the day slowly, grudgingly, began to trickle off my shoulders. The low slant of late afternoon sun bolts stabbing around the corners of red brick warehouses and low-rise office buildings, pierced me with a burgeoning sense of freedom. The air was cool, blustery, yet spiced with a mid November warming trend, and I felt like I could finally breathe fully again. The stress had hit me like a flu, stuffing my sinuses, fogging my brain, but the Friday afternoon gusts and the champagne-colored beams of remaining sunlight, were like a dose of Neo-Synephrine.

Every breath of that air began to usher in thoughts of my darling Kim and the two days of bliss I would have with her, free of responsibility. Having her walk the halls of my thoughts sand-blasted the remaining dirt and muck away from my mind, pulled a blanket over the eyes of my now deceased stress.

Making way to my metallic charcoal Civic, I thought of how, if she were with me, the stiff breeze would pick up her long curls of hair the way it often does, whip them across her face; watch her tuck them behind her ears, annoyed, only to have them come fanning back across her face a moment later. I smiled at that image, recalling how amusing it is to watch her engage in that futile endeavor. I tease her that she should cut her hair, get rid of the pesky – yet beautiful – strands, and she punches me and tells me I'm a lunatic if I think she'll ever go Dorothy Hamill.

Although, she's a pragmatic sort. I bet she'd go short if I weren't in the picture. I think I probably adore her hair more than she does, though my fondness of it is generally left unsaid. But it warms me that she knows anyway how much I love it, and, were it not for her desire to please me, would probably end up cutting it, just out of personal convenience.

I was charmed and smiling, thinking about Kim, when I shoved my satchel into the car and hopped in. She loomed large in my thoughts as I drove home, peaceful, happy thoughts. Just by the recollection of her could the rottenness born of work stress be lulled from my mind. That's a powerful elixir. She's my designer drug of choice.

And now, I've made it through to the weekend, and particularly, our favorite recuperative pastime – HBO Sunday nights during a specific program's new season of airing. More on that later.

***

I'm lounging on our Chesterfield sofa now – black Italian leather, aged and creased on the edges, yet as comfortable as a large pay raise – waiting for the opening credits to finish scrolling by on the TV.

My back is propped up against the sofa's armrest, legs sprawled out along its cozy length. Sitting tight between my legs, my plump and curvy baby takes the same position, using my torso as her backrest. My arms are wrapped around her waist, my hands inevitably snuck under her T-shirt so I can feel the warmth of her skin instead of cotton. Sometimes, when I do this, my rough, callused hands tickle her belly, and I end up a horny ol' dog when she squirms laughing and twitching against my loins.

Currently, our toes mingle together at the foot of the sofa, the contact just too pleasing a sensation to ever consider parting them. Her toes are warm, fleshy pads against my own boney, sinewy feet. Her soles are orangey-red hued, lotioned soft and moist, and red painted toe nails swim in a pool of creamy, white skin on top, like cherries floating in milk. I know their fragrance – fresh dairy cream and clove, and a special spice all her own that has no name. And I know their taste – salt of the earth and lust.

My baby and I have come to love this position of cuddling best of all. She settles upon me like this straight away now days, as if she's deemed this position a trademark of ours, our secret signal affirming the solidarity of our togetherness – encrypted code that only we two love birds can decipher.

To me, there's always a sense of being elevated as one with her when we assume this position, as if becoming attached and bound together, adhered to by the glue of love, symbionts.

When we're settled together like this – after the stresses of daily routine have pressed hard upon me and hollowed my wellbeing – there grows a euphoria, a warm comfort within me, and I wonder if it's not akin to the way an addict feels when a dose of heroin is invited into his veins?

Close to her, the feel of her warm, voluptuous body melding into mine, injecting herself into my veins, I soar away, hallucinatory, gaining the clearest sense of self, a sense of my station in life. I'm just a normal guy, no hero, no warrior or hardass, but with her coursing through my veins, I feel my masculinity, become attuned to it. I embrace the role I've carved out – to be her Rock of Gibraltar, her support, her foundation, her backrest. I know what it means to be Man at these moments, thanks to her.

And she... well, she soars above me, delicate, an elegant dove, divinely conceived, I'm sure, as the missing piece to the jigsaw puzzle of my life. There's a distinction between her quirky, exuberant personality, and her simply being a woman; and it's the latter where she's elevated to maiden savant of nurturing, inherently equipped with an arsenal of tools at her disposal to utilize and fill me with serenity – without ever having to think about it.

I'm no dummy. I know the pleasure she receives in return for nurturing me makes her blossom and thrive as a woman, and I'm certain it's similar to the way I do alike, as a man, to protect and cherish her. Lucky bastards, we flourish in this delicate balance of symbiosis, as if restitution for God foisting all the stresses of life upon us.

