Lilly White

 

By

Kim L Sellers

                                              

with his two goons in the office chaperoning us, Danny Diaz was doing all the talking.  It wasn't anything I hadn’t heard before as I had worked for Danny off and on for the last several years.  That was before I decided to take a year sabbatical, and I stress sabbatical because once you signed on with Danny, you were signed on for life.   

The catch was that in Danny’s line of work, he could as easily ask you to fetch a cup of java as rub out your best friend.  You just didn’t know when the other shoe was going to drop.  He paid top dollar, though, for services rendered; and if you didn’t mind the work (it was messy), you had access to an abundant lifestyle of big cars, big money, and that other thing men seem to have a penchant for, women.  It was a tempting proposition for most men, and most bought into it without a second thought. 

Today, Danny was whining about his girlfriend and some guy who’d burned him for over a million dollars.  Not bad, I thought, forcing down the laugh that was tickling the back of my throat.  You see, Danny’s girlfriend, and I had been an item before she threw me over for Danny.  She was the reason I’d taken the sabbatical and the reason why Danny had called me to his office.  He knew I was his best bet for finding the woman.  Or should I say finding his money, because nothing was more important to Danny Diaz than his money?

“I want you to find her,” he said.  “I want you to find her, and bring her back in one piece.  Alive.  Comprende, amigo?”

I’d been listening to his yammering for so long, I almost missed my queue.

“Oh, yeah, sorry Danny.  Sure, I understand.  What’d you say the new boyfriend’s name was?”

“He’s not her god-damn boyfriend, Nollie, he’s a fucking asshole, who stole a lot of money from me.  His name’s Leo Drummond.”

“I don’t think I know him,” I said.

“And you don’t want to either.  I’m told he’s a mean son-of-a-bitch.”

“So, what are you saying?”

“Kill him.”

I smiled and nodded.   

“Oh, one more thing. Nollie.  I want Bunny and Carmelo to tag along with you, okay.” 

Bunny and Carmelo were the two goons holding up the wall behind me, and now I understood why they were there.  Danny didn’t trust me, not with his girlfriend or his money.

“Thanks, Danny,” I replied, “but I already have a drawer full of door stops.”

He laughed, “Jesus, Nollie, don’t piss them off.  They only want to help.     

I acquiesced.

“You’re the boss.  I guess as long they do as they’re told there shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Great, Nollie.”

I stood up, shook Danny’s hand, and passed Bunny my business card.  I didn’t think Carmelo could read.  Bunny mouthed the words silently: “Nollie Weeks, Private Investigator.”

I told them I’d call in a couple of days and left.

* * *

Her Christian name was Laverne Terrace and although she was born and raised on the North Side of Chicago, she told everyone her hometown was Tucson.  It was a white lie but she did it, she said, to protect her family.  No kidding.

Early on in her career, she got a break in a dance troupe and took the stage name of Lilly White, and by the age of twenty-two, they were advertising her as “The Child with a Woman’s Body.”  What people didn’t know was that she had graduated Cum Lade from Chicago University when she was twenty.  Lilly was no dummy. 

Which explains why she was so intensely ambitious.  And so, it wasn’t long before she possessed all the trappings of success: an upscale penthouse apartment, an extravagant wardrobe, a nice car, and a seemingly endless line of wealthy suitors.

I first saw Lilly at a party that a new client of mine had invited me to attend.  The client’s husband was an influential attorney, who apparently knew his legalese well enough, but didn’t have a clue about his wife.  She’d hired me to shadow him, telling me in my office, that she was convinced he’d been sticking his nose in places where it didn’t belong.  So, what’s new, I thought to myself.

The party was at the house of a friend of a friend; and while I was hanging out in the billiards room trying to be inconspicuous, I was also trying to figure out why an intelligent man, with a lot to lose, would openly screw around with other women, and then bring them to party’s, where half the guests knew his wife.  The woman, in question, was Lilly White.  

I’d done a lot of this kind of work before but I had no idea that I‘d hit the jackpot that night.  And when I delivered the salacious pictures of Lilly and my client’s husband, I was awarded a substantial bonus.  I left feeling full of myself. 

It was only a couple weeks later, while eating dinner at the Carriage Inn, in Hollywood, that Lilly glided into my booth across from me.  She looked stunning in her long black evening dress, that seemed to make her white skin and blonde hair shimmer in the light. 

