Ain't nobody don't like scrambled eggs with ketchup; lotsa ketchup. Toast an' jam, maybe a root beer. Damn; no root beer. Dr. Pepper, then. Who'da thought it? She's so beautiful! Like a cover girl off a magazine. Not them hootchy kootchy kinds; what I mean 's fancy, like Cosmopolitan. Soon 's I seen 'er, said to myself—this is one fine lookin' lady. Musta got lost, or somethin'—walkin' into Flo's. Flo's is not your high class kinda joint. But she 's all smiles an' glad-ta-meet-chas. Boy, them guys come round 'er thick 's flies. She shooin' 'em but they kept comin'... 'counta she's so beautiful.
Ugh, what a head! Brain's outgrown my skull is how it feels. What brains; with brains would I be here? And where is here? I'm sure, as soon as I recall, I'll be absolutely mortified. TOO MUCH BOOZE. The nerve of Monty, standing me up—that weasel. Thinks having money makes it A-okay to act like a turd. Well I say fuck him! Fuck his LTD, his condo in Jamaica, his highfalutin intellect and his egocentric genes. "Let's make a baby, shall we, Angel? Mix and match our chromosomes?" Spare me. Never part your legs for another person's pipedream.
Haveta skip the cornflakes; not enough milk. Oughta run down to the grocer's, 'cept... Did ya ever feel like the here-and-now could end without no trace? That's what I'm a-scared of; Angel will disappear. Outa sugar, too; damn. Got syrup, though; if I pour on gobs, the milk will maybe stretch. She told the whole bar what 'er name was: "Angel." Yelled it right out loud. We all believed she was, I'll tell ya. Who wouldn't?
Wound up trapped in a den of lowbrow hooch hounds. Not that pinstripe barflies gawk at a girl more wholesomely. But noble savages last night's studs were not; could have been gangbanged. Where's my gear? My God, I'm fully clothed! Can you believe it? Strange man's bed, I'm usually 'au naturel'. Must be gay, my mute Prince Charming. Gay or a Catholic priest. Or both. Good grief, better rewind events pre goodnight-Gracie. Did we screw(?); that'll do for starters. With our clothes on? Think, girl, think.
Wish I'da talked; I mostly nodded. She done all the talkin'. Gots a boyfriend, don't treat 'er right. I said (to myself, o' course) the rhyme 'bout sticks and stones—what might not work for a angel. Damn; no coffee. Outa ev'rythin'. What good's breakfast-in-bed without instant coffee? Got some tea bags what I only used once. Guess they'll be alright.
Fog's lifting. Flo's. Flo's Turf Club. What a dungeon. What a dive. I must have walked there—check that—staggered there from the Hyatt. Then what? Chaos. All I'm picturing is this throng of touchy-feely meat-hooks—male—with me the only female anywhere in reach—discounting Flo, whose disposition read "no nonsense, Buster". Then I spotted my bashful White Knight Shining—this boy in a he-man's body—half way down the bar.
Damn; burnt to a crisp. Them 's the last two slices. Haveta scrape 'em. Oh, oh; smoke!
The alarm, with an ear-splitting "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE", sounds off overhead.
Framed by the efficiency apartment's doorway, dumbstruck, blackened bread knife raised, George re-confronts the stunning redhead tucked in his Murphy bed.
Angel waves. Hers is a timid gesture—wary of the weapon (or utensil?) her 'Sir Lancelot' is brandishing.He's retarded?
She's so beautiful.
Lord, I think he is. Good grief; why me? Of all the star-crossed luck, I pick a dunce for my defender. I've been drunk before, but this? I must have been hammered.
Like a dream.
George finds his voice. "I burnt the toast." He cracks a window. "Cookin' breakfast. You like eggs?"
"I like them cooked; seems you're incinerating."
"How 'bout scrambled?"
It is difficult to hear above the smoke alarm's din—not to mention the intermittent THUDS now raining on George's door.
"YOU OKAY, GEORGIE? OPEN UP!"
"It's Mister Finney; he's my landlord. IT'S OKAY, MISTER FINNEY. IT'S JUST THE TOASTER."
