Polaroid of a Girl [George Daniel]

Blow

It is very late and you're very welcome for all this filth. God, George deserves to get the succ. Have a lovely night,  please leave comments and vote. This story is unapologetically nuts and slutty, and I won't ever apologize.

Most of the time, if not all of the time, Mary Jane Graham preferred to be barefoot. There was something comforting about the way her feet felt; skin on surface. When she did this, the memories cascaded into her brain like an overflowing dam. Cool grass in spring and running around with Holly, scabbed knees and missing teeth and childhood. Hot, wet concrete and Josh Carrington's hand fumbling about between her legs in the bathroom of the public pool. Tiles like ice at Madeline Walker's, and the way Betty Yu would pull her hair out even in her sleep as Mary Jane wrote in her journal late at night. Between her toes the stiff rug, saturated in cigar smoke in Richard Crane's office, when he said things that both disgusted her but made her feel like a woman; or so she thought.

The rug beneath her now was soft, new and clean, and when her toes wiggled into the fibers of it and she smiled, the sounds of music humming on George's record player, the man smiled at her. Mary Jane was not pure; not in the way that everyone wanted her to be. She was troubled and her little body was burdened by heavy emotions, but, when she was in this attic with George, she was carefree and so was he.

Even the air itself was almost whimsical; the window unit of the air conditioner providing a humid and cool little breeze. There was smoke in the air too, from the blunt George had rolled and the incense he was burning to cover the smell up so it wouldn't linger, and so his wife wouldn't bitch at him about it again.

The two of them were so amused, no, so infatuated with everything the other did. Mary Jane, with the way that George's eyes would squint and his cheeks would hollow out a bit when he smoked. How cool and handsome he was. How thick his thighs were as he crossed his legs and watched her. George could observe Mary Jane all day and never get bored; how her fingers would toy with her hair, the shape her lips made when she hummed along with the music, how her eyes were even bolder than the words than came out of her lips.

The girl walked toward him now. She slipped herself between his legs a bit, and George didn't know how to describe the overwhelming sensation that occured. In one way, it was too close for comfort. In another way, a way that was getting harder and harder for him to deny the more time he spent with her, it was intoxicating. From his thick and long fingers, Mary Jane plucked the blunt and took it into her own mouth for a moment, her blue eyes focused on how perfect his mouth was when he smirked at her.

"I like smoking with you," she said, her knees knocking against his thighs as she swayed to the music.

George focused on the cloud of smoke she blew out, and his hand went to her hip because, honestly, he was tired of trying to convince himself to not touch her.

"I like smoking with you, too," he answered, rubbing his thumb at her hipbone beneath the fabric of her little denim shorts.

She bit her lip, rolling her hips a bit at his touch, mustering every ounce of strength she had to not seem like an overwhelmed, desperate teenager in love (though she was certainly that). Holding the blunt between her index and middle finger, as if she were making a peace sign, Mary Jane brought it to George's lips and he accepted, his thumb continuing to rub against her hipbones.

He didn't do these kinds of things with Charis anymore. They didn't have these moments, where they enjoyed things just for the sake of enjoyment. Everything was always about something else. Charis would want to go shopping, to spend time with George, sure, but to also have the same dinner plates that her friend did. She said that smoking weed made her nauseated now. She would ride with George in his Impala at night, but never for the sake of how beautiful it was when it rained in the dark. Usually just things like she had forgotten to pick up laundry detergent and he had to run her to the store.