The Climax – A Short Story

He caught my interest just as he ascended the back steps of the bookstore, freeing his dark hair from a bike helmet like a job well done. Securing the helmet under one arm, he tamed his disheveled locks with his free hand. Oh yeah. I always had a thing about bicyclists. Not the guys who wear ball hugger shorts, mind you. I’m more into adventurous men who simply liked to propel themselves by their own muscle power. Think less Tour de France, more bicycle couriers. He wore dark blue jeans with one gray cuff rolled up to the knee; the gear side, so he didn’t get the cotton caught in the teeth. Racing stripes streamlined his shoulders and sleeves could be detached so he didn’t have to pull off his whole shirt while peddling.

“Why isn’t Isaac here now?” My mother asked.

Her question refocused me. The table in front of me, with stacks of my novel on it, waited for responses from an Instagram post that I had made promoting the event. The hot bicyclist was a mere distraction. I couldn’t help it if my eye wandered. I wrote erotica. When a handsome man dangled his bait on a hook, it was natural for me to take a nibble.

“What?”

My mother leveled her eyes with me. “Isaac. Your husband? Shouldn’t he be by your side during your first book signing?”

The bicyclist stopped on the top step, set his helmet down and took off his backpack. It was one of those aerodynamic capsules with the hard shell. I always loved that design. Made him look like he stepped out of the future, with the lid opening like space luggage.

My mom’s eyes demanded an answer.

“My husband… yeah,” I remembered stammering, “he said he would pick me up after the show. You know he doesn’t like crowds.”

He wasn’t that much younger than me, that bicyclist; thirty-eight, maybe even forty. That was only a gap of ten years. He pulled a book out of his backpack, then he stuffed the helmet in and strung it over his shoulder. When he stood up, I swore that he glanced at me. The look shocked me, as if he had caught me peaking in a slit in his bedroom door. As I cast my eyes elsewhere, his face flashed in my mind.

Wait a minute. Isn’t he that one actor: what’s-his-name? From the movie that came out a couple years ago?

“Well, I’m here for you, Rache.” Mom said, selecting the top book from a stack of many. It dismayed me this was the only one that had been taken all day. “I wouldn’t miss your big day for anything in the world.”

Over her shoulder, I caught eyes with that bicyclist again. Only this time I didn’t look away. Just when I thought he couldn’t get any hotter, he smiled at me like someone recognizing an old friend from times forgotten.

“Well?” My mom beckoned.

I shook out of my stupor. Down on the table mom had opened the book to the front page. “Aren’t you going to sign it?”

Hastily, I scrawled out a signature, but my eyes still peaked at the bicyclist standing just behind my mom.

How can he walk around in plain sight like this? Aren’t people going to recognize him?

Mom narrowed her eyes at me, as if trying to figure out if I was staring at her or not. Her words invaded my head:

Your husband? Shouldn’t he be by your side during your first book signing?

Isaac. What would he do if he caught me ogling this eye candy… what’s-his-name…like some kind of steamy love scene stolen from my erotica book? He wouldn’t do anything. That’s what. We’ve always talked about how a little bit of flirting wasn’t a crime. He wouldn’t outlaw me exchanging a few hot glances with another man any more than I would outlaw him from jerking off to his favorite porn sites. A little flirting now and then with other people was the spice of life, and in the end, we would just exercise that sexual energy with each other.

There was nothing wrong with looking… Right?

Behind my mom, that Hollywood heart throb stepped up and suddenly my dear old Mom became an obstacle.

“Bye mom.” It came out a bit too prickly.

She grimaced, knowing her presence annoyed me. “Bye Rache.”

She passed the man, giving him the head of the table. On his shirt I managed to get a glimpse of a button. It said: Got Milk?

My mind flashed with visions of white cream spilling down his chest. I opened my mouth, as if to take a sip of him, but my mom turned around and interrupted us. I sighed angrily. I thought she already left.

“I’m so proud of you.” She offered, then she walked away.

Immediately, I felt ashamed of myself. My mom didn’t mean any harm. I just iced my biggest fan; however it was a fleeting regret. A rich masculine voice pulled my attention.

“Can you sign this?”

He set a book down on the table. The Xyancy Generation. The oldest copy I had ever seen.

