I saw her sitting there in my waiting room, and my heart skipped a beat. She’s the typical, long-legged, well-built blonde that every guy wants to take home when mother’s not around. At first I thought maybe she was my patient, and that could have been nice, but then we get into a question of ethics, and ethics are something I would rather avoid, if possible. So I walked right up to her and said, “Sorry, beautiful, you’re going to have to find another gynecologist.”
Her blue eyes opened wide with questioning and bewilderment. “Why is that?” she asked, completely sincerely.
“Because if you were my patient, I couldn’t marry you.”
That remark put her on edge. I know what to do with the beauty queens—you can’t talk in terms of dating. Every guy they know wants to date them and most will put up with anything to do so, including months without any physical payback for all the elegant dinners and trinkets offered. That’s a lousy route. I go right for the jugular—dangle the big one in front of them like a gold plated carrot off a money-hungry donkey’s nose. Of course I can’t say how well this technique works for an ordinary slob, because marriage isn’t that much of a coup then, but they probably figure that even a two-bit schmuck has a diamond in him somewhere. With a doctor, the rewards multiply, so it’s the fucking big time.
“Wait a minute,” she said slowly, “I thought that Dr. Creamer was a woman. That’s what I was told.”
“Oh you’re here for Creamer. Well that’s just fine—she’s one of my partners, and I know for sure she won’t make you the same offer I just did. So what do you say? How about tonight to get acquainted, and then we fly up to San Fran for the weekend?
I fixed her with my most piercing glance, the one in which my eyes flash and seem to penetrate to her very soul, and hopefully would get her hooked before she realized that the term six feet might apply to an insect more readily than to me. And she responded appropriately, with that blank, accepting stare that I like so much in a woman, whether she’s a patient or merely a passing cunt making a pit stop enjoyable for me.
“Well, sure, why not?” she answered slowly, almost hypnotically.
“I’m Dr. Shrift. Give your name and address to my receptionist, along with your dress size. I’ll send you something to wear tonight. See you at eight.” And then without so much as a smile to break the tension, I walked away. But of course I ducked into one of the changing room where I could see her walk over to my receptionist and provide the requested data. Good obedient girl. Just my type.
Privately I informed my receptionist to do the usual. She was trained by now and it saved a lot of headaches to have her run out and buy a hot dress, something I’d enjoy removing (although she doesn’t know that—or maybe she does—what the fuck) and arrange to have it messengered. It’s worth every penny of the fifty bucks extra I pay her each week. During that moment, I first found out Tawny’s name, and it was a real turn on. It’s the quintessential California beauty queen label and she looks just like her name.
The first two weeks were the best. Then we spent time getting to know each other without pressure and she made almost no demands. Of course she was worried about some guy named Ace, probably a mechanic or some other dumb schmuck, who she was dumping because of me. He kept coming over and hitting on her, and she felt guilty for cheating on me. Frankly, I didn’t give a shit because a cunt can take a lot of use and as long as hers was vacant when I wanted to park in it, so what if it got an occasional other pump? Of course I couldn’t tell her that because no broad wants to think a guy’s that liberated. So I listened, affecting the kindly manner they taught in school until I decided the hell with pediatrics and that my area of interest was gynecology. Eventually we hit on the plan that she would tell the guy she had a yeast infection and her doctor told her to abstain from sex. He would probably get discouraged and disappear. She worried about this problem on and on, and I say, why bother me with this trivia? I’m showing her a good time, and that doesn’t entitle her to bore me with the crappy details of her life. If she wanted a sympathetic ear to bend, why not fuck a psychiatrist—if she could find one able to manage a hard-on, that is.
I really did like her at first, and it did occur to me from time to time that maybe I would marry her. After all, having a blonde beauty queen on my arm for the rest of my life could only enhance my prestige quotient in this town. As the time passed and it seemed that she was genuinely devoted to me and interested only in the romance we shared, I thought that perhaps I had misjudged her and all the beauty queens.
