Someplace Else - C. W. Bigelow

Someplace Else - C. W. Bigelow

   “Can you concentrate up here too?” Leigh requests. Flipping her shoulder length blonde hair out of the way she leans into me to kiss my neck urgently.  We are immune, living under a protective shield.  I have broken free from the exigency.

    I glance at the cars parked on either side of us, a banged up Cadillac that has more rust than red paint and an Impala with open windows before noticing the hunchback woman dawdling to the pool where my friend is the lifeguard.  He also owns the car in which we grope.  We’ve been at it for an hour. My fingers are sticky.  The radio plays a song I don’t recognize and the afternoon is slinking to a close under heavy clouds. I finally accept her lips and as much as I want to close my eyes to escape this public space, I can’t as my fingers continue to ramble over the swollen slipperiness inside her swimsuit bottoms as she thrust her hips against them in rhythm with the baseline of the song.  

    Inside this bubble emotions flourish with the scent of roses but never scratch with thorns. It is an atmosphere of perfection where my love is strongest. With my eyes shut her body is an unexplored terrain. I am the first to dive into this pool – the first to wander this wilderness with no one else to witness. My ecstasy is enhanced by my own fantasy. I control this world.

    With an eye on the old lady, each of her painful steps reflecting an anguished purse of her lips, I wrestle with Leigh’s prodding tongue, suddenly aware of the spectacle we have become now that our actions are visible above the dashboard.  Birds are suddenly singing, kids scream with joy and splash rowdily at the pool and curious eyes peer from surrounding apartment windows.  She keeps digging her tongue deeper.  The sun blasts the car setting my skin afire.

    The weekend before, we were hidden on the beach below my parent’s cottage, where midst the Marram Grass at the foot of the clay cliffs, serenaded by the buzz of conversation from the nearby public beach, we wrestled in the sand without swimsuits. She kept pushing my head down and later asked if I had wanted to fuck her when the whole time I had been thinking about going down on her and hadn’t even thought about going further, cause why else would she be pushing my head down there, but as it turned out my mother thought like Leigh did. 

    Up from the beach, after she went to her room to change for dinner, my mother grabbed me, causing me to spill the drink I held. Face thrust inches from mine, red and pulsating like a heart, she hissed beneath her breath, “If she has a baby, I’m throwing it over the cliff!”  Then pushing me away, she marched from the room. Over the banging of her strut she cried, “Now clean up that mess!”

    Leave it to a mother to put a situation into perspective and wring the hunger and excitement out of a moment – inject reality into paradise with a verbal syringe.  And though Leigh and I continue mixing it up, I am serenaded by my mother’s growls and begin wondering if Leigh heard my mother’s words and if her hungry tongue is nothing more than a challenge to me to display my love for her in front of the world.  Was my love strong enough to stand up to the world’s critique?

    The hunchback lady shakes her head with the same revolted expression my mother wore before shuffling slowly off to the pool.  Leigh keeps prodding my mouth with her tongue. Glancing about with one wary eye I can’t help but wish we were someplace else.



About the Author

After receiving a B.A. in English from Colorado State University, C.W. Bigelow lived in nine northern or western states before moving to the Charlotte, NC area.

His short stories and poems have recently appeared in a number of literary magazines. 

FishFood Magazine is the first place of publication for "Someplace Else".