The Era of Good Feelings
Chapter 4: Additional Points of Reference
So the hot sex, I mean, therapy lasted about a week longer than the “middle of next week” that Dr. Toms originally predicted.
Which was about the time the next bit of weirdness hit, in the form of a letter from the White House. Nope, didn’t see that coming.
The letter invited me to interview for a special internship program available for juniors and seniors at the local universities. Which shouldn’t have included me since I was a sorta-freshman or freshman-on-hold or whatever, so Mom and I started calling around. Several phone calls later, we discovered the White House got my name because the college had included me on its junior/senior list by mistake.
Oddly enough, neither the college nor the White House really minded the mistake, and the White House staffer in charge of the program practically begged me to interview with them even though I wasn’t a junior or senior, and even though I hadn’t even set foot in a college classroom yet, thanks to the accident. From the way the phone calls went, I think the college staff and the White House staffer were all too distracted to care. Yeah, that sort of distracted. Apparently the sex-o-rama wasn’t limited to hospitals, the media, or high-level politicians.
And if you’re thinking that White House staffer had to have been distracted to set up an interview with a not-really-a-freshman for an internship for juniors and seniors, it’s even worse than that because she scheduled the interview for Monday. Monday, December 16. The Monday of the week before Christmas.
See, a lot of my classmates have parents who work for the government—no surprise there, this is DC—so I knew that absolutely nothing gets accomplished in DC during the last two or three weeks of December because everyone goes on annual leave—sorry, I mean vacation—for the holidays except the people who can’t get away. During that time, you could go bowling through The Halls of Government without hitting anyone.
And she scheduled an interview during that time. I was tempted to think she’d done it as a joke—it’s not as if anyone with real hiring authority would be in the office then—except she sounded way too distracted for that.
Speaking of distracted, I could usually tell if someone was distracted due to thoughts of sex, or by actual sex in progress, even over the phone. I was pretty sure the White House staffer fell into the second category, right there in the middle of the phone call.
Meanwhile, now that I was out of the hospital, I wanted to find out if this weird news/politics/sex connection was happening out in the street.
I found out fast.
A bunch of my friends wanted to meet me at the neighborhood coffee shop. I’m not big on coffee, but this was a nice place to hang out—independent, locally owned, and not part of the Seattle-based caffeinated evil empire. My parents objected at first—I guess they were afraid I’d run into the barista and fall into another coma or something, I don’t know—but my friends were somehow able to sweet-talk them into letting loose of my reins.
Now I suppose I should describe the friends who came with me, but oddly enough, that’s not a critical part of this story, because I didn’t really see much of them once we got there. And that was because of the coffee shop, and that’s something I do need to describe.
Before my wreck, the place looked like—OK, you already know I’m not a fan of Megabux, but I’m sure you know what one of those places look like. Our coffee shop wasn’t a whole lot different—tables and chairs over here, comfy chairs with coffee tables over there.
But not any more. Joe—he owned the coffee shop—and yes, our local coffee shop really was owned by a guy named Joe—had redone the place since I’d seen it last. The tables in the middle of the shop were still there, but the tables and comfy chairs along the walls had all been replaced by booths. With curtains that completely blocked each booth and its occupants from public view.
Which didn’t make sense until I passed by some of the booths on the way to the counter. Because I heard noises which made it pretty obvious what was going on, and why the privacy curtains were necessary.
When I asked my friends about the remodel, I got no answer. I turned around just in time to see all of my friends disappear into various booths in groups of two or three. Oh, and one group of four. Well, they had started talking politics as we were walking in....
So I wound up at the counter by myself.
“Rich! You’re out! Welcome back! You by yourself?” That was Meg, one of the baristas. She was working the counter that day, and although all of their baristas were great, I’ve gotta admit that I had a bit of a crush on her. Very friendly, gorgeous and friendly face, great personality, short red hair, bright green eyes, and a figure that was very apron-friendly (or an apron that was very Meg-figure-friendly, take your pick).
“I wasn’t, but....” I was still looking around at the curtained booths.
“Ah, I thought I heard a bunch of people come in talking politics! The usual almost-coffee?” Like I said earlier, I wasn’t really into coffee, so I tended to drink a bunch of cream and sugar, with just enough coffee to warm it up. All of the baristas razzed me about it, but they were pretty good-natured about it; Joe’s baristas weren’t the high-priest-of-java more-caffeinated-than-thou type, and besides, I was a regular.
I nodded and pulled out my billfold, but she shook her head. “No, put that back—this one’s on me! Consider this part of my Welcome Back present to you!” She pointed to a curtained booth in the corner of the shop. “That booth’s free, so you can take that one since your friends all deserted you. I’ll bring your near-coffee in a bit!” At first I thought Meg was giving me the Pre-Sex Significant Look after hearing everyone talking politics, but I decided I was misinterpreting her usual warm, friendly (but not that sort of friendly) self.
So I went to the corner booth—which actually contained a comfy couch and a coffee table—and waited. Waited quite a while, actually, although maybe it was just because I couldn’t see what was going on, which always makes the wait seem longer.
Meg came in with two drinks in her hand and plunked down next to me on the couch. Which made me worry that maybe I hadn’t imagined the Significant Look earlier, until she said, “Sorry that took so long, but I’ve got something I want you to try, and I needed to get the coffee temperature just right. Don’t worry, I’ve still got your usual if you don’t like this, but just try it!” She gave me a mug of coffee that looked really, really black and smelled really, really strong.
