Comfort the Widow Ch. 01

Chapter 01 The Exasperation of Lust

“Time is short for a hot heart.” --Ami Lin

It is only too true that when the deepest satisfaction of your heart’s desire appears before you, the right and righteous thing to do is to get hold of it, embrace it, then cherish it right down to your last breath. And, say this heart’s desire is a woman, well, great balls of fire!, do not dawdle, because you have hit the jackpot.

What I mean is (snap!), out of nowhere you meet a beautiful woman, intelligent and capable, and (you soon discover) sinfully horny as the very dickens. And two minutes into the encounter the desire of lust seizes you, and you cannot concentrate on so trivial a thing as your car keys. You get that warm dull itch in your loins, and you are overwhelmed with the body memory of the texture of a woman’s hair dragged across your belly and crotch, clean to your toes--she blowing hot breath and smacking noisy, wet kisses all the way; the whiskey-whispered songs and ditties; poetry and private jokes; the intimate talk, the teases and taunts; the wiggles and giggles and whoops!; the bubbly luxury of roundy cleavage; the husky aroma of moist anticipation between her thighs; your indefatigable erection (a delight for everyone); and rambunctious slap-and-tickle honey fucking, and the sweaty-wet exhausted surfeit of the most potent and private, intimate caresses (cock and pussy and mouth and tongue and fingers, face, ears, and all); that deepest sharing of the human lusts).

What the hell is going on? The sages more wise than I have called it love at first sight; and lust gets dragged along for lagniappe.

#

Case in point.

Some time ago I was in Seattle for a management conference that pretty much amounted to a couple days of whiplash cheerleading, by-the-numbers “teamwork,” and corny New Age company-blab. The kind of “feel good” baloney that provokes office-stupor among the cubicles, peckish attitudes, and high employee turn-over. But, well, the company was paying, so who was I to argue? Besides, I had never been to Seattle and looked forward to seeing some of the Northwest. So, what the hell, I put in for a week’s worth of vacation to boot.

Well, that first morning of meetings and panels, seminars and “sessions,” I kept seeing a woman who looked oddly familiar. Has that ever happened to you? I came endlessly close to bumping into her at the hospitality suite, in the lobby between sessions, taking lunch in the Thai restaurant across the street, and finally sitting tantalizingly near during the wind-it-up afternoon workshop where the first day’s “talking points” were endlessly repeated in bold italic sing-song.

I simply could not keep my eyes off her. I swear I knew her from somewhere (I am not making this up), and everything but her name seemed familiar. Every once in a while she ‘caught’ me, would flash a bright and enigmatic smile, give her long auburn hair a rolling shake of the head, then look down into her lap, grinning. What the hell was that? And me? Well, I’d whip away my gaze out of sheer embarrassment, but not before I’d nod and smile. Sometimes I’d catch her looking, and as the day wore on our eye contact got warmer.

I figured, well, my man, we’re on to something here--whatever this is.

Just the same, I felt awkward and dorky, staring at a stranger like that. I’m too old for this bullshit, but, I tell you, I knew her from someplace--God knows where. After a while, I became intrigued with my own curiosity, not to mention my blatantly instantaneous ambition to sleep with her (we’d fuck our brains out until we did not know yonder from hither, take a break in place for 40 winks, roll around and fuck some more--morning, noon, and night).

The Lord only knows what was going on around me at the conference. I was supremely distracted by my own imaginary sojourn which involved the mystery woman and me engaged in every possible sexual state of affairs my overactive imagination could invent; these reveries as vivid as dreams, and dripping with aroma and texture, etc.--every delight known to well-seasoned, libidinous grown-ups.

I tried to get close enough to say something, or catch the name tag. A name would help, don’t you think?, but I could not manage so little as that, because there was always some trivial intervention or she kept slipping off--ah, a woman who likes to be chased, or so I would have liked to think. I laughed down into my notebook and shook my head--what a great game, but my God. All that first day, my undeniable impulse to get at it never came together with the opportunity; the entire world seemed to conspire against me. I felt as if I were in the midst of one of those slow-motion chase dreams--you know about those! Deserted house, heavy footfalls and deeply ponderous echoes, the spider-silk shine of a knife blade (sharpened with that rasp of steel on leather strop), every door locked, and you fleeing forever, as if pounding through the milky light of a coral reef. And don’t think for a minute that I wasn’t horny enough; come on.

