Edward Lee - The Black Train

No, it’s not!

Yes, it is. All she is to you is what you relegate all women as: a Lust Object, a dehumanized arrangement of sexual parts.

Bullshit! I really like her!

You don’t like anybody, you only “use” people for masturbatory head fodder. Just like the old lady, who’s nothing but an ass and a pair of tits for you to stare at. Just like Lottie, and that Wisconsin tramp you were about to screw. Good job, Collier. At least admit it. Dominique’s no different. You want to use her for a roll in the hay, and that’s perfectly fine. Why shouldn’t you? You’re a man, and men are supposed to do that.

Fuck you! Dominique’s nothing like that! Collier hurled back at his conscience. This is different!

He rolled over in bed, clenching the sheets.

Guilt flowed over him like a stinking fog. All humans were sexual animals, one side said, but there was always the other side, too.

Sexual animals domesticated by a progressive morality.

You either choose to be good or you choose to be bad. But then he regretted the fact when he considered some of his own thoughts today. Yes, the eyes of his lust had been using Mrs. Butler’s body for a scratching post all day, and even worse were his deeds in the car. As for the Wisconsin woman…

I came really close, he knew.

For each hour that he was here it almost seemed like his sex drive was doubling.

Just go to sleep…

He thought of Dominique’s lovely face and barleygrist tinged hands, hoping the image would lull him to slumber. The cross around her neck glimmered, a hypnotist’s tool.

Just…go…to sleep…

A noise jostled the encroaching REM waves. He sat up, aggravated.

Did I really hear something?

Then it resounded again.

Water.

Not water running from a tap but…a long splash.

Like someone dumping water out of a bucket…

Then he saw the dot.

What the hell is that?

There was a dot on the wall, like a dot of light, or—

A hole?

He squinted at the wall.

Don’t tell me there’s a hole in the wall…

But when he got up, he found this to indeed be the case.

There’s a light on in the next room, and there’s a hole in the wall, he knew now. The hole existed between the closet on one side and a waist-high vase cabinet with a marble top on the other. As Collier lowered himself to his knees he was vaguely reminded of this afternoon when he’d knelt similarly to look through the keyhole.

The next room is that bath closet, he thought he remembered correctly. And that’s exactly what Collier saw when he put his eye to the hole.

Soft yellow lamplight glowed over finished wood-slat walls. Directly in Collier’s view was something he first thought must be a seat, because he noticed the high, curved back swept down to a lower rim with half-circle cutouts. Through his beer daze, then, he recalled what Mrs. Butler had said of this room when he’d checked in.

It’s a tub for a hip bath.

He flinched at the sound again: gushing water.

I was right!

Through the hole he saw two hands bearing a bucket. The bucket was upended into the tub, then withdrawn. But…

Who was emptying the bucket?

He only caught the quickest glimpse, then…

Silence.

Next, he heard the slightest clattering, and a few footsteps. Then he saw a blur… There she is…

It was Mrs. Butler, or at least he thought so. He couldn’t see her face, of course—the peephole only afforded a close perimeter. But now a woman stood before the tub, her buttocks to Collier’s eye. A creped lavender dress jiggled as hands pushed it down by the waistband. Yes, it was definitely Mrs. Butler. I know that dynamite old butt anywhere… Collier’s heart stepped up at the acknowledgment of what was about to happen:

She’s going to strip and take a hip bath…and I get to watch.

He’d been lusting after her extraordinary body all day—now came the moment of truth.

He was looking at a pair of white cotton panties stretched out by the preeminent derriere. The view crawled up the lines of her back to her shoulders where it stopped. He could see the bra strap, too. Already, Collier’s loins were tingling.

Don’t get your hopes up, he reminded himself. She’s an old lady. Just because her body fills the dress right doesn’t mean it won’t be a wrinkled wreck once she’s nude…

The panties were pushed off and the bra removed…

And Mrs. Butler’s body was not a wrinkled wreck by any stretch of the imagination.

Mama mia…

Now the hole circumscribed an hourglass of plush soft-white flesh. Midsixties be damned, Collier’s eyeball was going dry staring at a rump, back, and shoulders that existed essentially without flaw.

Not a pock. Not a wrinkle. Not a mole, liver spot, pimple, nor blemish and not a single dimple of cellulite.

This old lady’s not just a brick shit-house—she’s the mother of ALL brick shit-houses…

Collier’s arousal was plain at once, even in spite of the influx of alcohol. It wasn’t just the primal sight of this sumptuous bare buttocks just a few feet from his eye, it was the psychological effect: the anticipation. If he thought this side was good viewing, he could scarcely imagine the other side, and he knew in just moments she would turn around to let him see it all. And there was something else, wasn’t there?

Collier knew—he felt absolutely 100 percent certain— that when she did indeed traverse her body, his eyes would be wide-open on a meticulously shaved pubis, which would hereby end the mystery of the Keyhole Flasher.

He felt his crotch without being conscious of it…

His eye went back to the peephole…

Mrs. Butler turned around at the exact moment. Here comes the bald beaver, Collier thought.

He froze.

Where he expected clean white skin and a pink cleft he saw instead a bounteous quantum of feminine thatch. Another wrong number…

At one point she appeared to lean backward—to grab something behind her?—which stretched the downy matt almost as if on cue. Collier didn’t see any gray hairs in the mound, but he knew it was her. Then Mrs. Butler lowered herself into the hip tub.

Holy smokes…

Above the neck, he could only see her chin and some untied gray hair touching her shoulders. The rest was a vantage shot of her pubis, stomach, and breasts. What she’d reached back for was obviously a piece of the Civil War-era soap called ash cake. It was a grayish color in hand but when she glided it over her wet skin, it sudsed faintly like normal bar soap.

A voyeur’s paradise now glowed back into Collier’s eye: Mrs. Butler’s hand soaping up her crotch, belly, and breasts.

Oh, man, this is better than my first Playboy when I was nine…

The image was so vivid, he thought of the most re—fined pornography. The light and her wet skin conspired to an image that seemed to just keep sharpening. And judging by the motions of her sudsy hand…

She was doing more than washing.

Only then was Collier even aware that he’d previously taken himself in hand. By then he couldn’t help it. He felt absurd, yet the idea of stopping was beyond consideration. He kept staring with one eye through the hole, intent on the potent image, yet another part of his consciousness realized the absolute necessity that he MUST NOT make a sound. Mrs. Butler’s slick torso wriggled in rhythmic waves. When her hips began to buck, her orgasm was apparent.

So was Collier’s.

He slammed his eyes shut and closed his teeth hard against his lip. The sensation sidled him over on the floor, and there he cringed.