The Syntax of Seduction

by Carlos Malenkov

  "Well, Marnie, there are asses and there are asses. And yours just happens to be the finest one in existence . . . and I missed my shot at it back then. To my eternal regret."

  "Dave, we all have regrets. I certainly had my reasons for not wanting to get involved with a kid half my age back then. Don't think I wasn't tempted. I'm not made of stone, you know. But . . ." She turned and favored me with a mysterious smile. ". . . You know, it's never too late."

  In an uncharacteristic fit of sentimentality a few years back, I had bought the Greasy Spoon Diner from old man Biggins when it finally came time for him to retire. I had wanted to preserve a local landmark . . . and an icon of my lost youth. It was where I had gotten my first notions of Higher Truth. And now that's where Marnie and I were headed.

  A well-known technique known to artists is to restage -- literally recreate -- certain pivotal events in one's life. And that's what we were about to do. Recreate one certain pivotal event.

  It was still dank and steamy there in the Swamp, the backroom of the diner. But it was our place. Ours! Marnie had laughed when I had told her where we were going.

  There she was, bent forward over the sink. She had whipped up her skirt and dropped her drawers. Once more. Again her bare globes taunted me with their voluptuous charms. Now those charms were mine for the taking, and I was going to take them. Old man Biggins wouldn't be walking in on us this time. He was resting his weary bones in a resort somewhere in the Florida Keys.

  "I've been waiting for this for ages, Dave. My ass is yours. All yours after all these years. If you still want it (need I ask?). Do what you will with it. Take it. Take it all. Now."

  I had thoughtfully arranged everything. The classy ambience. Complete privacy. And, of course, the lube.

  I slid right into her. Into her hot and welcoming tunnel. Her back door, of course. I wasn't about to content myself with plain, vanilla pussy when I could have her ass. Her marvelous, luscious ass. I was finally making her ass. The only ass that had ever counted.

  It was the best sex I had ever had in my life. It must have been good for her too, because she looked in my eyes, smiled, and kissed me tenderly when we were done. Then she pulled down her skirt and I buckled up my pants. And we turned around and washed the sink full of dirty dishes.

  DIRTY OLD MAN

  The urge never goes away.

  Lying here in bed, in my room at the nursing home, I think back on all the women I've had. Sweet as maple syrup, every one of them. The warm smell of the soft nipple of my high school sweetheart, back before the War that was. It would stand right up, that nipple, when I popped it into my mouth, but, no, she wouldn't let me go much farther than that. Nope. Virginity still meant something in those days.

  My first real woman was Polynesian. We were based on Maluka Nui, in the Solomons, 'bout the middle of '43, I guess. Had the Nips on the run by then, and we were building airstrips like mad on every shitty little lump of coral in the South Pacific. I'd gotten a touch of malaria on the Canal, and now here I was playing guard dog to the damned Seabees, watching to see that no sniper took a potshot at those hotshot 'dozer jockeys.

  Kathleen her name was, the name the missionaries gave her. I couldn't get my mouth around her native name. Damned if she didn't initiate me into the mysteries, and with none of the nonsense the girls stateside used to insist on. Got right to the point. And whatever else the missionaries taught her, it didn't include the missionary position. From behind I took her that first time, with my right hand across her breast, rubbing her nipple, and my left grabbing on to her hip, so her bucking ass didn't knock me out of her. I still remember her cheeks pounding back against my groin. That was even sweeter than the feel of me inside her. Kathleen. Hell of a name. Hell of a woman.

  Memories. They fill out the nights and make the long days pass.

  Last week one of the young nurses took an interest in me. Must have liked the stories I told. Felt sorry for the old geezer, did she? She gave me some relief, a "bee-jay," she called it. Felt all right at first, but mostly it just tickled. I patted her on top of the head as she was working hard at it. Nice girl. Meant well. But I don't think I'll ask for an encore.

