I was in desperate need of some dick, and had been for a long, long time. I wanted Porter to be the guy to take me out of my sexless slump, but I needed to make sure I was stepping out of the single life for all the right reasons. Sexually frustrated to the point of a meltdown, I exercised restraint and settled for devouring a pecan pie.

It seemed like a responsible decision.

We decided to ride to Julian, California. My first ride with Porter was an awakening, of sorts. The ride to Julian Pie Company was different. After the sexual innuendos, blowjob banter, and the glimpse of Porter’s massive manhood, I was a horny mess.

When I got on the motorcycle, I was already soaking wet. One hour into the ride, the motorcycle’s vibration had me on the verge of an orgasm. I spent the next thirty minutes with my eyes cinched closed, my mind adrift, and my soaking wet pussy at the mercy of an eight-hundred-pound vibrator. During that half-hour ride, my sexual tension increased to an all-time high.

In my daydream, Porter’s face was buried between my legs. He ate me while I ate slice after slice of pie. I was truly in heaven – both in my dream, and in reality.

The last fifteen minutes of the trip were in stop and go traffic, during which time I couldn’t find my happy place. Frustrated, I opened my eyes and tried to regain my composure.

Much to my surprise, we’d arrived in the small town. I fidgeted in my seat. Nothing seemed to relieve the tension that had built within me. I was soaking wet and my pussy was begging for attention.

“What the fuck are you doing back there?” Porter snarled.

“Trying to get comfortable,” I whined.

“With you thrashing around like that, it’s not easy to keep this son-of-a-bitch on the road,” he growled. “We’ll be there in five minutes. Sit. Still.”

I lifted my weight from the seat, stuffed my dress under my thighs, and sat down. “Sorry,” I huffed.

For the first time since we’d exited the highway, I surveyed my surroundings. Short of the cars that lined the narrow streets, the town looked like something from the turn of the nineteenth century.

Wooden buildings with porches that hung over the entrance, homes that had been converted to craft shops, and residences that doubled as restaurants lined the streets. We came to rest at a pie shop that looked like a century old New England cottage. He turned off the engine and lowered the kickstand.

I was excited to get to know Porter, but I was mentally exhausted. I’d been daydreaming about him eating my pussy for the entire two-hour ride. Sexually frustrated and still soaking wet, I climbed off the motorcycle and brushed the wrinkles from my dress.

He hung his helmet on the handlebars, looked at the pie shop’s small covered patio, and then at me. “You ready?”

Before I could answer, his eyes darted to the motorcycle seat. “What the fuck is that?”

He reached toward the seat.

I shifted my gaze to the area in question. Upon seeing it, embarrassment balled up in my throat. The leather was slathered in what appeared to be proof of my joyous ride. He dragged his finger across the slippery surface, wiping a clean path through the six-inch wide wet spot I’d left there.

A prickly feeling crept up my neck. My face flashed hot. With his focus on his finger, and mine on him, I held my breath as he moved his hand toward his mouth.

Oh. My God. Please. Lick it. I’m begging you.

With my mouth agape and my mind in the gutter, I followed the movement of his hand as it moved closer and closer to his face. He straightened his finger. His lips parted. The instant the tip of his tongue touched the juice covered digit, my legs went weak.

His eyes thinned. He licked it again and then looked at me. “Enjoy the ride?”

I nodded. A full-on blush enveloped me. Instead of playing the embarrassed innocent, I decided to simply own it.

“I had a good time,” I said, cocking my hip as I spoke. “Is that a crime?”

“I’ll tell you what the crime is.” He wiped the palm of his hand over the remnants of my sexual daydream-infused ride. “Letting this go to waste.”

Just when I thought my degree of sexual agony couldn’t worsen, it did. In an overly dramatic fashion, he licked his hand clean. As if it were a daily occurrence, he then turned toward the sidewalk that led to the pie shop.

“You ready to eat that pie?” he asked.

