BEAN CITY


Look, I'm a product of my time, okay? I got my education behind 
a math primer in study hall - Forum, Hustler, like that. So, 
y'know, if you show me a woman called Cheryl with co-ed looks 
and pedal-pushers, I'm just programmed to react, yeah? Or, if I come 
across a raven-haired beauty (I'm practically quoting here) who goes 
by 'Sadie' and is wearing, I dunno, five-inch heels and her hair in a 
bun...well, all that stapled sexuality's just gonna kick in, right?

My personal thing is stockings and garter belts - I'm thirty-five 
friggin' years old and I'm still looking for crooked seams. I mean, 
arrested development or what? Then again, I figure this is cool. I 
mean, everyone's got to get their hang-ups somewhere and I guess I'm 
just lucky I got dealt the standard cards. At the very least, it 
makes MTV bearable.

So. I'm in the Plough and Stars on MassAve. I've wandered in after 
three hours at Ken's watching the Sox. (They were playing like a bunch
of co-eds in pedal-pushers, if you're interested.) I get a beer. I'm 
looking for someone to grouse with - I mean, but for a freak April 
snow shower and the lousy transmission on a Greyhound Bus in August
1958, I'da been born a Mets man, and life would've been a deal more 
fulfilling. 

Anyways, there's a whole lot of people hanging out in the Plough - 
Harvard spectacles, some regular neighbourhood types, many Irish - one 
or two of them even know where Ireland is. And - yeah, you're ahead 
of me - this woman.

I swear, you couldn't make her up. She's nearly six feet in her patent
boots. She's got a mane of hair as black as scandal, and skin so clear 
and white you could show a movie on it. She's wearing, what d'you call 
them, those pants for horse-riding, and a man's tweed jacket over a 
ruffled cream shirt. Probably. I mean, I'm trying to give you the picture 
here, and I'm coming over like a Jackie Collins buy-it-and-bang-it novel, 
but, no word of a lie, in retrospect it's tough to picture her with 
her clothes on.

Well, I'd love to tell you that I went over and bought her a drink - but
it didn't happen that way. In fact, a whole bunch of us got talking
round the bar, and she kinda joined in. You know how it goes. It got so
my contributions were covertly aimed at getting a raise outta her - and 
hers were more directed at me than the rest of the group. I went to the 
john - and took the stool next her when I came back. She ordered me a beer. 
I ordered her a beer. Next thing you know, we might as well have been
on our own for all the attention we were paying to the debate raging
over the talent or lack of it of Mr Strawberry. (Tell the truth, 
there were moments there where I nearly blew the whole thing, by cutting
back to the general chit-chat. I have strongly-held views on Strawberry.)

Okay, okay - I know what you're saying. 'Cut to the chase, Jack! When 
does she get her tits out?' Bear with me here.

She's got this real class accent, so I say, "You're British, right?"

"English," she comes back, kinda sharp, but smiling.

Well - I think, What diff? But I don't want to get on her wrong side, so
I nod. "Right, English. I really like that accent. I mean, I really like
that."

"I know you do," she says, still with that smile. "I know what boys like."

Damnedest reply - am I right? 

I grin. "Sorry - I don't get it. What you saying?"

"Just that I know what you boys like - probably better than you do
yourselves. Would you mind going to the cigarette machine for me?"

Like she hasn't got legs or something! Which she has - real slim long 
ones, crossed at the knee, with one booted ankle curled around the hoop 
of the barstool. Still, these Brits - they're kind of old-fashioned;
maybe she figures that I'm a gentleman and I'll go and get her smokes.
I get the smokes, but the jury's still out on whether I'm a gentleman.

Turns out her name's Clara Bond. Yeah, yeah - if I'da been a little less
drunk I'da seen it coming. She's an oil trader and she's in town for some 
convention. She has friend in Cambridge - "a very dear old chum" - and
she called in on the QT, but no dice. So she just picked the first
bar she saw and came in off the street. She's staying at the Metropole 
across the river. She taps my beerglass with a long red nail. Would I
like to come back for something stronger?

Maybe I'm a little over-eager. "Is the Pope a Catholic?" I josh.

"I very much doubt it," she shrugs, oozing off the barstool. "Come on."

The car is low and curved and blue - no more than a bruise on the asphalt.
"Whoo," I whistle. "Some wheels."

"You drive," she says, tossing me the keys.

"Hey, I dunno. I'm way off designated."

"I said, you drive," she comes back - with that snap again. So what
am I gonna do? It's her premium.

I push it hard up toward the bridge - it rolls across the river like
a storm front, all growl and purpose.

"Feel the power of this baby," I say, as we turn up toward Nob's Hill.

"You haven't even opened it up yet," Clara murmurs, looking straight
ahead. "That's when you feel the real power." She lifts one foot and 
puts it on the dash, right by the steering wheel. I've only ever seen 
guys do that. She rocks her toe back and forth a coupla times. "These 
shoes need cleaning," she says.

I practically have to trot to keep up with her as she strides through 
lobby of the hotel. We get up to her room. Me, I haven't stayed in many 
hotels, but I reckon a classy room is one where you can't see the bed
when you walk through the door. In this one, you couldn't even see the  
room - there was this kinda inner lobby bigger than my whole apartment. 
We go on through.

"What would you like?" she asks, opening a drinks cabinet. No dollar-slot,
I notice.

"Well, I dunno..."

"Of course you don't. But I do."

I sit down on this low chair. She takes off her jacket and throws it on 
the ottoman. Stands there against the window with her hands on her hips, 
the whole of Boston twinkling between her thighs.

