DISCLAIMER: The following is a work of adult fictional entertainment dealing with same-gender relationships. If you are of legal age and are not offended by said subject matter, read on. The author retains copyright of this material. This material cannot be posted or distributed without the author's permission.

Although anything can happen in the land of fiction, in the real world be good to yourself and others and practice safer sex.


© 2001 by W. Foster

A growing sense of trepidation comes over me as I walk upstairs to the office. I call myself doing this for my health rather than take the elevator, yet I know in my heart that I'm merely rationalizing to forestall the inevitable---Monday morning. Even with the two hours I allow myself before I have to punch in, dread prevails. The song "9 to 5" runs through my head as a defense mechanism--working in this department taught me to use any and all such defenses available.

Reaching the top floor, I trudge down the hall to the office, the local complaint department. I peer inside, surveying the vast field of desks and telephones, graced by occasional patches of plant life. It's so strangely peaceful here now, that kind of stillness just before a tornado strikes. This particular tornado, however, consists of people, calls and general insanity. For me, working here has brought new meaning to the phrase, "It's a dirty job, but someone has to do it"--sometimes I swear I leave here covered with mud and manure. I ask myself why I'm still here at age thirty-four, just before I close the door and walk down the hall to the lounge.

I grope around in the darkness until I find a comfortable chair to sit in. For my coworkers and myself, the lounge offers us sanctuary, a haven from the rigors of the day, especially Monday. So often we have walked, crawled or dragged ourselves in here during the day, our bodies showing the telltale signs of battle fatigue, and on some days I had to pick my way through an obstacle course of prostrate bodies before I could find a spot. At this hour of the morning all is peace and serenity here, and as I take off my Nikes I proceed to focus my mind elsewhere.

If my father had had his way I'd be playing in the NBA, given the fact that I had both the height and build of a basketball player--6'4" wasn't quite tall enough for a center position, but respectable for a forward. Alas, participation in sports was not my forte, choosing instead to maintain physical fitness in other ways. I continued to enjoy basketball as a spectator, and once I got past the idea of "crush, murder and maim" to study the science of the plays football began to enter my field of interests, and with football came Jackie.

Jackie--now there's a pleasant thought if ever there was one. Through my high school and college days the name of Jackie Robinson Kennedy resounded throughout college and professional football. Agile, fast on his feet and long on yardage, this running back earned his "place in the sun" and a permanent place in my mind. Watching him execute plays was a study in precision, and his gains in rushing were impressive--with a little research I discovered he set just such a record at his alma mater, which remained unbroken for eleven years. Thank goodness for instant replay--I never got tired of watching those sensational plays.

In his interviews he conveyed a persona of unassuming friendliness; you could find something to relate to in his character. He usually sported an appealing, infectious smile, and his toasty brown skin looked as though it had never known a complexion problem. Jackie was also shrewd. Aware of the short career of a pro football player, he wisely saved and invested his money in real estate and other holdings before he retired from the game, resulting in his prosperity as a businessman. I admired him for that, for there were those professional athletes around who for lack of knowledge or other reasons became entrapped in the snares and pitfalls such fame and fortune can bring.

I never thought I'd get as involved with football as I was with "The Young and the Restless" and "All My Children." However, Sunday afternoons would find me in front of the TV either alone or with friends, cheering over touchdowns and spectacular "Hail Mary" passes or cussing out the referee for blindness and bad calls. There was enough "thrill of victory and agony of defeat" at my place (plus high grocery bills) from September through January to last the remainder of the year. Super Bowl Sunday was inviolable. Snacks and beverages were purchased in advance, church service was followed by a speedy trip home for the pregame shows, and friends knew not to call until halftime. Because seeing the game itself was enough for me, I didn't participate in side betting. However, I could tell who did the next day at work---they walked in with exceptionally wide grins or faces that brushed the floor.

