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By Peter Principle (PeterPrin@hotmail.com)

I was back in my old stomping grounds for a few days last week. I travel there every couple of months on business, pressing the flesh with customers, occasionally catching up with one old friend or another when the mood strikes me. Most of the times I just keep to myself in the evenings. Sometimes I even drive down her street.
BJ and I -her real name was Betsy Jerrigan, though everyone called her BJ -were quite an item back in the late 1980's. We were together, if you could call it that, for almost two years. I never really felt "together" with her, though. I don't know that anyone did. She was a fiercely independent soul who I think was truly the happiest when she was by herself. That's one of life's ironies, of course. A close second on her happiness scale was when she was fucking.
I thought about all that when my rental car aimed itself up the Peninsula and found the exit to downtown Palo Alto and the gentile tree-lined streets that BJ called home. She didn't live there when I knew her. Back then she lived in a tiny house in a modest neighborhood not far from the railroad tracks. It was all she could afford then, before she struck it rich with a startup in Silicon Valley. After me.
I'd found out about her new neighborhood last year when I had the urge to look her up in the telephone book. "B Jerrigan" was there with a Palo Alto address that signaled just how successful that startup had been. I didn't drive down her street during that trip. The first time I did that was only six months ago, and I'd only done it twice before last week. I never actually saw her. Until last week, that is.
BJ's street extends for only three long blocks. It's a wide street, lined with resistant elms that arch over the sidewalks and most of the way over the roadway, giving the street a winsome cathedral effect. The first time I saw it, I knew why BJ had chosen to live there. She always loved the stately elegance of large trees, showing quiet strength and independence. Just like her.
Even though I knew that her house was in the last block of the street, I always began my drive-by at the far end of the street. This time I pulled over to the curb and turned off the engine. I wanted time to absorb the grace of the trees, the well-manicured lawns fronting the sedate mostly two-story houses. Time to think about BJ and what I would do if I actually saw her. And if she saw me.
She and I had ended our relationship in much the same way we began it, with passion. Not love. It was never love, for either of us. It was passion, it was lust. It was carnal. It was all about acceptance and about freedom. Well, maybe it was more about her freedom than about mine.
Our relationship at the end was shaky. We were a car that was running out of gas, gasping for fuel one day and surging forward the next. We hadn't seen each other for almost two weeks when I showed up, unannounced, on her doorstep. She didn't seem surprised, though. It was a late Fall afternoon, full of blustery winds and occasional cold wet spritzes, and BJ came to the door wearing her baggy Oshkosh overalls and a thin white cotton shortsleeved top. That was a common outfit for her, a kind of unisex statement I suppose. And convenient. She never wore underwear beneath it.
I remember BJ telling me that I'd interrupted nothing in particular. She'd been slumped in her black beanbag chair in the livingroom, reading and sipping hot tea from a large mug that rested on a nearby spindly three-legged table that she'd found at a garage sale. I'd interrupted her solitude, of course. Her number one joy. And, of course, it wasn't long before we shifted to her number two joy.
Five minutes and one long kiss later, BJ had unsnapped her two shoulder straps and had wriggled her overalls to the floor, deftly stepping out of them and back over to the beanbag chair. There she reassumed her slouched position, though this time naked from the waist down and with unabashedly sprawled legs and an expectant grin on her face.
I spent the next twenty minutes on my knees, praying to the God of Pussy. BJ was less patient than I was in these circumstances. I would favor an initial mood of lazy exploratory licks, and BJ would interject her own fingers to brusquely flick at her clitoris with a nonverbal demonstration of her preference for harder and faster. Her musky, oozing vagina would contribute as much as my saliva to the general juiciness between her legs, and as always, before too long, my mouth would nudge aside her fingers and devoutly replace their effort.
That afternoon her scent overwhelmed me. Her fat labia grew even more thick and crimson and yawning. My fingers found the heat of her vagina and the roughness of her G-spot as my tongue muscled its way back and forth across her stiff soldier, and I could hear the delicious slurpy sounds of lubrication and the faraway moans and grunts of her pleasure. BJ was slippery sweet and flowing, gasping and clenching at me with her thighs and her vagina, and when she was ready, my firm tongue danced on her clit with a random frenzy until her hips rose up off the beanbag chair and her body stiffened and shuddered, her grunts throaty and rhythmic in their pleasured release.
