The Bargain with Lucifer

After finishing his wine and the article he was reading, he closed his New Yorker, deciding to go home and work on the poem that had been frustrating him for eight months. Just as he got up he glanced over at Wendy behind the counter. She waved at him and smiled and it struck him as odd that she seemed so happy to see him. He remembered her comment that he looked good, then, as he was leaving, another young woman with short brown hair, glanced at him and smiled as they passed, baffling him that for some reason he was being noticed.

"Maybe it's this blue t-shirt," he wondered, suddenly feeling he looked attractive but didn't know why. He still had wrinkles, still had thinning white hair and a beard. His legs were still stiff, but he liked how a few young women looked at him and smiled but wasn't sure why. When he got back in his car and looked up at the café with its glass door, the sign above it with a the golden gothic lettering, the empty bird cage with the open door, he thought how much he enjoyed being there and decided he would go there again. He liked the vitality, the way people seemed engaged and he also wondered if he would see that sexy woman again and if she looked at him again would he have the nerve to talk to her, ask her what book she was reading, start a conversation.

At home that night, Paul stood at the window and looked down at the pool. No one was there. The water was still, the lights around the pool shining on its blue surface. People sometimes swam on warm summer nights but tonight it was quiet. He had never used the pool, but the idea of sitting out there and getting a tan suddenly appealed to him. Maybe he would do that tomorrow, he thought, remembering he had an old pair of swimming trunks he hadn't worn in years.

He then did another thing he hadn't done in years and that was pour him self a glass of Jack Daniels to sip and listen to an old Mose Allison record, remembering he liked his jazz and satirical lyrics. He sat down on his recliner, turned off the lamp making the room dim, sipped his drink and listened to the steady chords and Mose singing in his distinctive southern drawl, "I'm not disillusioned, no I'm not disillusioned, I'm not disillusioned...but I'm getting there."

That line always made Paul chuckle. He remembered how he had been feeling for the past year or so, maybe longer, hating the idea of reaching the age when he felt his best days were behind him, how painful it felt to see so many attractive women pass him without looking, how, until earlier in the day, he hadn't written a decent line of poetry for a year and how he felt at the café earlier being looked at by not one but several younger women, and now he was eager to return, hoping the woman in the tight grey sweats would be there.

When he finished his Jack Daniels, the Mose Allison record over, he put on Vivaldi's "Four Seasons," turned off the lamp in back of him and sat in the dark listening to the vitality of the music, and heard himself humming the lovely melodies, moving his hands as if conducting and feeling he was not as depressed as he had been. The thought of getting a tan, maybe getting his bicycle out and exercising, taking bike rides along the river appealed to him. He remembered how he enjoyed having house plants around and decided he was going to do that again but this time he wouldn't let them turn into wilted brown leaves. He would start over, get cuttings from his neighbor, Veronica and buy some from the garden center, remembering how he loved African Violets and Begonias.

When the Vivaldi ended, he lay back in the recliner, looking into the darkness of his living room, enjoying the silence, suddenly liking how he was feeling and now knowing he wanted to change the downward spiral of his life. He remembered the conversation he had with Luke before drinking the potion, remembered saying, "the only thing that can change me is me," dismissing the notion that the ancient brew he drank had any power and that the deal regarding Luke owning his spirit and soul was nonsense. It was up to him to turn his life around, not a potion, not a bargain.

Paul woke up at dawn the next morning, laying in his bed, realizing lines of poetry were coming to him, surprising him, reminding him that this is the way he woke up years ago when he was determined to be the best poet he could be. He thought about the poem he had been stuck on for so many months and now the words were coming to him. He jumped out of bed, went to the bathroom to pee and wash his face then he'd get down to work. He looked in the mirror, looking into his eyes and again noticed they seemed bluer, not as watery, in fact, had a little twinkle and noticed that though he still had bags and a wrinkled brow, for some reason his skin looked smoother, not as pale or pasty looking. He wondered what he would look like without his beard. "I've had this beard since I was twenty-five," he said, remembering how brown it was, also how long his dark curly hair used to be, how it gradually got grey then white. "Well, maybe I'll trim it, make it shorter, or maybe I will just shave it off, wondering how it would feel to see his face without it, the face he hadn't seen in forty five years. His beard, now so much apart of his identity, made him wonder if he had the courage to do that. "What would people think, or say?" he thought. "So what," Paul said to the man in the mirror. "What does it matter what people think?" but knew he wasn't ready to shave off his beard.