"GEORGIE, YOU OKAY?"
The sound of a deadbolt opening is all but lost in the high-pitched clamor. Passkeys dangling, George's landlord barges in.
[You should have seen poor Georgie's face; goddamn, he was one embarrassed fella. Even blushed—I swear to God—turned seven shades of crimson. I felt sorry for him; happy for him, too, on account of him being with a woman. In a month of Sundays, you could never picture George with a woman looked like her. Not since I've known him, leastwise—six, seven years; some two years after the mugging. How he fared before those thugs worked him over is hard to say—though he's not disfigured. Fact, he's downright handsome. Nothing wrong, unless you take a good close look in the poor man's eyes. And even then he's just a little on the simple side... slap-happy, so to speak. So, when I found him 'in flagrante' with this heart-throb of a looker, of course I assumed he'd paid for the lassie's services. How, though? George scarcely makes his rent. And with the doctor bills and the meds he takes for migraines... Buying hookers, on a busboy's wages? Doesn't figure.]
"I beg your pardons." Mister Finney casts a glance of mild astonishment at George's houseguest, noting her disarrayed hair and disheveled clothing—a fleeting, feeble stir perturbing his antique groin. Turning a fatherly expression toward George, the landlord winks. "Where there's smoke, there's fire."
Nonplussed and seemingly distraught about the awkward situation, George stands like a child caught rifling the proverbial cookie-jar.
"Do carry on."
Mister Finney leaves. The smoke alarm finally expires.
"A bona fide letch."
"Man's a Peeping Tom."
"Mister Finney? Naw; he's nice. He plays me Scrabble. You play Scrabble?"
"Not since puberty. Got a bathroom?"
"Sure. O' course."
"Your name is Georgie?"
"Where is it?"
"The bathroom? Right through there. But how 'bout breakfast? Whoops; your breakfast!"
George retreats on the double as Angel likewise bolts toward the head—when nature calls it hollers—swinging the bathroom door, with a slam, behind.
Damn; pot's boiled dry. Can't do nothin' right. Angel's gonna leave, for sure. She thinks I'm stupid—what I'm not. I'm only slow 'counta my concussion. I'll haveta tell 'er. I told Mister Finney; afterward he turned nice. It's not my fault, is how I tell it. Without my head gettin' conked, I'd still be smart.
Salvation! Let loose a gusher. Can't stop dribbling last night's boozy bilge—sans semen, thank Jehovah. Not a trace of cum in my unmolested drawers. We could have used a condom, I suppose; there were two inside my change purse. Both still here—and I doubt that Mister Numbskull has the sense to stock his own. Chivalry? Or is he impotent? Or simply too damn thick to take advantage of a one-time opportunity? I was willing, I now recall—albeit pie-eyed. Drunk as a skunk. He could have lathered his loins to his half-witted heart's content.
'Cept I sorta fibbed. I mean I was beat up; that part's true. But I can't remember, ever, bein' smart.
George stands immobile, heavy-limbed inside his tragicomic motley of plaid pyjamas, Rocky & Bullwinkle slipper-socks, and broad-stripe terrycloth robe. He has not slept, having spent the entire night at the bedside of his visitor—her charms illumined by a nightlight (a plastic 'replica' of the Blessed Virgin Mary).
Would have served him right, my getting laid by the likes of Georgie-boy—may Monty's bony-ass carcass roast in the flames of Hell! We're engaged; can you believe it? Me? To a skinny little runt like him? When I wear heels—which Monty insists on—his bald spot barely meets my chin. And I'm not tall, only five-foot-seven; making my fiancé knee-high to a troll. My ex-fiancé, I've decided, regardless Monty's stature. What's at issue isn't height so much as puniness of soul. "That's your problem, Angel; too much empathy for your Fellow Man. If you don't get yours up front, mark my words, Mister Fellow Man shafts you"; a fine philosophy. Monty's "screw or get screwed" motto may work for realtors, but I, for one, don't buy it. Life is more than closing timeshare deals. Like showing a bit of kindness, for example. Having breakfast, case in point, with this tender-hearted dunce—who invited me to crash here, refrained from laying on a finger, and sacrificed his bed.