That evening I got all extra-specially spiffed up, and hung around the bar looking for her: it was time to find out once and for all--me laying in wait, so to speak, but she didn’t show.

Well, shit.

But the next morning, there she was again. And all that day we kept slipping past to each other, but, try as I might, never actually got within earshot. We stared, eyeballing each other with sliding glances, smiling--signifying our mutual intrigue (a pleasant nod, a large wink, a light in the eye, “incomprehensible” hand signals and feigned lip-reading, a very friendly swirl of her very business-like skirt, and a nice long stretch of leg).

Fact was, of course, a lot of men were looking her up and down, but I am not a sexual predator, and did not wish to seem a “player”; coming up through school, I was raised with country manners, and one-third shy to boot. I am not celibate, mind you, but I’ve got more respect for women than that; operators don’t want to know you, they just want to fuck you; my philosophy has evolved to resemble Melville’s famous lawyer in “Bartleby”--the easiest way of life is the best. Easy does it, that’s me; make your own luck, and all these good things come to you. On the other hand, I have indulged in my fair share of wham-bam-thank-you-ma’ams, but I pride myself that I’ve grown-up beyond out-of-town one-nighters.

The woman was definitely striking as well as enchanting, you understand (made my balls roar), but was absolutely and strictly dressed for business: blouse and blazer cut straight as a string, swishy black skirt cut well below the knee, dark hose and black patent leather soft-heeled shoes, but a very un-business-like fire engine red scarf thrown around her neck like a tartan. A woman the like of which you might see, I suppose, in some deep-pockets, Seattle-trendy law office. Still and all, there was an ease about her that was very appealing (easily that); the shakes of the head and gestures of the hands, the switching of legs in sitting and the brushing of crumbs from her blazer, the tilt of the shoulders and the roll of the ankles. She had long auburn hair well past her shoulders, large blue eyes, a vivacious smile (almost pixie-ish), a roundy wallop of cleavage only too apparent (despite the blouse), and long graceful legs. (As she told me later, they may be long, dear heart, but definitely worth the climb.)

I pegged her around 40; you know, that age when a woman is well into her sexual prime; that age, according to the philosophers, when the “other light” goes on, and whatever supple gymnastical expertise a woman has lost is more than compensated by a rich repertoire of voluptuous enthusiasms (vivid examples to follow). Oh, and it bares mention that the mystery woman was not wearing a wedding ring. This was definitely an asset; bitter experience has taught me that sleeping with another man’s wife is never a good idea, except in case of emergency. Pity fucks are not my specialty. Desperation sympathy fucks, yes; but those I’m-so-sorry, one-size-fits-all, get-naked pity fucks (the mild hysterias, the drunken weeping, the deep morning-after embarrassments)--thank you, but no. After all, one of Nelson Algren’s rules was, “Never sleep with a woman who has more problems than you.”

And this second day, by God, every time I moved to approach the mystery woman, something or someone would intervene and off she’d get; smiling with vivacious cheer. I would smile back nodding, and give her a great big wink. So, for the rest of the day we smiled and nodded and winked; the game, as Holmes would say, was definitely a-foot.

What the hell was going on here?

Was she one of those middle-management prick-tease trophy wives? One of those born-again southern belle’s--all grin and no git!--who just want to be friends. Jesus! But halfway through the second day I really, absolutely and completely didn’t fucking care. I just wanted to solve the puzzle: where did I know her from?

Well, duh!, my friend, we’re not talking rocket science, get busy! If I didn’t say something to her, I’d never forgive myself. And, I repeat, I knew her from somewhere, but for the life of me I could not remember when or where.

It was exasperating. Bah!

At the last session (thank God!), when the entire company of attendees gathered in the grand ballroom one last fucking time, the mystery woman sat on the extreme left of my peripheral vision; we carried on as before, flashing our grins, nodding and winking. And when Doctor Doofus Doolittle (Ph.D., University of Iowa/Duckbutter) finally, finally, came to the bitter end of his palaver, everyone stood up in a bunch (as instructed!), shook hands with the “neighbors,” wished one and all health, wealth and happiness with gusto and warmth; yes, yes, thank you, thank you; one thousand blessings on your house also. And now, fare-thee-well, la-dies and gentle-men.

Meanwhile, the mystery woman simply got up and made straight for the door. I caught sight of her hair, flashes of her scarf, going that way with all haste. There must have been a million bodies between us.