In the kitchen, he flipped on the electric coffee maker, remembering he always got his coffee ready the night before, filling the reservoir, putting in the four scoops of coffee, but this morning he added a few pinches of cinnamon, something he used to do but hadn't done in years. He sat down at the small kitchen table, grabbed a pen and turned to the page in his notebook where the stagnant unfinished poem sat, read the lines then scribbled over them, crossing them out. "That sucks," he said and started writing the words that came to him in bed.

He wrote them down, stopped for a minute to pour himself the coffee, put in a little honey and took his first sip, releasing the huge "Ahhhhh" he always did after the first taste, only this time, he savored the taste, looked down at the black liquid, "Wow, that's so delicious," he said out loud, then went back to the kitchen table and continued writing.

Just like yesterday when he finished writing the new poem in under an hour, today the words poured from him with few cross outs. But what he was writing was different than what he had been trying to say months ago. He remembered how stuck he was, how he couldn't break through the barrier that had been blocking him when he was feeling so dark, so pained, so exhausted, but now he couldn't write fast enough. When he finished the draft, knowing he would go over it and refine it later, he picked up his notebook and read it out loud, walking into the other room.

Choosing an illusion doesn't make my life less real,

and if I care to sing

instead of crawling on my hands and knees

holding up a bleeding heart

the sunrise still will sparkle on the lake

and through the trees.

Morning has no pity as it marches through the sky.

The choice is ours to shrink

behind a rock,

complaining until we die

or to let the imagination wink

and look the passing heavens in the eye.

Noon comes fast and bright

and shadows disappear at this hot hour.

What mist that was on the lake at dawn

will surely come again at dark.

And so I dream: The sun that shines

now on your lovely face

will rise tomorrow from my lyric heart.

Paul read the poem over four times liking it better each time, but what surprised him the most was how positive he felt and realized this was a love poem. Why was he writing a love poem? He had no idea whose lovely face he was writing about, but he knew he hadn't written a poem like this since he was in his thirties when he was protesting the war in Vietnam, when he was enraged after the Bay of Pigs fiasco and realized how the CIA and secret organizations really ruled the country. Maybe he was remembering Evelyn or maybe it was truly about someone he hadn't met yet, maybe it was the woman he saw at the café, he didn't know but he loved the line about his lyric heart, the heart that hadn't felt lyrical in years.

When he finished reading the poem, he took a deep breath and went to the window, looking down at the pool. He glanced up at the clock and saw it was already after ten. He had worked on that poem for over three hours and had no idea it was so late. He was hungry now and wondered if he should make himself a nice breakfast to celebrate his new poem, then go down and take a swim, sit in the sun, start getting a tan. He knew he wanted to go back to the Gilded Cage later. Rather than feeling lethargic like he had for so long, he now didn't know what to do first. He felt energized. He had written two poems in two days. He suddenly felt youthful and when he went back to the bathroom to pee again, he looked in the mirror and saw twinkling blue eyes looking back at him. Also, his brow didn't look as wrinkled, his white hair now looked darker, grey, not as thin and for the first time in a long time, he liked what he saw in the mirror

"You know, you're not a bad looking guy, you look pretty good," he said, remembering Wendy saying that yesterday.

Rather than oat meal, he made himself bacon and two eggs up with toasted whole wheat bread spreading butter on it, poured another cup of coffee and devoured his delicious breakfast. After finding his old maroon bathing suit in the back of a drawer, he put it on, glanced at himself in the mirror, noticing his paunch practically gone, "I must be losing weight," he said, then grabbed a towel and walked barefooted to the pool, remembering how much he used to love walking around without shoes or socks.

