by Dancer, Jack
“You’re a tease,” whines my inner baby-self-in-need to which she feigns hurt, then she offers up her naughty girl again, and I’m toast.
Every guy likes a little slut in his woman. Make no mistake. Under the spell of a slutty woman, a guy will betray his wife, his children, even his country.
When her head begins descending I'm, naturally, expecting the obvious, but no, her hand goes to her mouth instead, and she expels something. Her mouth moves to my ear and exhales a warm moist breath behind which follows a tongue wiggling its wet way in like an earwig, determined, sending shivers sprinting over my scalp and down my spine. Her hand, in the meantime, resumes its prior position squeezing like a constrictor making love to its prey before devouring. Something's different. Wet, slick, oily.
Ohhh.
And her tongue. Oh my God. Continues exploring my ear, pushing its way in and around, setting off even more waves of pleasure racing down my neck where the wispy hairs jump to attention like shocked nerve endings.
She locks onto my earlobe pulling like a suckling infant. All this, and the jackhammering below, and I'm exploding like the cannon finale of Tchaikovsky's 1812. Ears ringing and lungs burning from holding my breath to stifle the howls and wails that would surely call everyone's attention to the sticky wetness back here in row six.
She holds on until the end; the maid milking the udder. And with my last heave-ho, her auburn mass drops into my lap and washes me clean before making her way back to my ear whispering, “good to the last drop.”
“I think my brain's been sucked dry,” I say.
“Wasn't your brain sucked dry . . . though,” she pauses considering, “some might disagree.”
“I love when you talk dirty,” but thinking, this was not my doing here. Not this time. I was the perfect gentleman, at least for a while. It was she, Mrs. Robinson, who seduced me though I'm not complaining mind you. Just want to set the record straight, and I can only thank her.
“Err, 'scuse me, you two love birds back here.” It’s Evelyn with the dessert cart.
“Could I entice either of you with a nice dessert to top off your evening? A cigarette perhaps? A cup of coffee with cream?” she asks knowingly.
Christ, these women pick up the scent don’t they? No wonder guys get busted so easily.
“No thank you Evelyn, none for me. I'm going to call it a night,” Monica says curling up under the blanket.
“I, on the other hand, would be delighted to relieve you of a piece of chocolate cake and a glass of milk if possible.”
“Mr. Blue, all’s possible. I'll be happy to give you the finest piece of flour-less chocolate cake on this cart,” she says reaching underneath the cart and returning a little white China plate with a slice already waiting. She peels off the cellophane and from a small silver teapot dribbles warm chocolate over the cake.
“Enjoy and I'll be right back with your milk. Would you like me to warm it?”
No question, superior olfactory.
“No, but thank you, Evelyn. I think I need a little cooling down right at the moment. A cold glass of milk should do the job.”
“Yes, sir, I understand.” When she returns with the glass of milk Monica's already lights out.
“Any good movies tonight, Evelyn?”
“I believe I have something you’ll enjoy,” she says leaning across me to play with the controls on the arm of my chair while generously offering a complimentary view of the treasures her still crisp blouse fails to hide completely.
A seductive waft of perfume comes over me like a late-night tease while she fiddles with the controls until the small monitor jumps to life. I know she's doing this on purpose. Women. They're irresistible for sure, and they love to remind us they are the keepers of our desires.
“I think you'll enjoy this one,” she says.
“Thank you,” paying no attention at all to the monitor, which could be Sponge Bob for all I care.
“Can I get you anything else, Mr. Blue? Coffee, tea or . . . Something else?”
“I must beg off for now Evelyn, but thanks,” wondering what is it about being with a woman and displaying a little affection that broadcasts feeding time to the rest of the pod? Is it the smell of sex drawing them in like blood in water?
Twenty minutes or so later Monica stirs. Her eyes open only to snap shut again from the glare of the monitor.
“Sorry,” I say turning the screen away from her.
“What's playing?”
“The Spanish Prisoner,” and you’d’ve thought a firecracker had gone off in her seat the way she jumped.
