I'm A Radiobr>By Missy

RATING: R-ish (smuttiness abounds!)
DISTRIBUTION: To Squeaky, LW, Kai and FG so far; any other archives are welcome to ask, but disclaimers must be included, my email left intact. send a URL, and provide full disclaimers as well as credit me fully. Please inform me if you are going to submit my work to any sort of search engine. Â Please do not submit my work to a search engine that picks out random sets of words and uses them as key words, such as "Google"
Please contact me in order for this story to be placed on an archive, or if you want know of a friend who would enjoy my works, please email me their adress and I will mail them the stories, expressly for the purpose of link trading. MiSTiers are welcomed! Please do inform me that you'd like to do the MiSTing, however, and send me a copy of the finished product. I'd also love to archive any MiSTings that are made of my work!
TIME PERIOD: About four years after the show's timeline has ceased.
CATEGORY: L&L romance, humor.
FEEDBACK: PLEASE?!
SPOILLER/SUMMARY: An Aniversary celebration.
NOTES: Written especially for Valentines day. Named after the Joni Mitchel song "You Turn Me On (I'm A Radio)"

****

Laverne remained aware that there were two things her husband did very, very well; driving was one of them. She lay back against the cracked leather of the passenger seat and appreciated him for a good, long minute.

It was his hands that she noted first; looking at them tended to make her melt all over again. The first few months of their real courtship involved driving around in beaten-up old van from coffeehouse to coffeehouse. He taught her a few extra cords, just enough to get by as a professional player.

At the end of their journey, she realized that she didn't want to part with him as a partner. Or (and no confession had made her best friend shriek louder) a lover.

Last year they had finally saved enough to buy her father's restaurant back from creditors that had threatened it, since health food had preoccupied California's palate. It was a good enough excuse to get married, and so they'd just done it; in the middle of her apartment. Shirley had come home from Germany by then, with her son Sean in her arms and a broken thumb she insisted was nothing very important.

It had been a year since that time; Shirley had a restraining order against Walter now, living with Rhonda for the extra protection the millions of mirrors she kept offered. Laverne and Lenny had a son of their own; much wanted and planned for, and called Frankie after his grandfather.

Laverne's heart turned over in her chest as she watched those hands; they had the capacity to hurt, as any hands did, but for her there had been nothing but healing at their force. Nothing else seemed to matter; not the shorter work hours that so displeased her boss; not the difficulties of getting a failing restaurant up and running again.

Yes, a whole year since she had stood up in front of a minister and said her "I Dos." And it seemed like five minutes ago; in fact, she and Lenny were doing exactly what they had done a year ago that day; driving to the beach for a picnic.

They'd needed the time alone then, Laverne remembered; the entire day had been about problems; relatives (hers), friends (theirs), and whether or not they could find a music shop that remained open on a Sunday (his).

Then she recalled just what they'd done once the dinner had been consumed and grinned, an expression that caused his gaze to alight on her.

"Penny for yer thought?" He asked, "Looks likea good one."

"Naw," She smirked, "I was just havin' a mem'ry..."

"Yeah?" He slipped the truck into park a few inches away from the beach, "Like what we did 're last time?"

She blushed, pleased he'd remembered but just a bit scandalized, "Uh-huh." She laughed aloud as she plucked a white sack of food from the floor of the truck and hopped out of the passenger side door, "'course, we ain't gonna do it again..."

"Nah," he said, giving her a steamy glance, "I got sand all over ya last time an' when we did th' laundry it shorted out the machine."

Laverne shook her head, "An' I neva heard of somethin' like that happenin' before, either!" With every little word she spoke he knew that she wouldn't mind if the machine died another death at the hands of a few sand granules.

They walked down the shore a little ways before finding a nice inlet far enough away from the incoming waterline as to prevent from getting soaked. A sheet served as a nice blanket, weighted down with a few scattered rocks. They stetted down opposite one another and began to divide up their Cowboy Bills-prepared meal.

Lenny watched his wife as she speared a piece of potato and plunked it into her mouth; her lipstick didn't even smear. She often amazed him by doing things like that, as awkward as they both could be.

"Lucky" was the best way to describe the way he felt; he was immeasurably lucky to be with Laverne, to have this marriage and relationship. He often wondered if he'd somehow slipped into a living dream.

OK, it wasn't a perfect dream; the apartment was in constant need of repair, Shirley was going through tough and dangerous times, and they were both so buried under the commitments of work and play that they barely had time to pursue their musical inclinations. But he had won the woman he loved more deeply than anyone; had given her a son...that was more than enough to satisfy him.

He studied her for a good minute, feeling again such a strong pull toward her being. It had been there since he met her when they were kids; buried under his skin. She'd gone from pal to crush to friend to confidant; she had sworn for years that there would be no more for them. When he finally succeeded at making her his lover he could scarcely believe it as the truth.

