Labor of Love

Eight

At least two more rounds followed that very first one over the course of the Night, much to both parties’ mutual pleasure. In fact, their final round before Bobby was forced to beg for a cease-and-desist was started by the young Witch. Due to the crowing of her Rooster–which wasn’t as loud out here in the Woods–she’d woken at the ass-crack of Dawn again. Years of stomping down the slightest attraction to even Richie’d left her quite a needy woman.

        The only real reason he’d to put the kibosh on any further shenanigans was ’cuz he was gonna wind up hurting himself, if he didn’t. Marissa’d been confused by what he meant, which just made him chuckle as he kissed the tip of her nose.

        Having given it a few moments’ Thought, the bassist finally said that he called the condition knotted balls. A man’d special tubing that allowed his seed an exit route, but too much pleasure too close together could tie that tubing into knots. Since he didn’t have the slightest clue how to untie such knots, he’d rather avoid getting them. Besides, he was rubbed a bit raw by her pubic hair since he wasn’t used to that anymore.

        Looking up at him, she couldn’t help the way her brow knitted in confusion, which just made him laugh again. Bobby explained that while some women stopped at merely trimming, others’d completely remove theirs in 1989. If he were completely honest, he was one of those people who tended to do away with pubic hair, himself.

        “It’s fuckin’ itchy and traps more body odor when I’m on tour,” he said with a shrug.

        “On tour?” Marissa asked.

        “Bret, Rikki, and I make our living as musicians,” the bassist explained. “Going on tour means we go to a lotta different places over a Year or two so we can play our songs for a whole lotta people.”

        “I guess it’s kinda like a Traveling bard a couple hundred Years ago,” she mused.

        “Well, kinda, but not exactly,” Bobby admitted. “In 1989, we don’t Travel on horseback, or by wagons and sleighs unless we wanna.”

        “Wait, y’all don’t?” the young Witch asked.

        “We’ve trains, as well as things called cars and airplanes,” he answered with a chuckle.

        Marissa looked utterly confused.

        “Cars make it so driving twenty miles takes a few minutes instead of all Day,” the bassist chuckled. “Airplanes take humans up into the Sky kinda like Birds when they’re flying.”

        “I feel the need for a headache tonic,” she veritably moaned.

        “I’m not surprised,” Bobby said. “The differences between now and then’re enough to give even me a headache, and I grew up with all that shit.”

        “Really?” she queried, turning a curious look up at him.

        “All of us band mates were born in the early-1960s,” the bassist answered, nodding. “Rikki in 1961, CC in 1962, and Bret and I in 1963.”

        “So, you’re the same age as Bret?” Marissa seemed intrigued.

        “Well, not quite–he was born in March of that Year, me in November,” he told her. “So, Bret’s already turned twenty-six, but I won’t for another month or so.”

        “I’ll be twenty-one on October eighteenth,” the young Witch giggled. “So, not much younger than the rest of y’all.”

        Bobby chuckled as he admitted that he’d been curious about her age all this Time. He hadn’t asked, ’cuz he’d been raised under the belief that it was rude to all about a woman’s weight or she, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still curious.