Finally I found a house with a light on that looked promising. The backyard was dark, too, which was important. It’s harder to see out from a lighted room when there is no light in the backyard.
I stood close to the window and watched. A man and woman were sitting on the bed, taking their clothes off. I watched them. The man wasn’t bad looking but my attention was confined to the woman. I’m not queer, you understand.
She certainly wasn’t beautiful. Better than average, though. Her face was nothing to write home about, her breasts were rather small, but she had beautiful legs and a generally nice shape all in all. I watched her undress and began to get excited. This was going to be a good night after all.
They undressed quickly, which is not the way I like it. It’s better when they take a good long time about it. But they just pulled off their clothes and turned down the bedcovers. I guess they had been married for some time.
I was really excited by this time, and my eyes were practically glued to the window. Then the man stood up and walked over to the wall. He touched a switch, and the room was suddenly plunged into complete darkness. I was so mad I could have killed him. Why did he have to do a thing like that?
I stared through the window, but it was no use. The room was black as pitch. I couldn’t understand it. How could he enjoy it with the lights out? He wouldn’t be able to see a thing.
I was mad, and just about ready to go home and call it a night. But the little I had seen left me so excited that I could not stop there. I walked around looking for another window.
By this time it was late and I had no idea where to go. Most of the people in the neighborhood were asleep by now. But I continued walking around, hoping against hope that something would turn up.
I was just about ready to quit when I saw a lighted window on Bushnell Road. Never having been to that house before I decided to give it a try.
I approached the window and looked in. It was a bedroom window, with a woman reading there. She had her back to me, reading a magazine. She was all alone.
Ordinarily I would not have waited. Sometimes a woman will sit like that all night, just reading. But it was late and, having nowhere else to go, I waited. Besides, I had the feeling I would get a real show for my money.
As it turned out, I was right. She put down the magazine in less than five minutes, stood up, and turned toward me. I was stunned when I got a good look at her. She was beautiful.
She was wearing a flower-print dress that made her look like a schoolgirl, but one good look at her would tell you she was nothing of the sort. Her body was far too mature for a schoolgirl’s with proud, full breasts that nearly ripped the dress apart. Her face was as pretty as a model’s, and her hair was that soft reddish-brown that drives me crazy. I was ready to watch her forever.
She started to undress. I stared at her greedily. There was no one else around, and my eyes studied every detail of her body. She undressed slowly, tantalizingly, slithering out of her dress and hanging it up in the closet. Finally she stood there nude, and it was worth all the waiting, worth all the walking that I had done that night. She was like a vision, the most perfect woman I had ever seen.
I thought I would have to go home then. I expected she would turn off the light and go to bed, and if she had I would have been satisfied. It was enough for one night. Instead she walked to her mirror and began to examine herself.
It was the perfect view for me. I could see both her back and the mirror image of her front. She looked at herself, and I watched her. Then she began to dance.
It was not exactly a dance. She moved like a burlesque dancer, but there was nothing crude about it. She knew how beautiful she was, and she moved in rhythm, making a symphony of her body and watching herself as she did. It was something to watch.
Finally she stopped dancing. She slipped on a housecoat and stepped through a door. I guessed she was going to the bathroom, which meant it was the end of the show. I could have left then, but didn’t. I wanted to get another glimpse of her. She had to come back.
I stood silently at the window, waiting for her.
Suddenly a door opened. I whirled around to find her standing there, in the doorway, pointing a gun at me. “Don’t move,” she said. “Don’t move or I’ll shoot.”
I froze in terror, staring down the mouth of the gun, which looked like a cannon to me. “I wasn’t doing anything,” I stammered. “Just watching you. I didn’t hurt you.”
She didn’t say a word.
“Look,” I pleaded, “just let me go. I won’t bother you anymore. I promise I’ll stay away from here.”
She ignored me. “I saw you in the mirror,” she said. “Saw you watching me. I danced for you. Did you like the way I danced?”
I nodded dumbly, unable to speak.
“It was for you,” she said. “I liked your eyes on me. I liked the way you looked at me.”
She smiled. “Come inside.”
I hesitated. Was this a trap? Had she called the police?
“Come here,” she said. “Come inside. Don’t be afraid.”
I followed her into the house, into the bedroom. “I want you,” she said. “I want you.” She slipped out of the housecoat and tossed it over a chair.
“Come on,” she said. “I know you want me. I could tell from the way you looked at me. Come here.”
She set the gun on the dresser and motioned for me to step closer. “I want you to make love to me,” she said.
I walked over to her, and she threw her arms around me. “Take me,” she moaned.
I pushed her away. “No,” I said. “I don’t want that. I just wanted to watch you. I wouldn’t do that.”
She pressed against me again. “I want you,” she insisted. She opened her arms and I felt her hot breath on my face.
There was only one way to stop her. I picked up the gun from the dresser. “Don’t come any closer,” I warned. “Leave me alone.”
“Don’t be silly.” She smiled. “You want me and I want you.” She kept coming closer as I retreated.
