Glassy streets shimmer in the aftermath of a recent spate. Lifeless tarmac shining like ribbons of obsidian under a here-and-there smattering of yellow-lighted street lamps. If the cold rain hadn’t already emptied them, the late hour would have.

A dark figure, hunched for warmth, skits along with a determined stride, furtively ducking through a black door marked with four white exes. A puff of misty breath swirls in his wake.

Once inside the brightly lit lobby, he blows heat into his hands then exchanges words with a girl working the front desk. 

Her hair is pulled tightly into ponytails dangling from either side of her head, makeup severe. The way she’s dressed makes her appear as though she’s Japanese anime: short flared-out pink skirt, white tight-fitting blouse, cherry-red Hello Kitty backpack. A single fluorescent tube buzzes in the ceiling overhead. Her perfume is cheap and singes his nostrils while her exaggerated fingernails clack against a touchscreen. She punches in his code then hands him a key, her head offering a muted nod in the direction of a hallway behind him. 

Hondo slides five tokens onto the sticker-laden countertop and shuffles away to find his door. 

The show had already begun, which is of little importance to him. These sex shows run twenty-four hours a day. The best ones, the ones he likes to watch, are the ones that always run during those empty hours in the middle of the night. 

He slips the key into a slot on the wall, adjusts his crotch, and sits on a metal folding chair—the only piece of furniture in the six-by-six room. A clicking turn of the key and a dented aluminum shade, splattered in graffiti, loudly slides up with a high-pitched clunking and scraping. 

Silence immediately follows the ruckus. 

Mumbles begin to trickle in as his ears adjust. Bass tones mixed with what he thinks could be moans from two women writhing like tangled snakes behind the worn and scratched-up plexiglass. For an added token, he could activate a beat-up metal wall speaker and listen to them, but in this world, tokens are hard to come by.

Hondo takes out his cock and goes to work making his own noises. Gentle sounds. Like bare feet stepping through thick mud. Over and over. 

Fap... fap... fap 

Skin squishing into spongy skin. 

He’s not sure if the showgirls even know he’s there. Maybe they don’t give a fuck. Maybe they’re just too into their act to care. Or, maybe they don’t want to acknowledge what pathetic hideousness sits on the other side, jerking off, releasing pent-up tensions of perversion. A tight-fisted vigilante beating out his self-indulgent wistful pleasures driven by nightly fantasies. 

He throttles his cock and settles back.

One girl slides the other girl’s leg around and guides her alabaster thigh so the crimson clam nestled at its apex straddles her face. The two are perfectly angled so he can watch with an unobstructed view. The head of the girl on top is dipping down and feasting. Knees slide apart and lower her prize to a waiting mouth. They’ve done this so many times, they no longer show signs of arousal. Any visible wetness comes from saliva being slathered around like a savory sauce.

In Hondo’s fucked up mind, they are anything but conventional lovers. Yesterday, he fantasized that they were barely legal schoolmates. Today though, he is feeling extra perverted. Today, the redhead on top is a Domme and that spiky-haired blonde being smothered underneath is her own personal sex toy. 

He wishes she would straighten up, force more of her weight down, cover blondie’s nose and mouth simultaneously. Grind into her while she struggles for air. Pressing, sliding, arching her lower back. Timing it to try and cum just before the struggling and squirming beneath her stops. 

He grunts. That vision has him going good. One hand beats vigorously while the other cups and fondles his balls. He’s fully erect but not rock hard. A mix of age and repetitive masturbation makes it difficult to get it as rigid as twenty-year-old steel. But his balls still work good enough. They cinch up, and after a few folded over pumps, Hondo spurts his cum onto the cinder blocks below the glass. 

His legs slide out to either side in a V-shape as he kicks back in the chair. Dirty blue jeans splay at the zipper, dick already shrinking. He stares straight up into a single, un-shaded red lightbulb illuminating his makeshift cell. 

