You're such a strange girl

Melt With You just received a 4.5 star review! I'll put in the info as soon as the review goes live. I am so relieved when I read a review that makes one of my novels sound coherent. My stories are always clear to me—but I don't always have the faith that they will make sense to other people.

I'm partial to Melt for a slew of reasons. One is because my heroine is a bit older than previous ones I've written—she's 38. And I like her moxie. When she finds herself in an inexplicable situation—back in time 20 years—she doesn't wait for some buff hero to rescue her. She saves herself. Also, I had a delicious time writing about Rocky Horror and the movie theater, which I called The Majestic in the book, but which was The Varsity in real life.

Too many important moments took place for me at the Varsity. Now, when I visit home and see the Borders in the shell of this once brilliant theater, I have that ache in the pit of my stomach. I talked to a friend recently about seeing The Crying Game there, and she said, "God, I'm so glad they finally demolished that dirty old place."

I was stunned.

How can two people both have the exact opposite recollections of the same location? She's pleased there is a nice, bright, super-clean Borders in town. I walk through the bookstore, and see the faded blue velvet seats, that heavy velvet curtain, the sconces, the balcony. Breathe in deep to smell the popcorn and sticky spilled soda.

I'm a sap, I guess. Sentimental. Silly.

My heroine in Melt isn't sure what's happened to her. While trying to determine what's happened to her, she ends up fucking a young checker at the record store:

The Cure followed her wherever she went, didn’t they. Lyrics for every occasion. Her heart lifted as one of her favorites poured from the speakers, “The Perfect Girl.”

The boy reached for her, as Robert Smith sang: “You're such a strange girl, I think you come from another world…” and she found herself unable to think for a moment. Lost in the way the boy’s hands felt on her. Tentative at first. Then more powerful as she responded with such ease to his touch. This was intense, the way he held her, the way he kissed her, starting with her fingertips, then flipping her palm face up and kissing slowly to her wrist. She trembled. She’d always had extremely sensitive wrists. How had the boy known that?

Was she really going to do this? Act on a fantasy? Well why not?

In her entire life, she’d never had a dream in which she’d actually been allowed to sleep with the man. She’d always woken up at the last minute, or watched as a friend walked off with the man of her fantasies. This would definitely be one way to prove whether she was sleeping or not, wouldn’t it? If she didn’t wake up at the crucial moment, or if Violet didn’t suddenly appear to abscond with the handsome lad, then she could be sure she wasn’t asleep.

Leaning back against the window, she looked at him, seeing his serpentine green-streaked hair. Certain still that she were dreaming. Then he said, “I have to tell you something,” and she thought: Here it comes. He’s going to confess that he would rather fuck Violet. Or my mom. And then Chelsea will pop out of the back of the van wearing Mickey Mouse Ears, and I’ll wake up naked and late for my Spanish Final.

But he said, “When you walked through that door, I got hard immediately.”

She squirmed in the seat, surprised by his words. More than surprised, she was instantly turned on.

“And then when you met my eyes, I thought I was going to come right there, behind the cash register. You know? There’s something in the way you looked at me that just floored me. I could have punched the keys on the register with my cock, I was so hard.”

Could she have dreamed dialogue like that? She didn’t think so. His words were too raw sounding to be something she’d created. She felt this constant inner conversation distracting her, her conscience wondering whether this world was real or not. And she wished she could turn down the volume. Then he reached for her hand once more and pressed her palm against the crotch of his jeans, and when Dori cradled the heft there, she was the one to groan.

“You see?” he asked, and she nodded and thought nothing had ever felt as real as his cock straining against the front of his jeans.

“And I felt,” the boy continued, “felt as if I knew you. But we haven’t met before, have we?”

What an odd conversation to have with her hand on a man’s cock.

Dori shook her head. Shook her head as she bent forward and undid the shiny copper buttons of his fly. He settled back against his seat now, watching her. She was infinitely aware of every sensation. The sound of the cars pulling in and out of the parking lot around them. The sulfur-yellow lamps throughout the lot. The smell of the van, a combination of spicy cinnamon from Big Red gum—she could see the bright red paper wrappers and silver foil remnants scattered around the floor—and cigarette smoke—there were butts spilling out of the ashtray, many of them adorned with a dark scarlet lipstick. She could smell the rubber of the battered black floor mats, see glittering bits of sand and tiny pebbles stuck into the grooves.