“I’m ready for you to eat my pie,” I responded, saying what was on my mind before I could get my brain to stop my mouth from spewing out the words.

“You tortured me by making me agree to do this,” he said. “I don’t give a single solitary fuck how horny you got on the ride up here. It’s my turn to torture you. We’re eating fucking pie.”

He took a few long strides toward the entrance. “C’mon.”

Eating an entire pie sounded like a great idea when we talked about it in the sushi restaurant. Now it seemed a complete waste of an afternoon. Nonetheless, I followed Porter up the sidewalk, second-guessing my denial of his offer to have sex the entire way. My dripping wet pussy agreed.

Once inside the nostalgic establishment, I was met by an old-school glass pie display case that was filled with various pies. My mouth watered at the sight of the flaky crust and the aroma of the fresh pies. As I ogled the pies, Porter stepped to the counter.

“I’d like one slice of the boysenberry apple crumb, and an entire pecan pie, please,” Porter said.

“A slice of boysenberry apple, and a whole pecan pie?” the lady asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Any toppings?” she asked, pointing to a sign that was suspended over her head.

I glanced at the sign. There were two ice cream options – vanilla and cinnamon, caramel sauce, cinnamon sauce, whipped cream, and cheddar cheese.

“Cinnamon ice cream on top of the boysenberry, please,” Porter responded without looking at the sign. He glanced over his shoulder. “Do you want anything on your pie?”

Still struggling to rid myself of lingering sexual thoughts, I simply shook my head. “No, thank you.”

“You don’t want the pecan pie boxed?” the lady asked.

Porter smiled. “No, ma’am. She’s going to eat it.”

Her eyes went wide. “She can’t eat an entire pecan pie. That’s impossible.”

“According to her, she can eat it,” Porter assured her. “We’ve got a bet.”

She was a middle-aged woman that looked like she belonged in a nineteen sixties television sitcom. Her short graying hair was fixed in a series of close curls, and she wore an apron that was dusted with flour. Halfway up the bridge of her nose, a pair of glasses rested.

She peered over the tops of the lenses and fixed her eyes on me. “Sweetheart, you’re going to get sick if you eat an entire pie.”

“I’ll be okay,” I said.

“Have you done this before?” she asked.

“I ate seven hotdogs once,” I admitted. “Not on a bet. Just because.”

“That’s a far cry from eating one of our pecan pies. I wish you the best of luck.” She offered a reassuring smile. “Anything to drink?”

I stepped to Porter’s side. “Milk, please.”

He draped his arm over my back and squeezed my shoulder, pulling me into him as he did so. It was a simple gesture and I doubted he meant anything by it. My heart – and my slowly recovering lady bits – seemed to think otherwise.

I looked at him with the intention of asking – playfully – what the hell he was doing. Instead, a face-splitting smile formed. He squeezed my shoulder with his massive hand and grinned in return.

Lost in blissful thoughts of the moment we shared, I walked at Porter’s side as he carried the pies, admiring him along the way. Once outside, he gestured toward an empty table with a nod. “How’s that one?”

Patrons of various ages were scattered about the seating area. I was going to become a spectacle while I ate the pie, and there was nothing I could do about it. Even so, I agreed to sit in the seat he recommended.

“It’s fine,” I said.

Porter seemed, at least during our pie-eating adventure, to be kind, playful, and extremely polite. Those qualities, when combined with his intimidating looks and massive size, garnered my interest. All of it.

I wanted to get back on the orgasm machine. Or go order another pie and have him put his arm around me. We could ride around the countryside, stopping every fifteen miles or so for him to lick the seat free of my juices.

I could simply bring up the topic of sex and see if it aroused him as much as it did in the sushi restaurant, stealing glances under the table at his crotch as we talked. I had no interest, however, in the pie that sat between us.

“I’m pretty full.” I pushed myself away from the table and looked at the pie with disgust. “That sushi is swelling in my belly.”