  I remember the first time I took a woman in the back passage. That has more class, somehow, than "fucked her in the ass," as the kids say nowadays. Nothing against realism and honesty in language, but somehow earthiness loses its bite if overdone. Try telling that to some of those hotshot millionaire writers, though.

  Anyhow, I had already been married and divorced. It was early in Ike's second term, as I recall, that I met Margaret, or Meg, as she insisted on being called. We were all over each other like minks in heat almost from the start, no matter that we were introduced at a church social. Good dancer. She knew the moves. All the moves. We were already in bed that first night, and I was sleeping over regularly after that. Then she got her period, but that wouldn't stop her, no sir. "Hey, big fellow, I've got another place where you can stick that," sez she. Turns out she liked it even better that way. Got to prefer it, even when not on the rag. Wiggled her butt real nice, she did. It's a shame we never really found anything to talk about. The only thing we had in common was lust, and that's a pretty damn weak glue for binding two people together. Try telling that to some of these hotshot young lovers nowadays.

  Once, out of curiosity (or maybe just to see what a woman feels), I let a friend, a sailor he was, do it to me up the ass. After he showed me the right way to relax the muscles, it didn't hurt at all. Interesting sensations, actually. I could see how someone could get to like it. But I never had the time, or the inclination really, to pursue it.

  Yep, I've had a few other women in my time. A couple of them very prim and proper society ladies. Showed one face to the world, but once the shades were drawn they couldn't get out of their clothes fast enough.

  But time passes, and I more or less settled down. Got married again, and this time for keeps. Irene died eight years ago, and after that I just haven't had the heart for much in the way of social life. Then I had the stroke.

  I've figured out a few things about this sex business over the years, and I've had plenty of time to think, just lying here. It's really only an excuse to connect with people, and I mean more in the spiritual than the physical sense. Alone, alone by ourselves, we're only half complete, half-human. Companionship, emotional support, just the simple touch of a hand on your cheek. That's what it's about. Touch.

  Some nights after lights out, I sneak down the hall in my wheelchair. There's a lady there who needs me. A nice lady. I quietly slip into her bed and just hold her, just cuddle with my arms around her. Mostly paralyzed, she is, but she gives me soft little kisses and she cries. She cries a lot.

  Jen, I found these handwritten notes, "memoirs," I guess you'd call them, among Grandpa's personal effects after they took away his body to be cremated. I'd never have guessed the old goat tomcatted around that much. It could really embarrass the family if this stuff got out.

  Jase, Gawd, how disgusting that these old folks can even think about sex. Why can't they just go off some place and die without complicating our lives??? By all means, let's BURN THAT FILTH!

  Gotta run. I'm late picking up the kids from my ex. Then off to the health club (there's the cutest trainer there).

  See ya.

  * * *

  THE PHANTOM OF THE SUBWAY

  The woman had huge, haunted eyes.

  Only two stops to go. Once again he had blown it. He still hadn't connected with the mysterious lady in the trenchcoat. But then, you just didn't talk to strangers on the New York subway. If you knew what was good for you, you didn't even look them in the eye. But he might never see her again.

  Ron considered himself something of a superstud. His looks were nothing to write home about, but that had never stopped him from making it with the ladies. Even living off the ladies when finances got a little tight. But making pickups on the subway . . . that was a whole different ballgame.

  One last, desp
erate chance. Ron fished a red felt-tip marker, then a dollar bill out of his pocket. He quickly scribbled "Cyrano" on it. The dollar was grimy and creased, but the writing was legible. As an afterthought, he added, "You're special. I know why. Want to know more?" He thought of including his e-mail address or phone number, but no, that might be pushing things. Gotta play this fish just right. If he had hooked her, she'd meet him again. Right here on the D Train.

  This was his stop -- 72nd Street. Ron dropped the dollar at her feet as he passed her on the way out. It took all his self-discipline not to look back.

