Evasion (6 page)

People cheered and applauded, laughing as Scott continued to partially mock Wilson’s moves, but adding his own unique flair and character.

“Well read!” someone cheers. “Well danced!”

Within a minute, another person, one of the hot redheads Scott had his eye on most of the evening who was dressed in a revealing sexy Pocahontas costume, had joined in, mimicking Wilson’s thrusts and rubs; then another, and another.  She danced really close to Scott, rubbing her thighs and legs against his, running her hands along his sides.  Scott swayed into her and their bodies rubbed together in a sexually stimulating way.

The crowd cheered, and within seconds another female joined in, then another guy, another woman, another guy.  Soon the entire living room had been writhing together; everybody bumping and grinding and caressing each other in an orgy-like dance festival.

The redhead stayed close to Scott the whole time, and, even though both of them rubbed and caressed the other people around them, moving with the throbbing and pulsing sexualized crowd, they favored each other quite deliciously.

She made and held eye contact with him for extended periods, particularly when she grinded her pelvis against his throbbing erection. Through a subtle twinkling in her gorgeous green eyes she was letting him know that she could feel his growing excitement and relished it.

Scott, still a virgin, had never done or been part of any sort of kissing or petting session with anyone; having this hot redhead lavish such incredible attention on him completely blew his mind. He kept losing himself in her jade eyes, completely overwhelmed with just how beautiful she was. An hour earlier, when he had been admiring her across the room, as she’d been talking to her friends and twirling a finger through the curls of red-brown locks, he wondered what it might be like to touch her hair, to lean in and smell it.

So he did just that. He leaned forward, nestled his nose into the curls of her hair and breathed in. The scent, a citrus-herbal combination, filled his being. “You’re the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, touched, or smelled,” Scott whispered in her ear as he gently nipped and licked the lobe.

She squirmed beneath him as he did that and rubbed even harder.

All around them, other couples were doing the same sort of thing. But not just couples; there were groups of three and four people all grinding together, running hands all over one another, swaying in rhythm, hands, groins, buttocks rubbing, bumping and grinding. Several were kissing; and not just the intimate kissing of the same couple, but lips and mouths exploring multiple different pairs of others, briefly pecking some while lingering more sensually on some others. Some people moved from group to group, participating in a very “social butterfly” type of activity, working the room, making the rounds.

Occasionally, a third and fourth person would join in on the action with Scott and the gorgeous redhead, fondle them both, rub up against one another. But the way the two of them moved so closely in unison, those who joined quickly moved on to another group, recognizing that there was something a bit more intense going on here and getting the hint.

At one point, he reached out, caressed both sides of her face with his hands, and then let them slowly trail down to tickle her throat then slide down to her breasts. She pushed her breasts up against the palms of his hands and he gently rubbed them, feeling her rock-hard nipples poking through, responding eagerly to his caress.

She placed her own hands on the sides of his face and pulled his face in, her hot wet tongue thrusting into his mouth; her hands then moved down, all while they still writhed and danced and pushed up against each other, trailed down his back and clenched at his buttocks and pulled him in tighter to her, pushing and rubbing her pelvis against his aching hard penis.

At one point Scott slipped two fingers of his right hand under the fabric covering her breast and swirled one around the stiff nipple – she leaned in closer to him, something Scott didn’t think was possible and let out a beautifully seductive moan in his ear, saying, “I’ve never wanted anybody so much.”

They danced like that, making virtual love right in front of everybody else on the dance floor, their tongues mixing, their hands eagerly exploring one another’s contours.  As Scott rubbed her nipple with his right hand, his other hand on her ass and pulling her up against him, he felt her shudder and shake and let out a deep sigh.

When she finished shuddering against him, an incredible experience that lasted almost a full minute, she whispered in his ear again. “I just had one of the most incredible extended orgasms.”

Scott completely lost it at that point, felt himself erupt and come all over himself, completely soaking his underwear and track pants.

