boyfriends were staring. But Hutchens didn’t have to hear any of that tonight. He didn’t have to look into angry eyes, the anger only a thin coating over the jealousy—that wounded jealousy that was somehow worse than the anger. No, none of that tonight. Tonight he was alone.
He lit a cigarette and stared at the woman. She sat sideways on the barstool, her legs crossed beneath an above-the-knee jade dress. Nothing fancy. It didn’t have to be. She held her drink in her left hand and watched the band intently. He found himself admiring every touch—her jet black hair pulled back and swept off her neck, her red lips, her black choker and black fingernails and the pale white skin coming out of the dress like smoke. For once, he was glad this was one of the most well-lighted clubs in town.
The band finally finished its number and the woman put her glass down to clap quietly. As she clapped, her lips drew back into what she may have thought was a smile. But there was something about the smile, something insincere and mocking, something that demonstrated how an object of true beauty can never really appreciate what is beneath it. That’s when Hutchens realized he had to approach her.
These cruel women with whiplike smiles were exactly the type of women he went for. Actually, they were the only ones he could approach. There was apparently something weak and motherless about him, for these women said yes much more than he would ever have thought likely, undoubtedly realizing their sadistic control would be appreciated. And when they said no, well, it was to be expected and he didn’t feel any less about himself.
Hutchens teetered toward the woman and sat rather gracelessly on the empty stool beside her. It was enough to put him in the range of her scent, which was also flawless. It was somehow very dark and clean and exotic, if that were possible.
When he turned to look at her, he noticed that she was already looking at him and he almost lost his nerve.
He wasn’t a line kind of guy and all women, even cruel women with whiplike smiles, made him nervous. He said the first thing that popped into his head:
“I’m a chronic masturbator.”
She didn’t laugh, only smiled that enticing half-smile.
She looked at him for a long time, the way a man looks at a woman when he thinks she doesn’t see him, before speaking. “I’m not much of a conversationalist either. I think we both know why you came over. Would you like to see where I live? Maybe we can do something about your problem.”
Before he could answer, she noiselessly slid off the stool and headed for the front door. He followed, bathing in the scent unfurling behind her.
He followed her out into the welcome cool of the parking lot.
“Would you like to follow me?” she said.
“Sure,” he said and went to get in his own car.
As he slid into his car he saw her pull around in a small black Mercedes. All that and money, too, he thought.
Staying as close behind her as possible, he followed her out into the countryside. She managed to go ten to twenty miles over the speed limit the entire time. Within the confines of his small Chevrolet, its lawnmower engine wheezing and groaning, he felt like she had to be having a lot easier time than he was. They sped around twists and turns, up and down small hills, out into the low, flat country where the huge plantation houses were scattered sparsely, set back off the road. With one of these illuminated, monolithic structures looming in the distance, the woman slowed down and turned onto a blacktopped driveway.
I should just drive on , he thought. I have to be in way over my head . Suddenly, he felt like a mouse in the hands of a sadistic cat.
A large, luminescent fountain bubbled in front of the house, the moonlight sparkling over the black water. The woman pulled her car around the arch in the driveway and he pulled in after her.
The woman got out of her car and, without acknowledging him in the least, went
He lit a cigarette and stared at the woman. She sat sideways on the barstool, her legs crossed beneath an above-the-knee jade dress. Nothing fancy. It didn’t have to be. She held her drink in her left hand and watched the band intently. He found himself admiring every touch—her jet black hair pulled back and swept off her neck, her red lips, her black choker and black fingernails and the pale white skin coming out of the dress like smoke. For once, he was glad this was one of the most well-lighted clubs in town.
The band finally finished its number and the woman put her glass down to clap quietly. As she clapped, her lips drew back into what she may have thought was a smile. But there was something about the smile, something insincere and mocking, something that demonstrated how an object of true beauty can never really appreciate what is beneath it. That’s when Hutchens realized he had to approach her.
These cruel women with whiplike smiles were exactly the type of women he went for. Actually, they were the only ones he could approach. There was apparently something weak and motherless about him, for these women said yes much more than he would ever have thought likely, undoubtedly realizing their sadistic control would be appreciated. And when they said no, well, it was to be expected and he didn’t feel any less about himself.
Hutchens teetered toward the woman and sat rather gracelessly on the empty stool beside her. It was enough to put him in the range of her scent, which was also flawless. It was somehow very dark and clean and exotic, if that were possible.
When he turned to look at her, he noticed that she was already looking at him and he almost lost his nerve.
He wasn’t a line kind of guy and all women, even cruel women with whiplike smiles, made him nervous. He said the first thing that popped into his head:
“I’m a chronic masturbator.”
She didn’t laugh, only smiled that enticing half-smile.
She looked at him for a long time, the way a man looks at a woman when he thinks she doesn’t see him, before speaking. “I’m not much of a conversationalist either. I think we both know why you came over. Would you like to see where I live? Maybe we can do something about your problem.”
Before he could answer, she noiselessly slid off the stool and headed for the front door. He followed, bathing in the scent unfurling behind her.
He followed her out into the welcome cool of the parking lot.
“Would you like to follow me?” she said.
“Sure,” he said and went to get in his own car.
As he slid into his car he saw her pull around in a small black Mercedes. All that and money, too, he thought.
Staying as close behind her as possible, he followed her out into the countryside. She managed to go ten to twenty miles over the speed limit the entire time. Within the confines of his small Chevrolet, its lawnmower engine wheezing and groaning, he felt like she had to be having a lot easier time than he was. They sped around twists and turns, up and down small hills, out into the low, flat country where the huge plantation houses were scattered sparsely, set back off the road. With one of these illuminated, monolithic structures looming in the distance, the woman slowed down and turned onto a blacktopped driveway.
I should just drive on , he thought. I have to be in way over my head . Suddenly, he felt like a mouse in the hands of a sadistic cat.
A large, luminescent fountain bubbled in front of the house, the moonlight sparkling over the black water. The woman pulled her car around the arch in the driveway and he pulled in after her.
The woman got out of her car and, without acknowledging him in the least, went
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