Boozanne stared at my legs. “You need a hoist onto that stool, pal?”
I ignored her and used the step under the bar to give me the extra lift. Boozanne lit a cigarette. Her cheeks sucked in and her lashes kinda flickered in pleasure as she drew the smoke. When her chin tipped back on the exhale, I remembered how Ma used to aim her smoke at the ceiling by protruding her bottom lip like a funnel. Boozanne’s white neck and the pattern of freckles spilling down resembled one of the girls’ chests in Bob’s porno video. The smoke hung in the air and the flamenco ripped to a finale as she focused on me.
“You’re pretty cute for a shortie. Been working out?”
“Some,” I said. It came to me that she might want to get naked, despite my body being two-thirds her size. I wasn’t against it.
“You know how long a man’s legs are supposed to be, don’t you?”
I shook my head, getting ready for a joke about my height, figuring it was worth the ridicule to get laid.
“Long enough to reach the ground,” she said. “Abraham Lincoln.”
“Abraham Lincoln said that?” I scratched my head. “He had real long legs, didn’t he?”
“Yeah, but that’s not the point. Yours are long enough.”
I smiled. “It all evens out horizontal, don’t it?”
She laughed, and after that my memories are spotty. Sometime, Boozanne and me staggered across the street, holding hands and bumping together. We stumbled over the sand toward the water, to my favorite wooden lounge chair, chained behind a low dune of shore grass, far enough from the street to be dark. My mind wasn’t working too good, but I recall taking off my pants, falling over once into the sand.
Next thing, there was Boozanne, buck-naked and white as whip cream, like an art model with all the rich layers of her unfolding, as she laid down on the lounge and opened her arms to me. I stopped trying to brush off and leaned over her and straddled one of her thighs. We did some tonguing, I think, but mostly I remember the feel of her, meaty and cool, as I pawed over her big tits and nuzzled her neck. When I scooted on down, that baby powder drowned out the fishy smell of the beach. I suckled her nipples and crawled onto her lap. She weren’t my first woman, but there hadn’t been many, and none of this size. I poked into her soft gut and jelly thighs a few times, and then I located that sweet spot you don’t never forget.
Over the next week things heated up even more, and I needed extra money to show her a good time. Besides sorting most of the quarters out of the change jar, I made some easy pickings from a tree service trailer, and took a chain saw to the South Dixie Pawn Shop. Boozanne — surprise, surprise — could put away the liquor. I convinced her to go to my usual local bar, where it was homey. Quantity was more important to her than scenery, so she didn’t complain much.
Besides liking the sex, she was a woman who could tell a joke. I enjoyed her stories about idiots at the office, and the quick way she saw through her boss with his snooty manners. She had some schemes for easy money, and she promised to let me in. I’d started talking to Bones about her, and when I pictured her pretty face I felt something way stronger than the tightness in my balls.
One night when we were sitting on the lounge chair smoking some weed, I dropped the roach into my shirt pocket and the damn fabric flared right up. Boozanne was fast with her hand to pat it out. “Your heart’s on fire for me,” she said. She was laughing, but I couldn’t deny it. I took that as a sign.
Course, the subject came up of going to my place instead of the sticky, sandy lounge chair, and I couldn’t fend her off for long. She had an efficiency and a roommate, so it was up to me to make arrangements if I wanted to “continue enjoying her womanhood.” Now, I was really working her pussy hard, and I had a suspicion that she liked the fucking as much as me, but I knew there were plenty more men where I come from — taller ones, with better income — whereas she was the only woman ever come on to me that didn’t ask for money up front. The chair hurt her back, and she wouldn’t get on top cause she was embarrassed about how she outweighed me. She kept harping on it until I let loose of the truth.
I thought it would be the end of us, but it turned out my living conditions were a real amusement. I’d lied that I was on disability, but now I gave out all my secrets, including my nickname Mouse — which she promised never to use — and my recent incarceration.
Before I had time to think, she’d took the day off work, and I was sneaking her in between the air conditioner and Bob’s moldy garden hose. I had to bend some bushes to get her through, and they took some damage, but the Lamberts hardly went into the yard, far as I could tell.
I had a long sheet of plastic stretching to the edge under the house, so I could crawl on my stomach without getting dirty, and Boozanne surprised me with the ease she wormed on through. She weren’t afraid of the spiders or nothing. I went first and moved the bed aside, and she stood and took my hand, and stepped up into the room like a lady. It was a big hole, but she pretty much filled it. I’d told her I could go inside and unlock the back door for her, but she said the porch was too visible, and that was true. She went wandering around the house, while I slid the wood to cover the hole, enough so Bones couldn’t get out, and scooted the bed back in place so the room looked nice.
Boozanne came floating my way in the living room, with a cigarette, sipping from one of Melodie’s good glasses filled with a clear gold liquid. I hoped it wasn’t the scotch Bob was saving from his birthday. She’d stripped off her clothes and put on a see-through robe that left a gap in front, with pink nipples and red muff peeking out.
I grabbed her cigarette and flung it into the sink, even though the Lamberts wouldn’t be home for hours.
She clucked her tongue at me. “Such a worrier.” She held up her glass. “They’ve got all kinds of booze in the cabinet, Junior. I’m surprised you haven’t polished it off.”
“Now I shoulda told you — you got to be careful not to start suspicions. I hope that’s the Cutty’s.”
She tossed her curls. “Why drink Cutty’s when there’s Glenlivet?”
“Okay, just take it easy. We’ll add a little water. Don’t open new bottles and don’t drink more than a couple shots of any one thing.”
“No problem. There’s lots to try. I haven’t had this much fun since I was twelve and broke into the neighbors’.”
“Oh yeah? What’d you do?”
“Not much. Three of us girls — we just put a little hole in the screen door and got excited sneaking around, looking in the bedrooms. Adrenaline rush.”
“There is something to that,” I said.
“I don’t know why we didn’t check for money or take anything.”
“Maybe you didn’t need anything.”
“Oh, Junior, you always need money,” she said. She cuffed me on the chest.
“I don’t. Not always.”
“That’s why you’re special — besides this.”
She bent down and undid my belt and zipper, dropping my pants, and pulled me against her big powdered tits for a long sloppy kiss. I was useless, barely able to waddle to the bed and kick my pants off my knees so I could climb on top of her. I got her breathing hard, grunting and cooing, and we were both sweating rivers. I thought for a second about messing the sheets, but I had plenty of time to run laundry.
After that, Boozanne got the fancy platter out of the china cabinet, and the cloth napkins, and we ate a snack — olives and crackers and imported cheeses, a small chunk of goat cheese, Parmesan, some Stilton. I wouldn’t’ve touched the moldy stuff on my own, but the Lamberts had introduced me to lots of new food, and most of it was pretty damn tasty. Boozanne was still hungry so I made her a peanut butter and jelly, which was always safe, but she didn’t much like it.