And then she saw his cock. Hard and naked and ready for her. She had her fist around the length, jacked him once, softly, to get a feel for what he liked, before bringing her mouth to the head. His skin was silky, so sweet in her palm.

So real.

Dori closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the taste of his skin. Like summer time. Like memories that had been fading up on the top shelf of her closet. She was blowing a boy in his van, and fuck, she had to be dreaming. A dream. A dream. A dream. She could tell herself that over and over, as the warmth of his flesh met her mouth, as the scent of his body took her over. His black jeans were scratchy against her face. When she used her fingertips to push his black t-shirt up, she saw the muscles on his flat stomach, saw the turquoise tail end of a tattoo disappearing around the side of his waist. What was the full image? A scorpion?

The minute details seemed to take over her mind. As she sucked him, she stared at a tear on the side of the driver’s seat. A ragged rip in the tan fabric where she could see a bit of foam beneath, foam the color of fresh egg yolk.

Who saw details like that in their dreams? Hers were generally hazy. She’d remember snippets. Friends appearing and then disappearing. A rock star she liked showing signs of interest, before fading away. She couldn’t remember ever having a dream this intense. One that felt this true.

The boy grabbed the back of her hair, twining his fingers in the glossy strands, and she heard him sigh, heard him swallow hard. He liked what she was doing to him. That made her even wetter than she had been so far. She turned in the seat to get more comfortable, snaking one hand between her own legs to feel her arousal through her panties. Oh, yes. Very wet.

“Don’t stop,” the boy said, his voice shaking. “Please don’t stop—“

He didn’t continue the sentence, and she realized that was because he didn’t know her name. But she didn’t care. She continued in her mission, bobbing her head on his shaft, taking more and more in with each thrust.

“Oh, god,” he said next. “Baby, that is so fucking good.”

She’d always loved it when a man called her “baby.” So maybe this was a dream after all. She was adding in the elements that always turned her on the most. Had she ever had a wet dream before? Had she ever had an X-rated dream that made her come? Because now he was pulling her off him, helping her to sit up once more, slipping her dress up and her panties aside. He ran his fingertips over her pussy, and she sucked in her breath at the sensation, at the way he touched her. She thought he would go fast, thought he would want to rip her knickers down and drive inside of her, but he didn’t.

He seemed shocked by her Brazilian. She didn’t usually go for such a complete wax job, but she’d been hoping on hooking up with Rowan, and Violet had egged her on to go for a clean sweep. Luke hadn’t been surprised in the least to find her totally bare. So many women followed this trend that the look had become standard. But this boy was mesmerized. Had he never seen a girl completely shaved? Had there been Brazilians in the 80s?

No, she thought not. When had she first heard of this type of thorough wax job? Her brow furrowed for a moment, while she tried to remember, and then once more, she had to stop thinking as lust took over.

“Do you have something?” the boy asked, “I don’t. I mean, I wasn’t expecting…” and she blinked for a moment, not understanding the query, then reached into the side of her purse. Thanks to Violet, she did. She handed over the foil pocket, watched him stare at the square for a moment before expertly open the packet, and then waited. “Never seen one like this,” he said, and she realized Violet had given her one of those new-fangled condoms. A type created for a woman’s pleasure, a style that didn’t even exist in the 80s, as if “women’s pleasure” hadn’t been an important part of condom sales.

“They’re new,” she said immediately, “only available in New York, I think.”

The boy slid the condom on easily while she kicked off her panties, then positioned her just right, so that she was astride him, and she gripped onto the headrest behind him, and worked her body up and down. She knew that people would be able to see them through the windows, but she didn’t care. That fact made the act even more exciting.

She’d be the one on display now, she thought. Not Gael and Bette. She was the one in the window. Up and down she went, riding on him, doing all the work. He sat back and gazed at her, then ran one hand along the hollow of her throat, and she bit down on her bottom lip and groaned.

Fuck, it felt good. So good. Too good.

When she came, she knew—she knew for a fact—that this was no dream.

XXX,
Alison