Hungry for Love

by Nancy Frederick

  “Oh I don’t know,” said Wimp. “She didn’t actually ask us to interfere.”

  “She did ask. She just didn’t realize it.” Butch reached out and nudged Wimp and shrieked, “Look—there they are. I knew it was right around here somewhere. That son of a bitch. That Bill is a rotter and he’s going to learn a lesson or two. It’s time somebody screwed the nipple clamps onto his balls.”

  As Butch pulled the car over a couple houses down from Bill’s, Wimp shook his head. “Nobody mentioned nipple clamps. That would be assault.”

  “Oh my God,” said Butch, “I’m speaking metaphysically, not literately. Now just watch. You’ll see I’m correct—it’s happening right before our eyes. And ears.”

  Chrissy had opened the door and Kevin stood beside her. She was in her usual workout gear but gazed out the door carefully before allowing him to exit as though even her attire suggested something clandestine.

  “What a waste,” sighed Kevin, reaching over to grope Chrissy, who looked left and right as though the neighbors were there forming a circle to point fingers and yell accusatory comments. Nervously, she pushed him away, but he refused to put any space between them.

  “He’s manhandling her,” said Wimp, aghast, as Butch nodded, certain that they were doing the right thing, after observing this abuse in action.

  Kevin smiled a lopsided grin at Chrissy, and expecting her to melt into his arms, he leaned in even closer. He casually fondled her ass but to his surprise she jerked away. The woman was quite a challenge, but he was able to handle a challenge.

  “Neighbors,” she whispered, “For God’s sake.”

  Kevin laughed and reached behind her with his other hand, at an angle that nobody could observe and rubbed her ass, sighing heatedly and then instantly said, “Let’s go back inside.” Just as he was sliding his hand down her hip along her thigh, she twisted away from him.

  Butch was livid. “Oh isn’t he just so very menacing. Look at that dopey grin—as though nothing is wrong and everything is just so innocent.”

  “He gives me the shudders. He’s humiliating her in front of the neighbors and she’s not even into humiliation.” He raised his voice a bit, but as they were a few houses down and the windows were closed, only Butch heard his mock shout, “Consenting adults, asshole!”

  Butch put her hand over Wimp’s mouth and signaled not to be so loud as she cracked his window a bit so they could hear more clearly. If only she’d parked just a little closer. But she couldn’t allow Bill to get a glimpse of them.

  Kevin leaned in against Chrissy, pinning her briefly against the doorway. Before she could sidestep him yet again, he reached over and bit her neck. He was certain she was about to moan with pleasure, but no, she pushed him off and said “Ouch!” rather too loudly.

  Once more he pressed her against the doorway, rubbing his hand against her breast. This time she pushed harder and he was completely out the door. But he laughed and said in his sexiest voice, “I’ll never give up ‘til you give in. I can feel it, know you want it.”

  Wimp and Butch clenched hands tightly. Tears formed in the corner of Wimp’s eyes. What an onslaught for them to witness—life was just too cruel. “Did you hear her cry out?” he asked, “He’s a brute.”

  “Don’t worry, honey,” said Butch, gently patting Wimp’s cheek. “We’ll take him down a peg. Otherwise she’ll never get away from him.”

  “You’re right. He’s too devious.”

  Now that they had a beat on their target, it made sense to Butch to follow him for a while, to learn his routines and his haunts, so off behind Kevin they went as he pulled his Porsche out of Bill’s driveway.

  Bill felt as though he’d been taken hostage, but what was he to do? He followed along next to Laura as a hyper animated banquet consultant named Betty rhapsodized about the many spectacular events which had taken place there over the years. As she spoke, her arms moved frenetically, her eyes rolled with joy, and numerous happy smiles were interspersed with nervous laughs.

  Bill looked about at the dance floor, the many round tables, and considered if this could possibly be a suitable location for a simple birthday party.

  “Just picture the magic,” sighed Betty, “All your friends in this room—as many as two hundred. For the last party, we hung strings of lights along several of the walls and at the windows. It was so magical. Truly. Magical.” She sighed with orgasmic pleasure, then took a deep breath and continued, “We can recommend orchestras, caterers, or do the whole thing for you. Doves even. You could—wait—are you ready for this—you could be the one to pop out of the cake.” She patted Laura on the arm.

