Sep 25, 2016

Flame-red and wind-tossed are always the preferred color --- This is heaven --- teaser (12)

So, Ben has been tricked by Alex into answering this outcall, and the next morning we're told by Brigittå Haagen Dasz, the erotic writer, what happened next. Hold on: this fragment also has the first authentic description of John's looks. Enjoy:   


“So, let me tell you the story,” she say when she’s back. “Yesterday evening, we return to the hotel, the Lupo di Mare, the auberge of Italianate style nestled squarely near the central traffic circle of this charming seaside town. My Håågen feels exhausted, the good man and husband, but he’s so kind to offer me a spousal refreshment at the bar. I know my Håågen and send him off to bed where sweet dreams will soon engulf him and/or usher him into Morpheus’s arms.”


Cover of a book by Susan Johnson,
the writer who provided the model
for Brigitta Haagen-Dasz

She interrupts herself. “No, drop the ‘and/or,’ let’s say 'will soon engulf him and take him into Morpheus's arms.' Be this as it may, I am content to spend a few minutes alone with the drink and my poetic musings, yet find myself soon distracted by a current of lush air wafting into the room. The patio door flung open and there comes a woman, the hair flame red, the curls wind-tossed, the striding apparition of a true equestrian gliding on eloquent thighs through the late-night crowd. She alights on the bar stool next to yours truly. Her voice is lazy with provocation as she speaks more to me than to the tender of the bar when she says: ‘I would fancy something stiff and strong and tonight.”
‘Amaretto,’ I reply instinctively, feeling a sudden craving for the sweet-night liqueur of carnal reputation. She giggles knowingly. 
‘Not exactly a drink one would think of as stiff, but the best aphrodisiac know to sisters,’ she answers. She orders two glasses of the amber-colored stimulant. It transpires presently that her name is Jane.”


“Jane,” I say—-Jane, that could be the Jane of Muffy & Jane, the desperate housewives with their gleaming Audi A8 on the driveway and a double dildo on the coffee table and my head locked between their pussies in an afternoon Karma Sutra. That happened on Thursday last week, the Karma Sutra, and it was the final straw on the back of a…I mean to say it triggered the A-level escort site that put poor Ben out on the market yesterday night. But Jane’s hair is dark, not red. “I know a Jane like her, but her hair is dark, not red,” I say.

“Flame-red and wind-tossed is always the preferred color, trust Brigittå on that one,” Brigittå replies. 
“Aphrodisiacs don’t exist, it’s a myth,” Alex says. 
“A myth that dared to speak its name yesterday night,” she says. “Let me share.”

“Introductions are stridently made, intimacy swiftly develops, and girlie confessions lubricate another liquorous beverage. Jane’s husband is traveling the far-flung shores on urgent business, and she is given to libertinage while he is away. ‘Let’s see,’ Jane says while casting an expectant gaze upon the male throng around us. Some specimen are singled out for closer scrutiny, but all found wanting (women, you know, start with the buttocks, then focus on the face, then on the crotch). 
“‘You know,’ Jane confides, ‘I met this guy last week, John, he’s hot as pineapples, and he has started an A-level service for damsels in distress. I had a chance to taste him already.” 

(Alex gives me a lateral look.)

“Jane giggles, fingers for here handy iPhone and finds herself connected to said service. Arrangements are quickly agreed upon.”

(Brigittå interrupts herself:)

“John, that was supposedly you,” she says. 
“How do you know,” I say.
“Jane painted your lively picture while we were waiting, the elongated torso, toned and speaking of gymnastic pursuits, strong legs thrown into relief by untidy shorts, a stubbornly pensive expression on his handsome face, eyes of light gray and amber, lips full with promise and melancholy, his hand in his face as if he’s trying to hide, a perfect hairline under a careless, or shall we say carefree coiffure.”


John Lee, 29, assistant professor of French

(Now you know, folks, finally. It took us 67 chapters to get there. She’s exaggerating, of course. I lower my hand.)

“But John doesn’t show up,” Alex says.
“How do you know,” Brigittå asks. Alex shows signs of embar-rassment, but Brigittå doesn’t take the matter any further. 

“John does show up, you’ll see. It’s Ben, the Ben who worked for Luke yesterday. Ben is his pet name. His Christian name is John.” She points at Luke’s stand. 


_________________________________

To two tipsy damsels in late-night distress he is the answer to many moonlit prayers

_________________________________

“You boys battling for the other team will have noticed how handsome he is, our John of convenience, and to two tipsy damsels in late-night distress he is the answer to many moonlit prayers. His jungle-cat body, his skin black as sin, his magnolia smile, his be-guiling manhood so expectantly packaged in the bulge of his jeans, everything speaks to us of many candlelit answers. 
‘What is your girlie stance on the ebony race?’ Jane confides. 
‘A promising challenge of rampant confessions,’ I answer a bit mysteriously because I couldn’t think of anything else. In the meantime, our stud has let his spadiceous eyes wander over the animated crowd and recognized my face. His shee…his timid smile segues into a lingering question mark. I lift a hand to hold his at-tention. Jane, in sympathy, signals the Esperanto of an emptying tumbler with her elegant digits. 
‘I know him, I know him,’ I say. 
‘Already?’ Jane mockingly asks.
‘It’s not what you think,’ I say.
‘It soon will be,’ Jane giggles, ‘I feel it in my loins.’

“In the meantime, our ebony boy has made his way to the bar. ‘Excuse me,’ he says to us, I’m a bit lost.’ 
‘And found,’ Jane replies. 
‘I’m John,’ he says.
‘We have been expecting a John,’ Jane says as if she were a lady-in-waiting to the Queen of the Night.
‘I don’t quite know what is expected of me.’ John-Ben says.
‘No need to worry,’ Jane says, ‘we do.’
‘It’s an outcall,’ he says.
‘An outcall,’ Jane echoes, her soprano the gurgle of a turtle dove. ‘Your first time?’ 
‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘I guess.’

Jane bursts into an aria of laughter one might not dare call hysterical in polite society, enfin, she says it a bit so that people can hear us, ‘The boy is a virgin, Tamina.’”




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