“What? What's the matter?”
Dropping back into her seat, I see she's pushing whatever it was back inside. Her face blooms pink. She looks away, guiltily almost.
“What gives? Something I said? This Spanish Prisoner movie?”
“No, it's nothing. I had a thought is all and it startled me.”
“What sort of thought?”
“Nothing. It was nothing. I think I was still half asleep, dreaming.”
“Looked more like a nightmare the way you jumped.”
“Sorry, Tucker, it's nothing, just silly me. So, what's the movie about?” she asks changing the subject.
“Well, I haven't exactly figured it out.”
“Who's in it?”
“Campbell Scott, Steve Martin, Ben Gazzara. I don't recognize the others.”
“You'll figure it out,” she says and leans over and gives me a peck on the cheek, “I'm going back to sleep.”
“Okay, I won't be far behind. I might cut this short.”
“You should finish it so you'll know what happens.”
'Why?”
“So, you'll know what to do if I'm ever the Spanish Prisoner,” she says.
“Okay, then I will. But, what if I'm the Spanish Prisoner?”
“Don't worry you won't be.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because the Spanish Prisoner is always a princess, and you wouldn't make a very good princess. No one would come rescue you,” she says.
“Not even you?”
“Well . . . No. I can't because I'm the princess. You'll have to rescue me, don't you see?”
“No.”
“Finish the movie. G’night honey.”
Honey? Whoa. Now that was one weird conversation. Women. Strange creatures. Wait a minute. I thought she didn't know what the movie was about? I start to ask but decide to let it go.
Slicing through an inky heaven with the moon hanging in full smile amongst a fairy dusting of winking stars outside our little porthole of a window and it doesn't get any better than this. I think the old man had seen it all, so I reach over and pull down the shade.
“Good night, John Boy.”
“Night, Lloyd,” she mumbles back.
What?
six
09:45 Hours, Sunday, 31 August.
Arrival Gatwick Airport, London.
A couple hours of shuteye, a nice breakfast and enough coffee to reanimate the dead, and we're touching down at Gatwick airport, thirty miles outside London.
It was fun fooling around on the flight over, but now we're both anxious to find the promised arrivals suite and jump into a hot shower and a fresh change of clothes, but first we must clear customs.
Two other flights arrived about the same time as ours, which puts us into an impossibly long line, and I’m so wired on caffeine and the idea of getting into the shower, and into Monica, I’m as jumpy as a chicken dancing on an electrified floor.
Standing behind her, I’m lost in a visual fantasy of pressing up against her from behind, all naked and soapy under a hot stream of water when the chicken nickel drops and a shutter erupts through me like a current, and I twitch, catching her attention.
“You okay?”
“Sure,” I lie, “a little short-circuiting from all the caffeine, I guess.” She has no idea we’re under a shower, slippery as two eels, my hands cupping her breasts and I’m taking her
from behind.
To stand behind such a shapely female posterior and not be caught up in the gravitational pull is simply impossible. I notice too, nearly every other nearby male is listing in the same direction.
Nothing’s sexy about the way she's dressed, business suit and all, being the suggested uniform for anyone traveling on a companion pass in business class, at least according to Ebba. Monica doesn't need sexy clothing to look sexy. In a Gumby suit her sexy would still ooze out like cherry flavored KY. The woman could stroll through British customs clutching a SAM I doubt anyone would even notice the missile. Makes me proud to be an American.
Turns out the promised arrivals suite isn’t coed, and despite my best lying, cheating and manipulative ways, the Brunhilda posted at reception’s not about to let anyone crossover from the boys' side to the girls'. You'd think she was guarding no-man's land between the GDR and Checkpoint Charlie. Piss on it we're newlyweds on our honeymoon; she’s making no exception. Now would not any sane person agree that such an embryonic state of matrimony qualifies as an exception, but no, not with this woman? She's a bulldog, Churchill in drag. Probably has lampshades at home sporting tattoos.