I took a sip, then gave the mug back to her. “Sorry, guess the accident didn’t do anything to my taste buds to make strong coffee taste good. I’ll just stick with my weenie coffee, but thanks for the taste test anyway!”
But Meg would not be dissuaded. “Don’t say no yet; there’s some more taste tests you’ve gotta try!”
And with that, she took a sip of the coffee, grabbed me by the back of my head with her free hand, pulled me toward her, and fed me the coffee with plenty of Meg-tongue on the side. (I’d make a joke about French-press kissing, but some of my friends would complain that Meg didn’t brew the coffee that way. Some of my friends take coffee way too seriously.)
When she broke off the kiss, she asked, “So, whaddya think?”
All I could muster was “Uhhhh.” Even with the Significant Look as warning, I wasn’t ready for that sort of reaction from my favorite coffee-shop crush.
“Another taste? Certainly!” After she took the next sip, she put the mug down on the coffee table. Now that she had both hands free, she pushed me flat onto the couch before climbing on top of me for the next attack, er, free sample.
The initial shock had worn off by now, and Meg’s body felt really good atop my own, so my hands and my tongue did some exploring. Yeah, yeah, I knew this wasn’t normal, and I should have stopped her, and I should have stopped things with Dr. Toms and the nurses and Gina and...and...OK, so I’ve lost track of all the women, but you weren’t there. And besides, Meg was sitting on top of me, and she would have spilled coffee on me if I tried to move...aw, screw it. I don’t believe me, either.
“So, what do you think—no, wait, don’t answer yet!” Meg unbuttoned my shirt in rhythm with her words. “Still...need...to...finish...the...last...test!” She pushed the sides of my shirt away, reached for the coffee mug—and stopped. “Need to get this off you first. Don’t wanna make a mess.” Keeping my eyes locked onto her own—I said she’s got amazing green eyes, right?—she pulled me upright, pulled my shirt off one arm, and then the other, then gently pushed me back down onto my back. Only then did she pick up the mug, take another sip, and begin a trail of warm, wet kisses on my chin, down my neck, and onto my chest.
I moaned when she reached a nipple—her coffee-warmed lips and tongue felt incredible. “That’s why it took me so long—didn’t want to scald you there.” She grinned as she reached for the mug for another sip. “Among other places.” She resumed her work, moving from one nipple to the other, then gradually down my stomach with the occasional pause to reload from the mug.
I was in heaven. I was rock-hard, of course, because she was laying and moving around on top of him as she worked, which I’m sure she was doing on purpose, and of course he’d heard that “among other places” remark too, but he was also feeling the effects of her kisses. And if that sounds lame, again, you weren’t there, and you weren’t feeling the warmth, and even as short as her hair was, she was close enough for that red hair to drag gently over my skin, and...well. You weren’t there.
And then she undid my pants, and pulled them down to my ankles, and my cock almost exploded.
But it didn’t, and she grinned at me again with those green eyes shining as she reached for the mug yet once again, and she said, “Last test.”
And after taking another sip, she went down, and ohhhhhhh I don’t know why my cock didn’t explode. Hell, I don’t know why my brain didn’t explode. I mean, I’d spent almost two weeks in the care of specialists in sexual healing—which would sound cheesy, except I’ve already told you about Dr. Toms and the nurses—but Meg put them all to shame. Part of it was her technique, but I swear part of it was the coffee. Not just the warmth it gave her mouth—which in turn she gave to me—but also because I’d ingested some of that super-strong coffee when she was French-press-kissing me (the hell with the coffee snobs), and I didn’t think that much caffeine in one mouthful was legal. Unless maybe caffeine could be absorbed through the skin, because Meg had certainly applied enough coffee to enough skin. Especially now.
I was feeling the signs of exploding, and apparently so was she, because she stopped. “I take it you liked the coffee?”
I nodded. I may have even drooled.
“Mmm...I knew you would.” Meg stroked my chest. “As long as you’re here...” She reached into her pants pocket, pulled out a condom, unwrapped it, and wrapped me (but not without applying one final coffee treatment first).
And if that didn’t get me hard enough, she pulled off her clothes—not exactly in a rush, but she sure wasn’t trying to make a slow strip-tease out of it either.
And then she mounted me...and I began to think that my parents’ fears of a barista-induced coma may have been well-founded, even if this probably wasn’t what they’d pictured. Although given how easily they’d adapted to the Sexy New Normal, maybe this was exactly what they’d pictured.
I don’t know if I was feeling the effects of the coffee inside me, or the coffee on me, or Meg on me—forget that. I know I was feeling the effects of Meg on me—she was just that good—but I was pretty sure I wasn’t making up the coffee effects, either. Especially when she gave me more coffee kisses while she rode me hard and fast. So of course, I returned the favor when we switched sides and it was my turn to ride her as fast as she rode me. (I think someone refilled the mug when I wasn’t watching. It never got cold, and we never emptied it, and we fed each other a lot of coffee.)
I almost cried Dr. Toms’ name out loud when we both came and collapsed on top of each other. Not because I was in a confused haze and had confused Dr. Toms with Meg—I was in a haze, but there’s no way I’d ever confuse Dr. Toms or Meg with anyone else on earth—but because I wouldn’t have lasted that long without Dr. Toms’ therapy.
Curled up afterwards on the couch with a naked, content Meg, I came to two conclusions:
1. The sexual strangeness had, indeed, spread beyond the politicians and media.
2. Coffee is the nectar of the gods.