At any given moment, when we're together like this in our special position, I can move my head forward ever so slightly and brush my face against the lazy curls of her long, chestnut locks, nuzzle against that beautiful mane, just another component of her arsenal. Why is the sheen of her hair so pleasing to my eye? I'm no connoisseur of fine art – no photographer with an appreciation for light and shadow. And why is the fresh scent borne upon it, carrying that signature fragrance of hers – jasmine and sea breeze and honey – so sweet to my senses? I'm no perfumer with a nose for what smells sultry and satisfying. But who really knows what God was thinking when he conceived the sexes – what he deemed vital to instill within us symbionts of love?

All I know is that it is her alone that I could fall so deeply in love with. Apart from her arsenal, there's her gift of gab, nearly always brightly positive in outlook. And considering the avalanche of negativity and dour cynicism I face out in the world, it's as refreshing as a hot cup of coffee in hand watching the morning sun peak over distant foothills.

There's her sarcastic wit, which when directed at me, bites me in the butt and tends to make me horny for some reason.

There's the tears she sheds when a ASPCA commercial comes on pushing the boundaries for effect in showing ravaged, beaten, neglected animals sad in eyes and gaunt in stature – where most tend to ignore, to run and grab a snack in the kitchen until their program returns – as is, sadly, my inclination. To return from the kitchen, some treasure of sugary carbs held with the same care as if cradling an infant child in my arms, and discover tears tracking down her cheeks, reveals to me the pool of empathy that fills her soul. She doesn't erupt in anger, become agitated, rail vociferously about man's cruelty, nor wonder aloud how people could do such things. No! Kim is not compelled to prove to anybody how much she cares, how altruistic she can be. Rather, she takes it inside herself, silent, as if needing to share that pain, to somehow unburden the weight of suffering by taking some of it on herself. I tend to remain quiet, as if observing a moment of silence with her, and look at those sweet treats in my grubby hands with far less zeal than a moment before. It intrigues me how she can teach me about perspective without one word in lecture.

There's the poetry she writes, which actually makes sense to my plebeian mind, and which I love to read – and I hate poetry! I don't know if it's good poetry or not, but I know it draws me closer to her soul.

And no woman that I've ever known can quite fill out a pair of jeans as perfectly as she can. Tall and well fed, her figure is no slim thing, but denim seems to be a fabric created solely with her curves in mind. I'm so very grateful to Levi Strauss when I gaze at Kim's posterior.

At the moment, my member is at rest; but I sense that won't be the case deeper into the night. But that is for later. For after. Now is the time for our recuperative pastime.

She's wearing only panties and an oversized T-shirt. Her heavenly ass, big as the setting sun and soft as down, settles luxuriously between my legs. The warmth created down there between us is a most delightful thing. Sometimes, her arsenal is suddenly released like a startled flock of geese bolting into the sky. Now, it's a luscious wiggle, a subtle re-positioning of her body. She's mindlessly working her soft buttock more so on top of my pelvis than on the cushion of the sofa. I'm sure it's without conscious intent to initiate a bout of lovemaking – especially now, when our joy is about to be presented on the TV. But I know Kim so well. I know it's just part of her arsenal.

Those tacit, furtive gestures with her body thrill me. They endear me to her, intensify my love like light through a prism. This physicality, apart and different from the emotional and cerebral maintenance of our love, I feel in a profound way, undeniable, there, palpable, even though it's masked in the shroud of instinct. I've come to understand the subtleties inherent to the tools of her arsenal, liken it to an un-felt mosquito sting that soon burgeons into a maddening itch. It often makes me simply want to explode in some measured, thought-out, outpouring of verbal expression, so I can make her understand just how precious she is to me.

But, as always, there is no prose I can muster – not when I set my mind to concocting it based on logic and reasoning.

There is only an expressive, tight hug at my disposal, a running of my fingers through her hair, a silly smile and a silly kiss upon the tip of her nose. And it dawns on me that I can only follow her lead – to let my instincts do all the talking. Considering the intensity of our love, and how long we've been together, I'd say my instincts have been good.

***

Excitingly, we're about to be launched into season 6, episode 2, of Game Of Thrones. Kim – or Kimmy, as I like to call her – is enraptured with the series, and has been since season 1. I became enraptured with the story myself years ago when I delved heartily into the books, devouring each chapter and each book with giddy abandon. To my great pleasure – and surprise – I've found the screen version has been handled with great aplomb so far.

To be honest, we're kind of Game Of Thrones nuts. Geeks, really. We spend way too much time talking about the characters and plots, and championing our favorite story arcs, which differ. We try desperately to convince the other of our favored vignette's superior merits, always to no avail.