Through all this Jackie was and is my favorite player. Being a relative latecomer to football in 1976 (I was in my mid-twenties then), I made up for lost time with enthusiasm. From my place in front of the television I approached Jackie and whatever team he was on with all the fervor of a bloodhound on a fresh trail. I cheered myself into hoarseness over his pass receptions and touchdown runs. On the occasions when he was injured during a game I almost went into cardiac arrest. If my mother had heard the language I used when a referee called him on a penalty or called back one of his runs, she would have the slapped the black off me--of course, in my case it would have been caramel.

In the years to follow I managed to tone down some of this behavior, yet I would still wear a funny little smile whenever Jackie would play, and a huge grin when the uniforms became more form-fitting. Even after he retired I watched his interviews, occasional sportscasting and endorsements with a curious fascination. I would often wonder what I'd do or say if I ever met him, or better yet had time alone with him. After that I'd sigh in resignation, thinking to myself, "Yeah. Me and about 500,000 others." Still, in those later televised interviews I detected something else in his eyes that he seemed to be doing his best to hide. The friendliness was still there, but there was also wistfulness. I couldn't help but question its presence.

Last week was one of miracles. Through a friend I was able to get a ticket to Sunday's game. I don't know what strings he pulled to get it, but I'm eternally grateful to him for getting me one of the prime seats in the stadium. Considering this was my first time attending a pro bowl game, it was exhilarating. The scent of popcorn and hot dogs lingered in the air, and spirits were high. Playoff time is here, and Jackie's former team was the visitor. I absorbed myself in the game---all the scoring drives, passes, blocking, interceptions, penalties, field goals and touchdowns. I found myself caught up in the excitement a close game can bring. I didn't go overboard as I did years ago, but I enjoyed everything.

Not until the halftime show did I take my eyes away from the field. I scanned the stadium, noting all the activity in the stands and hearing people all around me discussing the first half. Finally I looked behind me. Sitting a few rows up, listening to an exchange between his friends, was none other than Jackie Robinson Kennedy himself, the man that had left such an impression on me for so many years, the man that had been rocket fuel for some of my hottest fantasies. He was distracted from the conversation by a spectator trying to get back to her seat, but as he turned to pick up the discussion our eyes met.

For a long minute he looked at me searchingly, as if he were studying me. I saw the wistfulness again, and somehow he knew I'd seen it. Something indefinable was there during that minute, something I didn't waver from but reached toward. A gentle, inviting smile came across my face, and I gave him a silent "Hey, Jackie."

He returned my greeting with a friendly "Hey," then went back into a huddle with his friends. I left my seat to seek nourishment at the concession stand, satisfied at having my moment with Jackie and glad that my winter coat concealed the raging hardon in my drawers.

The third quarter was largely defensive, with neither team giving much ground, although there were some injuries. The last quarter saw a turnaround in the visiting team's favor thanks to two well-executed touchdown passes--needless to say we went wild, and the road to the Super Bowl was starting to look good. Once in a while I'd look back at Jackie and his friends, but they were too engrossed in the turn of events before us to notice.

Cheers went up as the victory was clinched with a last-minute field goal, and I left the stadium excited, happy and very upbeat. I had good reason to be---in the midst of all the cheering fans, just before I made my way to an exit, I caught Jackie's eye again, and I was rewarded with an appreciative smile....

My reverie is broken by someone shaking me. I open my eyes to a lit lounge and the bearded countenance of my erstwhile friend and confidant, Franklin Williams. In his teasing manner, he asks, "What was that smile all about when I came in? You looked like somebody who got laid over the weekend."

I laugh mischievously and tell about the game last week, plus my seeing Jackie there. Franklin shares my enthusiastic recount of the events, yet exhibits friendly skepticism when I mention Jackie. I can understand why. He hasn't forgotten the joke I played on him, where I was supposed to have gone out on a date with a famous basketball player. It was all I could do to tell him that story and hold a straight face.

