0: “For Happy Endings It Takes Two”
October 12th, 9:01 p.m.
Ding-dong! Sara scrambled to the front door and wrenched it open. Her best friend Jake stood outside, bags in hand.
“Dude, come on! Get in here!” Sara said hurriedly. “It’s already on!” She grabbed his free hand, yanked him inside, slammed the door shut and practically dragged him into the living room, almost detaching his arm in the process.
It was one of their regular TV nights together. At least once or twice a week, Sara Kelton and Jake Davis met up to spend some quality time with each other, and with the tube. They alternated who would have whom come over: Sara to Jake’s place one time, Jake to Sara’s the next, and so forth—in this case Jake to Sara’s. Their ritual was the host(ess) would make dinner, and the guest would provide the snacks. Hence, Jake toting the chips, corn nuts and cheese curls.
In the middle of the floor was their sacred blanket. For years they’d simulated having an indoor picnic, neither of them caring much for a visit from hungry bib-clad ants. They kicked off their shoes and sat—or lay—on this massive, plaid red and white tablecloth-looking blanket, remote never more than three or four feet away. The blanket was an absolute must. Besides making things comfier and reducing rug stains, it held a great deal of sentimental value. Besties since childhood and now both at 27, they’d been picnicking on this blanket for close to two decades, the tradition having started at Sara’s old parents’ house. It was also here they engaged in other kiddish activities, such as pillow fights and tickle scuffles—which they occasionally still did as adults. The blanket was getting faded, worn, food-tainted and frayed around the edges, but that only endeared it more to them.
Sometimes they’d have something expressly planned for their viewing pleasure—like this evening—and others they’d just channel-surf. They watched everything: movies, sitcoms, sitdrams, reality shows, news, music videos, documentaries, nature/pet shows, game shows, talk shows, talent shows, often just whatever happened to randomly be on. And semi-usually, after a healthy amount of television and not-so-healthy amount of food, they would both—if only for a short time—fall asleep on their blanket, more often than not using each other for pillows.
Tonight was a special event, to which Sara’d obviously looked very forward. A live concert was being broadcast, performed by her favorite ever pop singer, Velette Voxe, who was on tour promoting her latest album. It was indeed just getting underway as Jake rang the bell. Sara’d already laid out supper—sandwiches and chicken nuggets—by the time he got there.
“You’re late, bro!” Sara assessed, as they plopped themselves down. “What took you so long?”
“Well, excuse the heck outta me very much,” chuckled Jake. “They were doing some kind of event at the church. Some kinda…I dunno, bake sale or something.”
“A bake sale? At 9:00 at night?”
“Well, I mean, that’s what it looked like. Could’ve been a Saturday night dinner service for all I know. Anyway, yeah, lotta folks on their way there who, let’s face it, aren’t exactly our age, and…well, you know how fast a lot of ’em drive.” He ripped open a bag. “Should’ve left earlier, I guess, huh?”
“Ah, yeah,” nodded Sara. “When does it become a rule that your age and how fast you drive can’t add up to more than a hundred?”
They piped down as Velette pranced out on stage. Illuminated by the spotlight, her entrance triggered a deafening collective scream from the first few dozen rows in the amphitheater where she was performing. She shouted an energetic, “GOOD EVENING! HOW THE HELL ARE YA?!!” into the mic. Her band, already on stage, launched into the first number: a hit single called “Can’t You Tell” from the new album. The audience responded with natural enthusiasm and sang along.
Sara worshiped, idolized and was in utter love with Velette. She knew all her songs backwards and forwards—even demos, outtakes and rare recordings that didn’t appear on her records. Velette wrote a lot of songs, and while she was an incredibly talented songstress, only the best material available made it onto the albums. Though she let her fans hear some of her better demos, placing them on singles. And some songs Sara and other fans liked best were only demos and no more. Sara was such a dedicated fanatic, she timed her bites around the music so she could sing along as well.
“Damn, what I’d give to feel those lips on me,” Sara gushed during the current song’s instrumental break.
“She is a hottie a’right,” agreed Jake. “Don’t mind if I do myself.”
“Hey. Hands off, buddy; she’s mine,” grinned Sara. “You already have a girl. Besides, Velette’s gay.”