George blinks at hearing the toilet's flush, breaking from his trance to leap into action: dishing up food, arranging silverware, folding paper towels for ersatz napkins, collecting various condiments on an overcrowded tray, uncapping Dr. Peppers, strangling tea bags to extract remnants of flavor, pouring syrup over cereal, then ejecting clots of ketchup over a mass of scrambled eggs. Satisfied, George departs from the kitchenette, breakfast tray in hand.
Angel has not re-emerged from the bathroom. George stops short. He distinctly heard the toilet; did he miss the front door's bang? Has Angel left? Her purse is missing. Should he knock, call out, or wait? He holds his breath and listens for her presence with all his might.
No; better split. I hang around and Mister Muscles may revert, get wild ideas—not that his could rival mine in terms of Jane meets Tarzan scenarios. Quite the hunk, he is. And pure of heart? Well, looks can be deceiving. Behind that innocent veneer may lurk the essence of some imbecilic sex fiend. Ha! Here's proof.
From where she sits, Angel flips through a stack of dog-eared magazines: "Busty Mamas", "Hairless Pussies", "Sopping Chick-Clits Licked".
So much for purity. Men are all alike; at base they just want nooky. We do, too, of course, but differently. To women, sex is more or less a ploy to win (or lose) affection—which runs deeper than desire. Lust is exciting, sometimes flattering; I'd hate to do without it. But to cherish someone truly and be cherished in return... now that's fulfilling. Not to mention positively rare. Extinct, is more like it. So I'd better be on my way, stop wasting time on dunderheads (and self-important dwarfs).
Angel stands, puts straight her clothes, applies a token touch of make-up, then stashes her accoutrements in a kidskin purse, re-hangs the washcloth she has used to freshen up, re-folds a face towel, then prepares to make her entrance—i.e. exit—with nary a fare-the-well. But on seeing George, his expectant face with its unaccountable gratitude, Angel falters.
Looks like a lost puppy.
She's more beautifuler than ever!
Wish I's smarter. We could talk.
George indicates the meal.
"Sure hope you's hungry; got lotsa food. Gettin' cold, though."
"Yes; I'm famished."
Angel glances at the serving tray and musters up resolve.
Spoke too soon; my God, could that be edible?
George attempts to steer her toward the bed; he would like to serve his guest as he has envisioned. Angel balks, deftly sidesteps, then takes refuge in the tiny kitchenette.
"Let's dine in here; shall we?"
She settles quickly into a chair. The niche holds two. George comes to join her, setting down their "brunch" in the claustrophobic nook.
God grant me courage.
With a gung-ho trouper's fortitude, Angel plunges in.
George grins with pride.
"You's really starvin', huh. Me, too."
He fills his mouth with a forkful of blood-red eggs.
Angel's urge to retch having passed unnoticed, she samples each atrocity, chewing, swallowing, chewing, swallowing—ever conscious of the effort—yet determined to betray not the slightest hint of nausea. George strains, too... until they both attempt the corn flakes. Angel gags; George chokes and sputters. Swilling tea and Dr. Pepper (respectively) they wash the mishmash down.
"George, this is..." She pauses to find a synonym for unpalatable. "...yucky."
"Boy, oh boy, you said it." George reassesses his efforts. "Ev'rything's awful."
"Except the company."
Once this civility registers, George's cheeks turn red.
That's what must have drawn me to this dodo-bird; George is bashful. Don't you love it? In the midst of piss-proud egos, his was shy as shy can be. When I asked if I could join him, up he leaped, offered me his stool—ignoring all the snickers, jeers, and crude remarks... My champion.
She's so nice. I thought first off she's makin' fun; at Flo's, I thought that 'specially. They's all laughin' 'counta she picked me to sit by. Angel was laughin', too, but with not at me; you can always tell the diff'rence. Said I's funny, when I did my beer mug trick. Said I's cute—what got me laughin', 'counta the way she scrooched up her mouth—"cute, cute, cute"—like a goldfish.
"So, George, tell me. Was I rude, crude, and socially unacceptable last night?"
"Was I obnoxious?"
"You was tipsy 's all, what made you talk and talk.