I couldn’t get out of that place fast enough, working my way through all that with my elbows and apologies clean to the lobby, but gone, she was. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. May all the saints of Heaven preserve us...! Where, I ask you, is Saint Expedite when you need him? I scoured the grand entrance and the far reaches of the lobby, the elevators, and Jacko’s--the bar. Nothing! There aren’t many serious regrets in my life, but letting the mystery woman disappear on me definitely got nailed to the top of that short-list. What kind of a bonehead am I? I must have rocks in my head.

Now what?

Well, what this great brick of disappointment needed a good stiff drink, so first I went to my room and took a good stiff, cold shower, changed into jeans and topsiders, a T-shirt and my last clean and fancy designer sweatshirt, and made straight for the bar. Look, it’s been two days of contrary exasperations that would send any man to a saloon. For two days the hotel had reeked of the grinding, rhetorical cheer from clown-college hucksters in three-piece suits; all that shuck and jive juxtaposed with two days of stunned, exceedingly pleasant intrigue with a very good looking woman (who had my pecker half hard for the last 48 hours); someone I knew (I thought!); uniquely beautiful, she was, almost Rubenesque but for her height, very sexy; and, without a doubt in my mind, supremely fuckable. But for the life of me could not recall from where or when; could not recall so simple a thing as her name.

Take a knee, Chucklehead, you’ve earned it.

#

I walked toward the back of the bar, and the big screen TV. The homeboys were playing Atlanta at Safeco Field (a rare inter-league game) and the evening had every chance of being a serious pitchers’ dual. Raul Descartes (a primo fast ball and a “sloppy” curve for the lefties, good old “Knuckles”) and Big Bill Barnet (a notorious split-finger fast ball with dead-man-walking eyes and a really ugly fu Manchu mustache).

I swung a leg over a stool, ordered a pint of Bass, asked for some bar snacks (Bridgeport Trail Mix, we Chicagoans call it), and ordered the prawn salad.

“Jacko’s” was conventionally odd, like a lot of big-deal, expense account hotel saloons; that’s the only way I can describe it. Dark carpeting; a great, long bar; a handsome, lighted mirror back of the top shelf liquor that doubled as the bartenders’ work light; a voluptuous reclining nude etched into the glass--a la Boucher’s “Woman in Repose”-- Mrs. Poontang Soccer-Mom with a great-big-smile and the devil in her eye, and looking about as ready for a randy good fuck as she could be. There was an atmosphere of ‘old silver’ and cedar to the place. No dogs playing poker or riding to hounds, thank God!; no aces and eights, ten high (Wild Bill Hickock’s famous “Dead Man’s Hand”); no Paul Bunyan with ax and ox; no cocktail waitresses with over-the-top store-bought hooters, bandbox ribbons in their hair, and bunny tails; no hanging baskets of greens or fake stained glass booth dividers; thank God, thank God, thank God. And hallelujah!, a decent baker’s dozen beer spigots with Kirin and Bass on tap, among others, along with a truly delicious array of single-malt scotches trucked in from Vancouver. The hotel brochure bragged that “Jacko’s” was voted “The Best Place in Town to Kiss”; give me a break. Absolutely the only thing missing was, believe me, a well-stocked juke box--I mean aside from the mystery woman.

Here was plenty of room to be First Class Miserable.

A couple brewskis and some baseball, a bite to eat at the bar and a bit of a walk around the block to admire Mount Rainier by moonlight was fine with me--just fucking fine. At least I wouldn’t be eating alone, or the only one drinking. The only fly in the ointment that could possibly make the evening any more miserable was the tableful of obnoxious, sloppy-drunken cops on a loud, celebration bender; terrific--drunks with guns who won’t shut up and were not going away any time soon. Other than that, folks from the conference were spread throughout the room (busy, busy, busy, with all their heads together--buzzing), but I didn’t know them, and didn’t want to know them. The only thing to do was ignore these people as much as possible, all I was interested in was the mystery woman with the great smile and that sexy, wonderful light in her eyes, and she’d already skedaddled.

Drink up, boy.

Then the game started and the food came. As I ate, perfume kept walking by; Friday night couples on the town (a hotel bar?) and gaggles of women conferees connected with that trailer-trash, door-to-door cosmetics company; you know, “gals” with big hair, big make-up, and glow-in-the-dark nail-jobs; their bodies way too much for their clothes. And the thought occurred to me that I might well get lucky tonight, after all; any port in a storm, you know. Anything, absolutely anything, but a couple hours of those pitiful adult-channel soft porn flicks, and stroking the sergeant major, here. I am able to act a fool when the situation demands it; I mean, you know--the prick goes up and the brains go in the ground; and sheer random statistics dictated that there was one woman in that saloon who liked nothing better than to be rode hard and put up wet, as the saying goes.