Having a "partner in crime" like Franklin is an experience that can keep you going (laughing or otherwise), especially in the complaint department. He's one of that rare breed of Black men who successfully combined all the Renaissance qualities in such a way that women would kill for a chance to get next to him. Of course, I've known him to be absent-minded and downright trifling, especially when his glasses are too tight. Still, his virtues have outweighed such shortcomings. Seldom had I ever made friends with coworkers away from the office, but Franklin became a notable exception to that rule. Love of music, sports and travel were starting points for our common interests, and being close in age laid the groundwork for shared memories, particularly of the '60s and '70s. My prior experience as a semiprofessional singer and his present interest as manager of a live band led us in frequent talks about the ups and downs of the entertainment field, especially out-of-town engagements.

As with any job, shop talk is par for the course. Ours dealt with the horrors of a given day (supervisory and customer), but we managed to find a little amusement over some of our more offbeat customers. With us being among the few (and tallest) brothas in an office dominated by women, we could find funny situations if we looked for them, even in here. What proved to be more interesting were our locker-room talks. Between the women in Franklin's life (he's quite the ladies' man) and the men in my life we found few differences; we actually shared some of the same viewpoints. It was from these sessions that Franklin learned of my ardent interest in Jackie, and from that point he would not hesitate to kid me about it if the mood struck him. In return I would tease him about Lola Falana, whereupon we'd laugh and form our game plans for dealing with said individuals.

I've given up trying to convince Franklin that I actually saw Jackie at the game, so I change the subject to his band and their upcoming engagements. Time, however, is working against us, for the clock on the wall now reads ten minutes to nine. I put my Nikes back on, and reluctantly we get up and head for the office, headsets in hand, trying not to think about what lies in wait for us when the clock strikes nine.

The office is now nearly full and buzzing with shop talk, gossip and general chitchat. After the supervisors check us in, Franklin and I go to our desks to make preparations. After checking my terminal and telephone for malfunctions and defects (no such luck!), I go through my drawers to check my survival kit: Tylenol, extra-strength Tylenol, Advil, Stresstabs, dart board with interchangeable photos, punching bag, barf bags and---in extreme emergencies--Valium. To ease the mounting tension in the air, I lean over my desk and jokingly suggest to Franklin, "If it gets rough today, imagine what it would be like to have Lola Falana in your apartment waiting for you when you get home tonight." That draws a smile of anticipation from him, and it will probably be the last time we'll have an opportunity to talk for the rest of the day.

Nine o'clock has struck, and with it a tornado of vile, abusive, irate, scathing calls from customers who have saved their pent-up hostilities from the weekend for just this moment. In the first fifteen minutes smoke was coming from several telephones, causing my coworkers to reach for the nearest fire extinguishers. By 9:45 I had been called every name but a child of God, plus a few I'd never heard before. I'd already exhausted two bottles of Tylenol, and as I reach for some extra-strength Tylenol and two Stresstabs I notice Franklin sitting across from me, his normally cheery, wisecracking disposition now a study in desperation. His temples are throbbing like a pair of bass drums. Sweat has broken out on his brow, and I thought I detected first-degree burns on his ears. Even with the loud, crude, obnoxious man distorting my hearing with threats to take me to court on my line, the venomous shrieks of the woman on Franklin's line can be heard over that. I feel for him. The woman must have been saving her attack for ten years, including holding him responsible for her divorce, her wayward children and the wax buildup on her kitchen floor. I pass him a sweatband and five Stresstabs while trying my best to tune out the man on my end.

By 11:00 our vocabularies have been reduced to "But....but...." Transferring calls to supervisors has been an exercise in futility. The lines have long since been seared to a crisp, and lists have been passed out for work through the lunch hour, which we promptly burned. Still, the violent calls press relentlessly on their path of destruction, accompanied by a constant drone of, "I've been calling you for months and can't get through." My punching bag has been well put to use this morning as have two barf bags, and somehow I manage to crawl out of the office to the lounge, collapsing on the floor amongst other combat veterans into exhausted slumber, the excitement of the game now a dim memory.

My internal alarm awakens me near the end of lunch. Seeing Franklin draped limply over a chair with one of our female coworkers, I rouse them and we plod back to the office to assess the casualties and property damage, even though we've come to regard it as almost typical for Monday.