She greeted me with a luxurious smile, and then flagged Eddie, the headwaiter, to ask him to bring her a tall ginger ale.  Her first words were: “Mr. Weeks, you’re much better looking when your mouth isn’t wide open.” 

I used my hand to push it shut.

“You don’t recognize me do you,” she said.

I swallowed hard.

“How could I forget, Ms. White?”

“I’m glad because I’d hate to think that a man who’d seen as much of me as you have, wouldn’t remember me.”

Eddie served the tall ginger ale and said:

“Anything else Ms. White?”

“No, thank you, Eddie.  How’s your lovely wife?”

“Oh, she’s fine Ms. White.  I’ll tell her you asked.”

“Please do Eddie.”

“Thank you, Ms. White.  Thank you very much.”

As Eddie glided back to his station, he looked like he was walking on air.

“Nice touch,” I said, looking at her.

“Comes with practice, you should try it some time.”

“No thanks, I like myself as I am.”

She raised an eyebrow, it was a pretty eyebrow, and then took a sip of ginger ale.  I was wondering if she’d just stopped by to visit or had plans of inflicting revenge.  At that moment, my last bite of steak was having problems navigating through my esophagus.  

She said: “I thought your work, Mr. Weeks, was unusually professional for the type work you were asked to do.  The pictures of me could have easily shown up in the tabloids.”

I cleared my throat in my napkin, and said, “Thank you, I hope there are no hard feelings.”

“No, not all.  On the contrary, I have a proposition I want to make to you.”

Proposition?  I pushed my dinner aside.

“Shoot.”

“Well,” she began, “I was thinking you and I would make a great team.”

I watched as her eyes moved around the dining room as though she was giving it the once over.  She leaned closer and added, “I was thinking we could turn the same trick again, except next time we’d make a killing...money wise that is, sorry.”  She pulled back, embarrassed by her faux pas. 

As we sat there looking at each other, I found myself wading into the depths of her warm blue eyes.  She didn’t move, not even a blink, she just sat there as though she were giving herself up to me.  It was salaciously seductive. 

Then she abruptly broke the spell. 

“Well, Mr. Weeks, what do you think?

I told her the truth, “I don’t think I’d be interested, Ms. White.  You see, I saw the movie and everyone ends up in the slammer.”

“It was only a movie, Mr. Weeks.”

“I don’t care what you call it, it’s still extortion, and people go to jail for that.”

Lilly’s smile didn’t waver.

“I’m sorry Mr. Weeks,” she said, standing.  “I guess it was a bad idea, good evening.” 

I watched her as she exited the dining room, and I had no idea if she knew all the people dining at their tables, but she certainly acted as if she did; nodding, and gesturing and kibitzing with nearly everyone she passed.

Two nights later, I found myself, sitting in her dressing room at the Palace Theater; watching her change between acts.  A fancy dressing screen separated us, but I could tell she was studying me.  She was flashing just a hint of self-gratification because I’d told her I had changed my mind.  What I didn’t tell her, was that I was tumbling for her. 

The plan was simple.  Lilly would select the mark; I’d do the background check, and photograph the dirty details.  Then, when the time was right, I’d deliver the ill-gotten evidence with an extortion demand.  If the mark confronted Lilly, she’d deny any complicity, even suggesting that the police should be called before they did anything, usually adding, “I have a reputation you know.”  Of course, the mark wouldn’t contact anyone, he didn’t dare.  The last step was the easiest, select a drop point, and pick up the money. 

We paid a C-note a week to a crooked cop, just in case the mark did contact the police.  And we paid Danny Diaz a ten percent of our net, for allowing us to work his territory.  Danny frowned on grifters working his side of the street unless of course they checked with him first, and paid the appropriate gratuity.

When I asked Lilly later, why she was doing this, she said it was because she wanted a nest egg; but I soon realized that that was a white lie too.  She did it because she was addicted to the excitement and danger, just as she had been addicted to stripping on stage and manipulating the affections of wealthy—powerful men.  It empowered her in some strange way, which made her dangerous. 

We worked the extortion scam for a couple of years, saved a couple of nest eggs each.  Then one day she told me she was quitting, that she was bored, that she wanted to move on, and that was the end of that.  As I watched her, I couldn’t help but wonder if my addiction for her would be as easy to kick as hers was for me.  I went home and cried in my beer.

