Well, sugar, if you’re lookin’ for advice wrapped up tighter than Aunt Mildred’s Spanx after Sunday pot roast, you’ve dialed the right number. Name’s Jessi Fellatio – yes, honey, that’s the real handle Mama gave me, bless her heart – and I reckon if life hands you a name like mine, you either learn to laugh while crawlin’ between the sheets or you spend your days blushin’ at PTA meetings. Down here in Magnolia Springs, we don’t whisper ’bout the birds and the bees; we discuss ’em over sweet tea with the precision of a biscuit recipe.
Now, last Friday evenin’, I traded my sensible librarian pumps for heels that could double as lethal weapons – Thursday nights are for Dewey Decimals, darlin’, but Fridays? Lord, Fridays are for livin’. Found myself at The Gator’s Belly, a juke joint where the neon’s dimmer than my ex-husband’s prospects. Spotted him leanin’ against the bar, lookin’ like trouble dipped in denim – tall, quiet, with hands rough enough to snag silk stockings. Didn’t take but two bourbons and one slow dance to decide that man’s pickup truck deserved a personal inspection.
Didn’t even catch his name proper – just a rumble of “Call me Ray” against my ear while George Strait crooned overhead. Led me out back where his Chevy sat pantin’ under a flickerin’ streetlamp. Kissed like he meant to memorize the map of my mouth, then slid his palm up my thigh while I popped that buckle faster than you can say “impulse decision.” Ain’t no poetry in vinyl seats scratchin’ your knees, sugar, but there’s a certain grace to unzippin’ a man’s jeans when the dashboard clock reads 1:47 AM and you’ve got spreadsheets waitin’ at sunrise.
His cum was thick. Thick as sorghum molasses drippin’ off a butter knife in July heat. Warm too – pooled heavy in my palm when I pulled back, sticky-sweet like regret you lick clean off your fingers. Smelled faintly of bourbon and pine needles, honest smells that clung to his flannel shirt collar. Didn’t apologize for it neither, just watched me wipe it on the hem of my dress with eyes dark as creek mud. “That’s silk, Ray,” I told him, but he just grinned slow, thumb tracin’ the smear like it was some kinda signature.
Outside, the streetlamp buzzed like a trapped hornet. Inside that cab? Silence thicker than his spend. Just our breath foggin’ the windshield, the creak of worn springs under our weight. He reached over, tucked a stray curl behind my ear – rough fingertips catchin’ on my earlobe. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to. Some men talk your ear off ’bout nothin’. Others speak volumes just by how quiet they keep their boots on your dash.
That silence lingered like cheap perfume. I traced the smear on my dress hem – silk puckered where it dried tacky. Ray watched, eyes hooded, like he was studyin’ the aftermath of a storm. “Ruined?” he finally rasped, voice scrapin’ raw from whiskey and exertion. I snorted. “Honey, this dress survived Clyde’s cousin’s wedding open bar. A little protein ain’t scarin’ it.” His chuckle rumbled low in his chest, a sound that vibrated clear through the vinyl seat and into my bones.
I pushed open the truck door, the humid night air rushin’ in like a sigh. Streetlamp glow hit my face full tilt. My lipstick was smeared halfway to my earlobe, mascara dustin’ shadows beneath my eyes. Hair looked like a possum nested in it after a tornado. Ray leaned across the seat, hand catchin’ my wrist before I stepped out. “Hold up,” he murmured. Reached into the glove compartment – nothin’ but crumpled gas receipts and a rusty socket wrench clatterin’ – then pulled a faded bandana from his back pocket. Spit on the corner, gentle-like. Dabbed at the smear beneath my eye. His touch was unexpectedly tender, rough cotton against tender skin. “There,” he grunted. “Presentable.” The absurdity hit me – this near-stranger tidying me up like a child after mud pies.
My silk dress clung damp where his spend had dried, the stain bloomin’ like a shadow against peach fabric. Didn’t bother hidin’ it. Turned full into the flickerin’ light, let him see the wreckage. His gaze tracked the puckered silk, lingered on the damp hem clingin’ to my thigh. A slow, appreciative grin spread across his face – not smug, just… satisfied. Like a man admirin’ his own handiwork on a rebuilt engine. I leaned back in, one hand braced on the doorframe, the other slidin’ behind his neck. Kissed him deep, tastin’ bourbon and that pine-needle musk of his skin. His stubble scraped my chin raw. Didn’t care. Pulled back slow, leavin’ a fresh smear of crimson on his bottom lip. “Keep the handkerchief,” I whispered against his mouth. “Souvenir.”
The Chevy’s door groaned shut behind me, soundin’ final as a coffin lid. My heels sank into soft gravel, each step cracklin’ louder than the cicadas screamin’ in the pines. Didn’t look back. Knew he’d be watchin’ – the set of his shoulders against the steering wheel, eyes reflectin’ the streetlamp like a predator’s. Humidity wrapped around me thick as a wet sheet. My reflection wavered in the truck’s tinted window as I passed: smudged eyes, wild hair, lips swollen like overripe berries. The stain on my dress looked darker now, almost purposeful. Like a brand. I smoothed the silk over my hip, felt the stiff patch rasp against my fingertips. Ruined? Nah. Authenticated.
Keys jangled in the dead-quiet of my front porch. Inside, the AC hummed like a judgmental choir. Peeled that dress off slow, lettin’ it pool at my feet like shed skin. Stood naked before the hallway mirror. Ray’s stubble had left a raw map across my collarbone, red trails vanishin’ beneath my breasts. My own scent mixed with his – bourbon sweat, pine resin, the faint tang of sex still clingin’ to my thighs. Touched the abrasion lightly. Stung sweet.
Bedsprings groaned under my weight. Cool sheets kissed skin still fevered from the truck cab. Closed my eyes, saw the dashboard clock’s green glow, felt the ghost of vinyl seams on my knees. Fingers trailed south, slow as honey drippin’ off a spoon. Found myself swollen, tender. Pressed the heel of my palm hard against that ache – a low moan escaped, soundin’ foreign in the empty room. Two fingers slid in easy, slick with want. Curled ’em just so, thumb workin’ circles where it counted. Thought ’bout Ray’s rough hands on the wheel after, knuckles white. Imagined ’em here instead. Pace quickened. Breath hitched. Came sudden and sharp – a silent gasp, back archin’ off the mattress like a bowstring snapped.
Afterward, stillness settled thick as dust. Limbs heavy, mind blissfully blank. Smelled bourbon on my own skin still. Rolled onto my side, pulled the thin sheet up. Pillcase felt cool against my flushed cheek. Outside, a lone whippoorwill called – three notes, clear and mournful. Listened till my eyelids grew anchors. Sleep crept in on cat feet, draggin’ me under without ceremony. Dreams came fractured: silk snaggin’ on denim, pine needles stickin’ to damp skin, the thick scent of sorghum-sweet release. No plot, just sensation – echoes of touch lingerin’ in the dark.
ASK JESSI 
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