It's two p.m., and the situation is deteriorating. Supplies are running low. The calls keep coming. The terminals are beginning to have a hypnotic effect, and disheveled, desperate supervisors are coming around with overtime lists while haranguing us for our shell-shocked way of taking the calls. I'm nearing the end of my stamina. My hair is a curly, tangled mess in my eyes and twisted around my shoulders. My eyes could serve as traffic signals. My jeans and shirt are rumpled and sweaty. As my latest tormentor tries to ruin what's left of my eardrums a signal in my brain flashes "emergency," and I start looking for the bottle of Valium.

Just as I'm about to open my drawer, I feel myself being watched. Cautiously I look up, thinking one of the supervisors is back for more overtime--instead, I behold a vision. Standing over me, impeccably dressed, is Jackie. I must be delirious. How did HE get HERE? How did he find me? Seeing my confusion and disorientation, his expression is all concern, and he puts his hand on my shoulder to reassure me that I'm not losing it.

Involuntarily my hand reaches over to the phone, and the screaming customer is terminated with an abrupt click.

My eyes take in the man before me. His 6'3", 225-pound body is immaculately clad in a brown wool suit and cream-colored shirt, topped off by a brown-checked tie. His short, dark curly hair is graying at the temples, perhaps the only real sign of his forty-five years. His complexion is still toasty brown and smooth, and his reassuring smile, with laugh lines now framing a mustache, is ever engaging and infectious as the first time I saw it on TV.

I manage a weak smile and a, "Hey, Jackie."

I hear him say, "Douglass Warner Moore; my mystery man. What are you doing in a place like this?" Before I can answer he leans in closer to me (it's still very noisy in here) and looks intensely into my eyes. "I've been trying to locate you for the last week."


"I wanted to talk to you and spend some time with you, but you left so quickly I didn't get the chance."

"Me? Why?" I ask, still in shock.

I sense some nervousness as Jackie reveals the reason. "Douglass, I haven't been able to get you out of my mind since that moment I saw you at the game. Man, if you only knew what it took to find you. I thought I'd have to take this city apart. Bottom line is, I want you. I want to take you away from all this, if you'll have me."

My body is numb at the moment, but my mind is soaring. Here I am at my worst, almost ready to drop from battle fatigue, and Jackie Robinson Kennedy is asking ME if I'll have him, not to mention the lengths he went to in order to find someone he'd only seen once. Even with my exhaustion I search his eyes, seeing the intense feelings there. I strip away my notions of the name, fame, glory, fortune, the legend, until only the man is left. For all the aforementioned, I see a lonely man, the Jackie I reached out to that day at the stadium. We communicated far more than we thought that day; we could do a lot of talking, but I already had my answer. If I have anything to say about it, you won't be lonely much longer, Jackie, I think to myself. I try to get the words out, yet I hear myself asking, "Does this mean I can bring Miss Taylor?"

"Who's Miss Taylor?" he asks, clearly puzzled.

"She's.....my Persian cat. Her full name is Elizabeth Taylor, but I call her Miss Taylor for short. So.....can I bring her with us?"

A joyful grin breaks out on his face with the realization that my answer is yes. Out of the corner of my eye I see his other hand move, and the next thing I know I'm holding a red rose in my hands. Talk about going public--I could have kissed him on the spot.

"Let's get you out of here," Jackie says as I ease out of my chair. I ask him to wait while I lean over my desk.

Franklin is stunned. His glasses have fallen off, and he's stumbling all over himself with, "How.....what.....why.....but I thought....."

Briefly I explain what's happened and promise to give him my new address and phone number, whereupon I introduce the two of them. Franklin takes note of the way Jackie is looking at me, and in his usual good nature wishes us his best. He's still trying to absorb the scene before his eyes as I impishly say, "Watch out--Lola might find you someday."

My headset is dropped haphazardly on the desk. With rose in hand and Jackie for support, I walk across the room toward the exit. A hush settles over the ravaged office. The place is a sea of dumbfounded faces and fingers pointed in disbelief, accompanied by jaws in laps. We wave good-bye when we reach the door, only to be confronted by another supervisor coming in. She quickly reprimands me for leaving my post and orders me to return. Through the red film of my eyes I study her for a second and wearily reply, "I quit." She opens her mouth in readiness to give a retort, but a murderous glance from Jackie stops her in her tracks. Leaving the building, we enter a waiting limousine.

