Tiger, Tiger, Burning Bright

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

     William Blake (1757-1827)

It happened four years ago and it still sends a shiver up and down my spine when I think of it, whenever I hear the word "Detroit", or whenever I hearhisname mentioned.

I was 35 at the time, and much as I am today – tall, about five feet nine, busty (37 inches, although that's no big deal today, is it?) with everything else in perfect proportion.

I'm a professional career woman, I wear glasses and mendomake passes, believe me.

At the time I'd been to Detroit to make a presentation and was due out on the red eye shuttle to New York at 7.30 the next morning. I'd booked into a large, one storey hotel, not far from the airport, with its offices, dining room and bar in the middle and two huge wings spreading out from each side. My room was slap in the middle of one long corridor.

I'd eaten in my room, but decided to visit the bar for a quick couple of drinks before hitting the hay. I chose a chair at the bar in a rather dimly lit corner of the large, but quiet room. Most patrons seemed occupied by a baseball game on the various television screens.

Settling myself comfortably in the high-backed stool, I was faced by a handsome young barman. "Bourbon and dry," I ordered.

"A Rebel Yell coming up," he grinned and started to mix my drink.

Suddenly I felt a gnarled, bony hand on mine from a lean-looking man seated next to me. "Allow me to get this barkeep," he said, in a southern drawl, which I found amusing – well, that awfully old-fashioned term "barkeep".

"And I'll have another bourbon and branch water," he said, pushing his empty glass towards the barman.

I looked at him, squinting in the dark corner of the bar and made out a man with an almost hawk-like face, narrow nose and the most piercing brown eyes I've ever seen, so darkly brown they were almost black. They were the most riveting, hypnotic eyes and I found it difficult to look away.

"Thank-you, kind sir," I said, in an almost mocking voice, possibly brought on by his quaint use of the term "barkeep".

"And you're headin' just where, ma'am?" he asked.

"I'm off to New York in the morning," I told him.

He shook his head in a world-weary way, although he could have been no older than 28, 30 tops.

"Be careful there, ma'am," he said, in that southern twang. "Nasty town, vicious town, New York. Some really bitchin' things have happened to me there."

I sipped on my bourbon and dry. "Not like my home town, then?" I replied.

"Which would be, ma'am?" he asked.

"I'm from Boston," I told him, although I'm sure my Bawston accent had already given me away.

"Boston," he smiled, "oh, I can handle Boston, Boston's no trouble. You can get crabs there – the edible kind, I hasten to add, ma'am."

I smiled at his little joke. "Anywhere else I should steer clear of?" I asked. "Pittsburgh OK?"

He shook his head. "Dunno Pittsburgh, ma'am, it's a National League town and I'm more au fait with American League towns, like Philadelphia, for example."

Even with my limited baseball knowledge I knew that Philadelphia hadn't been an American league city for decades, but I guessed he was probably testing me out, so I let it slide.

"Philadelphia's all right then?" I asked.

He nodded eagerly. "Yep, it's fine. I can see myself ending up in Philly, some day," he said.

"And I suppose Chicago's on your list then?" I asked.

"Great little town, Chicago," he nodded, "my kinda town, ma'am. A blue collar town. No problems there – nor St Louis, either."

Now I knew he was kidding me. My younger brother is a Cardinals fan and I knew St Louis hasn't had an American league team for how long? Yonks.

My dark-haired stranger then ordered another round and as we sipped on our second drinks I noticed he wasn't watching even one pitch of the baseball on the television – I gathered it was a National league game!

I drank my second Rebel Yell quickly, then rose from my stool.

"Allow me to escort you back to your room, ma'am," he said. "Can't be too careful, even in Detroit."

I don't know why I said yes, but it must have been something to do with those piercingly deep brown eyes, because the next thing I recall is saying "Thank-you, kindly, sir" in what I took to be some sort of Southern politeness. He was gentleman enough to ignore it.

We walked down the long, long corridor till we reached my room. I slipped the key in the lock, turned it, then turned and looked at him. He looked, how can I put it? He looked so terribly lonely.

I kissed him on the cheek, in my heels I was about as tall as him. Then I said, and I can't to this day say why, "Would you like to come in?"

"That would be a pleasure, ma'am," he said, in the lovely old down South accent.

Once inside, I snapped on the bedside lights, and announced: "I'm going to make myself more comfortable. Why don't you do the same?"

I stepped into the small bathroom and stripped naked, and when I returned to the room, he was already in bed, only his head showing, his hawk-like features staring at the ceiling, as if he had spent most of his life staring at hotel ceilings.

Although it was a warm summer's night, I shivered, feeling slightly chilly, as I slipped in between the sheets and laid my hand on his side. I traced my finger down his well-muscled thigh and felt a long line of scar tissue.

"That must have been a nasty wound," I said, as he rolled and faced me, before he kissed my hungrily on the mouth.

"A spike got me, ma'am," he replied.

"What do you do to get spiked like that?" I asked.

"I'm what you'd call a sportsman, ma'am," he said, lowering his mouth to my breasts and sucking on my nipples, which became almost instantly erect.

Then he gave a bite to my left nipple. It hurt. "Ouch, watch it, buster!" I cried.

He pulled away, startled. "Sorry, ma'am, sorry," he mumbled, "but it's been such a long time."

