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We found the long line for the Hackney carriages, what they called the black cabs. Ugly, bulky cabs that looked like they were from the seventeenth century. I gave Lisa enough British currency to get to the theater district, then, even though we were all pretty much heading in the same direction, offered my cab to Mrs. Jones. Desire danced. She hesitated, didn’t answer, just stood in the cold, still silent. Mrs. Jones was ready to get away from Lisa. Lisa was ready to get away from us so she could get to the man of her dreams. And I wanted Mrs. Jones to myself. I told her, “I can show you my hotel room. Then you can decide.” There was a moment of indecision, a few breaths of contemplation. Mrs. Jones climbed inside my cab. She sat facing forward, legs closed. I pulled down a seat, sat across from her, facing backward, looking at her as we traveled. I put my hand on her knee. My eyes searched hers for either rejection of approval. There was no approval, but there was no rejection either. Only tears. The tears returned. “What that wedding ring set you back?” “Guess.” My fingers traced her kneecaps, moved up her thigh, back to her knees. Her eyes were on my fingers, watching me, her breathing tight, almost asthmatic. “Ten, maybe fifteen.” “Try twenty.” “I hope taxes and a big rebate were included.” “I was talking years. It set me back twenty years of my life.” My fingers moved between her thighs, back to her knees, kept feeling her heat. She looked at my hand, then slowly raised her watery eyes to mine. She said, “My husband…he doesn’t touch me.” “Is that right?” “He has been with other women. He fell in love with someone else.” “Sorry to hear…” “So I’ve…I’ve…I’ve had to turn to other men.” “Desire is a beast that must be fed.” My hand moved up her leg, stopped right above her thigh. For a moment I was in North Carolina, not far from Pope and Fort Bragg military bases, at a strip club on Bragg Boulevard. Then I was in Tampa, on Martin Luther King Boulevard, on the front row of the midnight show at Crazy horse, putting my money in the garters of naked women. This was not a dance at Déjà vu. Not a whore in Brazil. This was a real woman. “Do you think that’s wrong, my turning to other men…to be made to feel like…a woman?…I mean…every woman needs to be made to feel like…a woman…to feel special.” “When your honest with yourself, oftentimes you betray someone else.” “This is true.” “Everyone needs to be touched. We all need contact, you know?” She yielded a weak shrug. “I mean, is it really cheating when it comes to that?” I repeated, “When you’re honest with yourself, you betray someone else.” She wiped her eyes. “I broke my vows to God and the church.” “We’re all sinners, Mrs. Jones. All of us.” “I wanted to be righteous.” “Even the righteous man is just a sinner living in between sins.” “I allowed other men to touch me, men who wanted to own me because I was unattainable. Men who knew my forever love was somewhere else, for someone else, they wanted me in the ways I wanted my husband to want me.” “It’s a human thing, Mrs. Jones. To need to be touched is a human thing.” “It was just two men. Over ten years. Only two men.” “We all need to be touched.” “Three if you count…well, one experience was oral, wasn’t really sex, you know?” My hand moved up her leg, stopped short of her vagina, but I felt the heat. The heat from a woman could make a man’s instincts go cold while his vision went bad. At the wrong time, the heat from a woman made it hard for a man to see beyond the end of his dick. This was all I could see right now. This was all I wanted to see. I whispered, “And you need to be touched.” “Desperately.” She closed her eyes. Bit her bottom lip. I whispered, “You’re vulnerable right now.” “I am. So very. So very. Vulnerable.” “I’d be taking advantage of you.” “Perhaps, I’d be taking advantage of you. Using tears to get what I need.” There was a raging furnace between her legs. My finger grazed her panties. She jerked, tightened her thighs around my hand. Then she caught her breath and relaxed. I asked, “Are you?” “Am I what?” “Using your tears?” “Would it matter? The end result will be the same.” “You want me to touch you.” “At this moment, what I need supersedes what I want.” Her words remained the hymn of love gone bad. What had been sweet to the tongue now had a bitter taste. She was juggling love and hate, not knowing which one to drop. She said, “On the train. The way it creaked and moaned. Like sex. The way it moved side to side. Like lovers. Like new lovers engaged in give and take. The train moved like sex.” “I didn’t notice.” “I noticed. God, I noticed. It was…stimulating. I was imagining you. Us.” I moved to her side of the cab, put both arms around her, held her, pulled her breasts close to my chest, one hand moving across her body, her curves very nice. She sighed, trembled. She brought her hands up my back, gradually held on to me. I whispered, my lips on her ear, told her how beautiful she was. She said, “You don’t have to say that.” “You are.” Again she cried, this time her tears came with a smile. The taxi stopped. The area bustling. Signs said the British Museum wasn’t far away. We were in Bloomsbury. Parked in front of Myhotel. Redness dominated Mrs. Jones’s eyes. I doubt if mine looked any better. The skies made it seem as if it were an hour before sunrise. Mrs. Jones shifted, more nervous than before, siad, “My watch says two in the morning.” “It’s ten. Set your watch to Greenwich Mean time; get acclimated to the time change.” I paid the driver and we got out of the taxi on Bayley Street, the narrow avenue in front of Myhotel, stood on the double yellow lines that marked the no-parking zone, the equivalent of America’s red curbs. Sky gray, cold, rain starting to fall. Since she wore not coat and I didn’t have one to offer, Mrs. Jones shivered; her nipples