That’s when it happened—when the gun went off. The noise resounded in the small bedroom, and she crumpled and fell. “Why?” she moaned. Then she died.
The police beat me. They beat me harder than last time, and they called me a pervert. They think I tried to rape her, but that’s not true. I wouldn’t do a thing like that.
LIE BACK AND ENJOY IT
IT WAS THE AFTERNOON, and the sun was beginning to dip to the level of the horizon. Frank pressed down heavily on the accelerator, gunning the car smoothly along the highway. Just a few more miles, he thought. Just a few more miles and he’d be home, if you could call an empty room in a run-down hotel home. Just a few more miles and he could take a hot bath and drink himself to sleep.
Then he saw the girl. At first glance he took her for just another hitchhiker, and speeded up to pass her by. Then his eyes took in the long hair and the swell of the breasts, and his foot found the brake pedal and slowed the car to a stop. He reached across the front seat and opened the door.
“Hop in,” he said.
She climbed into the car and sat down beside him. He took a good look then, and he liked what he saw.
She was wearing a pair of faded blue dungarees and a man’s shirt, open at the throat, but even the shapeless clothing couldn’t conceal the shapeliness of her figure. Her breasts were large and full, and they pressed against the flannel fabric of the shirt. Her hair was long and jet black; her face very attractive, with high cheekbones and large brown eyes. As he looked at her, Frank felt the blood surging through his veins. He’d been a long time without a woman.
“Going to Milford?” she asked, naming a town a few miles the other side of Frank’s destination.
“Sure,” he said. She leaned back in the seat and closed the door, setting her small black purse on her lap.
He put the car in gear and eased back onto the highway again, watching her out of the corner of his eye. Pretty, he thought. Almost beau
tiful. And so very young, too—she couldn’t be over nineteen.
“Been waiting long?” he asked.
“Not too long. About fifteen minutes or so.”
“Funny how some guys won’t stop for a person, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she said. “They read about people getting robbed and all, and they just drive on by.”
He stole another glance at her. It took a lot for a girl to look like that in men’s clothes. He pictured her in a dress, in a bathing suit, and finally in nothing at all. He turned his eyes back to the road as the perspiration began to form on his forehead.
If only he could have a girl like that! Then he wouldn’t mind those damned trips all over the country, not if he had something like that back at his room, waiting for him to come home. But he couldn’t have luck like that, not him. He never had.
He was forty-one, and his hair was starting to go. Slowly but surely, his life was slipping by, without anything real or important ever happening to him. The only love he ever had he bought for three dollars in a little room over Randy’s Bar. And he knew that he would go on like that, coming home every night to an empty room and passing three dollars to a prostitute every Saturday. And someday he would die without ever doing anything.
“Mind if I smoke?” Her voice broke into his reverie and stopped his train of thought.
“Go right ahead,” he said. He took a lighter from his pants pocket and turned toward her, offering her the flame.
She leaned forward to take the light. The shirt fell away from the front of her body, and Frank got a quick glimpse of smooth white skin and rounded flesh.
Again the desire surged through him. He replaced the lighter in his pocket and gripped the wheel as tight as he could in his large hands. He was breathing fast, almost panting.
“Thanks,” she said, softly.
The sun dipped lower, and he passed a sign which indicated that his town was only two miles further on down the road. Just two more miles, then three or four to Milford, and she would be gone from his life. She would leave, and he would be left with her memory and nothing more.
He looked at her again. She seemed so soft, so warm and peaceful. She yawned and stretched her lush body before him. And then he decided that he was going to have her.
The decision came in a flash. He couldn’t let his whole life disappear without doing something about it. He would take her, swiftly and violently; and the freshness of her would let him live again like a full man.
The realization of what he was going to do calmed him. At the same time, he was tense with anticipation. He could practically feel the soft pressure of her body against his, could picture her nude in his arms.
“Just a few more miles,” she said.
“Won’t be long now.” He turned and smiled at her.
“I really appreciate this. It’d be terrible out on the road at night.”
I’m glad you appreciate it, he thought. You’ll get a chance to show just how grateful you are. A good chance.
He didn’t really want to hurt her. He glanced over at her again. Hell, he thought, she was no virgin. It wasn’t as though he were taking something away from her. She might even like it. He chuckled inwardly, remembering the old saying, “If rape is inevitable, lie back and enjoy it.”
Well, it was inevitable. He was going to take her, and nothing was going to stop him. He wouldn’t hurt her anymore than he had to, of course. Maybe she would tell the police, but he was willing to take the chance. He couldn’t stop himself now, even if he wanted to.
Besides, there was little chance that she would tell. He had read somewhere that ninety percent of the rape cases were never reported, because the girls involved were ashamed of it. And he could always say that she let him—no one could prove otherwise.
“It’s a nice day,” he said.
“Very nice.”
He spotted a turnoff, a rutted, two-lane road that went nowhere and was rarely used by anyone. He slowed down the car and cut over onto it.
“Where are we going?” she asked. There was a touch of alarm in her voice.
“A shortcut,” he replied.
“I never went this way before.”
