“I might overcome my shyness if the doctor looked kind,” Bobby said. “Is Dr. Carmichael kind?”
“Yes, and she costs $190 an hour,” Duane reminded him.
“I probably wouldn’t need more than one or two sessions, stable as I am,” Bobby Lee said. “If I was to need shock treatment or something I might have to put that part off till after I win the lottery.”
Fortunately Julie and Nellie had gone back to Dallas. Nobody was there but three young secretaries.
“So is it tomorrow that you’re having your operation, Mr. Moore?” one of the secretaries asked. “Nellie said they were hoping to get you in real soon.”
“It’s not going to be quite that quick,” Duane told her. “What I do need, pronto, is a pickup I can lease.”
Twenty minutes later—such being the power of the Moore name—a brand-new Toyota pickup arrived. The sight of it made Bobby Lee slightly jealous.
“That’s what my pickup looked like twenty years ago,” he observed.
“Bobby, there’s no reason you can’t buy yourself a new pickup oftener than every twenty years,” Duane said. “You’re not a pauper. In fact, before Anne Cameron came along you were our highest-paid employee. You were pulling in thousands and wasting most of it on worthless women.”
“I suppose I could get a new pickup,” Bobby allowed. “But why bother? It would look just like my old pickup after about three weeks.”
“Good point.”
Duane switched his bike from Bobby Lee’s pickup to his spanking-clean new rental vehicle. Then he climbed in behind the wheel.
“Think you can still drive?” Bobby Lee asked. “Skills erode, you know. Use it or lose it, they say.”
“Use it or lose it yourself,” Duane said. “I can still drive.”
And, to prove it, he drove away.
20
DUANE STOPPED OFF at Mike and Tommy’s on his way to his cabin. Mike and Tommy exclaimed over his shiny white pickup, and Duane ate his fill of spring rolls and barbecued pork, the food he had been craving the day he had his heart attack.
Then he drove on to his cabin, which was stifling. He opened all the windows and did his best to air the place out. Then he took out Honor’s note and read it again. The secretary had indicated that Honor would return sometime that day. She might already be in Wichita Falls—she might even be on her way to the cabin. His instructions were just to be at home, ready for sex. At least that was how he read the note. The note was the last of a number of strong shocks he had received lately: Julie’s decision to become a nun, Nellie’s gayness, Anne Cameron telling him he was weak with women, and, of course, his own collapse and discouraging angiogram.
About death, funerals, and fucking he knew Honor was right. The living needed to get life going again. But he had not expected Honor to want to get anything going with him. And was the cabin where she really expected him to be? What if by home she meant the big house? Honor and Angie Cohen had visited his famous garden once, but it was possible she didn’t even know where the cabin was—and, even if she found it, it was not really a suitable place to receive a refined woman who was bent on seduction. The sheets hadn’t been changed in a while, the floor was dusty, and the refrigerator empty except for a few beers.
Also, quite a few dead flies were stuck to the screen door.
Sweeping away the dead flies was about all Duane could do. Even as he swept he began to be sure that he was in the wrong place. Honor could have written the note in a low moment. She had given no previous sign of wanting him—but she did know that he was interested in her.
Also to be considered was the fact that women changed their minds. What seemed interesting one moment might seem bizarre the next.
He was in a hot place, with no amenities, waiting for a woman who might never come. On top of that, he had his own doubts. Did he really still want Honor? Was he really up to seeking love? More particularly, was he up for sex?
To none of those questions did he have a certain answer. He began to feel fretful and restless. A woman he had come to consider out of reach might be about to place herself in reach. In his fantasies he had imagined the two of them making love on a king-sized bed in a hotel. He had never once supposed she would come to his cabin. He felt uneasy; he began to hyperventilate. He told himself not to be silly—after all, Honor was just a human being who had had a recent grief. She was a doctor, not a goddess. He had no reason to fear her.
