GIRL 74
FROM RUSSIA WITH LOVE GIRL
I went to Girl 51, Corvette Girl, hat in hand, and asked for help. My profile was a piece of shit. Here I am, a professional writer, and I couldn’t write a paragraph about myself good enough to get me a decent girl. Was I being arrogant? Too self-revealing? What was wrong? Corvette Girl by that time was a seasoned pro at determining which men would be both gentlemanly and good in bed. Make my profile one that would get you out of your thong, I’d said, because I’m trying to attract a girl like you.
She had forwarded to my attention a dozen male profiles from Match. There’s something about reading the words of the competition that just made me steam under the collar. I’d fume, can’t these women see through this guy? The writeups these morons did for themselves seemed ridiculously simple. Duh, I’m looking for a, duh, nice girl who will, duh, suck my cock. But they worked for Corvette Girl. She also said that with my great ass, I needed a picture of me from the rear, half bent over. Jesus, I thought, I’ll walk a mile to get a girl, but a butt shot?
But Girl 51 knew what the hell she was talking about, because the next woman who contacted me was simply drop dead gorgeous. Her pictures did something to me. Admittedly, my eyesight is dominated by my traitorous penis, Tyrannosaurus Rex, but to me she was gorgeous. The perfect intersection of sluttiness and natural beauty. Rippling abdominal muscles. Mile long legs. Eyes that could make a man hard with a one second gaze. And tits that would make Hugh Hefner’s mouth water.
Her name was Svetlana. The name had some significance to me. In a previous relationship, I was sex starved and hungry for the love of a woman, and the girls in my fiction tended to be somewhat oversexed and gorgeous. The female Russian heroine of my eighth novel was a bombshell by the name of Svetlana. In what seemed like a Candy-gram from the supreme being, here was a real life woman, a flesh and blood girl who wanted me. How could I refuse her anything?
I met her at Mediterra, a restaurant in Princeton that had had some bad luck with me, and which needed turning around. The women I’d met in its bar had been fine, but the minute I had dinner with someone there, disaster struck.
In person, she was even more beautiful and sexually appealing than her photographs. She wore tight jeans that emphasized her leggy lower body and perfect ass, impossibly high stiletto pumps that simply screamed “fuck me right now,” a tight blouse that put her tits right in my face, and a blazer that added respectability to the entire ensemble.
And then she opened her mouth.
There’s just something about accents. A woman with a French accent can get my cock hard in two seconds, but an hour later I want to throw my beer in her lap. A woman with a Texas accent can get me aroused and keep me going indefinitely. Atlanta, Houston, Dallas, Louisiana, Mississippi, all places that make a woman’s voice sexier than mankind can bear. New York, no way – a New York accent makes my cock softer than microwaved butter. Ditto Philadelphia or any place in Pennsyl-tucky. Chicago accents used to do the same until Girl 6 showed up with one, and after I fell in love with her, a female with a Chicago accent could turn me into a stalker.
But Russian accents make me nauseated. I don’t know why. They’re fun to imitate. I can double a girl over laughing with my fake Russian accent. Perhaps it was the fact that I fought and won the Cold War from the deck of a nuclear submarine a thousand feet beneath the tossing waves of the North Atlantic. Or that the accents sound as fake as if they came from a cheap situation comedy.
The other thing that troubled me was the woman’s character. She seemed totally transparent. A manipulator. A woman who wanted to be taken care of so she could do whatever she pleased. A woman without ambition. A princess.
She’d already squeezed two ex-husbands for everything they had. She was looking for a third.
At her car, after dinner, I smiled at her as I cupped her breast. Her breathing was sharp and aroused as her tongue danced in my mouth.
I’ll call you, I whispered.
And of course, I didn’t.
No comments:
Post a Comment