  There, he had done it. Scored a coup. Results uncertain, but he felt pretty good about it. He had a hot hand, Ron did, just like an alleged ancestor of his, a certain gentleman named de Bergerac. When his parents, hopeless romantics both, had named him Cyrano (or, in everyday usage, Ron), they had no idea that it would shape his life. That he would end up inheriting a somewhat larger-than-normal nose. That he himself would turn out to be just the opposite of a hopeless romantic: a swordsman between the bedsheets, and a cynical manipulator and heartbreaker to boot. All right, so I spot this chump staring at me. I was on the prowl, you know, and the guy was definitely a "possible." Good thing, too. It was just the right time of month. I felt so empty inside and my juices were flowing. I was burning up. I wanted someone inside me so bad and this guy was just right. Nice body parts. Young, healthy . . . and gullible. He might as well be wearing a "victim" sign. Okay, let's play hard to get. Come on, Mr. Chump, chase the bait.

  Every day for a week Ron stalked the entire length of the 5:15 train looking for her. Where was she? Making a deliberate effort to avoid him? Had she changed her schedule? Was it only random chance? Damn it, he was wasting his time. Why was he making a fool of himself over this dame? She was just a piece of ass. Nothing special, just another pussy. DAMN IT, WHERE WAS SHE?

  Friday finally -- there she was! There! Sitting in the end car. She glanced up and saw him. She smiled. Smiled! She cocked an index finger at him and nodded. Hallelujah!

  Holding on to a strap, standing beside her, superslick Ron was reviewing pickup lines in his head. Somehow, none of them seemed quite right. This was embarrassing. He couldn't think of a friggin' thing to say.

  She looked up at him. "Hello would be a good beginning," she said.

  "Hello, baby."

  "Hello, Mr. Special." Mr. Special Chump. What a bozo.

  "I'm a fool. Sure. A special fool. How wonderful that you recognized that. Now, look at me, look closely and see yourself mirrored in my eyes. In me, in my heart, in my soul, your image blazes. I know who you are, and I see what you could be. I gaze upon you and look at your full, burning passion and I see . . . Tell me, what do I see?" I see . . . a prime cut of meat on the hoof. I'm salivating.

  "Quite an impressive speech, Mr. Special. I'm convinced. Convinced that you're either a nut case or a fool for love. I'm not sure which is worse." A chump is worse.

  "No doubt the latter, Miss . . . uh, may I call you Roxanne?"

  "If indeed you are a poet and swordsman, then I will play Roxanne to your Cyrano."

  (She knew! The literature gambit had snared her. Now on to stage two.) Does this chump think I'm ignorant? I can spout literature all day if I have to. I can be quite entertaining if the situation presents itself . . . the better to eat you, my dear.

  "Cyrano I am. And that being the case, would Madame permit my humble self to entertain her exalted ladyship."

  She smiled. "Madame permits." Madame permits Mr. Chump to entertain certain dangerous delusions.

  He suggested a rendezvous in a gourmet restaurant near his apartment.

  "My dear Cyrano, with me one need not go through an elaborate courtship dance. Foolish rituals are for fools. I am a woman who knows what she wants. Exactly what she wants. Right now I want you. I would take you home." Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.

  The woman sitting beside Roxanne got up and exited at the next stop. Ron sat down. Roxanne took his hand and clasped it to her bosom. He leered. Other passengers snickered.

  "I'm game," he replied nonchalantly. "My nose may be long, but so is my sword." You certainly are game. Prey.

  "Monsieur de Bergerac, might you care to sheathe your sword?" Do you know how spiders do it? While the male is busy sheathing his sword, the female is . . . having him for dinner.

  "Call me Ron. My friends do."

  "Right. Ron, we have a bit of a ride ahead of us. We change lines here."

  The L Line. Fourteenth Street and First Avenue station. They got off the train. Ron turned toward the concrete stairway leading up to the street, but Roxanne stopped him.

  "This way. Follow me."

  This way led toward the far end of the train platform.