Mainly, he wished his sheets were cleaner—he wondered if he had time to race into Thalia, to the laundrymat. Then he remembered that the laundrymat was closed. There were many laundrymats in Wichita Falls that he might race to, but he fidgeted and stayed where he was.
While he was fretting he heard the sound of a car and looked across the plain to where the dirt road crossed the river. The car was a gray Volvo, Honor’s car. It was weaving badly—once it even went briefly into the ditch but it pulled out and came on up his hill—soon it turned in at the cattle guard and wove its way to his cabin. Twice it veered and ran over small mesquite seedlings, but no harm was done. Duane supposed Honor might be crying—else why was she driving so erratically—but when he walked over to greet her he at once smelled gin on her breath. She opened the door, got out, and then stumbled straight into his arms.
“I’m drunk, don’t kiss me,” she said. She wore a T-shirt, white slacks, sandals. Sweat had formed a little puddle in the hollow of her throat, and the T-shirt was damp across her bosom.
“Whew,” she said. “I really don’t handle gin anymore.”
“I’m surprised you found the cabin,” Duane said. “This is not a main-traveled road.”
“I was in your cabin twice,” Honor said. “Just snooping. I even left clues, but I guess you’re not that observant. I took it to mean you’d rather keep me as a fantasy—which is okay too.”
Duane remembered that there had been a time or two when he had the sense that someone might have been in the cabin—he figured it was Nellie, a natural snoop like her mother. It had never occurred to him that it might have been Honor.
“I did notice but I figured it was one of my nosy daughters,” he said.
Honor chuckled. Then she pulled off her sweaty T-shirt. Her breasts were heavier than he would have thought. She raised her arms and held them up, so he would notice the hair under her armpits.
“Anybody can grow a bush under their arms,” she said. “Pull it—it’s real.”
Duane touched it, but didn’t really pull it.
“You’re a rather tentative seducer,” Honor said. “Let’s get out of the heat.”
“We can get out of the sunlight but we can’t get out of the heat,” he told her. “There’s plenty of heat to be found inside the cabin.”
“And soon to be more,” she said. “Play by the rules now. Don’t kiss me.”
“I don’t know what the rules are, but I’m sorry to hear about your friend,” he said.
“No you’re not, dummy,” she said. She slipped a hand under his shirt and began to tease his nipples. Then she put her tongue in his ear, bit his earlobe lightly, then began to lick his eyelids.
“I’m very lingual,” she said. “I don’t intend to leave much of you unlicked.”
Then she opened his shirt and put her mouth on his nipples.
When she stood up she wobbled so badly that Duane had to catch her.
“Whew, gin,” she said. “Let’s get on the bed.”
“I meant to get those sheets washed,” he said, apologetically.
Honor stared at him.
“Why would you suppose I care about the goddamn sheets?” she asked. “Why don’t you just shut up and let this happen? Could you just pull my slacks off now?”
He did, rendering her naked.
“Why wear panties when you’re only looking to fuck?” she asked. There was a trickle of sweat between her breasts.
“Here I am but don’t put your mouth on me yet,” she told him. “You might dip a finger in but give me the fing
er first.”
Duane, uncertain, held out a finger—Honor pulled it into her mouth and wet it thoroughly.
“Saliva’s a useful liquid,” she said.
Duane felt his pants bulging, which Honor took note of. She sat up and opened his trousers, pushing them down his legs.
“Hello, Johnson,” she said, pushing his trousers even farther down his legs, so she could cup his scrotum. Then she wet one of of her own fingers and slipped it under his scrotum to touch his asshole. The touch was so unexpected that Duane jumped.
“Ha, that always gets you country boys,” Honor said.
As Honor continued to manipulate his dick and his balls Duane felt an orgasm coming.
“Stand up and take your pants off, silly,” Honor said. Duane obeyed but Honor was still playing with him delicately.
“I’m getting there quick—too quick.”
“Let her rip,” she said. “I intend to keep you in bed all this day. You’re perfectly welcome to get off first. I have a feeling you need to.”