It was now after eleven and people were already around the pool. He threw his towel on one of the lounge chairs, went to the edge of the pool, stuck his toe in to see how cold the water felt and then without hesitation dove head first and swam underwater to the other side of the pool then immediately turned around and swam back, surprised at how well he could still swim after probably ten or more years of not being in a pool. He climbed out of the pool, lifting himself up by his arms, dried himself off and looked around at the others, noticing the group of women he had seen before on the other side talking, but saw two of them stop talking and look over at him before turning back to their conversation, one lifting her sun glasses.

When he laid down on his lounge, he could feel the warm sun on his skin, how soothing it felt, how relaxed it made him. He closed his eyes and felt himself drifting into a nap then heard someone speaking to him. He opened his eyes but it was hard to see in the sunlight then gradually, he saw one of the women from the other side of the pool standing in front of his lounge chair. She was wearing a yellow bikini and had a tube of sun lotion in her hand. He would have to be blind not to see her breasts barely covered by the skimpy top, her smooth tan skin, her long auburn hair.

"You better be careful. You're going to get a bad sun burn if you don't put some of this lotion on," she said. "I hope you don't mind my concern."

"No of course not, thank you, that's very considerate of you," Paul said, looking down at his white pale skin, the grey curly hair on his chest.

"Here, you can use this," she said, bending over, handing him the brown and white tube.

"Australian Gold," he read then looked up at her.

"So who are you?" she asked. "I've never seen you around the pool. Do you live here?"

"Yes, I do. I've been here for almost a year. That's my apartment over there," Paul said, pointing to the second floor, "Apartment 2. This is the first time using the pool though."

"Funny, I never noticed you before today," she said, pausing, "and I live on the second floor too, Apartment 5, but when I saw you stand by the pool and immediately dive in and swim under water I was impressed. I was sitting over with my friends. We sit around the pool every day but I just noticed you. I hope you don't mind my being concerned about you getting a sun burn. I know how painful that can be."

"That's very kind of you," Paul said, suddenly feeling his penis twitching and stirring while looking up at her, his eyes roving over her smooth tan legs, her tiny bikini, her barely contained breasts, her long auburn hair.

"I'm Alicia," she said. I've lived here for two years since my divorce."

"I'm Paul. Paul Cantor," he said, still surprised that this attractive, sexy woman just came over to let him use her sun tan lotion.

"Are you Paul Cantor, the poet?" she asked. "Are you?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact I am. Are you a poetry fan?"

"I am, sort of," she said. "I wasn't sure but I thought that was you but wasn't sure. I heard you read a year or so ago at the Leaves of Grass Book store and I even bought your book, Living in the Shade and you autographed it. That's why I came over to give you this lotion. I wondered if that was you. I loved your book."

"Thank you. I'm glad you liked it," Paul said, feeling himself getting aroused but wanting to hide what was happening and put the towel over his bathing suit.

"Mind if I join you," she said, sitting down at the end of his chair, causing him to move his feet aside to give her room. "Ever since my divorce over two years ago, I've been reading books and even started writing poetry, it's not very good but it's a release."

"I understand, we all need a release, sometimes," Paul said feeling Alicia's leg against his leg, a sensation he hadn't felt in many years as she sat next to him, felt his arousal getting him hard, surprised that this sexy woman was sitting with him.

"I can't stop looking at your blue eyes," Alicia said. "And you have such a nice smile."

"Really, maybe it's you making me smile," he said, realizing he was flirting, speaking in a way that was so unlike him.

She smiled at him then glanced down at the towel covering his erection and Paul knew he was not able to hide what was happening. She looked into his eyes, then back at the tent he was making.

"Is that what I think it is," she said looking at the towel.

"Yes," Paul said, then looked into Alicia's eyes.

She looked at the bulge in the towel then at Paul's eyes and bit her lower lip and surprised Paul by suddenly moving her hand up his leg, slowly making her way along his inner thigh, under the towel and placed her hand on his hardness.

Stunned at first, he watched her hand and relaxed. "That feels so good," Paul said, moaning, closing his eyes at the way her hand rubbed then gripped him. "Oh my god what's happening," he thought, as the sensation made him lift his ass off the lounge, wanting her hand to keep doing what it was doing.

