Ronald Rabbit Is a Dirty Old Man - Lawrence Block [32]
Okay. Now you’re set for your lesson, even as Rozanne was set for hers. No more delaying tactics. We’ll get right to the point.
After I wrote her the letter about Naughty Nasty Nancy, I figured one of two things would happen. Either I would hear from her almost immediately or I would never hear from her again. I figured either of the two developments would constitute a consummation devoutly to be wished.
A day or two after I mailed the letter, my phone rang. I picked it up, and the conversation went something like this:
“Hello?”
“Hello.”
“Aha!”
“I got your letter.”
“I hoped you would.”
“How can you write letters like that? I mean, how can you do it?”
“It’s a talent, I guess.”
“It was here waiting for me when I came home from the office. I must’ve read it three times, maybe more.”
“Did you masturbate?”
“Can’t you talk nice to me?”
“I could, but you get more of a kick out of it when I talk nasty.”
“How do you know so much about me?”
“Intuition, I suppose.”
“I never met a man like you.”
“Neither did I.”
“Can I—”
“Yes?”
“I can’t say it.”
“You want help?”
“Yes.”
“You want to come over here, don’t you?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Come right over.”
“Shall I, uh—”
“Yes?”
“Well, couldn’t you at least meet me somewhere, or something?”
“I’m not sure I would recognize you. Come up to my apartment, Rozanne. It’ll save time.”
“I guess so.”
“I’ll expect you in a half hour.”
“All right, if I can get a cab.”
“A half hour. Don’t be late.”
“Yes, yes.”
She was early. I took a shower first, dried off, and fished around in the closet until I found a robe. It was practically new. I don’t think I had ever worn it. Lisa gave it to me for my birthday once, or maybe it was Fran. (That gave it to me, I mean. Not that Lisa gave it to Fran. An ambiguous construction that I wanted to clear up.) I wonder if any man ever bought a bathrobe for himself. Or if any man ever wore the bathrobe his wife bought him.
I put the robe on with nothing under it and waited for her to turn up. She turned up, knocking timidly at the door. I opened it, and there she was.
“Hello,” she said.
“Why, hello.” I said. She was wearing a knit dress. It was red, and so tight that it looked like a blush. “You look good enough to eat,” I said, and her face turned the same shade as the dress. “Come in,” I said, and she came in, and I closed the door and locked it. She winced as I turned the lock, as if it meant she couldn’t change her mind now. Which was precisely what I had been thinking.
“Now what?” she said. “Do I just lift up my skirt and you’ll do it or what?”
“Is that what you think you want?”
“Well, I don’t know. I’m new at this.”
“You silly,” I said, and kissed her.
She really didn’t want to respond to the kiss, Steve. She wanted to get eaten and have an orgasm, but she was so tense she couldn’t have had a Coke, let alone an orgasm. So I took a lot of time kissing her, and then I put some music on the radio, good old WPAT, nice mood music that you could fuck to without listening to.
(What do you do for music to fuck by in Cuernavaca?)
And we gradually worked our way to the bed, and I gradually got her out of her dress and paid the proper sort of homage to various parts of her anatomy. She kept saying that she knew she could really trust me, and I kept earning that trust by taking my time with her, being very gentle, very gentle, ever so gentle.
The poor kid had never really relaxed with sex before. She always dated these louts who would kiss her hard enough to bruise her lips, then grab her tits to test their grip, then make a beeline for her twat. She never had a chance to enjoy necking because she was too hung up with fears of what it would lead to.
Now she had her chance, and she was making the most of it. As I ran my tongue along the undersides of those incredible breasts and listened to her purr and throb, as I stroked the satin skin on the insides of her taut thighs, I thought how incredible it was that this girl had managed to maintain her hymen to the ripe old age of twenty-six.
“You can trust me,” I said from time to time.