But there they were, one year later, sitting under a huge moon that made him want to grab her and kiss her to the point of insensibility. Doing so would plunge them both headfirst into a bucket of French fries, but it would be worth it...

His eyes focused on her bared toes, which wriggled back and forth as a solid sea breeze slipped through them. She gave the essence and image of a woman carefree; a lady and yet a tomboy. She had the body of a faun and he had memorized every hill and valley it contained...

"Len!" She cried out, her tone embarrassed, "Yer starin' at me. You know I can't eat my corn when yer starin' at me."

"Awww.." He sighed, "But yer cute, even wit corn juice drippin' down yer chin.."

Laverne smiled, "Ya even thought I was cute when I had mornin' sickness, Len. Yer no judge!"

That was true; he had a tendency to simply find his wife a very sexy woman, no matter her state of dress or the number of coats of mascara covering her lashes. At the moment, in a strappy red evening gown that was her favorite, she radiated peace and simmering desire. He found that quite erotic, and had to shove the sensation down by cramming a piece of fried chicken into his mouth.

Between the two of them the meal was vacuumed down in a record amount of time; Lenny flicked a switch on the portable radio he'd lugged along with them. Working briefly on the knobs, he found a station piping out a ballad and stood, offering her a hand.

"Care for a dance, Mrs. Kosnowski?" He asked, in a posh accent.

Mrs. Kosnowski. He still got a kick out of calling her that, because it just felt so unreal. The first time he'd ever called her by what was now her married name, she'd informed him that she wasn't the Promised Land. So she wasn't, though she reminded him of milk and honey.

She took his hand and pressed her form against his, feeling the stocky but lean contours of his being as they swayed in time to the music.

So he knew how to do another thing very well. Slow dance.

She purred against his shoulder; barefoot she was only a few inches shorter than he, which made dancing with him very cozy.

"Do thata gin," He murmured against her ear.

She purred again, this time nuzzling him.

"Good?" He asked her.

"Mmm." She replied. His hands descended just a little bit from her waistline.

Laverne pressed close enough to him that she could almost count each bone in his ribcage as they pressed against her own. Acutely aware of her own weakness for him, she lifted her head from his shoulder and gave him a slow, sensuous kiss.

It was the sort of gesture that had made her his; a sudden expression of the love that always bloomed for him beneath her breast. He accepted it and took it further, slipping his tongue into her mouth and touching her with a familiarity that made her heart stop.

Oh, he played her like he played his guitar; she was as pliable as the buttons of the radio under his fingers. Flirtatiously, she stopped the kiss and turned, running down the coastline. He knew what she was trying to do; reenact "From Here To Eternity" for just a few seconds. It was his misfortune to marry a woman with the soul and form of a gazelle; still, she couldn't quite outrun him. He caught chase and clutched her to him a few feet away from where she'd started, capturing her in a kiss.

With the last shred of control she carried, she pulled away from him and panted, "Here?"

He picked her up, tossed her over his shoulder caveman-style, and carried her back to the sheet, where he placed her gently.

"Thatza yes?" She giggled, and he groaned, covering his mouth with hers.

***

"Dya think Shirl'll be able to guess what we did?" Laverne asked, straightening her water-spotted dress.

"Nah...unless she listens to tha tide reports.." A look of worry came over Lenny's face. She punched him gently in the shoulder.

"Yer such a big dope. We're soakin' wet! Of course she's gonna notice."

"But yer my wife," He pulled her flush against him one more time, pressing wet cotton to wet cotton, "Yer my woman, and she knows that."

"Yeah, I know. Don't say it like that again, tho. It makes ya sound like Squig," She kissed him one more time as she slipped her key into the lock, "I love ya, Len. Happy Anniversary."

"Love ya, Vernie," He replied, "Happy Anniversary."

The apartment was dimly lit; she could see Shirley sitting on the couch, absorbed in an episode of Payton Place.

"We're back," Laverne whispered, "Howz Frankie?"

"Frankie?" Shirley turned and muffled a shriek at seeing her best friend, "Where did you two come from?!"

"Ummm...The movies, right Len?"

"Yup." He said, backing up the stairs, "Th' Drive-In."

"Where're you goin'?" Laverne demanded.

"Ta see Frankie," He said, the entire time stifling what sounded like a giggle.

Shirley had already packed her things up and was by now moving to the door, "Sean's sleeping at my place. Rhonda's watching him, but I'd better go check." She hugged her friend quickly, "Happy Anniversary, Laverne."

"Thanks, Shirl," She shepherded her friend out the door, confident that her secret was, for the moment at least, well-kept.

"No problem at all. Oh, and Laverne?"

"Yeah?"

"You should watch out for those patches of flying seaweed."

Laverne's eyes widened as she laughed, reaching up to the top of her own head and pulling down a fair clump of the stuff, closing the door behind her best friend.

Upstairs, her husband laughed like a walrus.
















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