During the ride to my apartment I dredge up some second wind, and we touch upon everything as we talk. Jackie learns of my childhood and family in the Midwest, my college days, life in the nine-to-five world, my interests in writing and music, travels, dreams and sports. In discussing football I'm sheepish as I mention my earlier days of obsession whenever he played, which draws hearty laughs from him. In turn I learn more about the Jackie behind the legend. I get an insight into his childhood with his parents and three brothers in Milwaukee, his strong family ties, the arduous and dedicated hours of practice and work in school and on the field to achieve that measure of success. Among his hobbies we discovered a mutual love for the outdoors and movies, and this leads to sharing some of our most embarrassing moments. Although he was named for the legendary baseball player, his surname was the source of a lot of teasing when JFK took office---it was enough for Jackie to insist on the use of his full name from then on. I learn about his awareness of his attraction to men during high school and the assorted girlfriends he had as a cover during his days in pro football, a situation that ended upon his retirement. Our talk takes us back to last week's game.

"Call it psychic," he said, "but I just sensed something different about you. So, I followed my instincts and searched for you. As it turned out, my instincts were right on target." With my new understanding and knowledge, I'm falling for this man all over again.

We pull up in front of my apartment building, and while Jackie plays with Miss Taylor I pack a few clothes and take a shower. As I lather up I feel as though I'm washing away the dirt, grime and manure of that den of horrors known as my former office, and I say a silent prayer for Franklin and the others. I finish my shower and open the curtain. Jackie's eyes are longingly roaming up and down my 185 pounds of tight muscles--my hairy chest, broad shoulders, small waist, long legs, big hands, my long face with its bedroom eyes and my flaccid dick ready to stir, all of which are covered with beads and rivulets of water. His grin turns amorous. He walks over to me and gives me a quick kiss, reminding me that we have a plane to catch. I shoo him out the door, but not before he catches a glimpse of my growing excitement and wiggles his tongue at me....

I wake up aboard the plane, and from observation I deduce that I'm on a private jet. A glass of champagne is on the table next to me, and jazz music is coming through a state-of-the-art sound system. Miss Taylor is lying in her carrier sleeping, or should I say tranquilized. I check out the African robe I'm dressed in--let's hear it for pleasant surprises. The last thing I remember is falling asleep in Jackie's arms on the way to the airport. By the way, where is Jackie? I hear sounds coming from the rear of the jet, and momentarily he appears---also dressed in an African robe---carrying a tray of food. He's glad to see I'm awake and makes a comment about sleeping princes, after which he puts the tray down between us so I can eat. Famished as I am, I finish my meal in short order. Following this comes a toast to our future, and we drink our champagne with locked arms.

The passion simmers as we embrace for the first time. We feel the blending, the energy flowing so freely between us, comfortable as we are in each other's arms. The short, brief kiss Jackie gave me in my bathroom has whetted my appetite for more, and I seek out his very kissable lips. We engage in tongue duels until we giggle. We immerse ourselves in long, deep kisses only a scuba diver could appreciate. There is power and tenderness in them, nonverbal messages sent and received, understanding and promise, call and answer. We hold each other with no thought of letting go, and before long I feel a wet spot on my robe where my highly aroused dick is leaking fluid.

We roll onto the lush carpet and pull off our robes. Jackie checks out my large, pulsing endowment. His pupils dilate. His chest is heaving. He licks his lips in anticipatory delight. My eyes absorb and relish the sight of Jackie's body. The business world has not affected his physical fitness regimen at all---his mature muscles are sharp and toned, barely an ounce of fat anywhere. Like his face, his body is smooth in contrast to my body hair and I sensuously massage him, discovering what it's like to light candles everywhere I touch. His goal post of a dick is a match for mine in size, uncircumcised with an interesting downward curve. Stroking it, I am titillated as it jerks in metronome fashion while Jackie grunts in pleasure. Desirous of continuing this process, I turn him over. If I was hypnotized by his muscles and his dick, his buns are downright mesmerizing. Big, round, smooth and provocatively protruding, I could almost drown in them. I am inspired by the added incentive, and my expertise is rewarded by his warm, undulating body, his endearments of how good it felt, his hand fondling my thick tool.

