Norman Singer - The Hungry Husband

"I'm tall and willowy, David. Six-two with heels-and you?"

David gulped, finding this another miracle of matching; because he was the same height, without heels, of course, which was just fine, since he wasn't altogether certain it was a twin he wanted in this department. "I'm also six-two," he said, and then, hoping to sound a bit more devil-may-care, he added: "Would that do it for you Hazel?"

"Oooh! I'll recline to answer that question."

… Jesus, we just saved a full hour of preliminaries and we haven't even shaken hands!

"Meet me in the lobby of the Hilton at five-fifteen this afternoon," she suggested in those languid, Lauren Bacall-tones. "We'll have cocktails first; and then… the compatibility-tests."

David gaped at the mouthpiece, nodding so fiercely he shook the perspiration from his forehead. "All right, it's a mate… uh… Date! But… how will I know you?"

"I'll have you paged, David. Just follow any bell-boy calling your name."

"That sounds neat enough for me. I'll be there."

"You're all heart, David."

He hung up, and spent the rest of his office-afternoon in a cold tingling sweat and flurry of fever-rashes, just thinking about this long-stemmed stackjob that lay in wait for him.

Sniveling amateur! Is that what Joyce had called him? Well, balls to Joyce and balls to Brad and balls to Linda too! To say nothing of Hillsborough itself and the Montclairs and All-Planet Insurance and his Goddamned sheltered upbringing. After scaling about a dozen American beauties like Hazel, he'd be teaching them all how to pop their pistons, and in every freaky position known to man or beast. He would, to put it crassly, become a "stud-professional." And even top horny-humpin' Brad's filthy record before he was done.

David fortified himself with a quick double-vodka when he left the office that afternoon. Then he telephoned Linda and said he'd have, to work late that night on a special assignment. If she were the suspicious type she might telephone the office later to make sure he was really there. But David was convinced that she was much too trusting a creature-of-habit to check up on him. At least, not at this early stage in his campaign.

However, he was not prepared for the oddly deflated tone of her voice when he spoke to her that day. "Perhaps it's just as well, dear," she said. "I've got a terrible headache, so I don't think I'd have joined you at dinner anyway. I'll just see that the children get fed, and then I'll call it a night early."

She sounded so limp and lethargic, David felt a sudden pang of guilt. And then fear: had Brad been talking to her already? "Linda, are you sure you'll be all right? Maybe I'd better come right home, or… or call a doctor for you…"

"No, David, really, it's nothing serious. Just… woman-stuff, that's all. I'll be as good as new in the morning…"

Relieved to hear that her malaise involved endocrines rather than emotions, David told her to get a good night's rest, and hung up.

In the cab on his way to the Hilton, David hoped to hell that Linda wasn't pregnant again. She'd just had little Jaimie ten months ago, and he was taking it for granted she slapped in her trusty diaphragm every Sunday night after Mission Impossible, because Jesus!.. having four children would be kind of cumbersome for a guy who was just learning the facts of life!

Then, after he reached the Hilton and a page-boy led him to his fresh quarry a few minutes later, all the airs of home were blown from David's mind in a single, eye-filling gasp-for Hazel turned out to be the most dazzling-looking creature he'd ever laid eyes on. Good God, she must be some kind of showgirl-queen from Vegas or Reno, he thought, dismissing the page-boy with a few bills. The girl hadn't seen his approach, so he was able to drink her in for a few seconds, his heart racing and pounding as he fiercely tried to render her topless with his eyes. Man, what pointed thrust-out boobs for such a chic and slim-Jane hunk of pastry! She was a glittering and stately honey-blonde, with a superbly proportioned figure for someone as tall as she. Everything about her was dramatic and spectacular; elaborate bouffant hairdo, white leather mini-trench-coat and knee-boots. Her eyes were vividly made up, but her lips, thankfully, were done in natural flesh-tones of softest coral.

A real stunner, thought David, and one more example of a perfectly desirable woman who prefers the safer, more discreet methods of choosing a lover. No bars, movies or dark corners for this one; she wants to know exactly what she's getting, and unn!.. so do I…! She turned and saw him then, and the smile she gave him was so full-lipped and vivacious, David got a lost, sinking sensation at the pit of his stomach. Hazel's most provocative feature was an unusually large and sensuous mouth. Indeed, everything about this striking girl seemed larger-than-life. Enormous brown eyes, magnificent facial bones, almost Grecian… as were her shoulders and lithe, supple body… breasts that were ample and pouting beneath her bodice. She looked something like a very young Katharine Hepburn, thought David; but with the body of Raquel Welch.

Approaching her, he extended his hand and warmly returned her smile of greeting. "Hi, I'm David Thorn-dike."

Her eyes toured languorously up and down his body, and the slumbering head of his strapped-in penis began to stir itself. "Hazel Crainer, David; and I think I'd know you anywhere. I find that blond, fair-skinned men inevitably possess hidden depths-and your voice on the phone sounded just as muted and smoldering as you look…"

David ran a nervous tongue across his lips and reminded himself that the kind of guy he'd pretended to be on that questionnaire certainly appealed to the most aggressive-type females. "Do you live alone, Hazel?" he said, proving that when he put his mind to it, he could be just as bold and brazen as any woman.

"You've guessed my guilty secret, David Thorndike," she took his hand in hers and squeezed it, accelerating fresh tremors in his briefs. "I live in a rather sumptuous bachelor-girl cocoon. Care to come over and turn on some of my jazz? Records, I mean. Dizzy Gillespie, and…like that!"

"Now that would be out-of-sight!" said David, encouraged by the slang-sound of his own voice. "I mean… like man, this is wild, because I blow a French Horn!"

"Ooh… groovy!" her big luscious mouth curving in another grin. "When was your last gig?"

This word stumped him, but he refused to capitulate. "Well, like… I've been layin' off for awhile…"

"Really? What happened, doll… did you hurt your lip?" she asked, winking and licking hers.

David gazed deeply into those wide, expressive eyes, but could only nod and gulp a little.

"How?" she asked, and David felt crazy little chills prickling at his nuts as he watched how roundly she opened her mouth over this word.

"It's a pretty long story," he said.

"Promises, promises," she chuckled, her eyes grazing downwards at his packed response. Then she led him through the lobby and out onto the street. "I have a cunning little Porsche parked just around the corner. Care to come home to Russian Hill with me and let down your… uh… hair?"

David gave her a sunny grin, and if he'd known how, he would have wagged his tail. "Honey, for you I'll let down whatever comes to mind," he said rakishly, thinking how wildly luxurious it felt to speak as vulgarly as he chose without being unduly castigated by a saintly, bible-smitten wife. And later, when he had this randy-looking Amazon all to himself, maybe he'd even use those verboten gutter-phrases, ahh yes!.. the insidious poison-pen obscenities, the sleazy graffiti that were forever reappearing on the policed walls of his psyche.

The girl's apartment was a rambling, one-room studio concoction with an array of low-slung arty furniture, grotesque mobiles and several Tolouse-Lautrec posters on the walls. Typical pad of a showgirl on furlough, thought David, and he could just see this big mama-doll parading her superstructure at the Sahara or the Sands; although he wasn't going to be so gauche as to ask her occupation. Hell no, he didn't care what she did for a living; it was her hobbies that interested him at the moment.