The Devil and Danielle Webster by Cynthia Cross Page A

the motorcycle and gripped Young Doug’s waist.  They set out in
the night, flying down quiet streets and merging onto uncrowded freeways.
    “I’d forgotten that backpack,” I said.  “I remember I
traveled light, though.  Maybe a change of underwear and
a toothbrush.”
    Young Danielle gripped Doug’s waist and leaned against his
back.  In response, he cradled her thigh with his free hand for a
moment.  A jolt of anticipation sent a shock through her.  I could
feel myself becoming turgid.  Good god.  He really could arouse me
back then.
    “Doesn’t the air feel good?  You know, just filling
your lungs with it?” Doug commented.
    “Don’t your bones feel good?” I replied.  “Or maybe
that’s just me.  I think sometimes I’m getting arthritis.  All that
jogging I used to do.”
    “No, I know what you mean.”
    The ride seemed magical, a combination of night covering the
familiar in a cloak of mystery, and the return of boundless energy which
coursed so steadily through my vigorous young body.  All too soon, we
reached the Morris house.  All the lights were off.  Doug and I
slipped off the motorcycle, and he walked it into the garage.  He returned
for me, grasping my hand and pulling me into his house.  A mixed-breed
hound dog met us enthusiastically at the door, jumping up on me and attempting
to lick my face. 
    “Down, Travis!” Young Doug ordered.  “I’d put him in
the basement,” he told Young Danielle, “but he’ll just howl.  You don’t
mind, do you?  I’ll close the bedroom door.”
    “No, I don’t mind.”
    “Good.”  And with that, he turned to Young Danielle,
clasped her in his arms, and kissed her thoroughly.  My heart raced as I
watched them, and I tried not to betray how rapidly I was breathing, but I
could sense that Doug was doing the same. 
    Young Danielle was uttering little “oh” and “um” sounds as
Doug slowly guided her, while relentlessly consuming her with kisses, into his
room, kicking the door shut.
    “Now I remember what I saw in you,” I said.  “I’ve
doubted my own judgment for years.  This explains a lot.”
    “For me too, Danielle.   I
wanted you, for sure.  But I knew it wouldn’t work long-term.”
    Young Doug turned his bedside lamp on.  He turned back
to Danielle, stripped her with brutal efficiency and pushed her onto his double
bed.  “My god, I’ve been waiting for you.  I’ve been ready for this
for hours,” he murmured to her.  He stripped himself even faster.
    “Look at that hard-on,” Doug said.  “God,
to be that young again.   I remember hard- ons so strong they almost hurt.”  We couldn’t look at it for long, for Young
Doug clambered onto his bed, knelt over Danielle, pulled her legs up over his
shoulders, and plunged deep.  The two cried out.  We two cried
out.  That made four of us crying out.  It was
confusing.   
    “Mister Piston,” I said, hardly able to breathe.
    “You used to call me that,” Doug agreed.  “Wasn’t I the bronking buck. ”
    “What you lacked in finesse,” I said consideringly ,
“you made up for in stamina.”  It was hard to remain detached, watching
and feeling.  I could feel Young Danielle’s body react to his relentless
pounding.  It was delicious.  My entire body was in meltdown. 
It would have been fantastic to relive, but this wasn’t exactly reliving
it.  It was more like watching an NC-17 movie, in the company of your
weird next-door neighbor, you know, the guy who lives with his mother, wears
clothes that look 40 years out-of-date, and has no observable employment. 
You don’t mind waving to him in passing, but avoid having to talk to him. 
So in self-protection, I did what I needed to do in order to retain some
distance. 
    “Danielle, honestly.   Would
you stop humming?”
    I kept it up.
    “Really?   The Jeopardy theme?”   
    “Sure, it’s appropriate.  We’re watching a rerun and
discovering on second view how cheesy it all