* * *

When I reached my office on Wilshire Boulevard, I discovered Lilly waiting for me.  She’d been crying.

“Oh, Nollie,” she sobbed as she ran into my arms, “I’m in so much trouble.  You have to help me.”

As I held her, I realized that the first thing I had to do was get her out of my office.  It’d be our bad luck if Bunny and Carmelo, had decided to show up unannounced.

“Lilly,” I said, “we have to get out of here, it isn’t safe.”

She lifted her head from my shoulder.

“Why, what’s wrong?”

I sat her down on the couch, picked up the office telephone, and called a Cab.  “That’s right, Wilshire Boulevard, south of Fairfax.  Tell the driver to pull into the parking area at the side of the office and honk.  Thanks.”

When I sat down beside her, I noticed the suitcase.

“Where’s Leo Drummond, Lilly?”

Her eyes filled with fire, but then dimmed, when she realized that I knew everything.

“I left him cooling his heels in Vegas.”

“Listen, Lilly, we have to get you to a safe place.  There’s a motel in West Hollywood that I know, are you up for it?”

“Can’t I stay with you, Nollie?” 

“No, baby, Danny’s goons will be watching my place.”

She squeezed my arm hard.  The mention of the man’s name did that to people, even powerful people.

“I’m sorry I had to involve you Nollie, but I just didn’t know which way to turn.”

“It’s okay.  I would’ve been hurt if you hadn’t.”

I went into my office, took a pint of scotch, and my .45 from the bottom drawer.  I called my answering service and left stalling messages for Danny and his two henchmen; then rejoined Lilly, handing her a paper cup with a swallow of booze. 

A horn sounded outside.  I checked the window, it looked safe.  I gathered Lilly up, and with the suitcase, in hand, we left.

When I returned home at four the next morning, Bunny and Carmelo were waiting in their car for me.  I waved to them as I keyed the gate to the underground parking.  When I entered the lobby from the garage, they were standing at the front entrance.  All that was missing was their noses pressed against the glass.  I let them in.

Bunny said, “You out partying last night, Nollie?”

“Yeah, what have you two been up to?”

“Waiting for you, asshole,” snapped Carmelo.

I smiled at him.

“You better be nice, wetback, or I’ll crack your head open.”

Carmelo lurched at me but Bunny, who was twice his size, held him back with a wave of his thick arm.

“Come on Nollie,” he said, “you don’t have to piss the man off.  We’re just checking up for Danny.”

“Fine, Bunny, you’ve done your job.  Now go back home and tell daddy.”

“Okay, we’ll go, but I want to know what time we should be back?”

“Give me four hours, okay.  I’ll be human by then.”

He agreed and they left, Bunny dragging the seething Carmelo under one arm.

As I watched them drive away, I decided to return to the motel, where’d I left Lilly.  My gut was telling me that everything was about to unravel.

Later that morning, when I entered Lilly’s motel room, she was sitting on the bed watching the bathroom door, which suddenly opened, revealing a mean-looking little man.  I guessed it was Leo Drummond.

“I didn’t tell him, Nollie,” she cried.  “He followed us here.  Tell him, Leo.  You followed us, didn’t you?”

Drummond turned slowly, both his hands stuffed in his suit coat pockets. 

My .45 was in my hand, and oddly enough, it was in my coat pocket, too.

“She copped the dough.” Desmond barked.  “Left me with nothing; high and dry.” 

“You followed us then?”

“Yeah, I followed you.  I want what’s coming to me.”

I glared at Lilly.

“Get the money.”

Lilly’s mouth dropped open.

“No, Nollie, it’s for us.  A new start.”

I was watching Drummond’s hands as they fidgeted uneasily in his pockets.  This time I yelled.

“Lilly, get the goddamn money.”

“No,” she screamed.  “It’s my money!  Mine!”

“You called this ass hole didn’t you, Lilly.  You called him because you knew I’d kill him when I found him here.”

“All right, goddammit, I called him.  Now do your dirt and kill the son-of-a-bitch.”

Her body language was defiant; legs apart, arms akimbo, when suddenly Leo Drummond drew a shiv from his pocket and raised it at me.  It was a big mistake because I shot him dead.