Then one night I arrived to pick her up for a dinner and a show, but she wasn’t ready. She was walking around her apartment in this little silk teddy, and I thought that maybe she wanted some action before hitting the road. So as we meandered toward the bedroom, I reached out and gave her a swat on the ass. Why else do girls wear outfits like that if they’re not laying their goods on the line for a little inspection? But Tawny didn’t even pick up on my signal. She just flopped down on the bed and sighed, “Oh, honey.”
I sat beside her and then she crawled into my lap with the saddest expression I had even seen. Had her mother died? So I asked what was wrong and then she held her leg out for me to inspect. If this was some kind of exotic come-on, I was willing to go along, so I trailed a finger along her thigh, reaching up between her legs to the source of her greatest charm, but no, she pushed my hand aside and stood up, walking to the mirror and pivoting. Then she took her head in both hands and emitted another groan.
“Fat,” she moaned, “My legs are obese.”
Obese? Why would I fuck a woman with obese thighs? My first thought was that maybe I had been mistaken. Maybe she wasn’t really a beauty queen after all, and maybe that was why she had been so nice. I examined the offending gams and had to disagree. They were choice, just like the rest of her, except maybe her brain, but then I wasn’t all that interested in finding a chess partner to fuck.
“I need to have liposuction immediately,” she declared, almost with relief, because it was clear that in voicing this diagnosis, she had reduced the stress of having come to the conclusion that she was obese.
I laughed out loud, despite the glare she gave me. “Are you one crazy broad or what? They couldn’t take enough fat out of your thighs to fry an onion. Not even a small onion.”
She got up and stomped out of the bedroom wailing and crying. If this was real, she was certifiable. If it was a performance, then her dreams of being an actress should certainly be fulfilled. Broads got the Oscar for less emoting than this, and maybe the five hundred bucks I gave her for a new set of photos was well spent. Yeah it was well spent if I could get her to sign me on for ten-percent.
I decided then and there to be magnanimous. After all, I knew a guy who did liposuction, and he had sent broads to me for abortions from time to time, so why not call in a favor. So I went over to her and promised to fix her up with the best guy for the job, as a little present. No reason she should be apprised that it would be a freebee for me.
Immediately she brightened, and this time when I reached between her obese thighs she opened them willingly, offering a choice moan or two to get me even hotter. It was then that I realized that the teddy was her working clothes. What the hell—it’s always better to have the cards on the table.
The liposuction procedure cheered her up, and for some time after that she was good-natured and undemanding, allowing me to fuck her whenever I wanted and asking only for the few routine presents that girls like her consider necessary to keep a guy in line. So I bought her a few new dresses, in exchange for which she let me take her to Trashy Lingerie on La Cienega where I picked out a lot of cheap thrills stuff for her to wear under them, and she was a pretty good sport about it so once again I began to think about proposing and keeping her in garter belts forever.
I decided to test out the plan by taking her along with me to New York for a medical convention. It’s always a plus to have a beauty queen to show off to your peers. It was fall by then and she was su
re that the weather would do her in, so she started shopping for furs, and I decided what the hell. I called my friend Milton, the one with three ex-wives, and he got me connected to get a new-looking second hand mink from a woman who needed the cash more than the skins.
So Tawny had her fur and I had my beauty queen to flaunt in New York. She was thrilled at first to be going there, because she had never been East before, and she hoped she might make some acting connections. We were there one day when I bumped into Barton, the guy I most envied in medical school. It seemed this might be my chance to do a little one-upmanship number by showing Tawny off, but he seemed not even to notice her. Why should he? A guy like that, who first of all is six feet easy—and you know what that means—inches—inches everywhere—could get any girl he wanted. At least he always did in med school I used to watch him to check out his technique and it seemed to be complex. First of all, he had the kind of dazzling smile that all women love and no amount of dentistry can provide. Then he was a great conversationalist, could talk about anything, all the while maintaining his masculinity and personality, not like my cousin Kevin, who is a ladies’ man and enough to make you puke. Barton is a man’s man, but women love him too. And the real reason is that he has this sneer he uses on them, and I see them gasp in excitement at his macho, take charge nature. It’s swashbuckling, pure and simple, and I do my best to emulate him, and that’s how I know it works. The thing with Barton is that none of it is an act. You can never catch him at it because he really is that way, and most of us guys would kill to be like him without having to pretend and feel that tension in the gut or heart-pounding nervousness that comes when you fear that maybe the broad’ll know you’re faking it.