As his endorphins ebb in their ritualistic retreat, they leave him self-aware and contemplative. Ironically, the melancholy state doesn’t focus around his sexual depravity but is more driven by this life in general. 

What has he become?

This vein, this state of mind, this insatiable appetite for sex, he never asked for any of it. And each passing day it seems like it only grows stronger, more controlling. A shrouding fog hiding the safe harbor of decency he may have once known. Virtue he feels slipping from his grip.  

Anxiety begins to build. A derivative uneasiness from being away from the bridge for too long. The need to get back replaces his euphoria.

He exits the sex shop, almost as furtively as when he’d entered. Damp night air slaps against the warmth of his face, the alleyway feels more biting than earlier. Perhaps just a punctuating aftereffect of his orgasmic release. He flips up the collar on his corduroy fleece-lined coat and pulls the lapels tightly across his chest. 

“Holy fuck, Hondo... jerkin’ off again?” Her voice startles him as she emerges from the shadows alongside a low-lit dumpster. 

“Hmph,” his only reply as he briskly brushes past her. 

The girl doesn’t follow, just steps further into the cone of yellow light being cast down and calls out to his back, “You’re disgusting, you know that? You disturbed, dirty old fuck.” 

She’s pretty, and in her heeled boots, she is almost his height. Her frame is athletic, slender except for her tits and ass which look like they may have been augmented, but that’s not likely. She has long shiny dark hair and she’s wearing a thickly lined Army jacket that apparently belonged to some soul named Babcock.  

With his head still hunched down and his pace still steadfast, Hondo swings out a hand and extends a middle finger behind him. “Fuck you, Dahlia,” he mumbles to the pavement.

The walk back to his refuge is raw, somewhat bitter, and freezing. It’s never cold enough, though, to make him contemplate shelter other than his cardboard box. It is, however, still cold. And lonely. 

Settling into his improvised home, he forces another fantasy through his mind. His breathing reverberates off the flimsy corrugated walls. Maybe a hardon will help warm him. Like he needs the excuse. 

‘If she could only see what I see,’ he thinks to himself. ‘Then she’d know. She’d know why. Ignorant little cunt.’

He curls to his side and scrunches his tattered blanket into a ball between his thighs. Pressing it into his cock with one hand, he humps his hips. Images of having a good fuck with Dahlia flash through his mind. He tries to layer in a scenario; hers is far less lewd than earlier with the sex shop girls. 

Something about Dahlia appeals to Hondo, something deeper than her perfect tits and ass. 

His dick swells but remains mostly flaccid during the dry hump. The rubbing still feels good. Calming.

After several minutes he tires, the gyration in his waist ceases, and Hondo lets out a sigh. 

“Fucking cunt,” he grumbles softly. He begins to feel the weight of slumber in his eyelids. The tension behind them releases and his consciousness slowly drifts off to the dream.  

While he sleeps, fifty feet below him the river flows, swift but silent. Slight breezes course over its surface as if they are vespers of lost souls traveling from one world to the next. 

The span is approximately eighty feet wide and the water is relatively smooth and hushed but visibly moving. Distinctive ripples exposed by the moon show the strength of its current. Banks on either side are cut with precision—a perfectly formed artery feeding the planet. 

He doesn’t know where the river flows to; its ultimate emptying point. Some days he follows it, searching for the answer. Longing to see what feeds off this immortal fluid. The farthest he has ever gotten is a bend about a mile away. To continue past that would take the bridge from his sightline. Anxiety, like some invisible taunting tether, always drags him back. 

On the bridge, in his box, as he dreams, Hondo envisions a world. Vastly contrasted to the one in which he lives and breathes. A new world. A world free from the grey desolation that surrounds him. A world bathed in color. Green fields and vibrant wildflowers. Butterflies. Birds. Peace. 

Her. 

A woman.