We gathered up Danny’s money, packed a few things, and left Los Angeles, for Seattle, Washington where we obtained two fake passports.  We crossed into Canada, rode the train east, across the breadth of an extraordinarily beautiful Canadian landscape, and finally settled in Quebec.  Lilly, now Lorraine Hammond, met a handsome, French school teacher; they married, and had a couple of kids.  I was always close by, watching over her; and every now and then, she’d call, and we’d sleep together.  I guess it was her way of saying thank you. 

The End

Originally published in Target Magazine (circa, 1994, Los Angeles, CA

SWEET BREAD

her looseness made her hot;

you knew it was hot,

when you put it in your mouth;

rolled it quickly over your tongue,

savoring its warm juices, feeling

its nakedness climb over you.

her bite was worse than her bark;

her beach was never closed;

she never closed the cover before striking;

never was harmful when swallowed;

never bought a lick of insurance,

she'd rather roller blade than drive.

her love was endless,

and when it boiled over,

she smelled so good,

you had to put your mouth on her;

and when your mouth was on her,

she let you know in no uncertain terms,

that she wanted you there,

kneading, her soft, wet dough;

licking, her rich, red cherries,

you could clock her by the moon,

bake sweet bread in her oven;

but you could never park in her space;

it was always, peddle to the metal,

top down, running flat out;

her hair, blown back over her head,

begging you,

 "Touch me,  here, and here;

kiss me, here. and here."

and 

she was worse than bad, there

wasn't anything she wouldn't 

do twice;

and 

she was worse than bad, she

believed everything came 

in threes;

and 

she was worse than bad, she

ruined you, for any other woman you'd

ever have.

Kim L Sellers

sellers_kim@hotmail,com

 http://onemyth.blogspot.com

Rules Were Made To Be Broken Not

Once, when he absent-mindedly mentioned, that her ears, reminded him of Clark Gable’s big ears, the words, seemingly rolled off her, like water off a duck. And In that moment, if he had thought he was free and clear of any admonishment, he was about to realize that it was wishful thinking.  

     

“You should know dear,” she began, “that my big ears, as you so indelicately described them, were considered indispensable weapons in the fight against crime, when I worked for the FBI. The FBI Director himself, as a matter of fact, called my investigative Tool Box, the best and most effective he’d ever seen in his long, career. He said that mind you, when he was awarding me the “FBI, Agent of Year, Award.”

“Really?” he said, “I didn’t know. You never mentioned that you’d worked for the, FBI.”

“Yes, I could hear a pin drop in a standing room only, Astrodome. I also have a photographic memory; speak four languages, fluently; hold a black belt in martial arts; and can shoot, both your eyes out, at twenty paces.  Although, I’d never do that, unless, of course, you pissed-me-off; and you’re teetering on that precipice, as we speak, my love.” 

Then, she laughed, adding, “I also graduated, cum laude; from Stanford, and have two Masters Degrees; Law and Theater Arts.  But I’d be remiss if I didn’t respond specifically to your thoughtless comment, concerning the size of my ears. You see love, I have learned to overlook this minor physical flaw because God also endowed me with blond hair; a strikingly, beautiful face; long legs, perfect breasts, and a tight, vagina.”

He apologized, and then, proceeded to tell her, that his most notable achievement, had been graduating from High School, by the skin of his teeth. She laughed, again; although, this time, he thought it was tinged with a little too much, smugness. He often thought those kinds of self-denigrating thoughts, and it always angered him. 

“Darling,” she continued, “I haven’t known you that long, what, two, maybe, two and half years? However long or short, it is, I have grown to like you — a great deal. And, honestly, I wouldn’t be with you, if I thought you were an underachiever. I just believe that you were spoiled as a child; spoiled, overly-protected, and abused.  And, I know you hate it when I play the abuse card, but please dear, call my shrink she works wonders; look at me.”

He ignored the shrink comment. Hell, he’d heard it, a million times before; and told her a million times, too, that he’d seen a shrink; and gotten, a clean bill-of-health.  Yes, he was successful, but he was also, hopelessly—madly in love with the woman, and he didn’t need a shrink to tell him that. Yes, she could be an overachieving, overpowering, piranha, at times, but he adored her. He also wanted to screw her so, bad his nuts hurt — all the time.

It was also, true, that the woman was gorgeous and scary smart; but of all her attributes, he loved her eyes and mouth best. Her eyes were deeper and bluer than the deepest ocean; her eyelashes, longer than the golden fringe on a surrey top; and her lips—Oh—her luscious, rose-hemped lips — they were his gateway to Kubla Khan’s, stately, pleasure-dome.