"I mention Monty?"
"He's your boyfriend, right?"
"Jesus Christ, I'm sorry. What a bore."
"Naw, you was nice. Don't hardly no one talk like you; not a Flo's—'specially not ladies. Never heard a lady talk better 'an you."
"Is that a compliment?"
"Sure is. And here's one more; I think you're beautiful! Cross my heart and hope to die, I do!"
Will wonders never cease? I do believe he means it. I've been told a thousand times by just as many false-face suitors how "beautiful" I am, and in every single instance I questioned the motive. As in who wants what? It's like a bargain, paying compliments, an investment earning dividends: the boy puts up, if the girl puts out, is what it all amounts to.
"What happened afterward?"
"Last night. You said I nearly talked your ear off. And we drank—a lot, as I recall. So how'd we end up here?"
"Well... Are ya finished eatin' breakfast? I should maybe clear the dishes."
"Please? I've really drawn a blank, George. Fill me in."
Angel shakes her head, hard-pressed to recollect... expressing, with a shrug, both "no" and "tell me more". George, before obliging, stacks plates and carries them to the sink.
"We danced a lot; just you an' me did. I was proud to by your partner. Lotsa fellas asked; you always said no. Then you said, real loud, "NOBODY'S CUTTIN' IN". Ev'rybody heard—what made me extra-special proud. I woulda shared, 'cept I's real glad I didn't have to. Then we left."
George runs the water, pours in soap, dons rubber gloves, and sets to work, his movements crisp, long-conditioned by dull routine—which Angel observes—his manifest skill mundane yet somehow arresting.
"Was I conscious?"
"Did I pass out? I remember being carried."
"Up the stairs, is all. You said that you was dizzy."
"Oh, how coy. A lot of stairs?"
"SIX FLIGHTS! My God, you must be ruptured; I weigh a ton—one-ten, at least."
"You's pretty light compared to me; I go two-fourteen."
And not an ounce of fat anywhere. She peers, as with x-ray vision... until distracted by George's footwear. What on earth?
George shifts his feet, unaware, before he turns, of Angel's derisive scrutiny—which makes him cringe.
Maybe it was better when Angel 's fast asleep. Sure is a pretty sleeper. I coulda watched an' watched 'er face forever... 'cept it made me sorta sad. I mean her layin' there with her hair all mussed like a orphan's. Coulda hugged 'er—what I never. Coulda pet 'er on the cheek.
"Nice footwear you've got on, George. Buy those with traded-in box tops?"
"Huh? No; Walgreen's. They 's real comfy cosy. Wanna try 'em?"
"Not right now. Thanks. I would appreciate a scarf or something. Draughty here."
"Sure is." George, yanking off his rubber gloves, hurriedly departs, then returns, having fetched a thick wool sweater. "Here; try this. No wonder you was shiverin'; I left the window open. Closed it."
Angel dons the pullover. George dries the dishes.
He's dying for my company; that much is obvious. But can I survive his? Not for long, I predict. Long enough, perhaps, to indulge in something kinky? Never made it with a retard. Would it be 'gauche' to try? Or 'immoral'—knowing that this hunk plays host to a little boy? With a taste for porn, don't forget; this child has become an adolescent. So where's the harm if I treat us both to a noncommittal quickie? Heaven knows I've spread my legs for worse.
George resumes his seat in the breakfast nook... casting, upon his guest, a 'blessed art thou' stare... loathe to bear the burden of initiating conversation.
"Wants to play Scrabble?"
Angel, dalliance diverted, shakes her head and shrugs.
"Hell, why not?"
George, jumping for joy, rushes out then back with his favourite board game, spreads out the wooden tiles, flips those letters exposed face-down and mixes them in, then sets up a pair of racks—all done with haste lest Angel should change her mind.
"We each turn over a tile. Who's ever closest to A goes first; that's the rule."
"Mine's a W. W, X, Y, Z; my turn!"
George collects seven letters.
How quaint; sweet seduction in the form of double word scores.
"Three plus one is four, plus another four..."