Velette was Sara’s hero, on a number of levels. It was Velette who made Sara realize her own sexuality. Her teen years were incredibly confusing. But once Sara hit her 20s and Velette Voxe the pop scene, there Ankara escort was no longer any question in the girl’s mind. Velette reminded her of some of the other great Sapphic singers she knew. She had Amy Ray’s hair, Emily Saliers’ voice, Eva Dahlgren’s cheekbones and Melissa Etheridge’s charisma. And Sara fell for her, drop-dead, head over heels over head. The way she masterfully strummed that lucky, lucky guitar, belting those poetic lyrics, in that angelic, super-smoky-hot voice. Sara was unspeakably jealous of that microphone—though probably more envious of the guitar, actually, as it got to go with Velette everywhere and be played by her every night. And she wasn’t just in fan-love with Velette’s work as an artist. Any sane red-blooded chick-chaser could fantasize about her, if nothing else. Sara kept a picture of her on the headboard of her bed, and kissed it every single night without fail. She then normally stroked her fingertips over it and gazed longingly, unable to erase the dream of having Velette Voxe, the queen of her heart in her bed…in her arms…in her mouth…
A little voice in her mind whom she hated would repeatedly tell her, “Knock it off; you’re being silly. Come on, she’s a star. She must have thousands of chicks—and dudes—who’d die just to kiss her feet! Forget about her! Move on!”
“I don’t want to move on,” she’d tell the voice. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe I like torturing myself wanting her so bad?”
If she had one wish—other than inhaling Velette’s tongue, and ravaging every inch of her idol’s body with every inch of her own—she couldn’t describe how much she’d love to hear Velette sing her the old Starship song, “Sara.” If anybody could deliver it more beautifully than Mickey, it’d be Velette. But, she’d hardly ever seen or heard Velette do a song that wasn’t her own. And even if she did covers, there were millions upon millions of songs in existence, thousands of new ones created every day. Her chances of having that wish granted were one in a…well, there wasn’t a number high enough. And that many digits was depressing. She had a better chance of winning the lottery, twice, and being struck by lightning, twice, on the way to cash in the ticket.
As for Jake, he’d been dating and getting pretty serious with a blonde Danish woman named Hanna, a few years older than he and Sara, and also very stunning. In fact, the first time Jake showed Sara her picture, she whistled. She joked to him, “Y’know, dude, if I didn’t love you so much, I might just have to steal her from you.” They both liked their women just a bit older, and Hanna was relatively close to Velette’s age. Jake joked back, “If she didn’t love being straight so much, I might just have to let’cha.”
The girlfriend-stealing part was indeed the two of them just kidding with each other, but the love part wasn’t. Their friendship had only solidified more and more in the last fifteen to twenty years. Like most best buddies, they had fights sometimes, but nothing big enough to overcome their mutual fondness. In fact, seven years ago, when Sara discovered she was a lesbian—albeit one of the more daunting things she’d done in her life—her pal Jake was the first person she came out to. She’d been doing some mental (and actual) nail-biting speculating at his reaction. But as soon as she announced, “Jake…I’m gay,” he automatically hugged her, and told her he loved her just because she was his friend, no matter what. She felt a warm smile lift her face.
“So you don’t think that’s…y’know, whatever?” she shyly asked.
Jake’s precise answer to this question was, “Oh! Babe, are you kidding? Trust me, the appeal of a hot girl’s not lost on me!”
She laughed. She couldn’t believe she’d been worried in the first place. She was so elated so wanted to cry. Oh, how could I ever doubt Jake? she thought. How could I wonder if he wouldn’t still love me? Jake had since held the proud distinction of being her “lesbro.” One of the best things about their friendship was that both being gynephilic, they had very similar taste in women. So being out either together or alone, they could both keep an eye out to possibly find a cute girl for Sara.
As October progressed, however, it was Jake who found himself with something to be apprehensive about. Sara’s birthday was coming in a few weeks, on November 19th. And he was running out of options for something really nice to get her. Realistically, he knew she didn’t “expect” anything, as usually just hanging together proved sufficient. And taking her out to eat, or to a movie would be a lovely gift in and of itself. It was just that…well, he didn’t know how she did it, but somehow, year after year, Sara always managed to find something to get Jake for his birthday he never would’ve thought of, but ending up loving. He wanted to be able to return the favor. And he’d made good numerous times in the past. He just really wanted to be able to paint that unduplicably joyful expression on her face. Even though deep down, they both knew the only way he could Ankara escort bayan disappoint her was by completely forgetting. And clearly that wasn’t going to happen.
