THE WOMAN CHASER by Charles Willeford

Author:Charles Willeford
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Bisac Code 1: FIC000000; FIC050000
ISBN: 9781468306927
Publisher: The Overlook Press
Published: 2013-08-11T00:00:00+00:00

These lines strangely excited me. Putting Night on Bald Mountain on the turntable, and after twisting up the volume, I turned to the beginning of the poem and began to read it aloud. I had to raise my voice against the weight of the stereo speakers until I was almost screaming the embittered lines. By the time I reached the end of the poem my eyes were streaming with self-pity, and my heart was full of compassionate love for Laura. Poor, poor, misguided young woman. I turned off the player and in the abrupt silence hurriedly pulled slacks on over my pyjama trousers. I was so choked with super-charged emotion my throat made funny noises and it was impossible to check the copious flow of tears.

I drove straight to Laura’s apartment house, ignoring the red lights that blocked my way, driving mechanically. I parked, and locked the car before climbing the two flights to Laura’s apartment. A trifle dazed, uncertain of myself, with no plausible or planned purpose in mind, I scratched apprehensively at her door.

The door was opened almost immediately. Laura, fresh and warmly pink from a long shower, her damp head wrapped turban-fashion in a white towel, and holding her robe closed with her left hand, stared at me with an expression of bewildered amazement on her pretty face.

I was still weeping helplessly, self-induced tears, yes, but they were real tears all the same. The combination of music and poetry had unlocked a hidden spring. And what can equal the tragedy of a strong man’s tears? A moment later Laura was crying too, with sympathetic empathy. We clung to each other, desperately; Laura pulled me inside, and kicked the door closed. As I staggered weakly to the clean-smelling, pull-down Murphy bed, Laura ripped the thin silk pyjama jacket from my back, scraping my flesh with her sharp, impatient fingernails.

Her warm, soft mouth opened as I kissed her and she bit gently into my lower lip; caressed it soothingly with her tongue. Our breaths and tongues met and mingled. With our mouths locked together we fell back on the bed. Then I was on my back and Laura was kissing me all over as she tugged my belt loose with practiced hands. Her restless tongue, hot and hard, licked beneath my neck, at my armpit, stabbed wetly into my ear. Her trembling fingers danced like feathertips as they searched my body, exploring, tantalizing me until I wanted her with an urgency that could no longer be suppressed. Her nails raked cruelly across my shoulders, and she uttered incomprehensible animal sounds. Waves of feeling washed over me; she moaned, shuddered, and held me tighter—

“Dearest, dearest!” She cried happily (but impractically for the moment). “Again, again, again!”

This woman was a virgin? I thought with genuine inner amusement. Laura had merely proven the great value of a college education, that was all. The obscure tricks she knew couldn’t be learned from books, but I didn’t really care.

It may be fun to know, but it’s even more fun to be fooled.

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