"... equals eight, plus the eight gets doubled. Wanna keep score? Wait; haveta turn that page an' start a new one. Put down your name first. Yeah, 'A, n, g, e, l'. Now put 'G, e, o, r, g, e'. Oh, an' today's date; put that, too, so 's I'll always remember."
Angel's funny; she said "moo" on accounta the word I made. She was funny last night, too. Danced, for one whole dance, standin' on top o' my toes.
"So that's sixteen for you, George?"
Writes kinda scribbly. Gots long fingernails what're painted bright red—look slipp'ry. It's the same red what her lips are; they look slipp'ry, too, like candy with the wrapper on.
Angel chooses her seven tiles, in turn:
rearranging the letters to spell out:
using George's O1 .
"Three, four, eight doubled makes twenty, twenty-one, three doubled, twenty-seven; so there."
George takes a moment to catch up with Angel's calculations... nods confirmation—although he is unfamiliar, evidently, with the word itself.
"What's a 'BUXOM'?"
"Are you challenging my word?"
She eyes him archly.
"Wouldn't never! I 's just askin'. You know, wonderin' what it is."
"In that case..." Slipping the sweater off her shoulders, Angel cups her breasts, pressing them together, the billowed flesh protruding above her underlying blouse's neckline. "This is buxom."
George, eyes big as cue balls, cannot help but gape.
They sure is somethin'! Like in the pi'tures only better 'cause hers is real. Wish I could touch 'em, just this once. Wish I could kiss 'em! Cross my heart and hope to die... wish I's smart!
"You like, George? Want to feel?"
"Oh, no, I couldn't! Not s'pposed to. Feelin' ladies' parts can cause a fella trouble. 'Sides, I know you're joshin'. Wouldn't want me to. You wants a fella what's really smart. I's dumb... since I got hit. Gots a concussion from some guys what beat me up."
"Come on, George. Feel. No one's watching."
George extends his hand like a hapless marionette.
"That's it. Now close your fingers round the object—don't be shy—of you desire."
[All morning long; isn't that incredible? Gospel truth; she stayed for hours; from the time I left, three hours and forty-seven minutes exactly—and they weren't just babbling. Walls are thin, in these apartments; I could hear, from the room next door—where it just so happed I was waiting for a prospective tenant who never showed. A floozy, by the look of her, is George's one-night-stand, all gussied up. Dressed to the nines, she was, when she left. Passed her in the hall. Commands top price, if she's a hooker. Call-girl seems more likely. Pretty odd, her trading with the lowly likes of George—who's brown-bag poor, not to mention inexperienced (or was) and thick-as-a-brick.]
Boy, oh boy, oh boy, she gots 'er clothes off—Angel does—all of 'em! We was just sittin', playin' Scrabble. Next thing I know, out pops Angel's boobs! She let me touch 'em, let me kiss 'em, too, just like I was wishin' for. Said that I was gentle. Said it felt real nice. First I smooched the left one, then the right one, then the groove in between. That's when she done it; took off her clothes. Just dropped 'em, fancy free—we's still in the kitchen, sunlight pourin' in so's I could see 'er body good. Then she said it was my turn—what got me plenty worried. Since I's grown, no lady—'cept a nurse in the hospital—never took my clothes off. I let Angel do it, though; it tickled. Then off she run, actin' like I 's s'pposed to chase 'er; what I done. And now we's here.
A genuine virgin. Do you believe it? Fucked his silly socks off. So? What of it? Better me—I did it gratis—than some tart who'd steal the rube's last dime. Besides, he's heavenly: burly chest, clear skin, tight bum. True, he's inexperienced... but eager to learn.
"You know those kisses you were giving me on my breasts, George?"
"Would you like to plant some more of them, right down here?" George repositions himself at the crux of Angel's thighs. "Gently, now. That's it; that's perfect. Tickle with your tongue. Feel that little button? That button's like your penis only ultra, ultra-sensitive. Keep up what you're doing, George. Lick it. Fast. Don't stop! Eat me till I melt into your mouth, until I quiver, and, no matter what, George, please don't stop... don't stop."
