Chapter 6
Elton John was singing “Don’t Go Breakin’ My Heart” with some English girl as Ron’s car snaked its way up the hills into New Providence. He knew the ride to Zoe’s house now, and as soon as he pulled up she was out the door and running towards him with a large duffle bag thrown over her shoulder. She was wearing tan shorts, a white cotton shirt, no socks and runner’s shoes. Her hair gave her the look of a halo as she pulled his door open, threw her bag into the back seat and kissed him. “I was waiting for you all day,” she said smiling. Ron laced his fingers between hers as he drove and they listened to Paul Simon say that there were “50 Ways to Leave Your Lover.”
“What do you want to do?” said Ron.
Zoe smiled and brought his hand between her legs. She pressed the backs of his knuckles to the swollen lips inside of the light fabric. She moved his hand up and down and closed her eyes, and then she smiled over at him coyly. Ron had already lain in the fastest route back to his house. She was already taking off her clothes as he put the key into the door. He heard the telephone ringing. She wore no bra, no panties. She pulled off the runner’s shoes and dove into his bed as he picked up the phone.
“Hey man,” said Quimpy. “Where the hell have you been?”
“I ain’t been around much Quimp. What’s happening?”
“You need some extra cash?” said Quimpy. He was sitting in his apartment at the kitchen table. There was a bottle of wine open and a half finished pizza box on the table. He was smoking a joint and stroking his black beard with a smile as he spoke.
“Sure,” said Ron. “What’s the deal?’
“Tutoring kids who are fucked up. I figured you’d be a natural.”
Ron laughed. “Of course, I’d love it but I got this gig teaching in Catholic school.”
“This would be after school,” said Quimpy. “Can you meet me down at the alley tonight?”
Ron shook his head. “Not tonight, man.” It was the first time that Quimpy could ever remember Ron not being willing to come and meet him.
“How about tomorrow?”
“Maybe,” said Ron. “I’m not sure.”
Ron was being too evasive and Quimpy said, “You shacked up or something?
“Yup,” said Ron.
Quimpy laughed. “Alright well that explains it. Look gimme a call over the weekend or stop up. I’ll be around on Sunday for the games.”
“I will,” said Ron. He felt Zoe tugging at his clothes and laughed. “I gotta go, man.”
Quimpy laughed too. “See you on Sunday.” He put down the phone and picked up the ever present nail file that was always in a mug on his table. He began to work the cuticles of his right hand. They were always an obsession. He wanted them long. He didn’t care about dirt under his nails, but he wanted the curve to be just right so that when he lifted the ball, the nails gave his fingertips just the right amount of support to follow through. It made the ball finish strong. He put down the nail file, picked up his keys, finished his last swallow of wine and headed out the door. Friday night was a scratch 375 pairs league at Welmont. He felt ready.
When Ron got off the phone, Zoe pulled him onto the bed and then lay on her belly. “I’ve been so naughty all day that you should spank me,’ she said. Ron stared as she lifted her bottom and then pressed it down onto the mattress.
“I should?” said Ron. He’d never spanked anyone, but the idea seemed erotic and she was lifting her bottom up in the air and then pressing her pelvis down onto the mattress in a way that that was making his cock twitch in his pants. He crawled up across the bed to her. He moved his palm over her cheeks gently. She made them go up and down faster. Then he slapped her ass.
The flesh against flesh feel gave a sting to his hand but she moaned the way that she did when he put his cock in her and gyrated her hips in a circle on his bed. He raised his hands again and slapped down harder than he did the first time. He was surprised at the way that the sound bounced off of the walls. His stared at her cheeks. There was a slight glow where his hand had slapped her and he felt his cock get unbelievably hard in his pants. It was sticking against his zipper. He opened the button of his jeans and pulled down his zipper. She saw what he was doing and squirmed over to him, pressing her lips to exhale warm breath against his stretched tight jockey shorts. He slapped her ass again and she wriggled, pressed her nose in between her thighs where his balls were full tight and murmured, “That felt so good. Do it again.”
Ron’s hand was a blur as he raised and lowered it against her cheeks. She kissed his thighs and let her hair spread out against them and over his belly; she exhaled warm breath against the fabric and dragged her hair back and forth, squirming and moaning.
Quimpy got into his 1963 Pink Convertible Cadillac. The long sleek fins sliced into the night as he drove with the top down and his black hair trailing behind him. The car was smooth and Quimpy stroked his beard appreciative of the silence of the ride as he thought about tonight’s games. He was throwing the ball good. If Buster just didn’t get crazy, they could win the league. The idea of Buster and not crazy was an oxymoron that amused Quimpy. Buster was always a fucking nut, playing lines that made his ball work harder than it had to, and just killing the pocket all night long from the wrong angle. Stubborn Polish fuck that he was. Quimpy pulled into a parking space in the lot, far away from anyone else’s car. He didn’t want to give anybody any excuses.
Ron’s hand slapped down hard on Zoe’s ass again and this time she writhed for him and said, “Please, please do it to me now.”
Quimpy’s ball drove into the pocket with purpose. Pins splattered like shacks against the surge of a tsunami.
“Nine in a row,” said Butchie. “You got three more in those lucky cakes of yours?”
“We’ll see,” said Quimpy, stroking his beard. “But we both know your bet, even with the ridiculous spot, is history.”
“I know, Cakes,” said Butchie. “But you still got to be feelin tight in the collar.”
Quimpy smiled at Butchie “I ain’t tight. You already paid for my night.
Ron’s had slapped down hard on her raised ass. His left hand had grabbed hold of her hair like it was reins. His cock was driving in and out of her and his right hand was slapping her raised red cheeks with the tempo of his thrusts. He was riding her and she was moaning and panting, lubrication leaking out her.
Quimpy mounted the approach and felt himself drifting slightly to the right as he moved toward the foul line. He adjusted by giving his arm just a slightly harder lift, fingers coming out after his thumb slipped free, the ball sliding and then catching its line, churning fast and hooking, catching the head pin and sending it careening off the side wall and then bouncing back to take out the 5 pin, the deck a dancing gyrating collision of wood that cleared and left everything spinning and down on the deck.
A cheer rose up in back of him. The house had stopped and gathered to watch. Everyone wanted to be there for perfection or the anguish of coming this close to perfection. A perfect game in a league earned you a diamond ring. Sal was watching from the next pair. He hated Quimpy but looked down at the perfect 300 that he wore instead of his wedding band, twirled it once and hoped silently for failure. The more exclusive the club was, the more he liked being a member.
Ron’s hips were quivering like he was a feral thing. The electricity between them was sending jolts through their bodies. With each slap and thrust and backward coiling and tug on her hair and moans that came from deep inside of them where their organs were joined and desperately in need of each other and of yet another release. He felt like he was a heated piece of wood inside of her. Every inch of him was tense. She was bouncing her hot, red cheeks back against him when he felt the release shoot out of him like the hose of a pump that was just under too much pressure. Hot seed blasted into her, he bucked harder and the second blast sent him lurching on top of her. She was crying now and wanting him to not stop to not ever stop.
The ball was dead in the pocket. The expectant cheer that went up from the crowd was silenced by the stiff straight unmoving defiance of a 10 pin that looked like it must be a mirage because of the way everything else had blown off the deck and into the pit. Sal smiled and got up to throw his ball. Excitement over! Quimpy screamed down the lane, “Motherfucker!” He kicked the ball rack as the collection of appreciative faces dissolved into business as usual on Friday night.