Avoiding his warm brown eyes, I focused on the graphics on the front of the book; a close-up of a man’s hip with a tattoo etched in the skin. The edges of the hard cover look chewed.

“I can get you a new one.”

He put his hand on it. Rugged, callused fingers with short nails. Makers’ hands.

“No. I couldn’t give this one up. It’s like an old friend.”

I looked up at him. Finally face to face, my heart skipped a beat. His overall look was a bit flashy. The average man tended to wear dull colors. Men’s clothing stores were filled with grays and olives, appealing to their instinct to blend in. This guy, though, wasn’t trying to blend in. He stood out. Everything from his charming demeanor to his movie star looks. His whole presence seemed to say: look at me. I’m not afraid to be noticed.

Damnit. What was that actor’s name?

“Are you from around here?” I asked.

“No. I’m visiting from California. When I heard you were going to be here signing your book, I bought a plane ticket.”

I cocked my head with curiosity. “You flew here just for me?”

“And the biking,” he added. “I read about how amazing Madison’s trails were, and I had to see it for myself. I hear you can tour the whole city on a bicycle.”

I love it when visitors expressed their appreciation of my hometown, especially ones from California. I used to live on the west coast, and I always missed how impressive everything out there was. The Pacific Ocean, the hundred foot trees, the snowcapped mountains and the perfect weather. When someone comes to my little city, they really have to look harder for the more subtle perfections.

“Yeah. Sometimes I forget how lucky we are to have our bike trails.”

“They’re extraordinary,” he gushed. “I like the tunnel under Gammon Road. It’s like I have my own private passage though the intercourse.”

I stiffened. Intercourse?

My mind flipped to erotica mode. I fantasized about crawling across my table, spilling stacks of my erotica novel onto the floor. In my mind I gripped his shirt with both hands, pulled him into my lips and kissed him before he could say no. I could actually feel his tongue slide into my mouth when I dropped my pen. It clattered on the table and fell off the edge. The sound jerked me back to reality. It made me fumble around on the floor looking for it. When I tried to stand, I hit my head on the table.

He rushed to my side. “Are you alright?”

I stood up inside his personal space. The kiss, still ripe in my mind, had only been a fantasy. Yet, those lips hovered so closely I could smell his aroma. It was oddly familiar, like sanded wood. This was what my husband smelled like when we were first dating. Isaac worked at a wood shop. A fine dust covered his skin and hair when I would run into him. How could this actor smell like that? I couldn’t imagine a touring Californian would spend eight hours of rigorous wood working before riding his bike here.

I rubbed the bump on my head. “What was I doing?”

He held up his aged copy of The Xyancy Generation. “You were going to sign my book.”

He put it down on the table and opened the front cover to the first page.

As I poised my pen, I asked him. “Who should I make it out to?”

Now I could find out once and for all who this actor was.

“Just do your signature.”

Ah, now I understood. He wasn’t really into me at all. When people didn’t want me to sign it to a particular person, that meant they were going to sell it on the internet. Personalized signatures devalued the item. No one wanted a first addition book signed to someone else.

Inside the front cover I wrote RAR with a dot on the end as if completing a statement. He pulled the book close so he could admire the name.

“You don’t know what this means to me.”

He acted as if I had handed him the keys to a sorority house. Alas, it was just a signature. I clicked the pen as if conversation had ended.

“Have a safe ride home.”

He made no move to leave.

Clutching The Xyancy Generation tightly against his chest he said, “This book. It’s a gateway to another world. All the characters in it, I know them just as well as my own family members.”

He gave me a sincere look. “And you’re the one that thought it all up. Right out of your head.”

I smirked at him. He was a fan. A delicious, irresistible fan. For a fleeting moment I thought of the four years I spent writing my novel. All those mornings before the sun rose, alone in the dark, without a soul to talk to about it. Not even Isaac liked to hear about how the plot unfolded. He could stand only a sentence or two, then he would shrink away into his computer room to watch knife making videos on YouTube.

Somehow, I didn’t deserve the admiration in this actor’s eyes. “Oh, it’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” He chuckled. “Where I come from, you’re a legend.”

I perked up. The idea that I was a legend on the west coast intrigued me. “I am?”

“Yes. The Xyancy Generation occupies the window at every bookstore.”

His enthusiasm attracted attention from the other people around him. That smile. He had the kind of face that could sell a thousand units of… whatever. Some customers even stopped by my table and picked up a book for the first time.