However, I would be remiss, if I didn’t mention that there was a rub in the relationship. Sadly, isn’t there always?

The woman had rules; crazy, FBI, like rules.  And one rule, in particular, had brought him to his knees, on more than one occasion.

“It’s not a rule, love,” she’d said. “It’s simply, that I prefer the mystery of romance. Where you, on the other hand my dear have, in prior relationships, practiced free sex.  That doesn’t work for me, and since it’s my vagina, you must play by my rules.”

THE RULE: (with underpants remaining on), Nothing below the navel, and nothing higher, than, “Stop, right there, please.” 

The rule was straight forward enough, but it was also, very difficult to enforce. The poor woman was always buying new underwear. Bottom-line, however, and most important to her; she remained a virgin.

He had been so desperate recently. that he had circuitously suggested that they marry. Her response was, “Well, that was romantic, a roundabout proposal of marriage. If my memory serves me correctly, dear, doesn’t the man ask the woman for her hand in marriage?  And, I’m purposely skipping all the mixed-gender issues; you know, different strokes for different folks; consenting adults; what happens in the bedroom, and the First Amendment. I understand that you’re desperate, my love; but, do you want to know something? What I love most about you, is your patience, perseverance, and unrelenting doggedness. I know that one of your most revered philosophical tenets, “Rules are made to be broken,” works for you, and I agree; except, I’m not as carte blanche about it, as you. No, I’m more of an individual case, kind-a-gal.  I’m sorry, sweetie.

She took his hand in hers, and said, “It’s just one, itty bitty, rule. We do all the other kinds of lovemaking; well, everything except that one other thing.  I honestly, don’t know what more I can do?”

“You could let me see it?”

“You mean, show it to you?”

“I didn’t stutter.”

“Okay, but I want something in return; a promise. No, a commitment.”

“Anything.”

“You’d really do anything for me; you love me that much?”

“Jesus, stop beating around the bush — so to speak.”

“What I want then, is a gracious, tender, and loving marriage proposal.”

Suddenly overwhelmed by the limitless, possibilities about to stare him in the face, he fell to his knees and recited a marriage proposal worthy of Shakespeare.  It was both a solemn and emotionally charged moment, for them both; and as promised, she graciously, removed her underpants.

“You shaved it?!”

“Yes, love, I didn’t want you to have any unnecessary distractions when we consummated our love. I’m afraid you’re disappointed.”

“Oh, no. Not at all. I’m actually, quite pleased. It’s beautiful. You're beautiful. Hell, all god’s children are beautiful.

“Good, I hoped you’d like it.”

The Uncoupling

(a story of unrequited love, is  there any other?)

by

Kim L Sellers

Forever is a long time to love anyone; sooner or later, you must get out, and it doesn't matter how, you just have too; it’s a case of preserving your sanity, maybe hers, too; because neither of you can look the other in the eye anymore; that's the last thing you want to do.

It was not so long ago; not so long, that you’d forget the hot you felt, when you touched her deep inside; when you told her how much you loved her, needed her wrapped tight around you, strangling you; because being in her arms, was all you had ever dreamt it would be.

Forever is a long time to love anyone; she overlooked, the first time you didn't fire-up her furnace, the way she wanted you, too; she needed your metal because it reaffirmed her power, and sense of worth; but you turned away from her, because withdrawing, validated your power—your worth—your justification, for pretending to go through the motions.

So, now you both speak, only when Spoken too, while still gorging yourselves, on what you think the other is thinking; the passive man—the wild woman, pushing each other’s buttons, as though Pavlov had taken temporary residence, and was sharing the living room, with the pink elephant, which was already a permanent fixture.

Then, in the middle of all the insanity, you notice her sticking Post-Its, on possessions of mutual interest; claiming them for herself; soon, you’re both sticking Post-Its, willy-nilly, throughout the house, and even worse, when friends visit; sticking Post-Its on them, too; until, suddenly, she moves into the front bedroom; leaving you to wonder, if all the heartache was worth losing your mind over?

A month later, when you're sitting on “YOUR couch;” she places her wine, on “HER table;” she look’s tired and worn, and you can’t help but hear, the furnace rattling between her legs, and you wonder, what had attracted you to her, in the first place?  Was it her blue eyes?  Or, the river of Canadian Club, and water, that you both drank from more often than you'd like to remember but, you really don't care; all you want is out and, you can't wait until the lists are Notarized.

