Lawrence Block - Ronald Rabbit Is a Dirty Old Man

What do I get out of this? Well, the satisfaction of having helped you both out. And the comforting knowledge that I haven’t lost my wife and best friend for nothing.

I don’t know if you know anything about Rozanne. Among the things she took to the Xerox machine this morning were a few letters to and from her, including one which I sent a carbon copy of to Lisa. (You remember Lisa.) There’s no description of Rozanne in any of those letters, largely because I didn’t know what she looked like, except for her mammary endowment, which is the first thing anyone would think of noticing about her.

I know you’ve always been partial to large breasts, Steve. That was one thing that surprised me about your running off with Fran, incidentally. Oh, she’s not flat-chested, not by any means, but a man wouldn’t take a look at Fran and automatically ask for a glass of milk. I always thought of her breasts as small but honest. For my own part, I’ve never cared that much either way. I like large breasts on large-breasted girls and small breasts on small-breasted girls. What I like, when all is said and done, is girls.

But one look at Rozanne and a guy like you would begin to salivate. The easiest way to describe it for you, Steve, is like so — picture your ultimate unattainable ideal in tits, improve on it, and you’ve got Rozanne.

(The hell you do. I’ve got Rozanne. You’ve got Fran, buddy.)

Aside from her breasts, Rozanne is just an average beautiful girl. Long black hair, dark complexion, fierce eyebrows, deep, liquid dark-brown eyes, and a strong nose and chin. A slim, supple body that is far too slim and supple for those breasts (but who’s complaining, right?) tapering to a tiny waist and widening to a perfectly round ass. Hips designed for easy childbearing and joyful childconceiving. Good legs. Not great legs, but damned good legs. A nice little Italian girl from the Bronx. A nice little Italian virgin living all by her lonesome in Chelsea and working as secretary to a eunuch who, for some unaccountable reason, never had the gumption to flip her onto her desk and fuck her eyes out.

That’s Rozanne. Now, to further set the stage, read the rest of the Xeroxed letters.

Okay. Now you’re set for your lesson, even as Rozanne was set for hers. No more delaying tactics. We’ll get right to the point.

After I wrote her the letter about Naughty Nasty Nancy, I figured one of two things would happen. Either I would hear from her almost immediately or I would never hear from her again. I figured either of the two developments would constitute a consummation devoutly to be wished.

A day or two after I mailed the letter, my phone rang. I picked it up, and the conversation went something like this:

“Hello?”

“Hello.”

“Aha!”

“I got your letter.”

“I hoped you would.”

“How can you write letters like that? I mean, how can you do it?”

“It’s a talent, I guess.”

“It was here waiting for me when I came home from the office. I must’ve read it three times, maybe more.”

“Did you masturbate?”

“Can’t you talk nice to me?”

“I could, but you get more of a kick out of it when I talk nasty.”

“How do you know so much about me?”

“Intuition, I suppose.”

“I never met a man like you.”

“Neither did I.”

“Can I—”

“Yes?”

“I can’t say it.”

“You want help?”

“Yes.”

“You want to come over here, don’t you?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Come right over.”

“Shall I, uh—”

“Yes?”

“Well, couldn’t you at least meet me somewhere, or something?”

“I’m not sure I would recognize you. Come up to my apartment, Rozanne. It’ll save time.”

“I guess so.”

“I’ll expect you in a half hour.”

“All right, if I can get a cab.”

“A half hour. Don’t be late.”

“Yes, yes.”

She was early. I took a shower first, dried off, and fished around in the closet until I found a robe. It was practically new. I don’t think I had ever worn it. Lisa gave it to me for my birthday once, or maybe it was Fran. (That gave it to me , I mean. Not that Lisa gave it to Fran. An ambiguous construction that I wanted to clear up.) I wonder if any man ever bought a bathrobe for himself. Or if any man ever wore the bathrobe his wife bought him.

I put the robe on with nothing under it and waited for her to turn up. She turned up, knocking timidly at the door. I opened it, and there she was.

“Hello,” she said.

“Why, hello.” I said. She was wearing a knit dress. It was red, and so tight that it looked like a blush. “You look good enough to eat,” I said, and her face turned the same shade as the dress. “Come in,” I said, and she came in, and I closed the door and locked it. She winced as I turned the lock, as if it meant she couldn’t change her mind now. Which was precisely what I had been thinking.

“Now what?” she said. “Do I just lift up my skirt and you’ll do it or what?”

“Is that what you think you want?”

“Well, I don’t know. I’m new at this.”

“You silly,” I said, and kissed her.

She really didn’t want to respond to the kiss, Steve. She wanted to get eaten and have an orgasm, but she was so tense she couldn’t have had a Coke, let alone an orgasm. So I took a lot of time kissing her, and then I put some music on the radio, good old WPAT, nice mood music that you could fuck to without listening to.

(What do you do for music to fuck by in Cuernavaca?)

And we gradually worked our way to the bed, and I gradually got her out of her dress and paid the proper sort of homage to various parts of her anatomy. She kept saying that she knew she could really trust me, and I kept earning that trust by taking my time with her, being very gentle, very gentle, ever so gentle.

The poor kid had never really relaxed with sex before. She always dated these louts who would kiss her hard enough to bruise her lips, then grab her tits to test their grip, then make a beeline for her twat. She never had a chance to enjoy necking because she was too hung up with fears of what it would lead to.

Now she had her chance, and she was making the most of it. As I ran my tongue along the undersides of those incredible breasts and listened to her purr and throb, as I stroked the satin skin on the insides of her taut thighs, I thought how incredible it was that this girl had managed to maintain her hymen to the ripe old age of twenty-six.

“You can trust me,” I said from time to time.

“I know I can trust you,” she said now and again.

“I swear on my mother’s life that I shall not penetrate your quim today, even if you decide you want me to.”

“You’re a gentleman, Larry.”

“Of course you can change your mind at some future date, but not today. You walked into this apartment a virgin. You’ll walk out of here a virgin.”

“A gentleman. Oh, do that some more, it’s wonderful. A real gentleman. I never met anyone like you before, never in my whole life. Oh, God, do you know what it does to me when you do that?”

I had a fair idea.

One thing, Steve. I meant that oath, and the fact that my mother died several years ago doesn’t detract from it a bit. I used that wording for the impression it would make, not out of some perverse streak. (You and Fran seem all too willing to believe I have a perverse streak.)

Anyway, the oath couldn’t have been any more binding had I had a living mother. I was determined not to violate that maidenhead. Rozanne was providing me with a rare enough pleasure anyway, the pleasure of slow seduction.

I didn’t realize until then just how much I’d grown to miss that pleasure. That’s one of the unfortunate by-products of the sexual revolution, Steve. There’s no more working up to it. A girl either fucks or she doesn’t, and the two of you decide it in front, and if she does, you both get into bed and you do it, and if she doesn’t, you go away and that’s it.