The Backseat

Going somewhere with Michael Jackson is a little bit like riding a subway car going as fast as a roller

coaster. Occasionally you get some sunlight, a couple above-ground stops, but mostly you rocket
through indeterminate amounts of space, careening from place to place as he gets on and off.
Sometimes he brings you with him, but most of the time you wait in the limo. The only real difference
is the noise. Roller coasters and subway cars are both loud and clattery, but the sound is mostly
constant and goes away when stopped. When Michael is out the ride is quiet, sometimes even
silent, while every stop is a crescendo of sound. Mostly it is people's footsteps, then their voices, and
then finally, when the door is opened, a thousand clicks from a dozen cameras. It's like he walks
around with an announcer, only instead of a musical baritone asking you to get ready to rumble it's a
cacophony of fame. You're not really sure if he likes it or not, but you suspect he does.
You can hear it now, the first of the pounding sneakers and shouting voices, and there is that
crescendo you've come to know so well. The last time you saw him twenty minutes ago by your
watch he was wearing a black jacket, a white t-shirt, and the tightest, skinniest black jeans you'd
seen him in yet. It's summer in Los Angeles and you really, really hope he's sweaty by now.
He keeps the limo dark and you don't realize how used to it you've become until the door opens and
admits not just the wall of sound but also a blast of late afternoon sunlight and you throw your hands
up over your face before you can think about it. With your eyes squeezed shut you can only hear his
bodyguards shouting for the paparazzi to move back, and the shouts of the photographers begging
for a picture, and a couple female fans begging for a hug, a touch, a look, a sign, anything. Then
over it all, that soft, high voice you can conjure in your head and feel his breath on your ear in the
middle of the night:
"Hi, thank you, thanks, hi, yes, I'm fine, thank you"
He slides into the car silently under all the shouting and you hear the thump of two of his bodyguards
hitting the street and then the sound goes muted and the light goes away. The third has closed the
door and you peek out from between your fingers to find him grinning across from you. You drop
your hands.
"Did you get"
He holds out a bottle of Diet Coke at the sound of your voice and you sigh, relieved, and take it from
him. He doesn't let go immediately, and slides onto the seat next to you. He glances over his
shoulder, which makes the bodyguards glance at each other, clearly amused. One of them, Bill,
grabs the curtain which separates the two ends of the limo and, with a smirk, draws it across the
compartment. The back of the car is suddenly much darker.
"Thanks," you say, and it comes out with a breath you hadn't realized you were holding. He smiles
and in the dimmer light the sheen of sweat on his face is more pronounced. Oh, good.
"Sorry that took so long."
His voice is already an octave deeper than it was outside and it makes your mouth even drier so you
slowly open the bottle of soda and take a tentative sip. He shrugs out of his slim jacket, arms pale
and glowing in what little afternoon light is, and you stare at his surprisingly defined muscles as he
gets comfortable.
"So what did you do in there?"
"Looked at a few paintings. Picked out a few I liked."
"What did you like?"

"You."
You can't stop the blush from spreading across your cheeks but it's not as sexy as it could be and
the reason is those two mirrored lenses separating you and this gorgeous, sweaty man. So instead
of pulling a coy smile from you, he has instead pulled a smirk. Revenge is a @#$%$.
"Take off your sunglasses."
"Why?" he reaches out and brushes your hair over your shoulder, exposing bare skin. It's hot
outside; you're wearing a tank top.
"Take off your sunglasses," you repeat and this time the sly smile curves his mouth instead of yours.
"You don't like my air of mystery?" his finger moves up to your jaw, stroking the back over your
sensitive skin. He knows he doesn't lose this game, not with you.
"Michael," you say, leaning in close and brushing your fingertips across the crotch of his pants,
"Take off. Your. Sunglasses."
The sly smile loses its slyness and he reaches up and lifts the proverbial curtain. His eyes never fail
to take your breath away, huge and luminous and deep, deep brown, and sparkling, always
sparkling like he knows something you don't. He does, you suppose, he knows a lot of things you
don't, but you know something too. You know how to make him beg.
"That's better," you whisper and when you do you realize he's much closer than you thought
because your breath bounces off his cheek and right back onto you. He bites his lower lip and you
shudder. His eyes flick down to your suddenly-trembling hands when you do.
"Miss me?"
"Of course."
Sometimes you can talk for hours about nothing and everything, about the past and the future and
god and the devil and what the Smoke Monster might <i>maybe possibly be</i>, but this is not one
of those time. You have just the barest moment to take in those amazing, glorious, hypnotic eyes
once more and then his mouth is on yours. His lips are soft and firm and slightly wet (he licked them
he always licks them you love it when he licks them you love it when he licks) and a little cool and
you groan softly. His head tilts just slightly, forcing your lips to part a millimeter, and the very tip of
his tongue runs across your bottom lip for just a second. You whimper.
This is The Tease:
His right hand reaches up and cups your cheek. His palm is enough to cover the expanse of skin
from your jaw to the top of your cheekbone, and his fingers slide easily into the hair at your temple.
His pinky and ring finger rest on either side of your ear. He tilts your face up to apply a little more
pressure, tightens his mouth, pulls back for the barest moment, then surges forward again. This time
he kisses just a little harder, parts your lips just a little further, nibbles them just a little bit longer. The
strength goes out of your shoulders and you pitch forward a little towards him again. His left hand
finds your waist then slides down to your hip, and his fingers dig into the flesh there. His grip is more
transparent than the touch of his lips and you can feel in the pressure how badly he wants you. You
whimper again.