So the three of us chatted in a friendly way, with me being sure to mention that Tawny was a beauty queen and an actress. Barton nodded politely and we kept the conversation moving along. I scrutinized both of them to see what effect the whole thing was having, and while I was sure that Tawny responded to him with definite interest, he seemed hardly to notice her. Then I remembered something he had told me years ago, that a girl like Tawny (and although he had never met her at that time, he described her exactly) would be good for an hour or so, but for the long haul a woman had to have some substance to keep his interest. So it didn’t work. Tawny was nothing more than useful for a quick fuck to him and I hadn’t proved anything at all. After we parted company, I took her back to the room and fucked her twice just to cheer myself up. So what if Barton wasn’t impressed? There were plenty of guys at the convention who would cream in their pants to be in my shoes and Tawny’s bed.
The next day I went to meetings, in search of those guys, and let Tawny take my American Express card to buy herself a few things at Bloomingdale’s or Bergdorf’s. It’s funny, but for a girl who had never been East, she sure knew what sights she wanted to see and where they were located. I figured, what the fuck, let her knock herself out. How much damage could a little chippee like her do in a morning? Well I found out. She returned to the hotel by noon—and that meant a scant two hours of shopping time, and she was holding as many bags as she could carry and I was twelve grand in the red.
Twelve grand? Twelve grand? You can buy a car for twelve grand. In some countries you can buy a broad for that sum. Hey, in the Middle East, where they recognize the true value of women, you could easily buy triplets. This is a beauty queen, not the hottest thing in a silk teddy, after all, and while fucking her is a pleasure, it’s more like a two-hundred dollar pleasure. For twelve grand, she should’ve had tits like Dolly Parton.
Apparently that was what Tawny was thinking, because after we got home, she met me at the door wearing only silk panties. What a good idea, I thought, until I saw the woebegone expression on her face. Had her thighs spread? Once again we played out our drama of misery and consolation. She stood in front of the mirror examining her tits with such consternation I thought maybe she had discovered a lump—something credible and honorable—and went over to check her out. She stood passively by, letting me examine her, lifting her arms at my cue. I could find nothing wrong, but after I finished, she turned to me before I could tell her she was OK.
“See, Louie, see what I mean.” Nobody ever calls me Louie, not even Tawny, so I began to wonder what was going on with her. Unfortunately she told me.
“I’ll never get a really big part with such small breasts. You know every woman at the health club has better breasts than me. Well, almost every one. That’s because they’ve had implants. You’d like me better if I had better breasts, wouldn’t you Louie?”
“Sweetheart, you’re the most beautiful beauty queen I know, and I love your tits.” Of course she was the only beauty queen I knew, and thank God. Not even a radiologist could afford more than one.
But Tawny sulked for days and finally I gave in. Since I didn’t know anyone I could pinch for her tits, I had to pay for them but at least the guy did give me a professional discount. After the surgery, she looked like a four-hundred dollar fuck, which by my estimation fell a lot short of the twelve grand she owed me. Maybe that was because she only had the guy add an inch, so Dolly Parton still put her to shame. She said she didn’t want to be vulgar. I say any dame willing to engage in tit extortion should have no fucking qualms about vulgarity. With my luck, the next thing she’d want me to pay for would be a hysterectomy. Of course I could do that myself, and I knew just what instrument I’d use—a can opener.
