Humorous erotica...
"Have Faith," a sexy story by N.S. Faulk
I love Tim McGraw. He’s such a sexy man with that black cowboy hat, perfectly coiffed facial hair, sultry come-and-get-me eyes, and painted-on jeans. And like a fine wine, he simply gets better with age, both physically and musically.
I listen to my Tim CDs all the time. “Back When” while driving, his smooth voice calming potential road rage. “Do You Want Fries With That” while driving through McDonald’s, absurdly praying he’ll be the cashier. “She’s My Kind Of Rain” while masturbating in the bathtub, his manly, throaty purr mingling with vanilla scented bubbles.
I could listen to him all the time. “Honey, could ya wash my shorts?” in that Louisiana-come-Nashville accent. “Sugar, we’re out of toilet paper.” Glorious goose bumps.
Time for bed, radio on. Hubby is working night shift. My CDs are parked in the car and I’m too lazy at the moment to get them. Ooooh! He’s on the radio. I crawl beneath the sheets in my Tim nightshirt and lay my head upon my 250 thread count Tim pillowcase, both recently acquired on eBay. The steady, repetitive chorus of “Ticking Away” lulls me, comforts me, and soothes me. I smell rain mingled with the night air while the mini-blinds bang against the window sill, keeping time with Tim’s soulful crooning.
My fingertips feel my hardened nipples through Tim’s glorious ironed-on portrait. My hair fanning over the pillowcase’s crinkly decal contributes lamely to the languor of the song. I feel for Tim, sitting in that bar, waiting for someone to enter and alleviate his loneliness. My eyelids are heavy. My pulse beats a rhythmic adagio as I drift off, my hand between my bare thighs.
A tickle upon my left shoulder stirs me. Did the dogs get in the house? I turn my head slowly, sighing. Tim’s rigid image is slick beneath my sleep-sweaty hair. I hope I don’t wrinkle him. I contemplate turning the pillowcase over. But then he’d suffocate. Another sigh. A noisy yawn. I blink my eyes. I blink them again. A black cowboy hat materializes on the pillow next to me, sitting atop Tim’s head.
I lift the covers, praying for a body. There it is. Wow. Naked too. Hairy chest and all.
“How’s it goin’?” That accent. I’m gonna have a coronary.
“Um, what are you doing here?” A falsetto voice, mine, yet not mine.
“I got tired of sitting in the bar alone, so I grabbed a six-pack. It’s in your fridge. Want one?” What?! I’m having a multisensory hallucination.
“No thanks. About the beer, I mean.”
“I’m gonna go snag me one then,” he drawls, rising from my bed. Hmmm. I guess his jeans aren’t permanently attached.
“Okay. Hurry back.” How lame. Tell him you’re gonna miss him too.
With the full force of a hurricane I realize I am wearing his sexy persona on my boobs and crinkling his handsome face beneath my messy hair. I kiss the pillowcase and turn it over. I remove my shirt, folding it carefully and placing it gingerly on the floor. If my ultimate celebrity fantasy hallucination is naked, I should be too.
He saunters back, taking a prolonged swig from the longneck bottle, his manhood swinging in the breeze, hat still on. Maybe it’s sewn on. I should check. The hat, I mean. He climbs back into bed with me, placing the beer on the nightstand. I’m not going to worry about a coaster right now.
“So, what do you wanna do?” he asks, grinning behind a flirtatious wink. My mind floods with a multitude of x-rated images, contortions, locations, props, extras. No, not extras. Well, maybe Chris Cagle. Not to self: I’ll put his CDs next to Tim’s in my case for easy access.
My conscience hits me like a bolt of lightning from the tempest outside. I channel Benjamin Franklin. I lean over the foot of my bed, reaching for the dresser. Digging in a drawer I produce a pair of my husband’s boxer-briefs, waving them above my head, surrendering, scruples still intact.
“I’d feel better. They are clean.” He slips them on. Not as sexy as his jeans, but they’ll do. Abruptly realizing my own nakedness, I casually retrieve my nightshirt from the floor and yank it over my head.
“Nice shirt,” he observes. I smile, turning eleven shades of fuchsia. “Want me to sign it for you?”
“Let me get a pen.” I leap out of bed, like a declawed cat on a hot tin roof, and sprint down the hall in twelve seconds flat, unearth the Sharpie from the top of the refrigerator and race back. “Here you go,” I pant, handing him the pen, cap removed for his convenience.
“Whoa. Slow down there.”
I lie on my back as he signs my boobs, his other hand on my belly holding his face still. I can’t move until the ink dries. “Thanks a lot,” I gush.
“Anytime.” Yeah, anytime I hallucinate you into my bed.
“Do you ever take your hat off?” I am nosy.
“Only in the shower.” Only? I am intrigued. I ask why. “‘It’s The Cowboy in Me.’” I should have known.
“You know I’m your number one fan.”
“Uh, please don’t say that. It scares me in a Stephen King Misery sort of way.”
I giggle, “Sorry Mr. McGraw.”
“Call me Tim.”
“Call me anytime. Oh, and ‘Please Remember Me.’”
He chuckles. “You’re a funny one. Mind if I keep these?” He points at his luscious ass.
“Unless you want to moon the neighbors. I don’t think my husband will miss them.”
He kisses me on the cheek; the tickle of his goatee titillating my every nerve. I’m never washing my face again. Then he leaves. Vanishes. Disappears. Adios. Hasta la vista, baby.
“I Like It, I Love It...” I had forgotten about the radio. Oh yeah, I’d love some more of him. I close my eyes, remembering the look in his eyes, the softness of his moustache on my skin, his fluid signature decorating my chest like icing on a cake.
I check the ink. My nipples are so hard, I am afraid they’ll poke someone’s eyes out. I stroke my thigh, recalling his smell; a macho mixture of beer, testosterone, and denim. Denim? I am soaked. My fingers slide across my clit. Randy Travis is on the radio now. I feel guilty masturbating to him. I sigh insufferably and crawl out of bed, adjusting the tuner on the radio. Tim, Tim, where are you? I need you.
Four stations later, the sweet strains of “Let’s Make Love” fly out of my radio and into my soul. Tim and Faith. Faith and Tim. The way it should be. All is right with the world now. I dance back into bed and close my eyes. My hand continues its extracurricular activities. I am happy. I am tired. I come. I sleep.
My husband climbing into bed at dawn awakens me. “Did that come signed?”
Originally published September 2010