Boomer felt that they were squeezed into a narrow crevasse that any moment now would expel them with a rush into a fabulous undiscovered chamber, resplendent with polychrome columns and calcite organ pipes—but, alack, Ellen Cherry chose at that instant to utter a word that jarred him as rudely as a collision with a dripstone.
“Jezebel,” she whispered.
“Uh?”
“Please, darlin’, call me Jezebel.”
Oh, no , he thought. Not this. She’s turning kinky on me . He said nothing, but increased the power of his thrust.
“Come on, honey.”
“Huh-uh.” He wished she’d be quiet. That wedding ring trick was cute, but this . . .
“Come on, now. Call me your Jezebel.”
“Aw, gee, Ellen Cherry.” He pumped with even greater velocity, but she persisted in her demand, and he could tell that if they continued to argue he would lose his erection. Already, it was bowing in the middle like a maître d’s tie. “Jezebel,” he grunted.
“I can’t hear you.”
“Jezebel.” There was a detectable shortage of enthusiasm.
She sunk her fingernails into his buttocks, her teeth into his shoulder. “Say it, Boomer.”
Against his better judgment—was this the way women behaved once they married?—he called it out, loud and clear. “Jezebel!” It echoed: “Jezebel! Jezebel!” The name rattled in the little cave like a die in a cup.
Digging her nails in deeper, Ellen Cherry bucked against him. A moan wobbled out of her throat like an overweight dove.
“Jezebel!” he yelled. “You cheap slutting cunt-whoring Jez-a-fucking-bel!”
With that, he lost consciousness. As for her, her orgasm had been lent the necessary dynamic gradient that in classical theater promises its audience catastrophe, immortality, or both.
Of course, there was no audience there in that funky, obscure little burrow in the disappearing American wilderness.
Or was there?
They lay in silence, barely touching, their postcoital reverie edged with mild embarrassment. Each was waiting for the other to speak, each secretly hoping that when the other did speak, his or her remarks would be cheerful and loving, with no trace of the shame that muzzled the other—and with absolutely no reference to a certain maligned queen from the ninth century B.C. They might have lain like that until the sun went down but for the fact that three or four minutes after their sex cries subsided—it seemed considerably longer—there was a stirring at the rear of the cave.
Ellen Cherry froze. Boomer bolted to a sitting position and made a frantic search for his club.
There it was again, a dry rustle followed by the sort of noise Boomer’s work shoe made when he was tired and given to dragging his bad foot. Ellen Cherry’s eyes widened, and not in the service of some arty game. Her protective southern husband turned in the direction of the sounds.
At most, the cave was twenty feet deep. To be sure, the light was dim, but they could see easily to the back wall. There was no place for anything, man or beast, to hide. Unless. . . . For the first time, Boomer noticed a small niche, a vaginal slit in the left corner. It was about eight feet from the floor, up near the ceiling, too high to peer into. It hardly seemed adequate to conceal an animal, although he supposed one or more snakes might have called it home.
The noises weren’t quite right for snakes, however, nor for the ghost of Injun Joe. Imagine, if you will, that a naive girl has accepted the invitation of an older gentleman to peruse his etchings. Imagine the leather-bound book being dragged from a shelf, the turning of its heavy, expensive pages. Then, imagine the young girl, in her nervousness, knocking over the quart of mescal with which the gentleman would ply her, freeing the mescal worm, which comes to life and tries to organize a revolution in a basket of nacho-flavored corn chips. Those were the kind of noises they were.
Comes to life . . . . There was an accompanying sensation, a
“Jezebel,” she whispered.
“Uh?”
“Please, darlin’, call me Jezebel.”
Oh, no , he thought. Not this. She’s turning kinky on me . He said nothing, but increased the power of his thrust.
“Come on, honey.”
“Huh-uh.” He wished she’d be quiet. That wedding ring trick was cute, but this . . .
“Come on, now. Call me your Jezebel.”
“Aw, gee, Ellen Cherry.” He pumped with even greater velocity, but she persisted in her demand, and he could tell that if they continued to argue he would lose his erection. Already, it was bowing in the middle like a maître d’s tie. “Jezebel,” he grunted.
“I can’t hear you.”
“Jezebel.” There was a detectable shortage of enthusiasm.
She sunk her fingernails into his buttocks, her teeth into his shoulder. “Say it, Boomer.”
Against his better judgment—was this the way women behaved once they married?—he called it out, loud and clear. “Jezebel!” It echoed: “Jezebel! Jezebel!” The name rattled in the little cave like a die in a cup.
Digging her nails in deeper, Ellen Cherry bucked against him. A moan wobbled out of her throat like an overweight dove.
“Jezebel!” he yelled. “You cheap slutting cunt-whoring Jez-a-fucking-bel!”
With that, he lost consciousness. As for her, her orgasm had been lent the necessary dynamic gradient that in classical theater promises its audience catastrophe, immortality, or both.
Of course, there was no audience there in that funky, obscure little burrow in the disappearing American wilderness.
Or was there?
They lay in silence, barely touching, their postcoital reverie edged with mild embarrassment. Each was waiting for the other to speak, each secretly hoping that when the other did speak, his or her remarks would be cheerful and loving, with no trace of the shame that muzzled the other—and with absolutely no reference to a certain maligned queen from the ninth century B.C. They might have lain like that until the sun went down but for the fact that three or four minutes after their sex cries subsided—it seemed considerably longer—there was a stirring at the rear of the cave.
Ellen Cherry froze. Boomer bolted to a sitting position and made a frantic search for his club.
There it was again, a dry rustle followed by the sort of noise Boomer’s work shoe made when he was tired and given to dragging his bad foot. Ellen Cherry’s eyes widened, and not in the service of some arty game. Her protective southern husband turned in the direction of the sounds.
At most, the cave was twenty feet deep. To be sure, the light was dim, but they could see easily to the back wall. There was no place for anything, man or beast, to hide. Unless. . . . For the first time, Boomer noticed a small niche, a vaginal slit in the left corner. It was about eight feet from the floor, up near the ceiling, too high to peer into. It hardly seemed adequate to conceal an animal, although he supposed one or more snakes might have called it home.
The noises weren’t quite right for snakes, however, nor for the ghost of Injun Joe. Imagine, if you will, that a naive girl has accepted the invitation of an older gentleman to peruse his etchings. Imagine the leather-bound book being dragged from a shelf, the turning of its heavy, expensive pages. Then, imagine the young girl, in her nervousness, knocking over the quart of mescal with which the gentleman would ply her, freeing the mescal worm, which comes to life and tries to organize a revolution in a basket of nacho-flavored corn chips. Those were the kind of noises they were.
Comes to life . . . . There was an accompanying sensation, a
Similar Books