She is strange but not a stranger, and always the same. To the point, he now believes this woman was once a part of his life, although he has no particular recollection or physical mementos. And her attributes never waver. Never morphs into the sluts and whores that appeal to his perverse libido. She is beauty personified. 

The woman usually sits alone on a park bench. A blanket with picnic-type accouterments spread out to her right, as if she is waiting for someone. Her blonde hair is loose, but pristine, even though the gentle spring breeze threatens to muss it. She has on a sleeveless pink blouse which highlights the tone of her shoulders and upper arms. A woman who is definitely mindful of her shape and health. 

Her tight-fitting top also accentuates a full bosom. He can see the not-so-subtle outline of her underwire bra. Most fashionistas would chastise it as a faux pas, but to Hondo, it’s a quirky little turn-on. It reflects her innocence, her carefree and whimsical I don’t really give a fuck attitude. 

Hondo is younger in this place. A nuance that he cannot see but one he can feel. He is stronger with a more defined posture. There is a vibrance to his step, a purpose, like this woman is drawing him in; another attribute to her feeling familiar. He hungers for her. Who is she?

He approaches her from the side, confidently. She peers up and they exchange a deep regard. 

“Hi there,” he says, pointing to the picnic set-up. “Waiting for someone?” 

She remains silent for a moment, smiling, then glances to the blanket. When she does finally speak, her voice floats, seemingly approaching him from everywhere but her lips. 

“I feel like I am always waiting,” she replies demurely.

“For who?”

“Why... you, of course. And now you are here.” 

“Where is here?”

“It is wherever you want it to be, Hondo. But, it always seems to be within sight of that.” She points upward behind him. 

“May I ask you a question?” He turns quickly to the side to spot the bridge in his peripheral. “This may seem odd given the fact that you have presumably been waiting for me.” 

“Ask me anything you’d like.”

He turns forward again to face her. “Who are you?” 

“Oh, love... you are being silly, you know it’s me.” 

He brings a balled-up fist to his lips and chews his thumbnail, slightly perplexed, but only momentarily. 

“Yes... yes,” he then says assuredly as if things are starting to click. “And this park, it’s... it’s where we met.” 

“It’s where we always meet, my love.” 

Rising off the bench, she takes his hand in hers and leads him to the blanket. He feels shy and timid, like he knows where this is headed, and all of a sudden he is nervous. 

No longer does it feel as though he is in control, as though he can manipulate the scene. Things start to come together, a million jagged puzzle pieces methodically, involuntarily being put into place to frame a picture. And that feeling in his gut like he is merely a role-player begins to slip away. It’s as if this is now the creation of history rather than some surreal recollection of it. 

“I’ve…” he takes a breath, “I have missed you.”

“You are always so sweet.” She kisses his cheek pulling him further toward the blanket. “Come, let’s sit. I want to hear all about your day.” 

“No, I don’t know how much time I ha–”

“Oh, Hondo,” she interrupts, “you’re always so fucking existential. Who knows how much time any of us have? Let’s not live in that fear, yes?”

She pushes him to sit and straddles his waist. Her grey plaid skirt riding up to accommodate his legs. Her weight feels right, comfortable like she was meant to be there. Designed to be there. Another piece falling into place. 

There’s a silence between them and as his ears make their adjustment, the subtle sounds of his surroundings become more intelligible. The complexity of the meadow they are in, the chatter of buzzing insects, the swift passing water of the river. They all seem to pull, absorbing into her beauty as their eyes connect. His breath quickens with an impulse. A feeling. Something also strange, yet definite and forming, culminating. Love? 

He wasn’t sure of it until now. But there’s no denying the magnitude of what he is feeling and in some metaphysical way he knows she feels it too. His heart races uncontrollably, an adrenaline surge like free-falling from a precipice. Suddenly, he’s afraid of the hard surface that will eventually impede his momentum. 

