Coming Home


"... on behalf of myself and the crew, ladies and
gentleman, I want to thank you for flying with us. We
hope you enjoyed your flight, that you have a pleasant
stay, and that you'll fly with us again soon."

She hadn't, in fact, enjoyed her flight. Everyone
flies now, or so it seems. And to accommodate
"everyone" the airlines have stuffed in more and more
seats until emerging passengers seem like the clowns
emerging from little circus cars. Clown after clown
after clown through the doors until it passes the
point of absurdity. Not people, but lemmings, maybe.

And, even on good flights, she never enjoyed flying.
But the flight wasn't important. Not this time. It's
not the journey, sometimes--it's the destination.

Which, of course, is a whole `nother can of worms. She
doesn't belong here, and she knows it. She's never
needed a passport, never been any place that she
couldn't drive to. Yes, they speak English, but not
American. And don't all non-Americans hate all
Americans? That's the feeling she's sensed from
friends who have traveled abroad--that no one likes
Americans. But she secretly wondered if they actually
tried to make themselves likeable or even knew how.
She'd spent days listening to all of the warnings.
Don't tell anyone where you're from. Don't ask to
exchange US currency. Don't wear anything that marks
you as American. No Cubs baseball cap, and
ferchrissake, nothing with a US flag on it. Don't look
like a tourist.

But she's not a tourist. She's not coming to see the
sights and take pictures of the local wildlife to
share back home. She's not going to buy souvenirs or
shop in the duty-free. She hasn't booked a hotel or a
tour package. He told her that she was coming home. To
his home. To the home he wants to share with her.
She's coming here to be part of something, someone.

Good Lord, Alison, why are you doing this?

She knows no one, save him. Which was something else
her friends warned her about.

"Alison! What do you really know about this person,
this man? For all you know he's a con artist, a
psychopath, a nutcase."

"What if he isn't?" she'd asked.

"What if he is, isn't the point"?" they'd replied.
"You can't fly halfway around the world to visit
someone you met on the Internet. You don't know anyone
else there. What happens if it all goes wrong? You're
smarter than that, aren't you?"

But she obviously wasn't smarter than that, or she
wouldn't be waiting for the aisle to clear so that she
could get her backpack from under her seat and make
her way to the airplane door, nod absently at the
frozen smiles of the exhausted, don't-care flight
attendants, and take those first steps.

That's what they were, first steps. First steps in a
new country, first steps away from where she was, from
the comfortable and safe and casual and unsatisfying.

No baby steps for you, Alison. Nope. Jump in with both
feet and hold your breath and pray that you can touch
the bottom and come back up before your air runs out.

Yes, they'd met on the Internet. At first, she was
embarrassed to admit that to her friends. She'd
considered making up a story about an introduction
through friends-of-friends, but in the end, she'd
decided it was best not to start this relationship
with a lie. So, she'd admitted the truth. They met on
the Internet.

It wasn't so much that there weren't any eligible men
in her own town, in her own social circle. They were
there, but she hadn't been looking. She hadn't
wandered onto the Internet with the idea of meeting
someone either, but she had. Through a website, a
message board, mutual interests, and ideas, they had
`met' and started chatting. Casual, at first, easy and
comfortable and relatively anonymous. She told him
stories -- funny stories, quirky stories, stories of
frustrations, straight vents -- about running a hotel
kitchen. He told her stories about growing up and
living in a small town. About owning a bookstore. The
customers, the distributors, the publishers, the sneak
peeks at the new releases and first access to the
Advanced Reader copies. They were thousands of miles
apart -- no risk whatsoever of exposing too much and
then getting hurt, right? Virtual buddies but really
strangers.

But that changed, gradually, until it was no longer
simply a pleasant surprise when they were online at
the same time and could exchange pleasantries before
heading out to their separate lives. She started
planning her computer time around his usual on-line
time. And, she suspected, he did the same. Their
conversations stopped focusing solely on their jobs
and the weather and books and other such neutral
topics and ventured more into relationships, dreams,
hopes, disappointments, ambitions, desires, sex...

Oh my, yes. The sex. Shared fantasies of nights
together and "If I could only touch you like this..."
They stumbled through the first few weeks of this new
intimacy, both of them self-conscious and slow. Like
the new lovers they were, they fumbled through awkward
phrases and "Would you like it if..." or "How
about...?" Her speed-typing skills improved. They
learned more about each other. She told him that her
sides were ticklish and he told her that he hated
having his ears nibbled.