  Laura laughed at that possibility and then realizing there was nobody who would be delighted to see her emerging from any sort of giant cake, sighed deeply and said, “No, the party’s for his girlfriend, not my husband.”

  Nodding rapidly, Betty’s eyes glistened with another fantastic idea, “Well then, why be sexist. A handsome guy like you—beefcake jumping out of the cake. Think about it—ohh what magic.”

  “We have a rickshaw you know,” continued Betty before Bill could either think or reply. “And your darling fiancée could ride into her party in that. You could dress as a slave pulling her in, or we could provide slaves.” Then she gasped, aware of her potential faux pas, “Not actual slaves of course.”

  Bill nodded affably, accepting Betty’s card, and saying, “We’ll think about it and get back to you.”

  As they walked toward Bill’s car, Laura said, “Seemed a bit overblown. Too fiftieth anniversary or salesman of the year.”

  “I’d say have it at home, but no way to make it a surprise then.”

  Laura smiled. “A back yard barbecue. Kids running around.”

  “Lounge chairs. Chickens on a spit,” said Bill.

  “Couple nice pasta salads,” said Laura, “Those are my favorite parties.”

  Bill nodded, “Me too.”

  The next place was in Santa Monica, and Bill and Laura enjoyed sitting outdoors on a nice patio, sampling the beautiful food that was set in front of them.

  “I know you don’t like her, but she really was so sweet. So sunny. Always giving the kids treats when we’d see her at the mall. We had such a good time together—it was like being a family again,” sighed Bill.

  Laura smiled at him, “Maybe so, but I’ve just never seen that side of Chrissy. To me she just seems vapid.”

  “Oh it’s this damn diet she’s on. Won’t listen to a word I say. So wound up I expect to hear her head go pop. She could commit a crime and any jury would let her off.”

  Laura laughed and nodded, “Diet defense.”

  “When that woman suggested we jump out of a cake, all I could think would be she’d see the cake and scream like I was torturing her with it. Maybe we’re on the wrong track. Maybe we should just have the party at a spa. Serve water ices or something?” Bill grimaced, realizing he wasn’t even joking.

  Laura’s mind had wandered. She spoke almost more to herself than to Bill. “You know, I said no to Kevin about a million times. He was just so determined. And I figured he must care so much, so deeply, to pursue me so intensely. I thought I’d be so safe. Never occurred to me that the thrill was the chase, not me.”

  Bill saw the sad look cross her face and wondered was Kevin having another affair. If so, he didn’t know with whom, though he did suspect one of the nurses at work, more trouble if so. “He’s a lot more insecure than you realize. Needs validation,” he said kindly.

  She sighed and looked down at her hands. “Maybe so. Maybe so.”

  Kevin was psyched. He strode onto the baseball field like the conquering hero he knew himself to be. He and the Cedars Sinai team were going to teach those UCLA bastards a thing or two. There was nothing like being on a winning team, and Kevin intended to win. He was going to be the star player, today and always.

  Kevin was first up to bat and he planned to make it count. He sauntered into place, making sure that the other team kn
ew he was a force. Casually he rubbed his hands in the dirt and wiped them on his pants. He wiggled his butt, not just once but twice. Then he stood there at the plate, sending a searing look toward the other team’s pitcher, a dermatologist. In his mind, he practically sneered.

  “C’mon there, Barb, we all know you throw like a girl.” He laughed at this excellent joke then leaned in toward the catcher and spoke softly, “We had a little thingy. She’s still soft on me.”

  The catcher, clearly a lesbian, shot Kevin a scornful look. Well that was her business.

  About twenty feet away, standing behind a large tree with gnarled roots lacing the ground, Butch and Wimp lurked covertly. They might have looked rather out of place in this Beverly Hills park in their omnipresent black leather, but nobody really spotted them—it was a big tree. Wimp held a baseball, and paced in miniscule steps back and forth, still hidden by the tree.

  “Get focused,” said Butch. “This is your moment. All your energy. And when I say NOW, let it rip.”