It’s only fair to say, that you wondered, now, and then, if this uncoupling was the result of just a bad month, two; or even a bad year or two; but it’s not important; all you both want, now, is to be free of one another; because—Forever is a long time, to love anyone.

The end.

Sunday Brunch

I would often close my eyes when she spoke; there was something soothing about the intonation of her voice, and the inflection of her spoken words, as though Merriam was alive, and well, and living in her head, concocting new definitions for everything she said.

She was pretty, too; it was as though an artist had painted her, and except for a single, minor flaw, the woman was perfect.

“Tell me,” she said, “what gave it away?  Do I list to one side when I walk?  Do my glasses teeter, precariously on my nose? Or is it when I tilt my head to one side because it’s better to hear you?”  

Then she ordered me out of her bed; saying,

“Your time is up.”

I got out of her bed. I always did what she said, I trusted her.  But no sooner was I out, then she ordered me back in. Adding, with a disconcerting frankness,

“You look hideous, naked.”

 

We cozied up together; our bodies, softly touching.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.  “Your body is beautiful, especially for your age.”

I’d learned over the years that her sarcasm, was more a defense mechanism than actual criticism.  Ours was a long story, that had changed dramatically over the last year when she’d suddenly announced that she had decided to tweak her lifestyle.  The tweak had gotten me laid finally, but it had also cost me a small fortune.  Fortunately, I had one socked away for a special occasion, and our relationship had become as special as it gets. I became her first client; her first repeat client; and her only client; on Fridays and Saturdays.  We rested on Sunday; watched sports on TV and drank and smoked ourselves silly.     

It was a Sunday morning, very much unlike our usual Sunday mornings. 

I told her that I didn’t have any more cash.  After all, it was Sunday, and I hadn’t planned on having sex on the Sabbath.

She said: “We can walk up to the ATM, later.”

“Walk to the ATM?  It’s freezing outside.”

“Is daddy afraid he’ll catch a cold?”

“Funny.”

“Well, you are old enough to be my father, almost anyway.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. You know, if you’d cut your hair and shave, you’d look a lot younger.”

“Are you embarrassed to be seen with me?”

“No; not at all. I tell everyone, that you’re a mad scientist.”

“Well, if I am, it’s because you’re maddening.”

“There you go again, playing with my words when you should be playing with me.  You know, we’re the perfect pair.  I’m the good woman, turned whore; and you’re the mad scientist, hiding behind a curtain.  It’s straight out of Shelley.  Or, is it, OZ?  Whatever.”

I asked her to move because she was lying on my side of the bed.

“Why don’t you live dangerously, and climb over me?”

“Has anyone ever told you, how unromantic you are at times?”

“I don’t get paid for being romantic, I get paid for being a good lay; careful, don’t knee me. Here, give me your hand.”

Afterward, and against my repeated protests, we walked to the ATM, fighting a fierce, cold headwind.  

“Jesus!” She suddenly exclaimed, “Your mustache is growing icicles.”

“That’s not the only thing growing icicles,” I said, whining.

“Here, put your arm around me. I’ll keep your rudder warm.”

She was wearing a bright, yellow sweater cap and matching pullover, but both paled next to her long, golden hair, that wafted amorphously in the cold, wet wind. The woman was gorgeous.

“Stop looking at me; nothing good can come of it.  I’m not perfect, I will never be perfect.”

“I never said you were, on the contrary...”

“And stop being so contrarian, didn’t you sleep well last night?”

“I slept fine.  I always sleep well when I’m in your arms.”

“BTW, shouldn’t I be sleeping in your arms?  Aren’t you supposed to be the knight in shining armor, and I, the damsel in distress?”

“I hate armor; it’s so, arbitrary and cold to the touch don’t you think?”

“I don’t think when I’m having sex, I find it distracting.  I like pretending that I’m a GPS, guiding my Johns over the nooks and crannies of my erogenous landscape.  I especially love how you shift gears and do your roundabouts; but most of all, I love shouting out-loud when you kick the ball into the net and score.”

“That’s another thing I like about you, you love sports.  Do you know...?”

“Stop it; please!  Here I am trying to tell you that you’re halfway decent in bed, and all you can say is that I have a high sports IQ.  Do you know how hard it is to find a sensitive man, someone who doesn’t wear a jock strap on their teeny-weenie head, all the time?”