Then he was diving down with his head between my legs and I felt his mouth laving and licking my pussy, which was already in a state of considerable arousal. After a moment or two, he rose and looked at me. I could see he was plainly puzzled.

"That's a real funny lack of pubic hair down there, ma'am," he said, which I thought "real funny" myself.

"Oh, my Brazilian?" I laughed. "They're all the rage, you must know that."

He shook his head in wonder. "Ma'am, you say some of the funniest things – Brazilian, well I never did."

And then he mounted me, his stubby penis thick and engorged but not very long I could tell when he thrust as deep into me as he could. I placed my hands over his back, feeling the sportsman's muscles rippling. He was certainly a thoroughbred – there didn't seem to be an ounce of excess flesh on him.

He buried his face beside mine as his thrusts became more and more urgent, then suddenly he seemed as if struck by electricity and everything about him froze as his ejaculate poured into me.

Almost as if apologising he muttered: "Sorry, ma'am, it's been so long. I'm sorry, ma'am."

I was nowhere near orgasm, but strangely it didn't seem to matter a darn, I felt oddly satisfied. The sportsman pulled from me, tracing semen across my thigh as he did so, then he lay back, staring once more at the ceiling, almost as if I wasn't there.

Climbing from the bed I whispered "I'm going to clean up", and when I got back from the bathroom I had put my panties on. A repeat performance was not something I would look forward to.

As I lay down beside him, the sportsman stirred and asked: "The time, ma'am? What time is it?"

I checked the digital clock on the bedside table and saw it click over to 11.35. "It's just 11.35," I informed him.

Then my sportsman flung back the sheet and climbed out of bed. "Sorry 'bout this ma'am," he said, "but I've got to be going. Things to do, people to see, you know how it is."

Sure, I thought, I know how it is.

Then, as he was dressing I noticed for the first time his clothing. It looked expensive, but it lookedold-fashioned. His shoes were shiny, they looked expensive too, but they were more like hob-nailed boots.

His suit was made of a heavy serge material and his shirt had a wing collar! His tie was secured at the knot with a gold tie pin. When he put on his waistcoat, I saw he had a fob watch and chain in the pockets.

Then I sat up with a start and blurted out: "Look, you must think I'm an awfully easy lay, but I don't know your name."

He regarded me with those piercing eyes. "My parents christened me Tyrus Raymond, ma'am," he told me. "My friends, what few I have, call me 'Ty', some of 'em call me 'Peach', on account of how I'm from Georgia.

"My enemies – and heaven knows I've got enough of them, ma'am – call me words that should not fall on such pretty ears as yours."

"Ty?" I said, half talking to him, half to myself. "Ty? Ty – there was a Ty who played for the Detroit Tigers for years and years."

He made as if to speak, but I shushed him. "No, I'll get it. It was Ty, er Ty, yep – Ty Cobb!"

He gave me an almost courtly little bow: "Ty Cobb at your service, ma'am. And ma'am, it most surely has been a pleasure."

Suddenly a felt a chill start at the nape of my neck, travel all the way down my back, between my buttock cheeks, dive into my entrails then go all the way up to my breasts and their still-erect nipples.

I gaped at him, feeling suddenly as if I wasn't in the room. "But Ty Cobb has ..." And my voice trailed off. Then I tried again and it was if someone else was speaking my words: "But Ty Cobb has been dead for god know's how long."

He smiled, grimly. "I'm sure he does, ma'am. Life's a bitch, ain't it?"

And with another little bow, he was at the door and had left.

For a split second I sat, stunned. Then I rushed to the door and flung it open. I looked left, then right. The corridor stretched away in each direction – and it was, of course, empty.

I slammed the door shut, bolted it, deadlocked it. Then I felt a chill. The room was decidedly cold! I leaped into the bed. The sheets were cold. I swiftly switched the electric blanket on, then realised I needed noise in the room.

Using the remote I turned on the television and was greeted by a black and white Marx Brothers movie. I begged the electric blanket to warm the bed up and listened to Groucho and his brothers performing their mad antics.

I must have slept, because at 6am the bedside alarm woke me. I showered, packed and checked out of the hotel in record time. A surly, big black taxi driver drove me to the airport in his battered, but thankfully warm cab.

After checking in for the red eye, I pulled my laptop from its leather valise and called up "Ty Cobb". A large web site informed me that "Tyrus Ramond Cobb, also known as 'The Georgia Peach'" had ended his career with a lifetime batting average of .366.

Alifetimeaverage of .366 – a lot of ballplayers who call themselves big league batters are pleased to have an average like that in one season!

Then I looked down his club affiliation. Detroit, Detroit, Detroit, it went on an on and on, until there – right at the bottom I found two seasons with the Philadelphia Athletics.

I tried to remember what he'd said about Philadelphia – something about how he might "end up there one day".

Then I went to the top of the wesbite and there, after the words "Bats left, throws right" was his date of birth and his date of death: "July 17, 1961."

I reached down for the previous day's USA Today, which was still in my briefcase, knowing exactly what I was going to find. Sure enough, on the front page the date "July 17, 2001" leaped out at me. Yesterday had been the 40th anniversary of Ty Cobb's death!

I felt another shudder run down my spine, then thankfully my flight was called. I left the newspaper for the cleaners at Detroit Metropolitan and walked as swiftly as I could to the gate.

I was glad to be quitting Detroit. Suddenly New York seemed warm and inviting.

THE END