He starting leaving messages for her to find when she
got home from a Friday night at the restaurant.

"I'd love to have your bath drawn and ready for you. A
glass of wine sitting beside the sink. Candles lit.
You'll have to get yourself undressed, though, because
I don't want to track wet footprints on the carpet.
I'll be waiting for you, you see, in the tub. There's
a surprise for you under all those bubbles..."

She started leaving him messages to find on his e-mail
at work on Monday mornings.

"I dreamed last night of stroking your neck, of
rubbing your shoulders and sitting astride your back
to massage the day's tensions from your spine."

And it was the truth. She did dream of him. Vague
images, at first, of his hands on her breasts, his
fingers brushing her nipples. His lips on her throat,
the weight of his body on hers, and of his voice
whispering sweet and erotic things into her ears. But
mostly her dreams returned--again and again, night
after night--to the feel of his arms around her,
holding her tightly.

They didn't exchange pictures. She never asked for
one, and nor did he. But she knew what he looked like.
Almost everyone is on the Internet at least once
nowadays. She'd found his picture one afternoon.
Feeling like a schoolgirl with a desperate, secret
crush, she'd entered his name in a search engine and
weeded through dozens of not-hims until she'd seen it.
Just one picture. But it was enough. He was just as
she'd imagined. Not fiction-perfect, but real.

And then she'd felt guilty, as though she'd broken
some unspoken pact, so she'd deleted the picture from
her computer and never mentioned it to him. But it was
there, in her dreams. A face to go with the feelings.
Eyes to imagine gazing into, hair that she'd run her
fingers through hundreds of times in her thoughts as
she fantasized about his lips on her skin, his head
between her thighs, his tongue tasting her pussy,
stroking and sucking her to climax after shuddered
climax.

He said it first, what they were both thinking but
both afraid to admit.

"Alison," he'd said one night, in a fit of
frustration, "Alison, I love you and I don't want to
do this any longer, not like this. I want to be with
you."

The logistics were a problem. They had jobs, both of
them, and lives. Which meant that someone was going to
have to start giving things up. And in the end, it
made more sense for her to come to him. He was more
settled. She rented, he owned. He had family nearby,
and friends, and a good job and childhood memories. He
loved where he lived. She liked where she was, but her
job was portable -- she could cook anywhere -- and, in
the end, it made the most sense for her to go to him.
So she did.

"Shees, Alison," her friends had grumbled at her in
well-meaning frustration. "Did you have to do it so
dramatically? Couldn't you just take a vacation there
first?"

Yes, she could have, but she didn't. A vacation would
have been just that. Two people who didn't really know
each other, dancing around being polite and on their
best behavior and never really getting to know each
other for a week or two or three. And then she'd have
come back to the States and they would start their
nightly 'Net conversations again, none the closer for
having spent time together.

No, if she was going to do this, she was going to do
it. She took a week off from work to make plans and
drove to the nearest consulate to apply for a visa.
The bureaucrat behind the desk questioned her
extensively. "And why, exactly, do you want to visit
our country?"

How to answer that? "I'm in love" wasn't going to cut
it. Governments have never regarded love as a valid
reason for much of anything. "An extended vacation
with a friend."

"Your friend's name?"

She'd answered with the name she knew, the name she'd
dreamed about and whispered in the dark of her room.
The name she'd moaned in her dreams as her own fingers
instead of his stroked her breasts.

"Tim. Timothy Harris." The name she'd scrawled on
napkins during dinner and in the margins of her
checkbook register.

"Where will you be staying while you are in our
country?"

Where, indeed?

In his apartment, late nights watching old movies and
eating popcorn together on his sofa. Fingers
butter-slippery, intertwining at the bottom of the
bowl. "I won't let you eat popcorn," he'd told her
online one night.

"No?"

"No. But I'll feed you popcorn."

"Oh? Tell me more." She settled back against her
bedpillows and propped the laptop against her thighs.

"You get to pick the movie. It doesn't matter, because
I don't plan to watch it."

She clenched her legs and felt an anticipatory shiver.
"No? If you're not watching the movie, what are you
doing?"

"Trying to make you not watch the movie also, of
course. It's a game."

"A game? So there are rules?"

"Of course. Games always have rules. The rules are
simple. You watch the movie for as long as you can. I
try to make you stop watching."

She slipped her nightshirt up over her head and
dropped it to the floor beside the bed. "And how do
you think you'll do that? It would be cheating, but
you could just turn the television off, or cover my
eyes..."