Birthdays were a big thing with Jake, as was gift-giving in general. He was picky and exacting with himself when it came to finding gifts, and when he dug up something that finally satisfied him, it was a rewarding feeling. All of which was why it was exasperating—not to a lethal extent or anything, just annoying—when he gave a gift and was “thanked” with the standard recipient expression. “Oh, you didn’t have to do that!” Almost as if rejecting the present. He understood they were being polite and non-presumptuous. But though he never would…he wanted to say, “Well, y’know what, actually, I did. See, this is what’s typically called a birthday (or Christmas), and we’ve got something known as a tradition…” Sometimes when the givee expressed this sentiment, he amused himself with the idea of shrugging, “Okay,” and yanking it back out of their hands. Though he would never do that either.
As many times as he reminded himself Sara’d hardly be heartbroken if he couldn’t find a monumental blockbuster gift…this thought was followed every single time by, …but how proud would I be of myself if I did? For tonight, though, he settled in with her to enjoy the concert. This would be an exceptional evening—for Sara—in that no matter how much they chowed down, she was totally jazzed and pumped watching her heroine knock the crowd’s proverbial socks off, and she wasn’t going to be able to sleep for a good while no matter what. Had the program been of similar significance to Jake, natch, it would be he who couldn’t sleep. So a bit after 10:30, as the concert was winding to a close, Jake finally yawned and stretched out to lay down and catch a few ‘z’s. Sara retrieved a pillow to slip under his head, took an afghan comforter from the back of her couch, draped it over his body and tucked him in snug. She then turned the volume down, and went to get her headphones.
October 13th, 9:43 a.m.
As last night was a fortuitous Saturday when the concert was on, they were both off work. Shortly after 1:00, when Sara was finally ready to hit the sack, she gave Jake a shake awake so he could drag himself up onto the much comfier couch. They ended up spending the night on each other’s couch pretty often on their TV nights.
Jake logically got up first. He jaunted into the kitchen to get something going for breakfast, another sleepover practice they’d perfected whichever dwelling was involved. He flipped on the radio to a local Top 40 stations to the middle of an all ’80s weekend, halfway through a Madonna song. He checked out the contents in the fridge and freezer, and pulled out some waffles and sausage.
Sara was still asleep. But a few minutes later, the appetizing scents of hot breakfast wafted into her room, kissed her on the nose and tickled her nostrils. She blinked awake, kicked off the covers and floated out towards the aroma.
Jake heard the footsteps. “Yo, sis,” he called.
“Hi, bro,” she yawned. “What’cha makin’?”
“Tops.” She culled a chair from the table and poured herself into it. Already set on the table were utensils, syrup and glasses of milk.
The station returned from commercial. The DJ said something neither of them heard too clearly over the sound of the sausage frying, but subsequently, on came a classic rock ballad Sara recognized within ten seconds. Her knowledge, interest and collection of pop music were staggering, all of which she was very proud. She thought she could discern the melody on the keyboards. But when that inimitable, unmistakable harmonica jumped in and shot up, so did her head with a gasp.
“OhmyGod!” she said. “There it is! Starship! That’s my song!”
Jake looked up from the almost-done sausage. “Oh yeah…didn’t Mickey write that?”
“No, no, he didn’t actually write it himself, but he named it after his wife Sara, and my parents named me after the song,” she said. She went into vocal mode and started belting it out along with the radio.
“Well, you’re up,” chuckled Jake, fixing the plates.
“God, would I freakin’ love to hear Velette sing this,” Sara exulted. It was one of her all-time favorite songs, for obvious reasons—if not the absolute number one on her list. She had the Knee Deep In The Hoopla album, but she intentionally didn’t play the song very often so its novelty wouldn’t wear off.
“Yeah,” agreed Jake, serving them. “The lady does have a pretty dynamite voice.”
“She has a dynamite everything.” Sara forked one of the links, making a groping gesture with her other hand. “Hell, you saw that rack on her, didn’t ya? I mean, they gotta be at least Cs, right? They make me wish my hands were bigger, know what I mean?”