After that month she asked for very little, although she did finagle loans to pay off her credit cards (she wanted to be able to buy Christmas presents) and for the lease on her car (her ex sometimes refused to pay it even though it was his responsibility). By that time she’d begun to seem a bit tiresome. Barton was right. All she talked about was herself, mostly her body, she couldn’t cook, she didn’t have a cent of her own money, and she gave lousy head. What was the point? Then it occurred to me that I had never even asked what her actual title was, so I brought it up.
“Oh,” she replied proudly, “I have a lot of titles.”
“Which ones?”
“Well I was homecoming queen in junior high.”
Junior high?
“And I was Miss Third and Elm.”
Third and Elm?
“And of course, the really big one was when I was Miss Teenage San Fernando Valley for two years in a row.”
“Wow,” I said, but the nuance of my remark, while sounding appropriate, was lost on her. I had spent all these bucks on a Miss Third and Elm. What the fuck would a used Miss America cost? At that point I decided to break up with her, but there didn’t seem to be any hurry. I might as well keep her around until just before Christmas, so I could get as much of my money’s worth as possible. Hey—what would you do—you wouldn’t throw away a jar of expensive caviar—even if it was only the domestic—until it was good and moldy.
Eventually the time drew near, but before I could plan my exit to make the greatest impact and teach the bitch a lesson, she started in on me again. This time she met me at the door wrapped only in a towel, which she discarded once we were in the bedroom. She flung the closet door open wide. “Look in here, Louie, honey.”
Louie and honey together. I was in trouble. Maybe she wanted a combination tummy tuck and ass lift. I didn’t let on a thing, just kept grinning in my mind.
“This place is just too small. My clothes are getting wrecked in this tiny closet. And you know what? There’s no Jacuzzi here. I don’t know how I ever rented this place. Yes I do. I was too poor to get the condo I really wanted and my ex was a real bastard to me.”
“Really?” I nodded sympathetically. A condo—the bitch wanted a condo. Innocently I went on. “Why not just get a house?”
She really began to cream over that idea. And so I had an inspiration. I put her hand on my fly, and she caught on real quick, despite all the nasty things I’d thought about her brain. Apparently her gray matter was pumping extra hard that night and so was mine. She kneeled in front of me and did
her best to do all the tricks listed in the book I had given her, How to Make Love to a Man. Apparently that was the only purchase I’d made that was worth the price. Well, I took my time and she was a good sport once again, I’ll give her that.
Eventually we finished and I knocked another two hundred bucks off her imaginary tab. Then I stood up and fixed my fly. Tawny sat on the bed expecting to resume our discussion about her living arrangements.
“Sweetheart,” I said calmly, “I want to tell you a joke I heard my father tell when I was a kid.”
She smiled encouragingly as I began, “There was this husband and wife, and she wanted some new clothes. So one night when he got home from work, she met him at the door wearing her oldest, ugliest outfit. She said, ‘Honey, I really need something to wear.’ And he took pity on her and tossed her ten bucks. Remember this was forty years ago, and with ten bucks you could get a nice new dress. The wife smiled, said thanks, and went shopping. The next week she wanted another new dress, so this time she put on her oldest, ugliest dress, and tore some holes in it. Her husband took one look at her and peeled a twenty off his wad and sent her shopping. She smiled and said thanks. The next week she decided she’d get two dresses, so she met him at the door stark naked. He looked her over, reached into his pocket, pulled out a quarter and tossed it to her, saying, “Here, go get yourself a shave.’”
Tawny laughed as though it was a very fine joke indeed. Until I reached into my pocket, pulled out a five dollar bill and tossed it at her, saying, “Go get yourself a shave. There’s been some inflation.” And I turned and walked out the door.
The only problem was that it didn’t feel as good as it was supposed to. I felt used and screwed. What’s wrong with the world. What do I want anyway?
The Sportin' Life Page 11