We've spent the whole damned week in stark craving for the new episode, like two kids filled with Christmas cheer in those apprehensive moments in the wee hours of the 25th.

And now, our recuperative pastime is upon us. Woot!

We watch with rapt attention, nestled in our signature position as one, forever symbionts, warmly wrapped in the shawl of our love. Who needs a crackling fireplace and a patterned quilt across the legs when you have that? Kimmy snorts or cheers or screams at the TV with every nuance and twist in the current sub-plot – her favorite, the one with Cersei and that indefatigable religious supplicant just begging to be torn asunder in retribution for his pious audacity against her.

But the scene has now changed to my favorite – the one with Tyrion Lannister. I tingle with excitement as I watch the scene unfold. The setting enthralls me, the dialogue at once tickles me, then draws me into the plot like a fly into a Venus fly trap. Tyrion is himself indefatigable, a marauder of guile and wit, at once vulnerable, but forever regaining composure, forever regaining command of the situation. He earns newfound respect in my eyes as he lashes the world with his biting tongue, manipulates all around him while under the influence of his precious wine.

I know none will ever meet his match, as I'm sure George RR Martin intended from word one. Will I be wrong about that in the end? The suspense is going to kill me.

Kimmy? Kimmy who?

Something is amiss outside the drama unfolding on the TV. What was that?

My darling has a habit of flinging her hair over her shoulder with the back of her hand. She's done it again. My cheek has been lashed with strands of that soft, fragrant hair. I've been struck by an audacious, impromptu release from her arsenal. That's what it was.

My eyes are helplessly torn away from the scene being played out on our 40 inch Sony HD, re-focused to her upon the brush of silky chestnut across my face. I look at the back of her head, become dazzled by the sheen of her hair – yet again – as the soft glow from the TV screen radiates out into our dark livingroom and reflects off of it.

Tyrion Lannister, the plush settings, the delicious dialogue, the gratuitous swinging dongs and jiggling bare asses and homosexuality, have suddenly been wrenched from my concern; still there to be seen and heard, yet unseen, unheard, impossibly rendered now trivial, blasé. My darling's womanly arsenal has unexpectedly been activated! Oh dear God...

I can't help it. I press my face into her silken locks again for the millionth time. I breathe in her intoxicating scent, the jasmine and sea breeze and honey now accented with the scent of her sweat. I grow hard.

The feel of my stiffening shaft, pressing hard against Kimmy's backside, seems to have seduced her attention away from our beloved Game Of Thrones as well, the same as has mine.

She turns to me, despite there being no commercial breaks on HBO to allow such a thing to happen during our obsessive pastime. What ludicrous turn of events is this? Shadows of actors moving in-scene flicker out from the TV screen, and distant sounds of pounding soundtrack and focused dialogue entice me to return. But her eyes penetrate me, close and commanding, freeze me in place, like a D&D spell of Flesh To Stone. I'm paralyzed by the sexual venom behind those eyes, by the expression of her love for me stitching across the lines of her face. She licks her lips, flicks the tip of my nose with that playful tongue, making it glisten. She blows softly in my face. I'm swept in a syrupy scent of lipstick and candy cane. Oh, goddammit, what a delicious, hot breeze!

Tyrion? Tyrion who?

We begin to tumble.

***

Thankfully, HBO likes to re-play these episodes later in the evening. After this brutally passionate lovemaking on the sofa, I've decided I will carry her off to bed, lay her down gently and kiss her softly on the lips. I'll brush her hair over her ears repeatedly as I whisper secret symbiont-speak to her. I'll tuck her in cozily and bid her goodnight with a kiss upon her rosy cheek. And I'll pretend to go to sleep beside her. Then I'll sneakily whisk back to the TV and re-connect with my main man, Tyrion.

Now, returned to plush, black leather, I settle in once again.

But the sublime scent of my darling's body is affixed to me. Her sweat has penetrated my skin, seems to radiate from my very pores. I judge I smell quite fine in my Eau de Kimmy. As I watch transfixed, that scent dares to yet again steal my focus from the midget marauder.

And it will win, don't I know it.

It will draw me back to my lady marauder, well before episode 2 is even near to being finished. I will depart from Tyrion once again, mesmerized by my baby's scent, and I will return to her. I'll selfishly wake her from fertile slumber with warm tongue tracing delicate, pink petals, moist and quivering between her legs. I'll peak into her arsenal again, stare inside, wonder-struck, like a bank robber peering into a humongous, cracked open bank vault, regaled in riches.

And I'm almost saddened, perhaps even a little shattered, to realize that Tyrion Lannister will have finally met his match.