Sara loved how frankly, honestly and easily she could talk to Jake about how hot other girls were. Jake chuckled along, but under the table he crossed his legs, Escort Ankara girl-style, even though she couldn’t see the…excitement she was giving him, with her girl-girl titty talk. Hey, stop that, he told himself. The whole reason she’s telling you this is ’cause it doesn’t have to be weird between you, and ’cause you can relate. She’s your friend, for heck’s sake. You’re not supposed to be turned on by your friend. Thankfully, Sara stopped talking about Velette’s tits, and returned to singing along with the song. And Jake’s “excitement” softened away.
Breakfast was concluded. They tidied up, and Jake got his shoes and jacket. They folded the blanket, which Jake also took with him for next time. “All right, Sare,” he hugged her. “Love ya, babe, see ya later.”
“Love you too, dude,” she said.
Halfway back out to his car, he stopped for a second.
October 13th, 10:18 p.m.
Another twelve hours later, and another day well-spent. Sara had some shopping to do, another errand or three, and a little housework to take care of. Jake had something a bit more ambitious in mind.
After leaving Sara’s, he went home and got online. He navigated to the web site and checked out the links. He clicked and perused, clicked some more, perused some more, scribbled a few things down on a sticky pad, logged off, and picked up the phone.
When it came to things like this, Jake Davis had more of an advantage than most. He worked for a PR firm, and knew a thing or two about networking. So he’d something of a conduit to others who could make things happen. And as luck would have it, a friend of a friend of a promoter happened to owe him a favor. A few well-placed phone calls (and a visit for a word with said promoter) later—recent notice though it was, still, with Jake’s pull and the favor his friend owed him—they’d managed, as if by magic, to summon and successfully book her, to Juniper’s major event venue, The Silverlight…on Tuesday night…November 19th.
It was quite a fortunate thing her schedule happened to be open between the 18th and 20th.
November 18th, 11:24 p.m.
Sara moooooaned in her bed.
Her legs squeezed her hands between them, as she gave it to herself (or jilled herself, as she affectionately called it) like she wouldn’t see tomorrow. The next day was her birthday. She had to go to work—a drag, but a small price to pay. She hardly loathed her office job, boring though it could be. Besides, they’d probably throw her a little party.
There was a smaller TV in her bedroom, with a built-in DVD player. Inside was a Velette DVD, with songs performed live, music videos, backstage features, interviews and other goodies. In an especially frisky mood the day before she filled another year, Sara’d injected the DVD, and frozen it on a particularly appealing still shot of her Goddess, looking right into the camera with a smirk that knocked her out figuratively—but at the rate she was rubbing herself raw to it, would soon knock her out literally. Thank goodness the DVD could stay on a still shot indefinitely, because that was just about as long as Sara could go until she was down for the night.
Usually in the span of a decent masturbating session, she could achieve either two or three pretty good orgasms, or one big knockout killergasm. It all depended on her mood, how much she was willing to tease herself, and concentration. She liked to cover herself with the comforter to her neck, so she could pretend someone else’s—a specific someone else’s—hand was down there setting her pussy on fire. Making believe it wasn’t her own hand was palpably kinkier and more fun. One day when inspiration struck, she imagined Velette slipped into her room, took her wrists, pinned them together over her head with one hand, and forcefully rubbed and stroked her, inside and out, with the other, holding her down so she couldn’t do anything about it whether she wanted to or not. It proved such a spicy fantasy, she now used it virtually every time she wanted, needed and craved that big climactic release.
As she built towards the apex, she felt like a change of scenery, so to speak. So she found another spot on the disc with a few seconds of action that turned her on, and set the player on “A-B” mode, so it jumped back to those few seconds, playing them over and over again. She loved how convenient technology was. Around the same time, her right hand, which was doing all the work, was getting a little tired, so she reached up to her headboard, retrieved her vibrator and gave her fingers a little break.
Once her pussy was ready, she activated the clit stimulator. Her brain lost its grip on the rest of her. It was a little harder to focus on the TV now that her eyes were pinching shut, then blinking open to blurriness. Her groans loudened as the electric tingle from her cunt started dancing over her in all directions. She slid down from her sitting position and whapped her head on the pillow, howling in wild giddiness. Her entire body started to pulsate uncontrollably, making waves in the mattress. Once she could no longer see the TV at all, she did her best to hold an image of Velette in her mind’s eye, and desirously chanted her name.