  Wimp clenched his mouth tightly as he wiggled his shoulders, attempting to loosen them up. There was a knot in the pit of his stomach, and he knew it was old memories, high school, gym class, nothing good. He tried to shake them off.

  Kevin was enjoying his moment of glory. He wiggled his butt yet again. He clucked his tongue a couple of times. “This is gonna be too easy. I almost feel guilty.”

  The pitcher was about to wind up, and Kevin noticed a devilish glint in her eye. She must be thinking about that time they shared that quickie. He shot her a crooked smile. Maybe he could tap that again sometime soon. Then, back in the spirit of the game, he said. “Here it comes, a big fat doughnut. Maybe I should just get a cup of coffee to go with it.”

  Butch was on her game. She was ready for the first confrontation. When a lesson needed to be taught, she was the one to teach it. She muttered to Wimp, “See how he likes being up a tree without a paddle. This is it—get ready….Now!”

  Wimp wound up, and with a heave as mighty as he could muster, the ball flew out of his hand, but it was far from the head-denting speedball Butch had envisioned.

  At the same moment, the ball left Barb’s hand, flying fast and low toward Kevin. It arced in the sky and hurled toward him. As it was coming, Wimp’s ball, far short of its target, rolled onto the field toward Kevin, who with self-described lightning reflexes, jumped inward to avoid it hitting his foot. Where had that come from? He looked behind him toward where Butch and Wimp stood invisibly behind a giant tree.

  “Quick,” said Butch, “Let’s get outta here.”

  Kevin returned his gaze toward the pitch, but it was too late, and the ball smashed into his crotch, causing him to collapse.

  “Ball one!” said the umpire.

  “Glad she’s not soft on me,” intoned the catcher.

  From where he lay on the ground groaning and scowling, Kevin caught a glimpse of Barb laughing on the pitcher’s mound. That bitch!

  Butch seethed as she started the car. Turning toward Wimp righteously, she snapped her crop at him. “You totally missed him. You were supposed to hit him.”

  Wimp, his heart still racing, spoke up with uncharacteristic assertiveness. “Who do you think I am, Ryan Nolan? I’m not um-um-um—Kevin Costner.”

  Butch remained livid. “Yeah, well—neither is he. And you know what? Neither are you.”

  Butch pulled the car out and sped away, barely listening to Wimp, who was suggesting that being nutcracked with a softball was punishment enough.

  - FOUR –

  “How’s Kevin doing today?” asked Bill, wincing a little.

  “Still icing the crown jewels. Wouldn’t he be okay by now?” asked Laura.

  “It can vary. Look it’s right down here.” They were heading toward Angie’s deli, and as they walked past Zero Tolerance, Bill said, “She’s a patient.”

  Spotting a couple smoking, Laura removed a flyer from her bag, handed it to them and said sincerely but with a touch too much emotion, “You’re cremating yourselves alive!”

  Holding Angie’s card, Bill opened the door to It’s Delish, and looked around at the small deli, which had only a few customers seated here and there. A counter girl gazed at them with an unremarkable degree of disinterest. After mentioning his reason for being there, she shouted, “Hey, Angie.”

  It took only a moment for Angie to emerge from the kitchen in her chef’s whites. Recognizing Bill, she registered a look of concern. Why was he here? Had something happened to Dr. Flicker? “Oh,” she said, “Hello.”

  Bill smiled at her in a friendly way and said “I didn’t realize this was a deli. We could have had lunch here.”

  “We’re planning a party,” said Laura.

  “Oh, I see,” said Angie, relieved. “A party. Somehow I thought you were here because…. Well, never mind, come—have a seat.”

  Bill and Laura sat down and waited only briefly as Angie disappeared and reappeared, bringing a large tray holding many small plates, each containing only a couple nibbles on them. Angie took a seat at the table with them so she could discuss the offerings and make suggestions. With great effort to maintain a polite demeanor, Bill and Laura began tasting the food and their faces revealed only surprise, concealed dislike, and ultimately puzzlement about what they actually were eating.

  Angie remained oblivious and said, “Yes, that’s right—buffalo pâté.”

  Laura couldn’t quite believe what she was asking, “Isn’t this caramel inside this meatball?”