He pulls back.
"I think you did miss me."
"Oh, don't talk," you groan, exasperated, and grab him by the neck. He comes willingly into your
arms, hips shifting forward, knees angling under your legs, pulling you partially into his lap. His
mouth isn't teasing anymore, it's hungry and wet. You capture his full bottom lip between your teeth
and worry it gently as he gets his left hand around to your back so he can hold you close. He tilts his
head back and forth, trying to escape your teeth without actually wanting to escape them, his crotch
hardening under your calf, giving him away. His body is, and always has been, his real Judas, his
ultimate betrayer, unable to keep his secrets. His body was what first gave away the dangerous,
almost uncontrollable sexuality roiling through his blood, just under the surface of that calm, shy
faade, gave it away on stage when he thrust his hips and oceans of women swooned. Now it gives
away how badly he wants you, how badly he needs you, how badly he missed <i>you</i>.
He grunts softly when you finally let his lip escape and then snarls, attacking your mouth with his,
parting your lips roughly and plunging his tongue inside. He flicks his tongue against yours, playful
and lusty all at once, and then withdraws. He repeats this a lot, a little game he loves to play, and
you tangle one of your hands in his hair as you attempt to hold him still. It doesn't quiet work but you
do fall into an easy, steady rhythm. You're pretty sure your heart is going to explode out of your
chest each time the smacking sound of your lips parting fills your ears.
"Oh, Mike," you sigh between kisses and he chuckles low in his throat, sounding satisfied, proud. He
begins to vary his pacing, interspersing the long, languorous kisses with short, hard pecks
accompanied with giggles. The sweat is a little heavier on his neck, his skin much hotter than when
he first wrapped you up in his arms, and you want to taste it. You try to pull your mouth away but he
won't let you.
"Mm, baby," you pout because pouting is the easiest way to make him do what you want but he
doesn't want you to do even that right now, he wants to taste you. He slides his hand from your face
to the back of your head, tangling in your hair, and then tugs, pulling your head back and exposing
your neck to him. Your mouths part with a pop that you immediately follow up with a yelp of protest.
He ignores the sounds you're making and moves his mouth down your jaw to your neck, licking and
kissing and nibbling his way around. It sends bolts of electricity all over your body and you squirm,
suddenly wishing you had his erection to grind down on and give you some relief. As it is you're
draped awkwardly across him with both legs in his lap. One of his hands is kneading your thigh but
you'd much rather he be squeezing your @ss. Talking won't work and you know if you try to pull on
his hair he'll just slap your hand away, so you do the only thing you can think of and just move. He
pulls back, surprised, but lets out an impressed, approving laugh when you straddle his lap.
"Girl, you takin' charge?" he asks with a smirk and you are once again caught up in those amazing
eyes, half-closed with lust. Both of his hands had automatically come onto your hips but now they
start to run slowly up and down your body, from the outsides of your breasts down to your @ss and
back. You moan almost silently and lean down to taste his mouth again.
From this angle he can rest his head on the seat and he does while he lets you kiss him the way you
want the most. He doesn't fight you when you break away from his lips almost immediately and work
your way down to his neck, instead tilting his head to the side and letting out the little squeaks and
grunts and giggles that tell you when you've found the right spot. His skin is salty and smooth and
musky and you inhale his scent as you work your way down to his shoulder and then back up to his
mouth. Your lips meet and part and meet and part, easy and wetly, both of you thoroughly
enchanted with each other. Every inch of your skin, every cell in your body is on fire each time he

kisses you, and your hands are just as intrusive and needy as his as they push his t-shirt up his
stomach. His torso is flat and hard and muscular and if you had enough mind to marvel at how *$%#
well-preserved this man is you would but currently your mind has turned into liquid and is, you're
pretty sure, dribbling out your ears. There is nothing but this man and this skin and this mouth and
this ever-so-enticing protrusion that just so happens to be rubbing against your most sensitive spot.
If the earth opened up beneath you and swallowed you whole you'd die a happy woman.
He thrusts instinctively beneath you, not really taking it to another level as much as relieving what
you hope are equally intense waves of desire coursing through his body as well. His fingers dig deep
into the fleshy globes of your @ss and his teeth clack against yours as he fights to get deeper,
wetter, harder kisses out of you. You're both breathing hard, slurping at each others' mouths and
gasping for air in the seconds you can bear to separate.
"Oh god," he groans and you squeeze your eyes shut as you wish fervently for some magical way to
teleport back to the house he is renting and the big, four-poster bed that he can bend you over, and
for a moment in your mind you see him behind you, sweating and grunting and so deep inside you
can feel him in the back of your throat, and then it's gone because the car has stopped and someone
has spoken.
"Mr. Jackson?" the bodyguard you're far too gone to remember anyone's name right now, not even
your own asks tentatively, "Mr. Jackson, we're at the antique store."
You look down at him and he looks as crazed as you feel, his skin glistening with perspiration and
flushed from the top of his chest all the way up to his chin. He is panting and his hair is sticking up in
every direction, and his eyes are huge and sparkling and you suddenly feel very certain that he was
in the exact same fantasy as you were just seconds ago. Very slowly, slower than you would have
thought you were capable of, you lean down and brush one more ultra-light kiss to his open mouth.
Something inside his eyes snaps.
"I changed my mind."
"Changed your mind, sir?"
"Yeah," he looks up at you and licks his lips, "Take me home instead."
You grin.