This feeling morphs into something compelling. A tributary of emotion feeding into the racing pulse of this amorous crave. And, he wants to warn her. He needs her to know that time—however long or short it may be in this fantasy—will invariably turn them into something ugly. Something that will threaten to tear them apart, shatter this perfect world. 

“Tell me what you are thinking, love.”

“What happens to us? Where do we go from here?” 

“You are ever the romantic, Hondo. You know, it’s that heart of yours that drew me to you.” She leans forward and nibbles his earlobe. “You do remember our first date, don’t you?”

“I remember something. Nerves. I couldn’t feel my fingers as I drove up to get you.”

“My father was very skeptical of the whole thing, angry even,” she says breathily. “He was not sure it was wise to let his little girl date at such a tender age. I had to remind him that in the eyes of society, I was already a woman. But he always saw me as his fragile angel.”

“A vision that I now share with him.” 

“You won his heart that night, in the face of his adversity.” She moves to press her forehead to his. “Daddy watched from the pantry window as we left,” she whispers to his lips. “The moment he saw you open the passenger door, then shut it once I was safely in, he could see in you what I had already known. He knew at that moment that you were a man who could never hurt me.” 

Hondo runs a hand to the base of her neck and pulls her hard into his kiss. A wild, teeth-clashing, passionate kiss, driving an audibly deep breath through her nose. 

“Fuck me, Hondo,” she whimpers to his lips. “Fuck me now. I need to feel you inside me.” 

He wastes no time. His hardened dick is pulled free from his jeans; skin taut around the veined, throbbing, steeled muscle. She lifts her hips as Hondo snakes his hand under, her panties yanked forcefully to the side—no regard for the material or the skin which they once covered. 

Slowing his pace, he runs the pad of his middle finger along her slit. She is wet and swollen, waiting for him to take her. 

“Please, Hondo…”

The words deepen his breath, drive his pulse, pull the moisture from his tongue, and dizzy his vision. She is his muse and everything must be perfect for her.

He gently guides her to where his cock points straight up. The muscles in her core tense under his touch as she tries to sit. He tightens his hold, needing to regain complete control. It’s a flowing desire that momentarily confuses him. A need that swells to the edge of dominance and he is unsure why. He has always been the observer, the willing participant in whatever role he is cast. But now... he must drive the action. There is no compromise. 

Once the flesh of his spongy head grazes her viscous opening, he pulls her down, impaling his length into her with force. She snaps back swiftly, the small of her back bending to thrust her chest forward in an arch, mouth gaping up to the heavens. 

Fingernails dig sharply into his shoulders as she rights herself in his lap. 

“Come on now, Hondo. Fuck me!”

“Wait... please... just hold still for a second.” His shaft twitches inside her and he already feels the climax tightening his balls. 

Hazy sunlight glistens the glow in her complexion as his eyes melt into her. She fights against his grip kicking her heels further outward, sliding her hips forward like she is posting up on the saddle of a trotting horse. Then back. 

He swallows hard, fighting off that feeling deep in his core that has been tormenting him. An insatiable drive to fuck; which he now knows is rooted in this woman. A carnal need he once forged to block out what threatened to tear him to pieces. Now, his mind flounders in a tumultuous surf of emotions that he simplifies into just two: pain and love. One washing over the other until he no longer can distinguish them. And even in this confusion, he knows one thing for certain: he does not want it to end. 

Her pussy tightens around his shaft as she forces more of her weight down, punishing her clit into his pubic bone. He seethes and slides a hand around to squeeze her ass cheek hoping the sting might slow her pace. She only bucks harder, now lifting a bit to slap back down against him. Her rhythm closely timed to his labored breath. 

“I’m going to cum…” she screams.

He can feel her tighten around him, wetness coating the cleft of her ass where it nestles against his sack. His fingers slip in the moisture against her soft supple skin. His free hand rises, wrapping around the base of her throat, index tucked tightly behind her ear. He squeezes her into silence as she floats on his cock, her cum erasing any friction of his pumping member. 