She pushed against him harder, realizing that he was coming and, pulling him tight against her, whispered again in his ear. “Thank you, Scott. That was absolutely incredible. Sex has never been like that before. I never realized just how incredible it could be.”

The let-down feeling brought Scott back to his normal state. He didn’t even realize that she knew his name. He just felt extremely uncomfortable with ejaculating all over himself, worried about the growing wet spot on his crotch.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. I love you.” And then he turned and made his way off of the dance floor, left the party and half-ran, half-walked back to the apartment.

A classic Scott move.

He had been dreaming about the beautiful redhead, about the incredibly intense feeling, about how amazing it had been; all ruined because of his social awkwardness. In the dream, he was confident and strong, not shy and nervous and weak. And in the dream, he certainly hadn’t followed up the evening with the stupidity of coming on too strong. In the dream, none of that was present. It was pure emotion, pure pleasure, just like that night had been.

That’s when, in the midst of the dream, he had felt this sudden sharp pricking pain and it woke him right out of the wonderful memories of the gorgeous redhead whose name he never even learned.

He sat up from the sleeping bag, rubbing his shoulder where he’d felt the prick.

It was dark and there was the odd odor of propane gas and mustiness in the air that quickly overtook Scott’s fond memories of the special scent of that sexy woman’s hair.

Scott remembered that he had been on an overnight fishing trip with his father; that, on this early November weekend, they had been somewhere far up Highway 144 in mid-northern Ontario, at a special fishing spot his father had picked out. And, despite the cold, there they were, hunkered in the middle of nowhere and partaking in a father/son venture in a trailer.

“Dad! What the hell?”

“Sorry, son.” Lionel Desmond said, and Scott could see, from the light of a gas lantern on the far side of the trailer, the pop-out spot where his father had been sleeping, his father fiddling with the bottom compartment of his tackle box, hastily putting something away. “I must have poked you with the stem of my poppy when I was looking for the little yellow flashlight on your bunk.”

His father indicated the little red molded plastic with green flacking that was fastened to the plaid fishing shirt with a pin. His father had always been a stickler for wearing the poppy, part of a Canadian and UK tradition of commemorating the servicemen and servicewoman who have been killed in conflicts since 1914. In Canada, Remembrance Day was celebrated each November 11th (part of the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, a date significant because it that time in 1918 when the First World War officially ended) and from the beginning of November, Canadians wore the red poppies over their hearts as a symbol that they remembered.

Before the general public started wearing them, news anchors and other public officials were usually the first the begin sporting the red plastic flowers on their collars.

Lionel Desmond, so long as Scott could remember, always took Remembrance Day very seriously. He would start wearing the poppy at least one full week before Halloween, even when it was common for most of the rest of society to begin wearing it on November 1st. And he had always booked November 11th off work, always attended the parade and ceremony that took place downtown at the Cenotaph.

Scott remembered the time when he was little and, at the ceremony in the blistering cold and snow, during the two minutes of silence, time meant to be spent in quiet reflection, Scott and his school chum, Edward Leroux had been making silly faces at one another. Two minutes to a seven year old could seem like an excruciatingly long amount of time. Standing across from him, Edward was crossing his eyes and sticking out his tongue. Scott smiled and then found himself hitching as he tried to control giggling out loud.

The only sound was the wind, the occasional sniffle or cough from one of the three hundred people standing in silence in such a tight area; and, very quietly, Scott’s heavy breathing as he tried to hold the laughter in.

His father had caught his eye and sent him such a dire and stern warning that the giggles immediately vanished. And, afterwards, Lionel Desmond not only threw his son over his knee with his pants pulled down and proceeded to spank him with the thick leather strap that was used in the Desmond household for corporal punishment – a spanking that lasted a full two minutes and left Scott with a burning and throbbing backside that he couldn’t comfortably sit down on for the rest of the day, but there was a lecture and a learning experience to be had.