Acting disinterested in the comment I’d made, Porter cut the tip from his pie. He lifted it to his mouth and paused.

“You said you wanted to get to know me.” He nodded toward the pecan pie. “While we’re eating we can get started on getting to know one another. What do you detest? What aggravates you?”

“Surprises,” I responded without much thought. “I hate surprises.”

He seemed surprised. “Really?”

“Yep. Can’t stand them,” I said through gritted teeth. “They make me itch. I’m itching right now just talking about it. What about you? What do you detest?”

“Liars,” he responded. “Just tell me the truth, no matter what you think I want to hear. If someone out and out lies to me, it’s over.”

“I can’t stand them, either,” I admitted. “Liars suck.”

He studied me for a moment, cut off a piece of pie, and then paused. “I want to know three things. One, what’s your all-time favorite song, and why. Two, I want to know if you were required to put one saying on your headstone what it would be. And, three, what’s the item on your little list that likely going to be the last one you achieve.”

I loved question-answer games. By asking those three simple questions, Ghost Porter-Porter inched a little closer to my heart. Two of the questions were going to be easy to answer. The third, not so much.

“My favorite song is from a movie,” I said. “At least that’s where I heard it first. Solsbury Hill, by Peter Gabriel. I like it because it’s perfect. It’s written in imperfect time – a seven-four beat – which makes it feel like it’s missing a beat in every measure. It sounds like the song is struggling to continue. It was his first song as a solo artist, and I wonder if he was struggling to continue at that time as well. I find it to be a spiritual song, but it doesn’t feel like he’s shoving spirituality down your throat when you listen to it. I love it. It’s uplifting.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard that song.” He sliced the tine of his fork through the ice cream-pie mixture. “I’m not a spiritual person, maybe that’s why.”

“The song has spiritual meaning, but it’s not a spiritual song. I’ll play it for you sometime,” I said. “It’s awesome.”

“Keep going.” He rolled his hand in a circle as if he were bored. “There’s two more.”

His admittance of not being spiritual troubled me. I wondered how he’d ever make it through cancer treatment without having a good relationship with God. I couldn’t comprehend what it would be like, and the more I thought about it, the more bothered about it I became. I decided I’d ask about it later.

At least for the time being, I felt I needed to stick with the questions he’d asked of me. The next one was easy to answer. I’d given it considerable thought, long before meeting Porter. As far as I was concerned, it was the perfect epitaph. “If I had to put a saying on my headstone, it’d say, it’s not that bad.”

“It’s not that bad?” He laughed. “What’s not that bad?”

“Everything,” I said. “Life. Cancer. Whatever troubles you. Death. It’s not that bad. I thought the saying would make people wonder as they looked at my headstone, especially about death. When I was diagnosed, I came to peace with death quickly. I wasn’t afraid to die, and I don’t think other people should be, either. It’s not that bad.”

“I like it. It covers a lot of ground,” he said. “I might paint that shit on the fender of my bike.”

I smiled. “Do it.”

He set his fork down on the side of his plate. After studying me, he drew a slow breath and then looked away. A moment of awkward silence followed. Then, he met my gaze.

“What’s your status?” he asked. “Now? With cancer?”

“It’s gone,” I replied. “I had an odd blood cancer. They cured it with treatment.”

He gave me a look of disbelief. “Why do you go to the meetings?”

“It’s important for survivors to go,” I explained. “It’s the equivalent of a sober man going to an AA meeting. It gives those just stepping in a ray of hope. My experiences help others.”

He nodded. “I see.”

“Can I ask what your diagnosis is?” I asked.

“I’ve got a brain tumor,” he said as if it were no big deal. “Still don’t know much.”

“Treatment is a wonderful thing,” I said.

The look on his face changed from acknowledgement to indifference. His cheeks lost their color.

I reached for his hand. “Remember, it’s not that bad.”

He forced a crooked smile. “Number three?”

