Chance

I’m forgoing commentary on the news today. Instead I’ll post an excerpt from a new short story, Chance. I’m not sure I should call it erotica, as that term has always seemed to me to apply to a literary type piece. When I first began, I expected it to be a couple of pages. It’s more than six and will probably expand to seven by the final draft. Since this is a family blog, I’ll stop short of the actual coupling. There will be racy dialogue. I’m not sure what I’ll do with it other than add it to the file in which I’ve stored other pieces — in case there is some day enough for another book. It will double the page count. The action takes place further down from the site of the following pic:

He was relieved the line at the ATM was short, only a blonde in white shorts and sandals, sunglasses in hand. She turned as he neared, perhaps leery of theft. Her eyes registered a mix of recognition and bewilderment. He too thought she looked familiar. Was she a minor actress? A movie buff, he was miffed at being unable to attach a name to the lovely face. She looked great for her age, which he assumed was at least 60. He thought about saying: Do I know you? He was sure it would sound like a pick up line, insincere.
She turned and said: “Do I know you?”
Relief flushed through him. “I was thinking the same thing.”
She smiled beautifully. Her teeth were strong if a bit yellow. His acute sense of smell detected that she was a smoker. She didn’t have blue eyes.
“You’re up,” he said, nodding.
“Oh,” she chuckled, reaching into her chic bag for reading glasses.
He smiled as, transaction complete, she pivoted and looked at him. He did his usual “Fast $100” and quickly counted the bills. To his surprise, she was waiting, sunglasses in place, making her look much younger and even more fetching. He was tongue-tied, unable to fathom what she wanted.
“How ‘bout coffee?” she said.
He shrugged. “Sure.” Was she a scam artist?
“I’m Louise.”
“Mike. You live around here?”
“Two blocks away.”
“That must be it. I’ve probably seen you walking a long 86th Street. You’re easy to pick out.”
She smiled and lowered her gaze as if she were harboring an inside joke. She linked arms with him.
Pinch me, he thought, wondering if he were dreaming. Nothing like this had ever happened to him. He loved that they were the same height, five-nine. Suddenly he stopped. “BBC,” he said, “the sex acronym, not the TV network.”
“Bingo.” She looked into his brown eyes. “Does that turn you on or off?”
“Lean toward off.”
“Then why’d you watch?”
“I’m fascinated by the ease with which you people do what you do.”
They resumed walking, crossing 23rd Avenue and threading their way through the throng navigating past and toward the fruit and vegetable stands. A train passed on the el above them.
“Do you look at a lot of porn?”
“Couple of times a week. I don’t want it to become an obsession. I am a curious Sicilian.”
Now she stopped in her tracks. “That’s you? What a great tag. Why didn’t you answer any of my texts? I sent you so many.”
He was stunned. “Really? I couldn’t respond because I’m not a full member.”
She deflated. “Are you a cheapskate?”
“I prefer frugal, and I’m very careful about credit card use.”
“That’s understandable. I’ve been victimized. What a pain in the ass to get it straightened out.”
He stood silent, perplexed. “Why would a woman like you troll such a site? You could have any guy you want, not to mention the risk of hooking up with a creep or psycho.”
“It’s fun. You must share the same sense of adventure, since you’re a member too. Well, if not for that, we wouldn’t be here this minute.”
He nodded acknowledgment. “Not even porn is enough?”

“I don’t do that many shoots. I’m not in demand like the young girls. Listen. Life’s short. Let’s cut to the chase — wanna fuck?”
He felt as if he were in an old porn flick, before the internet made them passé with its cut right to the chase videos. “I’d love to, but at this stage of my life I’m not sure what you’d get. It might kill me to disappoint you. I’m seventy-one.”
Even behind the big sunglasses he could see her eyes spread in surprise.
“You are not!”
“Wanna see my driver’s license?”
“You look fifty-five at most. I thought you were younger than me.”
“I spend a little time at the gym, always have.”
“Obviously.” She pinched his butt. “What about Viagra?”
“Great for the ego, but it doesn’t do anything for sensitivity. I take organic cacao powder, sprinkle it on my cereal in the morning.”
“Does it work?”
“Yes, but it hasn’t been fully tested. I’ve been on the sidelines a long time.” He lowered his voice. “I don’t think I can deliver the pounding a woman like you needs, but my fingers and toes are all intact and I have a nimble tongue.”
She laughed. Here they were on a busy stretch of Brooklyn, talking sex while people brushed past them. Fortunately, many did not speak English.
“I’ll take the risk,” she said, dragging him along. “I love guys who can talk for real, no bullshit. Are you married?”

The floating book shop continues its great run. Since the forecast called for rain, I put out only 20% of the wares. The skies have yet to open up as I sit here typing. My thanks to the gentleman on the scooter, who stopped and bought five DVDs, and to Lou, who took home two more; and to the young man who overcompensated me for thrillers by Kathy Reichs and Walter Moseley; and to the gentleman who chose Russian poetry; and to the woman who selected a beautifully illustrated kids book.

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