“It’s alright to be proud of your work Rachel. We’re your seich.”

He wrapped his arm around the nearest customer. Her baggy Badger sweatshirt crumpling in his embrace.

“What’s a seich?” She asked him.

“It’s from her book.” He told her, side hugging her shoulders. “It’s collection of dwellings, united by a single crest.”

The customer squinted her eyes at him in confusion.

“A family,” he clarified before letting go of the woman. “Maybe we should make this more official.”

He stepped around the table so he could face me without obstructions.

“Rachel Mesaga. On behalf of the NightHorse seich, I welcome you. We accept you as one of our own. From now on, you will have a title that we will use privately in our seich.”

He licked his thumb, with insinuating eyes, and touched it to my forehead. “Let us now know you as the Great Maker.”

When his thumb slid down my nose, over my lips, I got this strange sensation. Where he smeared his saliva, the skin sizzled with pleasure there. Heat radiated in my sinuses. My breath shuddered though my flared nostrils. The line down my face felt like I grew new cells, more sensitive ones, that ignited with passion where he had touched me. My head tilted back, mouth open, as the hot blood rushed down the line on my face. I licked my lips, smearing his saliva around. The entire mouth felt like an excited sex gland. My whole life, I always thought women only felt such pleasures between their legs. Now, I awakened to a whole new sensation: a face orgasm.

Only when the effect passed was I able to comprehend the phenomenon. My eyes focused. I had collapsed to the floor and saw a ring of people staring down on me. The actor was among them, wearing a naughty look on his face like a virgin that had just raided his cousin’s panty drawer.

When I expressed some trouble getting up, he came to my aid. He strung my arm over his shoulder and helped me to my feet. When others offered their help, he waved them off.

“She just had a little stage fright, that’s all.”

I leaned on him for support, all the way into the lady’s bathroom. He set me down on the sinks, making sure I had a solid seat before wetting a paper towel. As he dabbed the cool paper against my forehead, I stared into his face like I couldn’t believe what I was looking at.

“Xy?”

He dabbed my cheek. “Did I come on too strongly?”

He did match the profile. The aphrodisiac in his saliva. The seductive mannerism and unparalleled good looks. It was an optical illusion. An anomaly in his skin, that made him appear more attractive than anyone else in the world. However, reality had a way of fighting off a clever act.

“No. You couldn’t be him. Xy’s fiction. I made him up.”

His eyes sparkled, those oddly familiar eyes. “I’m right here Rachel. I came here for you.”

I shook him off. “That’s impossible. How could my character come out of my book?”

He tilted his chin down, as if his next words were important. “Remember how you described space bending? People could travel anywhere they could think of, as long as they had been there before. When I stepped into the pod, I wanted to know where I came from. I thought I must have been there already; the memory was just suppressed. The space bending pod found a signature and brought me here.”

I wanted to believe those eyes. He had the kind of look I could trust, but denial flooded my mind.

“No. You must be some kind of publicity stunt. My publisher hired you, didn’t she? To stir up some press.”

He put his palm on my forehead. His answer flooded directly into my mind. I’m not a publicity stunt.

Adapting to the telepathy was easier than I expected. His thoughts merged with mine seamlessly. Well, I know you’re not really from California. Men on the west coast are intriguing, but they can’t read minds.

I confess. I’m not from California.

Then why did you tell me you were?

I couldn’t just tell you the truth in front of the customers out there. It would have caused an incident.

How did you know I would find a Californian attractive? Thixites wouldn’t have any knowledge of the United States.

When I bent space here, I got embedded memories of you. I saw many visions of you visiting California. You had many adventures there. I figured it was somewhere you fantasized about.

Telepathy was easier than talking. It was so simple. So honest. Then what are you? A figment of my imagination?

His eyes were penetrating. I am as real as you want me to be.

I reached out to touch his face. When I slid my fingers down his chin, I could feel stubble. It was like sandpaper. It reassured his presence. How could he feel so real? I leaned closer to him, seduced by the closeness of his lips. The spicy aroma of sanded wood drifted into my nose. It was comforting. As if he wanted to simulate my husband. I thought of Isaac. He wouldn’t mind this.

There was nothing wrong with looking… Right?