“No, all I know is that it’s freaking cold, and I’m freezing my butt off.”

“If you had a butt?”

“I guess you’ve been saving that for the right moment.  What are you doing?”

“It’s your rudder, I’m stirring us to the right.”

“You know you’re crazy, but I love you just the same.”

“OMG, do you realize that that’s the first time you told me you loved me?  How many years, now?  And not one single I love you. I was getting worried.”

“It’s cold, I must be delirious.”

I withdrew a hundred dollars, from the ATM, and handed it to her.

“Thank you,” she said, adding: “Are you hungry?  There’s a cozy, little diner just around the corner that serves an awesome Sunday Brunch.”

“I’m famished,” I said.

“Good, follow me.”

We ordered the Sunday Brunch and topped it off with a couple mimosas.

“My treat,” she said, “I’m flush with cash today.”

“No kidding. The ATM business reminds me of Las Vegas.”

“Why?  Do you want another hit?”

“Sure, but I can’t use the ATM until tomorrow.”

“Well, this is scary, but tonight’s my treat, too.”

“Really, brunch, and sex; I should buy a lottery ticket.”

“You have to leave early, though; I have another engagement tomorrow morning.”

“I’m okay with that, I think.”

We walked back to her bungalow, warm with mimosas.  Mine burned inside me, like a cozy wood fire, but unbeknownst to me, it was about to get a lot warmer.

“What are you doing?”  I asked.

“I’m getting undressed, I thought I’d take a nap.  Do you want to join me?” 

“No, I think I’ll watch some TV.”

“Over my naked body, you will.”

After we were tucked tightly in bed, she incredulously asked:

“What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to take a nap.”

“Give me your hand, you can nap later.”

“Can I ask you a personal question?”  I said.  “I’ve been burning to ask it”.

“Do you want to ask if my engagement tomorrow is a John?  Well, to satisfy your burning curiosity, Yes, it is.”

“Sorry, I asked.” 

“But you didn’t, and don’t worry your little head about it; you’re by far my favorite.  I never thought I’d say that, what with you being, so much older, and all, but I find our conversations stimulating, sort to speak.  Go ahead, ask me another question?”. 

“No, thanks.”

“Oh, yes; please.  Because there’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you for a long time. Are you sure, you don’t want to know?”

I closed my eyes, what did I have to lose?

“I know you’re in love with me...”

My eyes immediately popped back open; “Please, let’s don’t go there.”

 

“Why not?  I mean, there’s no doubt in my mind that you’re in love with me.  And yes, I think I’m falling in love with you, too.  Silly, isn’t it?”

“Frankly, it’s a frightful, absurd.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask you to marry me; so, don’t get your hopes up — not that you even care.  And I won’t have your babies either; although to be honest, I have thought about it.  I’m still young, and I know you’d always take care of us financially.  What do you think?”

“Jesus, you are proposing.”

“Yes!  Will you?!”

I must tell you, that I was more than somewhat taken aback; but her announcement was also, music to my ears.

“Yes, I’ll marry you, but. . .”

“But nothing. You’re either in or out, which is it?”

“Okay, I’m in.”

“Wonderful!  This is so, goddamn exciting.” 

Then, she paused; and I could hear Merriam, spinning her words, again.

“There’s one small caveat; I want to keep my Johns.  You know, mad money; and of course, my degree.  Besides, I’ll be losing my best customer.”

I said, “That’s no small caveat.”

“I know,” she said.  “It’s not a deal breaker, but you’re retired and on a fixed income.  I just thought...”

“Well, it certainly puts a unique twist on adultery, that’s for sure.  And frankly, I think it’d make a great movie.”

“Ah, marriage on the silver screen, don’t you love it?  You know, they’ll call me your trophy wife.”

“Good, I’ve always wanted a trophy.”

“Here’s the best thing, though, I mean the very best thing, by far.”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“Full time, unprotected sex.  No, more icky condoms.”.

“Uh—oh, I think my rudder wants to go sailing, again?”

“OMG, yes it does.  Be a careful old man, I’m climbing on board.”

Like I said, I always did what she said.  I trusted her.

Then, she suddenly cried aloud, “Captain, Oh, Captain,  Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!”

Merriam again, I thought; but what the Hell, I always wanted to be a Captain.

The End.