Okay, fine. My lusty, soapy imaginings with Monica might be circling the drain, but they’re not flushed, not by a long shot. A sleeper car still awaits us somewhere in Paris with possibilities boarding like commuters scrambling onto the last train to Clarksville. In the meantime, I can only hope the shower has plenty of soap.
“Why were you playing with the pen in your pocket when we were talking to that woman,” Monica asks.
“You mean the Brunhilda at reception?”
“Jesus, Tucker, she was only doing her job. Answer the question.”
“You mean this?” I ask removing the pen from my shirt pocket.”
“Yes, that.”
“This my dear is a Stealth Pen. I use it to take photos or videos on the sly.”
“Photos and videos? You were photographing her?”
“Sure. I'm photographing lots of stuff on this trip for my travelogue.”
“That little thing takes pictures?”
“Yes, and videos. Pretty good quality too,” I say pulling it apart and showing her the USB port to connect a computer for downloading. “Pretty cool, huh?”
“Why don't you use your regular camera?”
“I do but the Stealth Pen is good when you want a quick photo and the camera’s not readily available. And in a museum or some other place where photography’s not allowed, the Stealth Pen is unobtrusive.”
“So, it's handy for breaking the rules.”
“I like to think of it as being courteous and not disturbing others.”
“That's considerate of you, Tucker. Stealing images of people and things you're not supposed to be photographing,” the sarcasm drooling from her chin. “Just promise me one thing.”
“What?”
“Promise you won't photograph me or us in any compromising positions.”
“Promise,” I say with a Scouts honor salute. And I'll take that as a promise for compromising positions to come.
Next we need a taxi to get us to the EuroStar. The taxi’s easy, which is how we must appeared because ninety British Pounds Sterling later, including tip, the black Austin drops us off under the glass canopy of Waterloo Station thirty miles away. Sure, that was a $140 rip off and yeah; fury’s eating away at my insides, working its way toward my perfectly composed facade. But whaddya gonna do, ruin the whole day? Bugger the Brits.
Stepping into the 150-year-old Waterloo station, the glass canopy greeting us outside follows overhead and expands to encompass what appears to be either a small city or a colossal indoor mall. Even on Sunday, Waterloo is filled with travelers crowding the shops and the quasi-outdoor cafes sprawling beneath its panes of blue sky.
We locate the departure board and study the schedule.
“A train departs for Paris every hour or so. We should be good, right?” I say.
“Just missed the three o'clock. How about the four-thirty? We can purchase tickets now then find a cafe and a cup of coffee. I need a shot of wake-me-up to keep going. I'm fading like yesterday,” Monica says.
“I’m with you. You know we're going on thirty-six hours now, nonstop.”
“Yeah and it’s startin' to feel like ninety.”
“I'll happily procure the tickets while you sit here, but I suspect they'll want to see you along with your passport.”
So, we drag ourselves up to one of the ticket windows manned by a lanky agent I swear to God could double for Terry Thomas, the gap-toothed Brit actor from my youth in, It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World.
“Two one-way tickets on the next Eurostar to Paris please.”
“Sorry mate, next one's full up. Fact is they're all bloody well full up,” smiles the agent through the gap. “No, wait,” he says, tapping away on his keyboard, “Two’s available on the 5:27. Last two. First class though.”
“We'll take 'em. How much?”
“Let's see. That'll be . . . together . . . five-hundred-thirty-seven-pounds.”
“You're kidding.” Unfuckinbelievable I’m thinking.
“Sorry. No. Fraid that’s the going rate, mate.”
Oh, puhleeze, tell me this isn't your favorite line. It’s obvious Terry’s disappointed, I didn't “take the bait mate” but the good humor I'd been propping up for the sake of my designs on Monica is wearing thin and I’m not in the mood for a second mugging coming on the heels of the buggering I've already taken on the bloody cab fare.
I look over to Monica and she’s framed by large poster advertising the Euro Millions lottery that hangs behind her on the far wall. All I can think is, I need to win.