“It cuts out Herkinsburg. Not many people know about it.”
He was amazed to hear himself lie so easily. He had always had difficulty in lying, but now he was so set on his goal that the words came from his lips with no trouble at all. Evidently she believed him, for she relaxed in the seat.
After a few hundred yards on the turnoff, he cut the motor and pulled the car over to the shoulder of the road. It was time, now. No one would disturb them.
“Why are we stopping?” There was panic in her voice now, as she sat up rigidly and gripped the black purse tight in both hands.
He didn’t answer. His right hand encircled both her wrists in a tight grip; his left shoved the car door open. Then he forced her out of the car. The purse flew from her hands as he sent her sprawling to the ground and flung himself upon her.
“No!” she pleaded. “Don’t!” His face was so close to hers that he could feel her breath against his cheek, just as he could feel the warmth of her body through the thin shirt.
“You can’t stop me,” he said. “No one’ll hear you if you scream.” He smiled. “You might as well lie back and enjoy it.”
At last it was over. The girl remained motionless.
“There,” he said. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
She didn’t answer. He walked slowly back to the car, taking deep breaths of air and savoring the taste of it in his lungs.
He had one hand on the door handle when he heard her say, “Stop!” There was something in her voice that compelled him to release the door handle and turn around.
She was holding the small black purse in one hand and a small black automatic in the other. The gun was trained on him.
“You bastard,” she said. “I was just going to take your car, I would even have left you a little money to get home on, but not now.”
His mouth dropped open in shock. “Wait,” he stammered. “Wait a minute.”
“You can’t stop me,” she said, levelly. “I’m going to kill you. You might as well lie back and enjoy it.”
The bullet made a small, round hole in his stomach. He fell on the ground and lay there moaning while she straightened her clothes and took the wallet and keys from his pockets. He watched her get into the car, blow him a kiss, and drive away down the road.
It took him twenty minutes to die.
LOOK DEATH IN THE EYE
SHE WAS BEAUTIFUL.
She was, and she knew that she was—not only by the image in her mirror, the full and petulant mouth and the high cheekbones, the silkiness of the long blond hair and the deep blue color of her eyes. The image in her mirror at home told her she was beautiful, and so did the image she saw now, the image in the mirror in the tavern.
But she didn’t need the mirrors. She was made aware of her beauty by the eyes, the eyes of the hungry men, the eyes that she felt rather than saw upon her everywhere she went. She could feel those eyes caressing her body, lingering too long upon her firm ripe breasts and sensuous hips, touching her body with a touch firmer than hands and making her grow warm where they rested. Wherever she went men stared at her, and the intensity of their stares undressed their passions and hungers just as thoroughly as the stares attempted to strip her body.
She sipped at her drink, hardly tasting it but knowing that she had to drink it. It was all part of the game. She was in a bar, and the hungry men were also in the bar, and now their eyes were wandering over her. But for the moment there was nothing for her to do. She had to drink her drink and bide her time, waiting for the men—or one of them, at least—to get up the courage to do more than stare.
Idly, she turned a few inches on the barstool and glanced at the other customers. Several men were too busy drinking to pay any attention to her; another was busy in a corner booth running his hand up and down the leg of a sligh
tly plump redhead, and it was easy to see that he wouldn’t be interested in her, not that night.
But the other three customers were fair game.
She regarded them thoughtfully, one at a time. Closest to her was a young one—no more than twenty-one or twenty-two, she guessed, and hungry the way they are when they’re that age. He was short and slim, dressed in a dark suit and wearing a conservative bow tie. She noticed with a little amusement the way he was embarrassed to stare at her but at the same time was unable to keep his eyes off her lush body. Twice his eyes met hers and he flushed guiltily, turning away and nervously flicking the ashes off his cigarette.
And each time the eyes returned to her, hungry and desperate in their hunger. Mr. Dark Suit couldn’t keep away from her, she thought, and she wondered if he would be the one for the evening. It was always difficult to predict, always tough to calculate which pair of eyes would get up enough courage to make the pass. It might be Mr. Dark Suit, but she doubted it. He had the hunger, all right, but he probably lacked the experience he’d need for hero.
Mr. Baldy was two stools further from her. She named him easily since his baldness was his outstanding feature in a face that had no other memorable features. His head was bare except for a very thin fringe around the edges and the light from the ceiling shined on it.
Next, of course, she noticed his eyes. They were hungry eyes, too—but hungry in a way that was different from Mr. Dark Suit. Mr. Baldy was a good twenty-five years older, and he was probably used to getting his passes tossed back into his lap. He wanted her, all right; there was no mistaking the intensity of his gaze. But the possibility of a refusal might scare him away.
For a half-second she considered flashing him a smile. No, she decided, that wouldn’t be fair. Let them work it out themselves. Let the hungriest assert himself and the others forever hold their peace.
And there was no hurry. It was rather a pleasant feeling to be caressed simultaneously by three pairs of eyes, and though the sensation was hardly a new one, it was one she never tired of.
One Night Stands; Lost weekends Page 10