Then she briefly lowered her mouth to the head of his penis—she did this several times, never taking him very far in. Then she held his dick while he came copiously—to his shock he saw that his semen was rust-colored.
“Why do you look so alarmed, Duane?” she asked, not at all disconcerted by the rust-colored semen. She gave his dick a deflating squeeze.
“It’s never been red before,” he said. “Does it mean I’m bleeding or something?”
Honor gave a husky laugh.
“Of course not,” she said. “You are something of an ignoramus when it comes to sex, I’m afraid. Rusty semen just means you haven’t been having sex often enough.
“You need to hook up with some little tootsie and fuck her brains out,” she added.
“Why can’t it be you?” he asked.
Honor chuckled.
“Let’s see how the day goes, shall we?” she said.
21
SOME OF DUANE’S rust-colored semen had squirted on the bed-sheet—a little even got on Honor’s leg. She swiped a little on her fingers, smelled it, and then put the finger in her mouth. Duane had seen such a thing done in porn movies but had never witnessed it with a real-life lover. Karla would never have been likely to eat his cum.
“There’s an ice chest in the trunk of my car,” Honor said. “I bought some liquor and some goodies—the keys are in my pants if you want to go get it.”
When Duane came back with the ice chest Honor was sobbing. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
“I need the gin,” she said. “I just lost the love of my life, after all,” she said.
Duane opened the chest and handed her the gin, which she drank straight—three long swallows; then she set the bottle on the window by the bed. Duane wondered if this woman would have been interested in being naked with him if she hadn’t been so drunk. Her body was slick with sweat—his too—and yet they hadn’t begun to make love.
“I’m pretty amorous when I’m drunk,” Honor said. “Want to watch me play with myself? Did your wife ever want you to watch her play with herself?”
“Karla—no, she didn’t.”
“Pity,” Honor said. Then she wet two fingers and lowered them to her cunt.
“Wow, I’m pretty wet,” she said. “I don’t need the spit. Either I want you or gin makes me horny or both.”
She reached for his hand and sucked on three of his fingers.
“Put them in me slow,” she said, “and don’t touch my clitoris.”
Duane slipped his fingers inside her—easily, for she was pretty wet. She raised on her elbow. Duane had a kind of half erection. She reached over and cupped his balls again.
“I called Charlie Calvert and got the news on your angiogram,” she said. “That means this is going to be a woman-superior fuck. I don’t want you dying in the act, like Nelson Rockefeller did.
“Just lay back,” Honor told him, and he obeyed. He felt embarrassed and nervous—he doubted that his erection was going to last. Honor was still playing with herself—she gave a heavy sigh, a pleased sigh. She took another long swallow of gin and straddled him.
“Relax, for God’s sake,” she said. “This isn’t going to hurt.”
Then she eased him into her, squeezing his cock to enlarge the erection.
Despite himself he came, when he had been inside her only half a minute. What would she think?
Honor rocked a little—he slipped out but she immediately reinserted him and rocked a little more—she held him in place with her muscles. Then she bent over and put her head on his chest. Cautiously, he put his arms around her. Again, she began to cry. The sheets were already as wet as if they had been hosed with water. Duane wanted to apologize for coming so quickly, but he held his peace. When Honor wanted talk she would talk.
“I didn’t come here to trade orgasm for orgasm,” she told him. “I came here to forget my loss and give you a little of what you want.”
Duane slipped out of her, but Honor took no notice.
“There’s a woman who’s wanted me for twenty years,” she said, sitting up suddenly. “She’s a painter, very famous. Angie hated her. And she may be one of the few women meaner than Angie. She lives on Long Island. I’m going to see her in about a month. I just like running with the high dykes, I guess.”
Then she stepped out of bed. A trail of his semen was dripping down her thigh—it was a little less rusty-looking than the first load.
“I’m hungry, even if I’m drunk,” she said. “Fortunately I brought goodies. Let’s eat—then we’ll get on with your belated sex education.”