"No. Nothing that obvious. The object of the game is
to make it impossible for you to finish watching the
movie. It starts simple. You get the movie started,
settle on the sofa with the blanket and a lean-against
pillow. I'll bring you the popcorn and sit beside
you."

"That sounds like watching the movie with me..."

"It is, at first. But soon, you'll scoot closer to me
so that you can share my bowl of popcorn. This is when
the game starts. The best way for two people to sit on
a sofa together during a movie is for one -- me, in
this case -- to lean against the arm with my leg
stretched out and my other foot on the floor."

It was an inviting mental image and she savored it for
a few seconds before responding playfully. "Hm. Sounds
like you're hogging the good sofa spots. Comfortable?"

"Very, but you're interrupting. Hush. This, of course,
leaves a perfect spot for the other person--you--to come
snuggle. Come, darling, and lie against my chest. I'll
even put one of the small pillows behind your head so
that you're comfortable."

Alison sighed, and heard the lonely catch in her
voice. She closed her eyes briefly, letting herself
move back to his fantasy-weaving.

"Now, Ali dear, you can be most comfortable, wrapped
in my arms. It's time for the popcorn. I've put the
bowl on the back of the sofa where only I can reach
it, so you'll have to wait until I decide to bring
bites to your lips. Warm, buttery bites. Slick and
almost dripping."

Back in her bed, under the sheets, Alison moved her
left hand between her legs, and stroked. She was wet,
ever more so as she read his words, but she fingered
herself slowly, not wanting to peak until later...

"You'll lick a butter-dribble off my finger when I put
the popcorn to your lips, but that's not going to be
enough to pull you away from your movie. Before the
next bite, I'll start gently kissing your head.
Little, tiny kisses and soft nuzzles, then another bit
of the popcorn."

She pushed one, two fingers into her pussy and pressed
her clit with her thumb. Slow, hard circles.

"As you watch, I'll trace along your jaw with my
thumb, down your neck to your collar where I stroke.
Like butterfly wings over your collar, teasing down
under the neck of your T-shirt. I hook my fingers in
the neckline and tug to get a better view down your
shirt. Just playing, still. Browsing, if you will."

"Browsing?"

"Yes, browsing. Looking for something I might like to
play with later on."

"Hm ... Go on."

"Go on? Okay. I have a free arm to hold you with, but
it's not as much fun to hold you around your shirt, so
I'll pull the cotton up just enough to wrap my arm
around your bare belly. Which also allows me to rub my
fingers along your ribs, up under your breasts. Not on
your breasts, not your nipples. Not yet."

Her stomach fluttered and she pressed harder against
her clit, quickening her touch. Bringing herself
closer, she felt the muscles clench around her
fingers. With her other hand, she stroked her breast,
pulling softly at her nipple, imagining his fingers,
his hand.

"I love to hold you like this, from behind, the warmth
of your body against me, my hands on your breast, lips
on your neck, your throat. I think we're done with the
popcorn for now; I want both hands free to touch your
skin. To sneak up under your shirt then tease at the
waistband of your panties. To run my fingers through
the curls there, moving so, so slowly down to the heat
I can feel between your legs."

With her fingers, she mimicked his words, running them
through the coarse curls above her pussy, flicking her
hard clit with her middle finger, tapping it with
quick, light taps.

"Slipping my hand down further, it's tight against
you, held there between your body and the silk of your
panties. I cup your mound in my palm and press fingers
gently into you. You're so beautiful, Ali, so warm, so
open."

She placed the computer aside on the bed so she could
still see the screen and his words. Alison shifted to
her side, thighs tight around her fingers, rubbing
faster until she could feel her climax just hovering,
just beyond reach.

"One finger, just the tip of my finger, inside of you.
My palm against your clit, massaging, slow circles to
match the circles of my other thumb and forefinger on
your nipple. Whispering in your ear, nibbling your
earlobe. Moving faster now between your legs, pushing
back against your body as you push your pelvis against
my hand. I love the feel of your hair against my
chest, the sight of your eyes closed, your lips
slack..."

She moaned, caught her breath, whimpered in the dark
of her bedroom, so close.

"Faster now, and deeper. One finger still, thrusting
in, out, gently drawing my palm over your clit with
each stroke, feeling you tense and tighten against me.
Biting down just a bit on your neck, tightening my
fingers around your nipple as you shudder and groan."

And then it was. Her orgasm washed over her, clenching
her belly, leaving her legs trembling and her breath
ragged. She lay like that, on her side, curled around
her arm and hand, for a few moments, comfortable in
the knowledge that he knew, and he'd wait for her to
catch her breath, to focus again.
And then, a few moments later...