"I'm so wet, Paul," she gasped, rubbing him harder, feeling him lifting himself from the lounge chair against her hand, feeling the throbbing in his bathing suit under the towel. "I want you," she said.

The hungry sound of her voice got Paul so hot, he boldly put his hand on hers as she rubbed his hardness. She then leaned forward, "Listen, I don't want those women to see what's going on, so I'm going to go up to my apartment. Wait a few minutes then come up to Apartment Five, just down the hall from your apartment. I'll leave the door open."

She got up and walked away, glancing back at Paul, not believing what was happening, as he watched the woman, her yellow skimpy bikini barely covering her ass cheeks, her breasts barely contained by her top, her hips swaying, her long tan legs, her auburn hair. Had she really invited him to meet her in her apartment? And was this him, hornier than ever, knowing he was going to take full advantage of her offer?

Even though women had stopped looking at him several years ago, Paul had never stopped feeling lust for the young women he saw every day on campus, but this was new. Not only had she looked at him, she seduced him, she wanted him and now he wanted her more than he could say.

After a few minutes, he left the poolside, glancing over at the women across from him, glad that they were so busy talking, though he noticed a dark haired woman look over, lifting her sun glasses, then went back to the conversation. He held his towel in front of him, knowing his erection would be noticeable but walked quickly into the building, up the stairs, past his apartment and pushed open the door with the number five and knowing where the bedroom was since this apartment was identical to his, there she was sitting on the bed, leaning against the headboard, her legs wide apart, fingering herself, then sucking her finger while Paul slipped out of his bathing suit, her eyes widening at the sight of his erection and without a word, he was on her bed, between her legs, kissing her, their tongues swirling then without hesitating thrusting deep into her with one hard thrust, her screams filling the room.

Paul pounded her as hard as he could, knowing he wouldn't last long, feeling her tightness gripping his piston like thrusts as he drove into her faster, deeper, each thrust harder than the last, knowing he was on the verge of exploding when he felt her body tensing, trembling then convulsing, her voice screaming, her wetness pouring out of her forcing him to thrust even harder before he too, erupted into a huge overwhelming orgasm.

"Oh! Oh! Oh, ahhhhhhh!" he screamed at the top of his lungs, writhing in ecstasy before collapsing on her, gasping for air, his panting limp body laying heavily on her soft body, her breasts crushed against his chest

After a few minutes, he slid off of her and rolled onto his back, looking up at the ceiling, Alicia turned on her side to face him, draping her leg over Paul's limp penis, rubbed his chest, playing with the curly grey hair, smiling into his eyes, "Well, I think we're going to be good neighbors," she said.

Still astonished at what had just happened, he smiled at her, "I think I'm going to like being your neighbor," he said.

"You better be careful, mister, I'm insatiable," she said

"Is that so," Paul responded. "Well, maybe you've met your match."

"Oh yeah," Alicia said. "I like challenges."

"Yeah, well watch yourself, young lady," he said, "I might be more than you can handle," he added, playfully.

Paul could not believe how he was speaking to her, how she was looking into his eyes. This was so unlike him, but looking at her tan smooth skin, her leg over him, her breasts pressed against his body, aware that he was now in bed with a sexy young woman who had just seduced him and here he was bragging in a strangely macho way.

"Is this me," he asked himself while she lowered her lips to his and kissed him.

"I've got to keep you to myself and not let those cougars around the pool know about you," she said.

"Really," Paul said, remembering the woman who lifted her sunglasses when he left the pool. "Well, good luck. I'm not a one woman man," he said, again feeling he was speaking like someone else.

"Well, I'll see what I can do to keep you busy," she said. "I have my ways."

Glancing over at the digital clock and seeing it was after one he thought about the Gilded Cage and the dark haired woman he saw yesterday. He took a deep breath, looked up at Alicia smiling into his eyes, not sure what to say in order to leave without hurting her, or, more accurately, not burning any bridges behind him, squirmed away from her.

"Well, I have an appointment downtown, so I have to get going, but don't be surprised if I want to come over and borrow some sugar from you," he said, again, surprised at the teasing playful way he was speaking.