Besides the gin and a bottle of pepper vodka, the cooler contained caviar, foie gras, quail eggs, and cheese.
“Quail eggs?” he asked. “Where would you get quail eggs?”
“At a high-end deli,” she said. “They go well at fancy brunches in the East—Evangeline Bruce always serves them.”
Duane had no idea who Evangeline Bruce might be. He had only had red caviar before and was surprised at how good black caviar was. They sat at a little table, his little table, both still naked. Honor had a little mother-of-pearl spoon that she dipped the caviar with. A few of the black eggs dropped on her breasts.
“Want to lick ’em off?” she asked. “Regress for a moment. Lick a tit.”
Duane’s lick was so tentative that Honor looked dismayed.
“Good Lord,” she said. “You don’t know how to play at all, which means you had probably better stay away from Annie Cameron. She’ll expect livelier action than this.”
“I don’t even know her,” Duane. “I doubt she’d give me the time of day.”
Honor ignored the comment. She wet two fingers and began to play with herself again, looking Duane full in the face as she did it.
“What’s the most number of times you’ve come in one day?” she asked. With her other hand she swiped the black fish eggs off her breasts and ate them.
“I’d have to think.”
“Then think, you idiot!” Honor said. “How many?”
“I think I remember three in one day when Karla and I were young,” he said.
Honor smiled.
“You’ve already come twice with me,” she reminded him. “We’re going to break your record.”
Duane was okay with that plan, and yet he felt a sadness creep in. The day would end and Honor Carmichael would drive away, probably forever. Whatever she taught him would be something he would never likely need to know again. At one point she put his dick between her breasts, then put it in her mouth and laved it for long stretches with her tongue. She straddled him several more times, rocking very gently. Once she lay beside him, a leg over his body, so she could guide him in and out, or at least as far out as his half erection would go. She coaxed more orgasms out of him: his semen became whitish again. Once she let him stroke the sheath that hid her clitoris. She made him enter her doggy fashion—again he had a hard time staying hard.
“I mostly draw the li
ne at anal sex now,” she said. “Once Angie hurt me with a dildo—a big dildo. I suppose I’m a masochist, but I’m not that much of a masochist. I told her not to put that big ugly thing in me, but she did it anyway.”
All day, sweat poured off both of them.
As the sun set they finished off the caviar, the foie gras, the quail eggs, the cheeses, and most of the vodka.
“When it gets dark I’m going to suck you off one more time—then I’m out of here,” Honor said. “It’s been a long time since I’ve fucked all day. I think I got you off six times, although the well was pretty close to dry that last time.
“Despite what you might think, it felt good,” she said. Duane could not swear that she had had even one orgasm.
“It helped me,” she said, as she was getting into her car. “I’m not your doctor anymore—I’m just your friend.”
Then she left. It saddened Duane that they had never kissed.
22
THE NEXT MORNING Duane felt apathetic. He got up but didn’t bother making coffee. He remembered that once a year or so ago he had such a terrible anxiety attack that he could only control it by taking baths—several baths, very hot. In the course of that day he had used up all the towels in the cabin. Karla came by in the afternoon and saw the towels, which convinced her that Duane had been indulging in an all-day fuck, as she put it, with some woman she didn’t know about.
Now he really had enjoyed pretty much an all-day fuck with Honor Carmichael, and the room not only looked like it, it smelled like it. If Karla had stepped into the cabin just then her bloodhound nose would have instantly detected the truth.
Duane stripped the bed and threw the dirty sheets and towels into the back of his pickup, meaning to take them to Wichita Falls and launder them himself. He kept replaying his day with Honor in his mind and concluded that he was woefully out of practice as a lover. Honor had led and he had merely followed orders, to the best of his ability. Whether she had an orgasm or not, she seemed to have enjoyed herself. For her it had been all play; for him it was mostly worry. He felt that Honor would have wanted to be woman-superior whether his arteries had been blocked or not.
When the Light Goes Page 7