Night falls over the terminal, with its blanket of glittering stars drifting down over the last red/orange blazes of the scorching summer sun. At the fringes it purples and wavers in the heat rising from the tarmac. Indeed it is hot, but I wait with a nervous little shiver at Gate 11 as I watch a set of drifting blinking stars glide low, touch down with a roar of jet engines. This is your flight, I am sure of it. Late, as flights tend to be these days, and my nervous pacing in front of the plate glass continues, as the mother of a young boy smiles at me, knowing my pacing is for someone special. She had asked me as we waited out the long delay, and I had helped keep her young boy occupied with talks and finger games. She told me she hoped her husband, the Marine, still grew that nervous in anticipation as the plane flew ever closer.
"I haven't even met her yet," I explained. "She's a lucky woman," she replied.
The doors open first to the usual hustle and bustle of the business travelers, ears pinned to their cell phones as they make their local connections. A typical tourist family stumbles by: father decked out in tasteless Hawaiian print over his expanding gut, the wife in a summer dress from Wal-Mart, the pre-teen boy in Korn t-shirt and oversized jeans, and the teenage daughter drifting out far enough to disassociate herself from the bunch without losing them entirely. I notice how she keeps an arm tight over her bare midriff as many teenage girls do, so uncomfortable with their maturing bodies, everything a crisis. I never understood society's attraction to young females. Maybe it is that I have just changed, realizing that a woman of maturity has the confidence and sensuality that these young children have not yet discovered.
That is when you come into my vision, blurring the musings on the young, unhappy child and replacing it with your soft frame. Your carry-on is slung over your shoulder and you are wearing a light summer dress that falls delicately over the curves of your body. I smile and nervously wonder how damn goofy I must look, yet you smile back and as I approach, I see a nervousness in them, assuring me just a little.
"Hi," I blurt out, trying to be suave but feeling like an oaf as I grab your carry-on and sling it over my shoulder, "how was the flight?"
"Ohh, it was long," you reply, sounding like you wanted to say more.
I realize that by putting the carry-on over my shoulder that I cannot give you the tender hug and kiss that I had planned out in my head. The greeting that would just melt you. The best laid plans of mice and men... I think to my mousy self. I turn and lead you out of the terminal and to my car.
The ride to Atlantic City goes like a flash. Small talk about how our days went, me giving you the usual insider tour guide information as we pass landmarks and billboards advertising the stars: Trisha Yearwood at Caesar's, Steve and Edie at Resorts, Fercos Untamed Illusions running until Sept. 26 at the Sands. We fly down the Expressway into the city, past the decrepit complexes of the real inner city, now almost hidden to the tourists, to the glitz and glamour of the boardwalk casino scene: tall mirrored buildings, flashing lights and signs, huge parking garages.
We pull up to the Taj Mahal valet, you looking at the huge gaudiness of Trump's vision. We check you into the hotel and a baggage handler escorts us up to your room. As he leaves the room, I look at you for a long moment, smiling softly.
"I'll wait down in the lobby while you change."
"Ok." You smile back.
You come off the elevator wearing a striking black evening dress, and a soft smile. I take your hand and lead you to the casino floor. We spend the evening playing black jack, going into the lounge, small talking over the band. The lounge band plays a jazz version of Patsy Cline's "Crazy," the blonde singer giving a bluesy, heart-felt reading and we smile at each other over cocktails.
By midnight, we are strolling along the boardwalk, my hand softly holding yours. I tell you about the beach as we reach a more secluded section of the boards, how I grew up by the ocean, how it was always my place to contemplate.
"There is a line from a song by The Who I always loved: A beach is a place where a man can feel/ He's the only soul in the world that's real."
I think back on my loneliness as a child, as a teenager, that feeling that I was so isolated from life. Perhaps this deep sadness shows on my face as I look out into the darkness of the sands and listen to the distant crashing waves. You suddenly pull at my hand.
"C'mon, I want to see the waves in the moonlight."
We've taken off our shoes and walk by the surf, letting the tide lap at our toes. I find a lifeguard stand and hoist you up into it, sitting then beside you. Moonlight streaks pearl white over the waves, the breakers crashing white foam in a steady rhythm of life, the ebb and flow of nature.
"Look," I say, and point up at the sky to a lone glittering star above the sea. "That's my Midnight Star."
I see you smile in the darkness, your hand squeezes mine and I bend forward. I feel your soft breath as I hesitate close, then softly kiss your lips, more tender than I imagined, but always true sensation outshines imagined fantasy. We kiss in the glow of the moonlight and I swear I see the midnight star flashing in your eyes.
When we return to your room, it is nearly 2 a.m. I ask if you are exhausted by such a long day of travel and sightseeing.
"Not yet," you reply, "We haven't gone dancing."
You click on the radio, flipping until you find a late night soft station. Steely Dan's Aja begins, a delicate piano over a soft, sensuous rhythm, exotic and sophisticated. We dance in low light by the large sliding door looking out over the beach, over the ocean, and the midnight star frames perfectly in the picture. My arm rests in the small of your back as we sway... as you rest your head gently on my shoulder... as I kiss you tenderly.
After the song, you turn to face the window, the perfect vision. I stand behind you and wrap my arms around your waist as you hug yours over mine. I feel the tingle run through your body as I slide my chin to your shoulder, my breath soft and slow by your ear. I nuzzle aside your hair and turn to softly kiss your neck, beneath your ear. I hear the catch in your breath; I hear the delicate moan you hold back in your throat. Your head tilts away and I kiss again.. a trail down your neck to your shoulder, a slightly more audible hummm in your voice. My fingers move gently along your belly and your hips gently adjust to my body. We are 6 stories over the boardwalk, where sleepless tourists and defeated gamblers roam the boards. I wonder what a lone walker thinks, looking up at the glass tower, up at us above the earth. Does he see us as he hesitates? Does he catch the slow slide of my hand down from your waist to the triangle crease of your soft black dress. I know he does not hear your now deeper, in disguisable moan as my hand presses inward, moves fingers gently as I kiss your jawline, let you turn your head slightly to kiss me deeply.
The looker sits on a bench, head turned up as I continue to stroke you between your legs. My other hand slides gently into the cleavage of your dress, cups gently your lace bra.
"I do think he is watching," I whisper, stopping a moment to point down. You gasp and freeze for a moment. "Shhhhhhh, you are many miles from home. You are a stranger. Stars were meant to shine."
You open your mouth to gasp and to say "No" a word which never reaches your lips as I slowly unzip the back of your dress. As the zipper reaches the small of your back, I slide my hands up to your shoulders, slip them, with your straps down your arm and let the dress fall. You stand shuddering in the pale moonlight, in black lace bra and panties, displayed like a mannequin in a Macy's display. Our tourist sits still on his bench, looking to the right, to the left, then back up at our window and pulls his windbreaker more tightly around him. He's riveted to us as my hand slides down your belly. You move to stop it. I kiss you deeply, grind my hips against you, take my other hand and remove yours, letting my hand travel down further, I cover the front of your panties with my hand, moving fingers in gentle circles over the lace. Now you are moaning slow and long, my tongue playing with yours. The fingers of my other hand play along the cup of your bra, feels your nipple harden under the fabric and traces its outline over cup. I let you get used to it, kiss your shoulder, gently nibble as I see your lidded eyes look out to see the watcher, get comfortable realizing you will never have to meet him, that you are still covered and that I am only now teasing. Then again you gasp and softly squeal in protest as you feel my fingers begin to creep inside your panties.
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