It’s a guy-thing; midnight rolls around and there are no ugly women, pussy is pussy no matter what, there’s no such thing as a bad blowjob, drunken fucking is at least adequate, and the cuddling and breakfast are not the least of it. And the next day if you cannot remember her name, it is no loss to literature, because she cannot remember yours either.

#

Then came the smell of perfume that lingered.

Now, perfume, like music, is always difficult to describe, but here was the deep lotus scent of a warm, sharp dusk; the tincture of jade light poured into a large voluptuous interior space; the libidinous intoxication of pornographic Impressionism; the luscious, straightforward aroma of a woman headed for erotic recreations with all speed. I turned to see who it was, and, praise Creation, two stools down the way stood the mystery woman.

Saved! Now we’re getting somewhere! Thank you, Saint Expedite, wherever you are!

The change in her demeanor and distance startled and pleased me; an absolute transformation. Her look of her luminous auburn hair pleased me no end, and the very casual evening dress pleased me more. And, overall, right here and now was the deeply satisfying aura of a very sexy woman built more for comfort than speed with a wang-dang-doodle twinkle in her eye to go along with the dark gloss of rose on her lips.

This recognition occurred in an instant.

The mystery woman could not, of course, have made it easier, and my job just then was to keep things rolling. So, before she could get settled and get the bartender’s attention I put down my fork, leaned toward her (sliding my hands along the bar), and said, “Pardon me, ma’am. I don’t mean to be rude, but you and I have been flirting with each other for two days. My name is David. David Knox. Everyone calls me D.H. The ‘H’ is for Henry,” I said, and offered a handshake. (What the hell was that--the ‘H’ is for Henry?)

“I am pleased to meet you, D.H.,” she said, taking my hand. “My name is Anisé Taylor Vincent.”

“Anisé. A beautiful name,” I said, shaking her hand, holding it and holding it. Neither of us was embarrassed by this. (I looked the name up later, and am tickled to report that it is an ”African” word which means the joy of pleasure; well, I’ll be....) Hers was not a name that rang a bell for me, except the one between my legs. “Well, Ms. Taylor, I know it sounds lame and I mean no disrespect, but from the moment I first saw you yesterday I have had the strangest notion that we’ve met before, but I cannot just this minute recall where or when. You are a strikingly beautiful woman, so you must get hit on all the time, and I apologize for staring. If I have made you uncomfortable, I am really sorry, but I have to ask. Do I know you?”

Which, I know, is a very awkward way to say it (please, save your letters), like one of those really dumb trick questions on a drivers license exam, but--trust me--that’s just how flustered I was (an unaccustomed predicament).

“Oh, please call me Anisé. There’s not reason to apologize or feel awkward, D.H.,” she said. “You’d be surprised how little attention I get. It doesn’t happen as often as you may think. And truth to tell, D.H., this is odd, because I recognize you from somewhere, but for the life of me I cannot recall where or when. D.H. Knox does not seem familiar.”

Perhaps, I thought to myself, we met in a previous life.

“Tell you what,” I said as we lingered over our touch of hands; hers soft and warm. “Let’s cut the winks and nods and silly smiling. Why don’t you let me buy you a drink, let’s talk, share some prawns here, and maybe we’ll figure it out.”

“That’s fine! Let’s get to the bottom of this,” she said, and sidled over to the stool next to mine. I asked my good friend Ku, the bartender, to bring another place setting. Anisé asked for a Vegas Margarita. Well, well; you have to admire a woman who begins an evening with an ice-cold, frosty Margarita. She hooked the heel of one sandal over the wrung of the stool and swung other leg over her knee--her dress sliding up her thigh (ah, me....)--and her high-heeled sandal fan-dangled from her toes all decked out in one of those whoop-de-do, post-modern nail jobs; when was it, do you suppose, that I acquired a foot fetish?

#

The place setting arrived, and the Margarita soon after; Ku’s presentation was way over the top, but that was the way the whole evening was going. Anisé and I toasted each other (“Very pleased to meet you!”), and began eating. The shrimp were almost tasteless and the cocktail sauce not nearly horse-radishy enough, but what the hell. We were, simply, hungry with nervousness, and made large gestures with the forks and food.