Yes, there had always been a learning experience to be had with Lionel Desmond.

The day after the painful spanking, Lionel sat his son down and told him, again, the story of Lionel’s father, Scott’s grandfather and how the man had given his life for their country as a soldier in World War II. How Lionel, who was only two years old when his father died overseas, didn’t even have more than a single fleeting memory of his Dad.

“Tens of thousands of men and women gave their lives, sacrificed themselves, and went to serve the common good, in order for us to have the freedoms that we now have.” Lionel explained.  “And despite them giving up so much, putting themselves directly in the path of harm’s way, virtually the only thing that we do is once a year, we wear a poppy on our chest, we attend a ceremony to honor them and we give two minutes of silence in respect for all that they have done.

“Two simple minutes.  That’s all that is asked. Two minutes of reflection, of quiet, of respect.” His face turned red as he spoke. “Is that pittance of time really too much to ask for?”

After the lecture, Lionel made Scott write out “In Flanders Fields” the classic poem written by the Canadian solder, Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae after presiding over the funeral of a friend and fellow soldier, two dozen times.  Then, he forced his son to read
Generals Die in Bed
a classic world war one book by Charles Yale Harrison,
The Wars
by Timothy Findley,
Night
by Elie Wisel, and
D-Day
by Stephen E. Ambrose.

Scott liked reading, but was overwhelmed with the message that was spoken through the books. He didn’t complain, and worked his way through them over the course of the rest of the month.  The books moved him, terrified him, inspired him, and made him think. Upon completing them he was actually interested in reading more and understanding more, and so picked up
The Diary of Anne Frank
and
The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich
by William L. Shirer.

At the end of that November, when his father knew he had read the four books, he never spoke with his son about it again, never talked about the books or asked Scott to share his thoughts upon reading them.

All that he did was sit down across from his son at the breakfast table one morning, and said:  “Do you see, now, what I mean? Do you understand now, just a little bit of what it was like? Do you get why I take Remembrance Day so seriously?”

At that point, he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, opened up a compartment and took out a small square white and brown picture of a young soldier who couldn’t be more than eighteen or nineteen. A peaked solder cap on his head, and a lopsided grin suggested the world was his oyster and there was a whole universe ahead of him that he eagerly embraced.

Scott had never seen the picture before but he knew, without his father saying another word, that this was his grandfather, his dad’s father.

“I might only wear a poppy for a couple of weeks in October and November each year, but I carry this picture around with me all of the time. I wear my father’s memory every single day.”

All Scott could do was nod, with a single tear running down his face.

He had got it.

And from that day on, Scott himself took Remembrance Day very seriously.

Nowhere as seriously, though, as his father.

Scott could remember, in fact, that no matter where he was or what he was doing, Lionel Desmond would wear the poppy for the whole period between October 24th and November 11th.  Even out here, in the middle of nowhere, where nobody would see him, he still wore the red flower on his shirt.  When Scott asked him why he wore it even when nobody could see, his father turned to him, a very serious look on his face, and said: “I’ll see it. I’ll know. It’s not just for show. It’s just as much for me.”

There was one year that Scott never forgot, shortly after his father’s gall bladder surgery, when, upon returning home but still not recovered enough to go back to work, spending most of the day in bed in his pajamas, Scott witnessed the man, who could barely stand because he was in so much pain, get up and stand quietly during the two minutes of reflection on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month.

Lionel Desmond took remembering very seriously, and there was no thing or nobody who could ever or would ever take that away from him.

He would always remember.

Scott always thought the poppy’s design, with the single stick pin, might have purposely been fashioned in the way that it was because, each year he suffered no less than a dozen prickings, a side effect of the simplistic design.  Perhaps that was a good thing, since the poppy was there to remind us of the way in which soldiers suffered and gave their lives for our freedom. A little pin prick every once in a while was a sharp and simple reminder that our minor woes are nothing in comparison.