"Take your clothes off," she says. She's still wearing that superior
fucking smile. Seems to me it's time I gave her something to smile about.
I strip and stand there with this no-shit face on. I also have on an 
erection that surprises even me, what with six pints of Miller and 
two Guinnesses I drank on the barman's tab.

"Going good-to-firm," she says, running her eyes up and down. "But I
don't recall saying you could get stiff. I don't believe I gave that 
permission. That's very naughty of you, lad."

"Yeah, that's me all over," I tell her. "How 'bout me all over you?"

She unfastens a couple of buttons on the blouse. "Oh, aren't we forward?
We don't like our boys to be forward. I suspect a spanking might be in 
order."  

Now, listen, I've read about this stuff - I mentioned my literary interests,
right? And I figure I have that All-American live-your-dream attitude that
made this country great. But - excuse me - no fucking way. 

I make this clear to Clara, using more or less those words. She seems  
unphased. "Oh, now - I thought you were going to be an imaginative and 
adventurous chap," she frowns (but still smiling). She pulls the blouse 
out of the waistband of the horse-riding pants, shrugs it off her shoulders 
and tosses it at me. I catch it without looking - my eyes are glued to 
her tits. 

To me, it's amazing that there could be one such perfect breast in the 
world, let alone two. Up to that point, I'd assumed she was wearing a 
brassiere. We're talking firm; we're talking round; we're talking arrogant 
uplift; most of all, we're talking no more than eight feet away from my 
sticky fingers.

She runs her thumbs up around her nipples. "What are you prepared
to do, Jack, to get your hands on these, hm? Surely they're worth
a little pain?"

No, sorry, it's just not me. "Listen, lady..." I begin.

"You may call me 'Mistress'," she interrupts.

"...Listen, lady, I'm just your regular Irish bar pick-up. A jar of
mayo and something that goes 'buzz' is about as weird as I get. So how
about some..."

She's peeled the pants down. They're rumpled over her boots. I'm trying
to look unimpressed but I've got six-and-seven-eighths of gristle calling
me a liar. She leans back against the cold window, and spreads her knees.

"What's it worth, Jack?"

Well, I met a guy once who was wondering how to invest a spare half-a-
million dollars. He could have done worse than invest it between 
Clara's legs. Thick black hair threw the pink into sharp contrast. 
The lips unfolded as her fingers pushed the button - they rolled apart 
like the doors to a departure lounge. She ran a finger along the crease, 
never taking her eyes off me. Her voice was down to a whisper.

"Look at my cunt, Jack. Look at my wet, tight, wanting cunt. And you
have to do so little to get it. You have to suffer so little. You're
already suffering, Jack, aren't you?"

You could have held Olympic diving trials off the end of my dick by 
this point. But when I thought about lying down and having my butt
beaten - well, you've got to follow your gut instinct, however hard your
cock hollers. 

On the other hand, said my throbbing shaft, don't knock it till you've
tried it.

"How about I paddle you?" I asked, always the man with the compromise.

She didn't even acknowledge the suggestion. She just turned and put her
hands flat against the window, bending over and looking back at me across
that marble English shoulder. Her butt was pushed out as she crab-walked 
her feet apart. "Do you like my arse, Jack?" ('Arse'! Not 'ass', but 
'arse'! Oh, that nearly sold me, right there.) "Can you see my lovely 
little hole?" 

Yeah, I could see it. Above the flowering lips, as they blossomed 
amongst those jet black curls - a little bud of pink.   

"You can take me up the back way. You can slide your throbbing cock
right into my willing arse, Jack. I'll let you do it. But..."

"But me no butts," I said, which I thought was pretty funny. She didn't
laugh - I guess I'm no Bob Hope.

"All you have to do, is lie down on the bed, and I'll spank you. Not
too hard. Just a few with my hand and a few with the belt. That's
not so bad, is it?"

She could see she was getting through. I had my hand on my dick, and I 
was stroking slow. Her eyes were twinkling. "Yes, that's it, Jack. You 
think about it."

"And then..?" I asked, my voice cracking.

She ran the side of her hand up between her cheeks. "Then I sit on
your face for a few minutes, and suffocate you with my dripping cunt.
It'd be a pleasure, wouldn't it, Jack?" She turned and kicked off her
boots and pants. Sat down opposite me, resting a knee over one arm of the 
chair, so that her pussy was wide open, glistening, alive. 

"Well," I croaked. "I dunno..." My dick was all for it though. It 
was leaping about in my hand like a puppy at the park.

"You see, Jack - I need to be cruel to get my juices flowing properly.
I have to punish you for being a dirty boy, and lusting after my creamy 
little twat. We all have our little kinks, don't we?" 

"Uh, I guess," I admitted. "But when you've done with the dominance
bit..."

"Oh, then you can have whatever you want, Jack. I'll suck your cock. 
You can fuck my tits, my arse, my cunt. You can have me over the
coffee table, or in the shower. You can screw me from behind right 
out there on the balcony, if you want..."

That did it. She realised, of course - but she was too late. WHOOSH! 
I came like a Comanche raiding party. Cum splattered all over my chest, 
pump after pump of it. It was definitely one of my best. In twenty years
of beating it, I don't believe I've had such a satisfying jerk-off.

She was screaming fit to bust, calling me every color of selfish 
sonofabitch - but you can't argue with a wet stomach. I picked up her 
blouse from the floor  beside me, and mopped up the pool of jism that 
was collecting in the hollow of my breastbone, grinning the while.

"Like you say," I shouted after her, as she stormed off to the bathroom 
and  slammed the door, "we all have our little kinks..."