"Goodnight, Ali Dear. Dream of me."

She'd be sharing his bathroom, putting her lipstick
and hairbrush alongside his razor and shaving cream.

"Will there be room for both of us at once to get
ready in your bathroom?" She worried about moving into
his space. He'd lived his adult life alone, so had
she, and they were both set in their routines and
rhythms.

"Of course, Ali dear. But think how much fun it will
be adjusting."

"Fun?" He did that. He could make anything,
everything, fun. Sexy-fun.

"Yes, fun. Imagine a morning. Both of us jockeying for
mirror-time..."

She could. She did. "Oh. I see. You're taller than I
am. That means that you stand behind me. You can see
over my head, I'm sure. But, Tim, I'm not sure we'd
ever actually get ready for anything except for going
back to bed..."

"You don't think so?"

"No. In fact I'm pretty sure that if you're standing
there behind me, in the small space of the bathroom,
both of us in front of the sink and the mirror, I'm
going to have to take advantage of my position."

"Your position? Advantage? Ali dear, please tell me
more."

"Well, you see, I like to get all the way ready to go
in the morning-hair done, make up on-before I get
dressed. So, most likely I'll still be in either my
nightshirt or my robe. And, standing there with you,
like that, it will be simply too tempting to
oh-so-casually press my bottom back against you while
I brush my hair. And once I do that, I have a feeling
that you're not going to be able to resist putting
down your razor, toweling off your face, and leaning
me over the sink."

"Oh, Ali dear, you're very forward in the morning,
aren't you?"

"I can't help myself. You're too much of a temptation.
You will, you know. You'll hold me by my hips. I'll
lean forward and lift up on my toes so that you can
reach me. You're hard in the morning, and with me
standing there, my bare butt pressed against you,
you'll be glad we had a few extra minutes built into
the morning schedule."

"Just a few?"

"Yes, just a few. Hard and fast this morning. You'll
hold me with one arm around my waist, the hand
stroking me. A little faster with each thrust. Lifting
me with your arm so you can push deeper into me. It's
good this way, Tim. Very good. Hits so many good spots
inside me. I can't move too much on my own from here,
or I'll fall. You'll have to hold me, direct my body
on yours, the way you want me wrapped around your
cock..."

"Oh, Ali."

"My turn, Tim, ... shh..." She knew he was stroking
himself, in her place. He'd told her once, in what she
had read as confessional tones, that her words did the
same for him as his did for her.

"Hold me tight, Tim. I want to feel all of you against
the back of my legs. I want to feel all of you thrust
into me. I'll feel you stiffen, tighten, just before
you come. You have to let me go before you come..."

"Let you go?" The typed words came slowly from Tim.

"Yes. You can't come in me, not now, we don't have
time for another shower. There's a reason I put my
lipstick on last."

"Oh, Ali."

"So make love to me, Tim, quickly, before we both go
to work. Pull me tight against you, hear my moans echo
off the bathroom tile. Then let me slide to my knees
and take you in my mouth, between my lips. Feel my
tongue stroke the head of your cock, flick the rim,
draw along the vein. Let me moan around you, feel my
throat vibrate as I take you deeper, swallowing to
draw out your climax, and swallowing faster as you
come."

"Oh, Ali."

She'd be staying in his bed. For long afternoons, full
weekends in his bed, their bed. Naked together, skin
against skin, keeping each other warm under sheets,
listening to the birds outside his open bedroom
window. This was her favorite fantasy, the one that
she used late at night when he wasn't around, when
their schedules didn't overlap or when they were both
just tired. The two of them, wrapped in sheets rumpled
from sleep and sex.

Yes, she'd be staying, "... with Mr. Harris..." and
she'd given his address and phone number.

"And how long will you be staying?"

Forever, hopefully. But again, not an acceptable
answer.

"Two months, maybe three." They'd figure something out
after that.

"You must have a return ticket purchased before you
enter our country, and you should maintain contact
with the American consulate while you're there. Make
sure they know how to reach you. If you intend to stay
longer, please allow six to eight weeks for your
extension application to be approved or you may be
forced to leave before your visa can be extended."

And so, three weeks later, it was done. She had a new
passport and her visa and a round-trip plane ticket.
She put in notice at the hotel and her apartment and
put her furniture in a long-term rented storage unit,
closed out her savings account and had most of it
converted from American currency. If you're going to
do it, Alison, go all the way with it. Arrive ready to
stay. You're not going there as a tourist, so don't
act like a tourist.