I brushed his palm off my forehead, and leapt off the sinks. “I can’t do this. I’m a married woman.”

I managed to escape his charm. He caught my wrist before I left the bathroom.

“Don’t leave. You’ll regret it the rest of your life.”

I pulled against him, but his grip was too strong. “I don’t want to cheat on my husband.”

“This is fiction Rachel. We can do anything we want.” He freed my hand.

I was just five steps from the door. Nothing stopped me from making my exit. If I wanted to leave, he would have let me.

I couldn’t go.

Surrendering to my passion, I threw myself onto him. The force slammed him against the wall, but the impact only made him hungrier. We devoured each other’s mouths, like two starving cannibals. The aphrodisiac in his saliva tripped triggers on my tongue. What do you call those moments of agitation before orgasm? There should be a word for it. Succumbed? That’s what my mouth felt like, succumbed by his natural love potion. His hands slid down my back and squeezed my ass. As I heard his hungry sighs of passion, it made me think of Isaac. I welcomed the sound; it was so comforting. I gave that characteristic to Xy because my husband used to make that noise when we first kissed. He didn’t even know he was doing it. His hungry sigh was an automatic response to the joy he was feeling. However, this was not Isaac. Xy was something different altogether. He wasn’t entirely human, though, I hadn’t actually revealed that fact much in the first book. I wanted the readers to think he’s human, with all the appeal of a war hero, yet he was more than that. Superhuman. To the extent that he would dominate rivals with his sexual prowess.

Before I could stop myself, I unbuttoned his dark blue jeans. His belt buckle chimed like a tiny dinner bell. I knew I was being naughty, exposing his belly in this bathroom. It was almost as taboo as on Thix, a planet where public nudity was considered a felony. Yet, when his fly hung open, I could see the tattoo on his hip; exactly the way it looked on the cover of the book. I had drawn the NightHorse crest myself, at first with paper and pencil. Then on the computer. The black stallion held his head down, as if charging forward. Mane blowing back like his neck was on fire. Twenty-four moons surrounded the head in progressive phases. There it was in the flesh, under that ridge of muscle that defined his hip.

I touched the mark. This was Deyu’s family crest, his forever mate. It told the world that Xy belonged to her. I pulled my hands away from his skin as if I had violated him.

“What’s wrong?”

“You’re out of my league,” I said, suddenly feeling like a middle-aged woman at a modeling interview. “Wouldn’t you rather have Deyu? She’s so much hotter than me.”

He stood there with his jeans hanging open. “I know. Deyu is beautiful and all, but she’s nothing compared to what I feel about you. You’re like a god to me. How often does one get to kiss their maker?”

He had convinced me. “You’re going to get more than that.”

I pulled down his pants. His pole thrust out, eager to meet me. Oh, how wrong this was. Exposing this fine specimen, with only one door protecting us from prying eyes. Any moment someone could walk in, expecting to use the bathroom, and find his naked meat poised for action.

I didn’t care. He was mine. Literally. I created him for this. He was the sex symbol of my erotica novel; made up to appeal to the reader. No, edit that. To appeal to ME. I had spent many nights, typing up steamy scenarios starring this man. I made him the protagonist, basically likable, but with a dark streak. I didn’t want my leading man to be too good. A slight sinister side was much juicier to read. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have this affair at all. He would just go home to his beautiful mate and leave me alone in this bathroom with my wet paper towel.

With my hand on his shaft, I opened my mouth and attempted to thrust his pole deep down my throat, but he stopped me.

“No. Let me please you instead.”

I looked at his face. My god. Those chiseled features. He looked like a creature sculpted for speed. His hot pole throbbed in my fingers.

“Let me suck on you. That would please me just fine.”

I really wanted to go down on him. Some people say blowjobs are degrading, but I found them completely erotic. I would close my eyes and make out with it, knowing this was where his sensors were most receptive. He would feel the passion of my performance because my actions don’t lie. I truly adored cock, from my hungry mouth to my creamy jeans. When I got him really hot and bothered, I would open my eyes, savoring the sight of this delicious man as he released his essence down my throat.

However, he pulled down my pants, taking charge. A feature I also found appealing.

“I crave your other hole more.”

We stood facing each other, both our pants at our ankles. With one hand he gripped my ass, the other he pointed his shiny purple cock head. He tried to guide it in. I stopped him.