I lay back on the carpet, and within seconds I feel his mouth enveloping my dick. I grind my ass into the carpet, alternately arching and swaying to get more of my inches down his throat. Simultaneously he squeezes my nipples, causing my dick to throb frantically in his mouth, sensitized to the point of distraction. I toss my head back, seeing flashes of color before my eyes as I implore him not to stop---at least not yet. My body revels in the sensations his hands and mouth are giving me. I'm sensitive in places I never thought I would or could be. Then again, it's not every century one encounters a man like Jackie. He exudes sensuality, and has wired it directly into my circuits. I feel the subtle but steady pressure of his hot mouth on my balls, and nearly go through the ceiling. Opening my eyes, I see a seductive twinkle in Jackie's eyes while he straddles my chest, his penis knocking at the door of my mouth.

Relax, relax, my mind says as his big dick makes its journey down my throat. All those rehearsals and exercises in breath control weren't wasted, and I suck it with the ease and relish I would a popsicle in summer. Jackie's oohs and ahhs incite me to shift gears, so I swirl my tongue over the head and around the shaft of his brown prong, interspersing this with a few well-placed nibbles. He begs for more. More than happy to oblige him, my hands gently caress his arms and chest, tauntingly massage his hot booty, flirtatiously squeeze his burning balls and ingratiatingly I insert a finger into his now steaming asshole. His body is shaking a little. His eyes are glazed over with sexual heat at my fantasy touches, and yet he wants more. I let his pulsing, burgeoning pole plop from my mouth, and after a moment I casually--but teasingly---suggest, "As long as you're up there, why don't you have a seat?" In reply he gets lubricant from underneath the table with lightning speed, lovingly coating my twelve inches of rigid caramel with it, followed by a sensual application to his twitching hole. Jackie straddles my torso and bends over to kiss me. As we're kissing I feel my dick being covered by the fire and wetness of his slick, willing fuckhole. He uses it provocatively, pulling up on my totem pole an inch and then down, squeezing his ass muscles around the head and then down a little further, until he finally sits down on me in one fell swoop--pass completion from quarterback to wide receiver!

Our lip lock breaks, and I lay back to witness the erotic treat before me. "Work it, Jackie, work it," I urge as he twists, turns and rotates his ass on the hardness of my monumental proportions. I flex my hips upward to match his lusty calisthenics with some of my own, savoring every stroke of my dick in his love tunnel, seeing the joyous passion on his face while I stroke his humongous lickin' stick.

Who would have thought Jackie and I would be making love at 38,000 feet? I certainly couldn't have done this with just anybody--neither, I suspect, could he. Nor had I ever seriously let loose with anyone like this. Maybe it is something psychic, a growing bond that has freed us. It's as if all the unrequited passions, longings, hungers, needs and frustrated desires both of us have experienced are being resolved up here in the sky in an all-out consummation. Reminded that we're on a jet, I slow my pace some and inquire, "What about your pilot?"

He smirks knowingly and replies, "Don't worry about it. When we land my friend will give him his just like I'm getting mine now." He squeezes my dick to emphasize the point, and we burst into laughter.

The music has changed to the sound of African drums, flutes and associated instruments. It's slow and deliberate yet compelling and provocative, drawing us into its rhythm. I'm grinding deeper into his butt while he dances on my shaft. We're so alive, so into one another, and the music stirs our senses to greater heights. The tempo is picking up. Our positions change, and now we're fucking doggie style. Our damp bodies accentuate the sound of flesh slapping flesh, my groin hitting his ass. Pumping to the beat, I thrust up, down, side to side, curve and double-curve, while Jackie tosses his head back and forth, wriggling his hips, his hands spreading his cheeks for deeper penetrations.