And then I rose up on my knees and gazed down at her, looking at her closed eyes and her inscrutable smile, at her fingers which were sneaking back to softly tease her raw glistening openness. I discarded my shirt, and then with more effort my pants, yet BJ never opened her eyes, never acknowledged my naked presence between her legs. When I was ready I moved forward to cover her body with mine, and only then did her eyes open and her smile become more apparent.
I wanted to feel her nakedness against mine, and I fumbled to pull her top up over her full breasts, and only reluctantly did she straighten her arms above her head to allow me to remove it completely. I visited her breasts with my mouth, first one then the other, teasing fuller life back into her already hard nipples.
BJ's fingers tousled my hair and she chuckled. "Can't wait, can you?" she teased. "Don't you want to eat me again?" I only grunted, my mouth being full and busy, and BJ's legs wrapped around my thighs and pulled me onto her, telling me that she wanted to be fucked more than she really wanted to be eaten again.
My cock found her and centered itself, but I resisted the impulse to drive into her. "Have you been seeing him?" I asked. The tip of my cock swirled in her pouty slickness.
BJ was silent for a moment. Her eyes were closed once again, her mouth returned to that cryptic pose. Then in a quiet voice she whispered, "Yes," and in one quick thrust I was fully inside and arching my hips to strain my stiffness against her clenching ring of muscle. BJ gasped and growled her low-pitched guttural animal sound. I couldn't make up my mind whether to start thrusting or to just savor her silky grasp of my erection.
"Mmmm," she hummed, and her legs pulled me tighter, then relaxed. Then tighter again, her hips pressing upward to pull me further into her cunt, then relaxing. It was my cue to begin to thrust. After all this time, I certainly knew her non-verbal signals.
BJ spread her knees wide and held herself open for me. Her hips remained still, the outsides of her ankles lying relaxed on my calves.
She wanted to be fucked. I wanted to fuck her. I wrapped my left arm around her back, while my right hand snuck around to cradle her behind. I slowly and deliberately thrust into her creamy sheath with a dancer's hips, side to side, in and out, edging and stretching and rejoicing in her cunt and her body and her exposed soul. BJ gave me encouraging little moaning whimpering noises as I drove us both upward. Her breathing shuddered and shimmied as she climbed, as I nudged her along.
And when she was almost there, I was almost there, too. With my own animal growl I plunged into her body with rapid, full-length strokes that would only have one conclusion. BJ's breathing quivered in erratic little gasps and I knew she was with me, neck and neck, even if I didn't really care anymore. She squealed, clung onto me tightly with arms and legs, and I let myself go. "There!" I announced, slamming into her with those final satisfying pounding thrusts, "There! Now!" and I jammed impossibly deep as the slow-motion explosion ripped through me.
BJ squealed a second time and her entire lower body trembled as her own orgasm crested, and my superhardend cock began to spurt liquid fire into her clutching grasp. I wanted to fill her with my own seed, to displace his, to drive out the demons that I could not control.
With every one of my long surging spasms I pushed hard to bury myself ever deeper. BJ clung to me, panting rapidly with shallow breaths, full of her orgasm, full of mine.
When I left her house that afternoon, I knew it would be the last time I would be there, the last time I would be with her, inside her, holding her in my arms. We finalized our breakup with the remoteness of the telephone. It was an ironic way to end a relationship that had been so physically intimate.

Finally, I restarted the engine and resumed the slow crawl down her street to the final block. As I approached her house on the right, I saw BJ emerging from the front door of the house. There she was, wearing a simple white cotton t-shirt and running shorts. She glanced briefly at my approaching car, then returned her attention to inside the house. My last glimpse was of her holding the hand of a petite girl, no more than three or four years of age, with short-cropped blonde hair, wearing faded blue Oshkosh overalls and a big smile.