It was a long trip. With connections and layovers and
time changes, it was two full days of travel. She'd
done her best to rest and sleep during the flights.
She'd washed her hair in the airport bathrooms and
braided it wet back into a smooth, neat rope. She'd
worn comfortable travel clothes and sensible shoes and
carried a minimum of luggage. Only one carry-on bag
and her purse. Two changes of clothes, makeup, her
money and a hairbrush. A couple of books and bottled
water. She knew, just knew, that her luggage wouldn't
arrive with her. Something simply had to go wrong on
such a long series of flights, but she didn't want to
waste precious energy lugging extra baggage through
airport terminals and fighting for overhead cargo
space on the crowded cattle-car planes. If her clothes
didn't arrive ... well, they'd figure out something.

She'd had a window seat for this last leg of her trip,
and she had spent hours during the flight staring out
the window at the seemingly endless expanse of blue
ocean. She'd listened to the pilot give updates and
point out interesting features on one side of the
plane or the other. But mostly she'd just stared, and
thought, imagining what she was going to. She dozed a
little bit, and glanced at her book, and read the same
page over and over before she realized it. She stared
out the window instead and replayed their
conversations in her head.

Her seatmate had started out chatty, travel-talkative.
Interested in sharing stories about where she had been
and all of the sights she had seen. But Alison
couldn't concentrate on the conversation, and after
repeated, "I'm sorry, I was distracted," comments, the
seatmate had settled into her own silent-passenger
routine with book and magazine and in-flight movie
headsets.

The crowd in the aisle was thinning out now. Most of
the passengers had already fought their way through
the crowds and past the attendants. Her seatmate stood
and reached above for her own bag as Alison reached
under the seat for her backpack.

"I never asked, dear," said her well-meaning seatmate,
"but are you here for a visit? If you don't have any
set plans, I could connect you with the group that put
together our tour package. We've got a great set of
activities scheduled."

Alison looked up at her and thought for a few seconds
before responding. "Thank you, but no. I'm not
visiting. I'm coming home, I think." It wasn't really
an answer, but her seatmate didn't delve further, and
Alison didn't offer anything more.

She tucked her purse into the main pocket of her pack
and slung the whole thing carefully over one shoulder.
She wanted her hands free. First impressions, first
real impressions, are important, she reminded herself,
and she didn't want Tim to see her for the first time
struggling with pack and purse and fumbling her way
through a crowd.

Shoulders back, Alison. Act like you know what you're
doing. Remember that you belong here, now. As much as
you've ever belonged anywhere.

She was one of the last people off the plane and the
line through customs moved insanely slowly, in
inexplicable fits and starts. She answered the
official's questions absently, barely remembering her
answers and never looking at his face. Her stomach was
rolling, there were butterflies in her throat, and
sudden second thoughts flooded her brain. Maybe her
friends were right. This was nuts. What did she know
about this man? She knew where he worked and where he
lived and that she had fantasized about long, languid
afternoons making love and exploring the beach and
reading together. But was that enough? She knew that
he drank tea and not coffee, but that he'd found a
place for her to purchase whole coffee beans and he'd
bought a grinder and a percolator so she could have
her morning coffee. He knew that she like chocolate
candy but not caramel and nothing with nuts and that
she read her favorite books again and again until the
covers wore off and the pages fell out. She knew that
he didn't want children, but neither did she. But was
it enough?

She craned her neck, looked around, and reluctantly
realized she was searching for the ticket counter,
mentally rehearsing her speech to a ticket agent. Yes,
I know I just got here. No, nothing's wrong, I just
need to go back home. Now. But she wouldn't. She
couldn't.

And then it was over. Her passport stamped, her bags
handed back to her, and a hurried and automatic "Enjoy
your visit" from the harried customs agent.

She spotted him before he saw her. He was looking to
the side, maybe wondering if she'd missed the flight
or changed her mind at the last minute. She stood
still, watching him scan the remaining crowd for
someone fitting her description. She moved a few feet
closer, not more than two or three strides, and
waited.

He turned; his eyes met hers and stopped. Silently
they moved forward until they met, alone in the
surrounding sea of travelers.

"Alison." It wasn't a question.

"Tim."

He reached for her, his hands on her shoulders, and
she let herself be drawn to him. He leaned down and
wrapped his arms around her. Strong arms, warmth,
pulling her tightly against his chest. His heart beat
in her ears and she knew.

She wasn't a tourist, not here. Not with him.

She was home.