He’d eaten half his pie, and I hadn’t so much as touched mine. I gestured toward his plate with a nod. “Let me get caught up, and then I’ll answer.”

With little effort, I gobbled down two pieces of pie. I’d eaten plenty of pecan pie in the past, none of which came close to the quality of what I was eating. I reached for another piece. “How did you find out about this place.”

He pulled the fork past his tightened lips, wiping it clean as he removed it from his mouth. “We ride up here all the time.”

“We?”

“I ride in a motorcycle club. We come up here as a group.” He chuckled. “A couple of the guys really like pie.”

“Are you one of them?” I asked. “The pie lovers?”

“Pies are a lot like women,” he said. “A man can live the rest of his life without one as long as he’s never reminded of their existence. However, once one is placed in front of him there’s not much else that matters.”

His response was cute and sad at the same time. I swallowed my pie and gave him my best sultry look. “What if there’s a woman and a pie in front of you?”

He opened his arms wide. “All of what surrounds him vanishes.” He gestured to the table. “Then, all that’s left is her and the five and a half pieces of pie she needs to eat.”

“Until she gets up and walks away. Right?”

His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“You said a man can live the rest of his life without a woman as long as she’s not in front of him. Per your theory, when she walks away he’s left needing nothing.”

“That’s not what I said. I said a man could live the rest of his life without a woman in it as long as he wasn’t reminded of their existence. A smell, a sound, my wandering mind, the rear seat on my bike being empty. All those things could remind me of your existence. That reminder makes it impossible to live without you.”

I liked the thought of him not being able to live without me but didn’t particularly care for his analogy.

“You’ve got five and a half pieces of pie and one question to go,” he said. “You better get busy, or we’ll be stuck in rush hour traffic.”

I could have told him anything for the answer to question number three, and he’d never know the difference. Telling him the truth would leave me feeling incompetent and weak. I was sure of it. I hated admitting that there was something everyone else on earth seemed to acquire without much effort, and for some reason, I wasn’t allowed to have it.

“The task on my to-do list that’s likely to be accomplished last, if at all, is number two.” I poked the remaining piece of pie into my mouth and spoke over my mouth full of food.

“Fawn lub,” I muttered.

He scrunched his nose and gave me a funny look. “What?”

“Fawn lub.”

“If I spoke with my mouth full my grandmother would have smacked my ass,” he said. “Swallow your pie, Abby.”

I washed my pie down with a drink of milk and reached for another piece. “Sorry. Fall in love.”

“Falling in love is on your to-do list?” he asked.

I sloved half the piece into my mouth and nodded. “Yeth.”

“That’s cute,” he said.

I swallowed the wad of pie. “You think it’s cute?”

He nodded. “I do.”

“I think you’re cute,” I responded.

There went my mouth again, saying what my mind was thinking without giving me time to stop it. It was a common problem.

“Thank you,” he said. “But, I’m far from cute.”

“The grandmother comment made you cute,” I explained. “I can imagine her slapping your shoulder with the back of her hand.”

He laughed as if recalling a distant memory. “That’s exactly what she did, too.”

“Can I ask you three questions?” I asked.

He rocked his chair onto the rear legs. After looking me up and down, he grinned. “Sure.”

I hadn’t given it much thought, but I really didn’t need to. My ability to think on my feet had been honed to perfection from years of interviewing people for my weekly YouTube show. While I considered my questions, I devoured the remaining portion of scrumptious pie I held, and then reached for piece number four.

I peered beyond the piece of pie and looked him over. His arms were crossed over his chest. Veins stood out in his massive forearms, both of which were decorated with various tattoos. His muscular shoulders rose into his thick neck. A day of stubble peppered his angular jaw. He looked rugged, unapproachable, and handsome all at the same time. Beneath that hard exterior, he was kind. With each moment we spent together, it became clearer.

Porter was a walking contradiction.