  "Where the bloody hell are you taking me, Roxanne?"

  "Trust me."

  (Hey! That's the line I use with the ladies.)

  The light from an endless row of dirt-encrusted wall-mounted fluorescents was just bright enough to make out a dented metal gray-painted door in the wall. With a theatrical flourish, Roxanne produced a key and unlocked it. A dimly lit shaft led downward into the distance.

  (Deep into the bowels of the earth. Where is she leading me? Where the hell does she live? Maybe literally in Hell. Well, if it comes to that, I'd follow that round, beckoning ass of hers into the very fires of Hell. 'Cause I'm gonna nail that ass.)

  At first the tunnel slanted downward at a slight angle, but it soon leveled off. The lighting remained steady, if a bit dim, and they picked their way along the roadbed of a train track. The track ended as they went further, and the ground changed from rough gravel to hard-packed dirt. The walls of the shaft looked like unfinished rock face. Regularly spaced roughly timbered wooden beams shored up the ceiling.

  "Where are we -- "

  "Hush. We're almost there. Home. My home. My mansion."

  Over there! In a niche by the far wall was what looked like -- what? A shack? No, a construction trailer. There was lettering on the door: Metropolitan Transit Authority Second Avenue Subway Construction Project The Honorable Abraham D. Beame, Mayor 1973

  (The legendary Second Avenue subway line -- in planning since the 1920s, repeatedly postponed for decades due to lack of funds. They finally had started building it in the early 1970s, then abandoned it a couple of years later in the middle of a fiscal crisis. Maybe it had left behind a few relics . . . and ghosts.)

  "You live in this dump?"

  "Home, sweet home."

  A shadow materialized. It was a man. A man in uniform. An armed guard. Armed with what looked like a military assault rifle. He nodded at Roxanne and gave Ron a menacing scowl.

  "Part of the security staff," Roxanne said.

  Security staff? In the sealed up remains of the abandoned Second Avenue subway line? Just what the hell was going on down here?

  Roxanne stepped into the trailer and manipulated some switches on an illuminated panel. "Disarming the electronic safeguards," she said.

  Electronic safeguards? High-tech security equipment in an abandoned construction trailer? Just what the hell had he gotten himself into? This piece of ass had damn well better be worth it.

  Then she had him by the elbow and was steering him into a room. It seemed to be a bedroom of sorts. At least it had a plush looking four-poster bed. "Undress," she said. He did. It was chilly and he broke out in goosebumps. He was starting to get an erection.

  (Almost there. Only a few more minutes til I add another pussy to my collection.)

  "Turn around," she said. He did. "Stop." She inspected him as if he were an animal on display at a county fair. "You'll do."

  (Turning the tables on me, baby? Just you wait. In a little while it'll be my turn.)

  She was straddling him. Flat on his back, looking up at her bouncing breasts as she rode him, he was thinking just how strange this day had turned out. He was actually getting laid hundreds of feet beneath Second Avenue! She leaned over and her hair tickled his face as sh
e kissed him.

  (Whoa. Making it with the phantom of the subway. The boys at the bar will never believe this one.)

  He was spreadeagled. His mouth was dry. He hurt. After drifting into a gentle sleep, with the warm fuzzy feeling of afterwards tingling through his body, he had awakened in pain. He was flat on his back, with arms and legs stretched out at a 45-degree angle by handcuffs and cables fastened to the posts of the bed. Immobilized. Imprisoned. He yelled for help. No one answered.

  After a time he slept again. And awoke. He wasn't alone.

  "Roxanne? Why am I tied up? I'm thirsty."

  "Poor boy. Sorry about the restraints. They're for your own good. You had an attack. Seizures. But don't worry. Roxie will take good care of her baby. Here."

  She held a squeeze-bottle up to his mouth. "Drink. Drink deeply."

  He did, and immediately a wave of suffocating darkness washed over him. He was drowning! Going under! Dying!