Feels hot and gooey. Smells like pepper only spicier. Tastes like salt. Not like table salt, more like sea salt, or salt what 's inside tears—'cept hers is thick and gots my chin all gooey 'cause, wow, they 's lots... an' she's moanin'... like maybe she's in pain—gone all squirmy—but I'm not a'posed to stop.
A wave of spasms ripples through the pith of Angel's drum-taught belly. She tries to quell it, hoping to prolong it. A second wave overtakes the first... crests... breaks... engulfs her gratified senses then retreats in a blissful ebb tide.
"You can stop, now, George. Come up and kiss me."
George, self-conscious, hesitates.
"But my mouth's all..."
"Come and kiss me, George. Don't wipe it off."
Anxious to win approval, George complies.
Angel 'slurps' at his lips as if their slick were from a liquid-centre bonbon.
"Wait! I gotta go—I mean, to pee."
George scrambles from the bed and sprints into the bathroom. Angel sprawls... feels luxurious... feels exultant... feels utterly satisfied—if not quite sated, the vacuum of her sex resounding with an echo that appeals for one last infiltration.
I want him. Deep inside. He's sinfully well-endowed, and so unselfish. Most men rush to get theirs first, then leave our genitals high and dry. He's new, of course, doesn't know the rules. Like putty in my hand? Someone I can shape to fit my every pleasure?
Must be dreamin'. I just smooched a lady's privates—what I shouldn't, but she made me. An' boy, oh boy I'm really glad she did. Made 'er groan then go all limp like 'er bones turned to jelly. Thought I's maybe hurtin' 'er, but she wouldn't let me stop. Now she says it's my turn. Hope I don't act stupid.
Angel beckons with a posture meant to rekindle her neophyte's pent-up passions. She succeeds. George's groin renews its formidable erection.
Gots 'er fanny in the air—what's pretty as a pumpkin.
"Come and do me, George. Take me from behind." Angel wiggles; George approaches haunches poised to grant him unrestricted access. "Just ease in the tip."
Cautiously, his throbbing penis nuzzles her palpitating aperture.
He stops. Angel's hips incline.
"Now go really slow—slower(!)—until you're all the way in. Stop!"
Angel gasps; George feels strong contractions.
George goes deep as possible; Angel struggles to contain his magnified dimensions.
"Hold my ass, George. Squeeze it. Slap it. Now, PUMP!"
George obeys; Angel bites her lip against the mix of pain and pleasure, her crotch absorbing spanks from George's floppy testicles, her cervix doused with spurts of his emancipated seed... a flood of liquid longing giving rise to Angel's tacit qualms; sorry she will leave him as soon as he is spent.
Make this short and sweet.
Sinking to the mattress, Angel sprawls, limbs outstretched, then turns and pats a place at her side for George to join her. He rests his cheek in the hollow of her silky-sultry armpit, ear against her ribcage, lips adjacent breasts whose languid rise and fall punctuates a moment he would have endure forever, blessed beyond belief to hear the soul-communing murmur of his first-love's heart.
[So much for romance. Fucked his blue balls colourless, then left the poor schmuck flat. No phone call. Total brush off; thanks, no thanks. George was crushed. I tried to tell him she was nothing but a two-bit whore. He wouldn't hear it. I tried to find out what the babe charged; George crossed his heart and swore he hadn't paid. He paid. He maybe got a freebie, but his feelings took a fleecing. Set him up like a grifter, then robbed the poor chump blind. A crying shame, too—George being such a trusting fella. "Count your blessings," I advised him; he just moped; there was no consoling him. Wouldn't talk, wouldn't even play Scrabble—tacked the board to his wall, claimed the game had been "enshrined". Must have looked that up; a nine letter word—George rarely uses more than seven. But what do I know?
Precious little, it turns out. Lo and behold, she turned up once, twice. More. A bit toned down, but no less gorgeous—George's "heavenly Angel" hath returned. And it isn't all for pillow talk, either. The two of them go out: dance, take in a movie, wine and dine—the whole nine yards.
So where's it leading? I'd say nowhere. Will it last? Not another month. Is George in love? He thinks he is, naturally. Is she? That's the puzzler; she sure acts the part, always kissy-huggy-face when I see them in the hall. But if you ask me realistically? Doesn't figure.]
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© r. muir