I brought the pie close enough that I could smell it, and hesitated. “Okay. One, do you believe in God? If not, please explain. Two, what living person do you admire the most? Then, the last one. Have you ever been in love?”

His gaze went skyward, and then drifted around the small patio, not stopping on any one thing for very long. Eventually, he lowered the chair onto all four legs and looked right at me.

“I’m not convinced God exists. I won’t swear he doesn’t, but I’m not convinced he does, either. For now, I’m sticking with this: God is a good thing for weak-minded people to attach themselves to. It allows them to find something to believe in when they are incapable of believing in themselves. Religion is one huge farce.”

I wanted to go on a rant about his weak-minded people comment but knew not to. If a person of belief went on a tirade toward a skeptic or nonbeliever, it never ended well. I swallowed my desire and lowered my piece of half-eaten pie.

“I’m not religious,” I said. “I’m spiritual.”

A confused look washed over him. “What, exactly, does that mean?”

“I don’t go to church. I believe everything a church going Christian believes, but I don’t think I need to go to church to profess my beliefs. That’s the only real difference. Spirituality is religion void of church service.”

He nodded. “Always wondered what that meant.”

“Is there a reason you don’t believe in God?” I asked.

“Of all the shit we could be talking about, you had to pick this,” he muttered under his breath.

He looked away. It seemed he was considering giving a response. I reached for my pie, hoping my lack of prying would encourage him to explain. After eyeing the entire patio, he met my gaze.

“I didn’t know my father,” he said. “My mother and I lived on my grandparent’s ranch, in Montana. My grandfather acted as my father when I was young. He died of cancer when I was four. So, my grandmother stepped in as my father. She died of cancer when I was thirteen. My mother and I continued living on their ranch, with me taking care of all the livestock while she tried to keep the place picked up and presentable. She died of cancer when I was seventeen. So, there I stood. A man in a boy’s body, in charge of one hundred and sixty acres that did nothing but remind him that everything he once loved was lost. All to cancer.”

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered, almost choking on the words.

“Explain to me what kind of God would do that to a little boy? Take everyone he’s ever loved, and leave him alone?” He rocked the chair onto the rear legs and folded his arms over his chest. “A heartless one?”

He was remarkably calm. I, on the other hand, was an emotional wreck. Hearing of his losses made me want to leap over the table and take him in my arms. Instead, I summoned my inner strength and suppressed my emotion.

“I can’t make you believe in God,” I said. “So, I’m not going to try. I’ll just hope that someday something will happen that might give you reason to believe.”

He cocked an eyebrow of disbelief. “What might that be? What would be so significant that I’d forget about all the death?”

“I don’t know. I do know how hard it will be for you to get through what you’re going through alone. Are your friends in the motorcycle club a good support system?”

“Brothers,” he said. “They’re brothers, not friends.”

“Your brothers. Do they provide support?”

He looked away. “They don’t know.”

My heart sank. He was going through cancer treatments alone. I couldn’t imagine how helpless he was feeling. In my mind, there was a reason for everything. At that instant, I believed at least one of the reasons Porter was in my life was to receive my unconditional support.

“I’m here for you throughout this entire ordeal,” I said. “I mean it. We’ll get through this together.”

“I’m pretty good at grieving alone,” he said. “I’m experienced at it.”

If we didn’t change the subject, I was going to start crying. “What about the other two questions?” I asked.

He cocked his head to the side. “What were they?”

“What living person do you admire the most, and have you ever been in love?”

He lowered his gaze to beneath the table and stared for a moment. “Right now,” he said, looking up as he spoke. “I think I admire you the most. And, no. I’ve never been in love.”

I was flattered, confused, and, once again, filled with more emotion than I could handle. I mentally stammered to make sense of what he’d said.

“Me?” I coughed. “I don’t deserve that kind of admiration.”

“Beyond sitting in a meeting, hunting a rattlesnake, and eating together today, you don’t know me. But, you offered to help me through this. You earned my admiration with that offer.”

