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It was hot and a summer rain was setting in. Dappled sun beams peeked through the clouds. Orchids surrounded the musty old house, a house so old and a housekeeper so set in her ways that a skeleton key was all we needed to open the door. The jamb was tight from the swollen wood, but that was all that backroom casting coach kept us between the outside and nearly 100 years worth of memories. Like entering a car left in the midday sun, the air was thick as we breathed it in and our clothes were already damp, clinging to our bodies from the Mississippi humidity. Sunshowers have a way of resetting the atmosphere, the ambiance, making everything feel fresh again. That's what I needed right now – a reset. The sticky heat made the familiar, pleasant, pungent smell of the house permeate into our clothes and hair. You looked demure. The air went out in the car a few weeks ago, so we rode with the windows down. The long drive on leather seats had made you perspire, making the dress cling to your curves like some sort of promise to me. large casting tube Things will be okay. She is in a better place. I know how much she meant to you.
There was a brandywine stain on the floor, just under the tattered rug. Graying pictures in frames adorned the mantle like a line of boxcars on a rail, dusty from tracks not traveled and sights unseen. The faces so young, so sweet, before time had turned them. I knew most of them. Some of them stayed around and the rest scattered their family to someplace else, sometimes leaving them altogether. Packed cardboard boxes colored gray umber with dust lined most of the rooms, but there was still much to do. Cleaning. Sorting. Packing. There was some hard candy stuck in a lump together in a green glass bowl. With the cover in place it was made to look like a sitting hen. It was the kind of candy that elders kept as treats for the little ones when they came around. The little ones really wanted chocolate or some cake, but we always garbled a thank you after parking the marbled, ribboned rocks between our teeth and cheeks.
As the sun shone through the opened window in a particular way, illuminating the suspended dust in a yellow ochre, I eyed your pleasant calves as you leaned forward to wring the mop head, admiring your determination to untrap the dirty water from the gray-white strings. Your knuckles whitened on the handle in a sensual way, methodically twisting and turning with purpose, not ceasing until the mop finally succumbed to you, dripping its last drops into the bucket. You've always had that way about you, is back room casting couch real what short time I've known you, putting all of your soul into something until it was, at last, finished. I was like that in some ways, I backroom casting couc thought, as an inner tide was building inside of me pulling me towards you.
It would be a little while before we saw anyone. The procession had led us far away, down country roads to the cemetery behind the godforsaken church she attended as a child. The others were supposed to be coming to help clean and sort through her belongings, but the rain would keep them in the car even if they pulled up. You can't risk a fall at their age.
I wasn't really helping you, but you hadn't noticed. I was preoccupied, assembling in my thoughts a vivid menagerie of lusty colors, smells, and sounds to accompany the moment we were about to have. The anticipation was deafening. I felt a familiar tightness as I sauntered towards your unexpecting, bent over frame. You were surprised as I slipped in behind you and gently turned your body to face mine. Your eyes seemed to speak, "Here?" But your lips tugged on mine all the same. We both knew it was time. Your hair had matted to your head in the soppy heat, making my hands drunkenly grope at your nape, searching for skin. You began blindly grasping for my belt as I reached under your dress and tugged down on your cotton panties, our feet shuffled in step towards the quilted, wrought iron bed. Lightly squeezing your knees together, your panties were left in a figure-eight around your ankles. My weight pressed your hips against the bed, our tongues swelled and bodies teetered in a sudate tug-of-war we were both winning.
After sliding the loose dress down your body, you knelt down and took me in your mouth, seeming to rechallenge yourself with each pass. A wooden-framed oval mirror perfectly positioned behind you made my thoughts dance madly as the hazy periphery of the room enveloped us. Your heels were blackened, tucked under your nakedness. My eyes fixed on the tiny vellus hairs adorning the small of your back, the base of your pendulous movements which became more pronounced as I traveled up to your bobbing, loose ponytail.
The rain was beginning to ease, softening to a cadence like fingers lightly tapping on a desk, throbbing against the grains. The air was warm and sage like the day I remember walking the land with you, hand in hand, where together we found an old prayer garden with a bench, white paint chipped away. Dewy grass painted my boots and your bare feet left wet prints on the stone path. Promises were made and plans to keep. To have and to hold.
We had made our way onto the bed, pushing my hips farther into yours, further into our dance. Your legs pressed tightly against my sides in a silent signal that you were floating to your peak – your tiny death. Incurably trying to control myself, I felt my muscles pull my perineum like ropes taut from a drifting moored boat helpless against the swelling water. I thought of you. Of me. The time we first met. Of unison. Of separation. Of nothing. Nothing. In that moment, my whole being poured out of me in a groan and with rhythmic spurts keeping time with the pattering rain tapping against a down spout. Lifting up, I spilled onto your stomach, filling your belly button and moistening the blanket under your hips, which were still twitching and fluttering like they were trying to find that perfect spot to rest.
A heavy car door slamming outside made us erupt with giggles, scurrying for our clothes like teenagers about to be caught.

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