were standing tall. I asked, “Sure you want to come up to my room?” Without hesitating she answered, “Carpe diem.” “What was that?” “Carpe Diem.” She looked out at Bayley Street, evaluated Bedford Square. “It means t he enjoyment of the pleasures of the moment without concern for the future.” “Would you like to engage in pleasure without concern for the future?” Her breath caught inside her throat. She closed her eyes and nodded once. Again in the softest voice, she whispered, “I don’t want to be alone.” We went inside a warm five-star hotel that owned a fabulous shushi bar. Mrs. Jones took a seat right inside the glass doors, remained in a small swatting area, fidgeting and facing the streets while I checked in. Her eyes and thoughts remained in the direction of all the red-and-white St. George’s Cross flags hanging from the windows of almost every flat. She saw me watching her, pushed her prim and proper lips up into a loose smile. She asked, “How much does a condo cost in this area?” “At least a million pounds.” “How many square feet?” “Doubt if those flats are much larger than this room.” “Remarkable.” “Read it was a good investment. With housing costs rising something like thirty percent, those flats will be worth a lot more in a few months.” I turned my back and checked in. That took a few minutes. She waited in silence, back straight, legs crossed, right foot barley bouncing, proper and sophisticated. Room Key in hand, I headed for the elevator. She followed, her wild hair down, eyes avoiding the hotel staff, not saying a word. On the elevator I put my hand to her face. We were alone. In a lift easing up. Easing up like I wanted to ease inside her. My warm hand on warmer flesh. Mrs. Jones let out a spiraling moan. Her tongue grazed my palm. Drove me insane. I held her close, put my hand between her legs. Felt her global warming. The woman dressed in black moaned. The woman dressed in mourning shuddered. She closed her eyes tight as the vertical carriage took us closer to a brand-new sin. I wanted to rip that dress off her, wanted to fuck her right there, fuck her between floors. Already I was caught up. Caught up and unaware of the evil that was happening over four thousand miles away At that moment, at turtle beach, a resort in Trinidad, a family was yawning and piling inside a rental van for a family outing. A young stud walked with a hip swagger, along with his beautiful wife, his three kids, His parents. His in-laws. At least ten people altogether. One big gamily vacation. They were making a forty-five minute drive from Port-Of-Spain to Maracas Bay. Yesterday he had partied at Chacacabana, the day before at Macqueripe. Today was another day for tanning and parasailing while the children enjoyed their grandparents and played in the warm waters. Maybe even a day for taking a trip to Tobago. The Man, the husband looked at the front page of the Trinidad Guardian. It showed that Reverend Coleman had died in his home. As planned. The man had thrown barbecues, spent money on exotic dancers and Cristal, been celebrating the death of his enemy like he’d won the lottery. Now it was family time His beautiful wife finished loading their beautiful children inside the van, leaned over and kissed him. She was happy too. She had been humiliated and ridiculed across the county. Now they were free The man turned the key to start the Van. The van exploded On a peaceful morning in the islands, fire and screams filled the tropical air. That man was called Capo Galen A boss of bosses His death filled with fire and brimstone. On a piece of land surrounded by water. I wouldn’t hear about that revenge until later. I wouldn’t know I was a wanted man for a few hours. Being hunted was the last thing on my mind. Right now I was a the hunter Hunting for carnal joy Underneath gray clouds, my mind was on a different prey. Right now my mind was on the pursuit of a brand-new pleasure. My mind was on fucking Mrs. Jones - [ * * * ] - Sean Galen came to play last week. Its about time. Its about time someone was able to pull you away from you Drug habit and decease wife long enough for you to compete again. But it seems that me getting your attention has become a problem… Guess you take the good with the bay right? But Galen isn’t the objective for the moment. Nope. Ryan Coleman is the dick up to bat. Now Coleman and I are no strangers, and the fucker has been naming dropping ever since The Sultan. Kid has to realize I’m in a league he wished he was apart if. I mean what’s Coleman doing next Sunday? Facing Mrs. Jones again? You think kid would just let that go. Chick has made homeslice look like a damn diva. But again were not talking about next Sunday were talking about this week. Were talking about the tie breaker. Coleman vs. Vestieri three. I bet you were hoping I would no show again ay Ryan? Bet Ill leave that to you. That’s the MO of Ryan Coleman, accepts a challenge without thinking about who the challenge is. Then when he realizes he can’t win, he doesn’t even bother. I call it the Bitch syndrome. But, I don’t blame you man. I’d be afraid too if I were going against me right after finding out Galen has been added to my Fallout moment. As I f I needed another headache. Now Coleman you have defeated me in the past. Yeah, it was what my second match here? I lost, but then I was ok with losing. Now, I’m not. I’m looking for a good challenge this time. This is to be the better man, after tonight, the series wont be tied, and someone will be left in the dust. Here’s a broom to dust your self off with I know if I lose to you, I’ll never hear the end of it. I happen to admire your work, Coleman. You’re the big talk around NLCW, at least at one point you were, now your that guy that keeps losing to Stacy Jones But nonetheless, I’m looking for a great fight out of you. You gave it to me last time. Ill see you in the ring Mate… -- That’s a Wrap! -- |