“Thank you.” I smiled. “I’ll try not to disappoint you.”

His eyebrows raised slightly. “I’ll try not to let you.”

His lack of faith in God – and in mankind – was painfully obvious. I wanted to ask a question but feared the answer would do nothing but strengthen my belief that he had no faith in anything the world had to offer him. Eventually, my curiosity got the best of me.

“Why haven’t you ever found love?” I asked.

“I’ve never looked for it. In fact, I’ve done a pretty good job of avoiding it. I figured if I ever allowed myself to fall in love, she’d just be taken from me. We don’t get to choose our family, but we can choose who we let in our lives. If I don’t let anyone in, I don’t have to worry about getting hurt.” Wearing a long face, he gestured toward the pie, half of which was now gone. “Don’t worry about finishing that. You did better than I could have. We should probably look at riding back.”

Our perfect day had been transformed into one that was filled with sorrow. Despite the clear sky, a cloud of sadness hovered over me. I wanted to fix him but feared I couldn’t. Disappointed and depressed, I accepted defeat.

“Okay,” I murmured, reaching for one last piece of pie as I stood. “I’ll eat this on the way to the motorcycle.”

He reached for the pie and pulled a piece from the tin. “I’ll have one, too.”

He rose from his seat and tossed the pie tin in the trash. For Porter, it was just another day. For me, it was a day that would always be earmarked with sadness. Shoulders slumped, I shuffled around the edge of the table and to his side.

I wanted to touch him. To hold him. To explain that although I had no idea why he had been exposed to so much loss, I believed that everything happened for a reason. At that moment, however, I couldn’t fathom any reason that would call for him to lose so much.

We turned toward the street. Porter took a bite of pie. After swallowing it, he looked at me. His face was plastered with surprise. “This is good fucking pie.”

I was too busy wallowing in my sadness to carry on a meaningful conversation. My gaze dropped to the sidewalk. “It’s okay.”

He pushed against my shoulder, forcing me to turn and face him. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m sad.” I bit off half the piece of pie in one bite. “Sad affuck.”

“Why?” he asked. “It’s been a good day.”

I swallowed the mouthful of pie. “Not for me,” I said without looking up. “I don’t like it that you’re so uncomfortable with life that you won’t let people in it.”

The index finger of his free hand came into view. He raised it to my chin, lifting it until our eyes met. Instead of continuing the conversation, which was what I expected, he leaned closer. In my sad state of being, I thought for an instant that he was going to kiss me.

And then. He did.

His tongue parted my lips. The sweet taste of syrup, pecans, and buttery pie crust tickled my taste buds. I closed my eyes. Starting at my feet, a tingling sensation ran through me, working its way up my body until I was completely encompassed by a sensation of euphoria.

I followed his every lead, kissing him in return. With a half-eaten piece of pie held loosely in my left hand, I pressed my right palm against the taut muscles of his upper back. Our chests collided. My heart faltered.

Sparks flew.

I wanted the kiss to last forever. We continued our embrace for an amount of time I couldn’t accurately describe. When our lips parted, it seemed that we’d been kissing for a lifetime. I drifted back to earth. A kiss had never transformed me into mindless ball of emotion, but that one did.

Elated, I looked at him admiringly.

My mouth opened slightly, but my mind was incapable of sending a signal to my tongue. While I tried to remember how to turn thoughts into discernable dialogue, he broke the beautiful silence.

“I just let you in. All I ask is this.” He swept my hair over my ear with a gentle finger. “Don’t hurt me.”

Gracious that he trusted me enough to allow me to cradle his damaged heart in my hands, I swallowed heavily, hoping to speak without revealing the mindless state he’d left me in.

“I won’t hurt you,” I breathed. “I promise.”

As we walked to the motorcycle, with him so close I could taste the sweetness of his pecan pie laced breath, I hoped like hell I was right.