  Angie smiled excitedly. “Yes! Do you like it? I haven’t tasted most of these items—the diet you know—but I’m going for real cutting edge cuisine. Oblivious to what was transpiring behind her, Angie didn’t notice as Butch and Wimp at a neighboring table gazed at each other with disgust. Butch began coughing and almost turned green. Suspiciously, Wimp lifted his plate and sniffed it before almost gagging. Together they rose, as she tossed a bill onto the table and they hightailed it out of the deli.

  “You know,” mused Bill softly, “Something a bit more simple might be best. Chinese chicken salad.”

  “Poached salmon,” added Laura.

  Enthused, Angie replied, “I just created a saffron-curry sauce with chopped octopus and deep fried cilantro.”

  “Maybe on the side,” said Laura politely.

  Chrissy was having a horrifically frustrating conversation with someone she was certain was a brain dead liar. “Yes, I do want to talk to the manager,” she said with extreme irritation, “It’s just impossible for me to take you seriously. There’s no way you didn’t notice. You’re not disabled, are you?”

  Nonplussed, the little idiot said, “I’ll get Joan.”

  “Hurry, will you,” said Chrissy, seething. She untied a jaunty bandana knotted around her neck and mopped her brow with it. Almost gasping for air, she wondered would she faint. Clutching one of the exercise machines, she lowered herself down onto it, then in an act of extreme desperation pressed the bandana over her face, covering mouth and nose. She took several breaths, growing even more agitated. It didn’t help. It didn’t help. Air, she thought, oh clean air.

  Joan arrived and leaned over her with an aura of deep concern. She smiled and patted Chrissy on the shoulder. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  With what appeared to be SARS level terror, Chrissy removed the bandana from her face and attempted to breathe but immediately began choking and gasping. In between gasps for unpolluted air, she managed to squeeze out a few words, “This place reeks!”

  Joan’s demeanor instantly became calm. She said placatingly, “We clean the locker rooms with Clorox. Also the towels. People are sweating, though, but of course it is a gym.” As Joan spoke, a couple of guys dripping sweat passed and she glanced toward them trying to make her point without alerting them.

  Growing more and more deeply panic-stricken, Chrissy began waving her arms around wildly as though she were attempting to communicate via sign language to someone in a foreign country. She tried to ta
ke a deep breath to regain her inner balance, but every time she did the smell was like a massive assault to her brain. Finally she gasped and jerkily ejected the words as though they were Pez shooting out of a dispenser.

  “No, no, no. Sweat is normal. Sweat is good. Wholesome, even.” She held the bandana over her mouth for a few seconds and raised her index finger to Joan, indicating she would resume speaking as soon as she could manage it. Finally she said, “I’m talking about the smell.” She glared at Joan. “Do not tell me you don’t smell it.” Chrissy waived her arm in the direction of the door and beyond.

  Joan looked toward the door rather perplexed and then as a show of good faith, took a deep breath. Then she returned her gaze to Chrissy, who immediately began speaking in a rush of words.

  “I mean the food. I’m smelling ratatouille with some sort of chocolate. Lamb—and a great deal of cinnamon.” She gagged visibly as she continued, “Deep frying….”

  A look of recognition crossed Joan’s face at last. “Oh,” she said softly, “You mean the deli down the way.” She observed Chrissy nodding vigorously, the bandana covering her nose and mouth, but her eyes, which were pretty much all she’d left uncovered, conveyed deep horror. Joan continued even more calmly, “That’s not something we can control.” Patting Chrissy on the shoulder, she said, “You certainly have an acute sense of smell.”

  Chrissy shrugged Joan’s hand off her arm, then said with rage, “How are people supposed to concentrate on what’s important with that smell? They write horror movies about smells like those. Didn’t you ever read Edgar Allen Pope? He wrote horror stories about religion.” Chrissy paused, thinking wait, wait, wasn’t there a bird involved, some kind of black chicken, but she couldn’t be sure of anything and the point was to make her point, so with confidence she added, “And bad smells.”

  Joan glanced up at the ceiling, trying to place that name, but she couldn’t. Then she said, “We can’t control the neighbors. Surely you understand that.”