Using the grip on her ass and neck he pulls himself up, kisses her violently, and matches the waves of her climax with his own. 

Their spent bodies collapse back into the blanket, hers straddling him in a frog-like position. Hondo can feel her lips against the side of his neck, she is whispering words that he cannot make out. 

“What are you saying, baby?”

“Nothing... none of it matters. Just stay with me, Hondo. Let’s rest.”

He focuses on her breathing, the gentle rise and fall of her chest against his. It lulls him and he feels centered, safe, eternal. The placidity of the moment envelops them, and as he drifts off, he hears a whisper that floats around in his mind, “I love you…”

“I love you, too.” 

“What?”

“I said, I love you too. Your father has nothing to worry about, I will always protect you.” 

“Protect me?! I don’t fuckin need you to protect me, you perverted old fuck.”

As he opens his eyes, Hondo is lying in the middle of the bridge, the park-like setting replaced with concrete and cold mist. His lover and the sweet smell of lavender in her hair, all gone. Dahlia stands over him with the muzzle of a revolver pointed at his head. 

“Get up!” she barks.

Hondo raises to his elbows. 

“What is this, Dahlia? I don’t have anything to take, unless you want some tokens to the White Exes.”

“Keep your fuckin’ perv money. Get the fuck up, I won’t ask again.” She shakes the pistol at him.

Hondo takes a breath and stands, unnerved by her threats. 

“What now?” he asks with a sneer. 

“Show me!” 

“Show you... what, Dahlia? What the fuck do you want me to show you, huh?”

“Where do you go, dude? Huh? You take some kind of drug or something? I watch you, you know. I seen you take down guys twice your size just cuz they stepped foot on this fuckin bridge. How? Why? What are you hiding? Fuckin’ SHOW ME!” 

“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah? Who were you talking to just now? Who were you with? A girl? You disappear to some fantasy world, man. I want to know how. I want you to show me now or I swear to fuckin’ God I will blow your fuckin’ head clean off your pathetic little body.”

Dahlia takes a few steps backward toward the edge, gun steady, and peers quickly over to the river below. 

“What is it about this goddamn bridge?” she continues. 

“This bridge is my home, Dahlia, nothing more.”

“Bullshit! Fuckin’ bullshit and you know it. You go into some kind of trance, man. I seen it. What makes you so special you get to leave this shithole?” She steps toward him. Hondo moves around her slowly and they pivot to reverse position in the road. Brown steel girders extend over their heads like some sort of rusted arbor. 

“You want me to show you?”

“Before I pull this goddamn trigger, yeah!”

“Can you hear that?”

“All I hear is you yappin’.”

“Listen, Dahlia, the river, it sings. Its voice is beautiful. It... it is power like you have never felt before.”

“You’re fuckin’ crazy, dude. I ain't gonna tell you again…”

“I don’t know what you want from me, Dahlia. Look, you’re a smart girl, you are here for a reason, we all are. When you figure that out, the river will sing to you too—”

Hondo watches in slow motion as her finger squeezes, her head shaking back and forth in defiance of his words. He sees the muzzle flash, hears the clap of thunder, feels nothing but relief in his chest. The force pushes him backward, catching his heels on the guardrail sending him tumbling over. 

As he plunges, he feels suspended, weightless. Dahlia rushes to the edge. He briefly sees a change in her, some kind of subtle metamorphosis. An ugly distortion flashes in her features, twisting them within the weight of her new fate. She most likely feels it too. 

Then the cold rush of the river pulls him under. 

Ripples of light begin to contort his vision. Silence fills his ears. Dahlia’s face becoming more and more blurred and he sinks. 

When his body settles against the riverbed he sees the woman’s body lying in the murk to his right. Her blonde hair flowing carefree in the current. She is just as beautiful as the day they met. He reaches a hand in her direction and tells her he will always protect her... 

He will always protect her.