The music is much more intense now, the drums beating faster. We're drenched in sweat, caught up in the rhythm of our dance. Jackie is on his back, his famous legs renowned for their speed now pressed against his chest as I clasp him to me and fuck him harder, faster. We grunt and groan almost unintelligently, and pictures of a tribal ceremony flash through my mind with the urgent, incessant beating of the drums. We have merged into one body, slippery, fluid, humping and pumping, and as the music of our ancestors reaches a fever pitch we scream. Copious amounts of cum spurt from Jackie's fire hose, splashing on my chest, in my hair, on the carpet, and over to the nearby seat, while his anal muscles clutch and squeeze my dick into shooting a flash flood up his ass, siphoning every drop until it overflows his hole.

Blissful silence, save for the engines, pervades the cabin. Somewhere in the realm of my semiconsciousness I hear the words, "beginning our descent" as I awaken. Jackie and I are still in our very intimate embrace, sticky as it is. Where did this blanket come from? Oh, of course--our pilot. He probably can't wait to land this plane so he can get his ass filled. I bet he probably can't sit still right now if he heard us back here. My heart melts as I watch my man sleeping; he's just glowing with contentment and satisfaction. I rouse him, and he sleepily gives me a boyish grin. No, we're not alone anymore.

Regrettably I pull out of his ass, and we clean up as best we can. At one point Jackie comes up behind me and gives me a hug. I feel him grinding against my booty. Craning my head around, I raise my eyebrows at him a la Mae West. So you want to go for a touchdown yourself, eh? Hmmmmmm--that should quite an experience, I find myself thinking. Playfully and sexily I say, "Jackie, you'll definitely get equal opportunity to give me all that dick. In fact, I'm looking forward to it. However, this jet will be will be landing shortly. Speaking of which, where are we landing?"

Jackie acts mysterious and says, "You'll find out. Just get dressed."

Seated and dressed in my robe and sandals with my seat belt securely fastened, I peer out of the windows into the night for some idea of our destination. Other than saying I won't need a coat--even though it's December--Jackie has remained mum. As the jet makes its final approach, all I can make out is water and lights below. An island? The runway lights come up, and the pilot brings the plane in for a perfect landing. Shortly I hear a voice over the PA system saying, "Welcome to St. Croix."

Anxious and dying to know what this is all about, I turn to Jackie "My original plan was to take you home with me," he says. "However, that was before I saw your office and that deplorable condition you were in back there. I changed my plans on the way to the airport while you were sleeping; I felt a vacation was in order before we set up housekeeping. You remember the friends I was with at the game?"


"Well, one of them went ahead to open up the house here. He's at the terminal now. And," he adds in a husky voice, "the beach is waiting for us."

Two hours later the four of us are lounging on said beach, enjoying the gentle breeze, the panorama of the crescent moon and stars overhead, the soothing sounds of the ocean, comfortable and relaxed in our respective embraces. Jackie is intrigued by the ocean at the moment, and I take this time to study him. Mentally I try to picture him twenty years from now, with us back here on St. Croix again. Twenty years can bring many experiences, hopes, dreams, problems, disagreements, joys, sorrows, disappointments and victories. All that considered, the thought of him then is as appealing as he is now; with the passage of time I imagine even more. I reflect briefly on today's events, and I am firmly convinced that good CAN come out of the worst situations.

I focus on something further down the shoreline, something white. It's not possible. No way. My eyes must be playing tricks on me. Still, two figures dressed in white---one tall, one short---are standing there waving at me. More out of shock than anything else, I wave back and utter a silent "Thanks."

"What is it?" Jackie asks.

I turn around, stammering, "Well...I....uh....." I take a quick look back--all I see is sand, ocean and palm trees. "Just call it psychic phenomena," I answer as our lips meet to share a tender, lingering kiss.

Comments can be sent to wdfoster@hotmail.com Make sure you include "Thanks Mr. Rourke" in the "Subject" area of your e-mail so I can readily identify it. If you plan on contacting me to flame, it will be ignored and deleted. If you like this story and would like to read more of my work, let me know.

Have a good one!