She shrugs whaddaya gonna do? And offers, “I can help with this.”
I let a beat pass then man up, “Thanks but I’ve got it covered.”
“You sure? I don't mind.”
“Not a problem,” I assure her and turn back to Terry Thomas.
“So, what does first class get us - dinner, drinks; massages?”
“Club Duo,” he says as if I'm supposed to know what a Club Duo is. “Dinner and a glass of wine and comfortable seats in a nice car. You'll like it, and nodding toward Monica he adds, with the universal guy-to-guy know-what-I’m-saying subtlety, “and the missus will too.”
I give Monica a wink, “and she's worth it,” then back to the agent, “Okay. Two for Club Duo.”
Club Screw-O. I'm now down almost a thousand bucks, and all there is to show so far is a twelve-hour-old hand job, a damn fine hand job but a hand job nonetheless. I'm not belittling it, mind you. No guy would ever turn down a hand job, but come on; no one knows hand jobs better than a guy.
Hold that. Here I am with a beautiful woman who may be my one and only, and a thousand clams should mean nothing to make her happy and comfortable. And I’m in this for love, right? I’ll simply take a gaze into those emerald depths of hers, get my fix and all will be as it should be.
If Club Duo is the Eurostar’s idea of first class, steerage must be something on the order of a cattle car to Auschwitz. Comfortable would be a rave review, and as far as the food goes, well, typically bland British. Can’t help but wonder if the food on the return run from Paris is typically fine French?
Paris took almost three-and-a-half hours, the first twenty minutes speeding through the Chunnel before shooting out onto French soil at over a hundred miles an hour under a setting sun. Romantic if you’re Mario Andretti.
Off to the left we barely can make out the lights of Calais bursting over the horizon like faint artillery fire. Sixty years earlier it might’ve been exactly that. Hard to imagine the horrors this part of the world witnessed over the previous century with two World Wars fought on its soil.
Minutes later we're decelerating through the station at Lille but once through the train accelerates again, this time to over 150 miles an hour, and we're riding atop a cushion of air following the contours of the French countryside, ri
sing and dipping and lulling us both to sleep where we're able to reclaim at least a little of what we'd lost over the past 24 hours.
The high-speed rail line into Paris ends short of the Gare du Nord, and the Eurostar moves seamlessly onto a final stretch of conventional rail to complete the journey.
We disembark onto a platform that takes us into a glassed ceiling concourse every bit as impressive as Waterloo’s except, for some reason, I like this better. Must be something in the air because my libido's alliterating fantasies of French fellatio and that trumps a British buggering in my book any day.
On our way to the ticket counters, we come across a rack of pocket schedules with maps for the various lines arriving and departing Paris, so we stop and peruse until we locate those trains southbound. Of the six train stations in Paris, including Gare Du Nord, each serves a different region of the country and trains destined for Spain depart from station Gare d’Austerlitz, located on the other side of town. Figures.
“Let’s find a hotel room for the night and resume this adventure tomorrow?” I offer up. Wait. The last thing, I want to do is spend God knows how many hundreds of dollars more for a room that by this time of the evening will turn out to be a half-nighter at full rate.
But fortunately, there are times where I’m saved from myself before the cheapskate side of me surfaces and this is one of them. My better side intercepts and points out that offering Monica a generous reprieve for the night is the least I could do after dragging the poor woman across forty hours of planes, trains and automobiles. My libido kicks in and reminds me too, that if she were to accept my offer, I would surely win her favors and isn’t that the point of this crazy detour? And even if she didn’t acquiesce, the mere fact I’d shown consideration for her comfort and pleasure, my currency would increase and possibly induce her to reward me in kind.
“You're not getting any Mr. Blue. Not in the cards,” she says instantly destroying all my creative thinking.
Still, these are only words; women say them all the time. They’re simply meant to project an illusion of propriety but what they mean is: keep working; I'll eventually give in. The important thing is we keep in mind a woman wants to be a catch, not a pickup.