Butterflies in Heat (10 page)

"Hey, baby, look what I've got for you," a bearded shrimper yelled, waving his cock at her.

She abruptly stopped in front of his cell looking at the prisoner, her face a mask of contorted charm. Then she took her cigarette and jabbed
it
into his nest of pubic hair. He jumped back screaming.

"The next time you see a lady, creep, act accordingly."

Outside the jail, Lola's sports car gleamed in the moonlight. She stood to the side, as Yellowwood rushed to open the door.

Numie got behind the driver's seat, accepting the slightly crushed cigarette from Lola.

"Anything I can do to make this up, Lola," Yellowwood said, "just let me know."

She ignored him.

Out of the parking lot and up the darkened street, Numie steered the Facel-Vega and sucked in more smoke from Leonora's blue marijuana cigarette.

Johnny Yellowwood faded in the rear-view mirror.

Numie braked the Facel-Vega in front of Commodore Philip's.

He rubbed the hammerlike throbbing in his forehead between his eyes. His whole body ached.

"I hope you're not too worn out to perform," Lola said.

"Yeah," he muttered. "I can still get it on. Too bad, though, I'm in such rotten shape for my premiere."

"We have the whole bar to ourselves tonight," she said, turning the key in the lock.

Commodore Philip's was completely deserted, except for a lazy calico cat on the comer of the bar. He aroused himself slightly at the sight of Lola and Numie, then settled back into sleep.

Swinging his legs over a bar stool, Numie eyed the booze. "I need a stiff one."

"So do I, handsome," Lola said, "but I think we're talking about two different things."

"Later, later," he cautioned. "First, the machine has to be lubricated. In minutes, the liquor was racing through his body. "Now for the big question. Who in hell is Commodore Philip? Jesus Christ with gold balls?"

"My lover man," she said, pouring herself a drink.

"Is he a real commodore?"

"Sort of," she answered matter-of-factly. "Owns a boat or two. Commodores and sea captains are always gay, darling. They learn it during those long voyages away from women."

"I don't know about that, but do you really have something going with him?"

"He's devoted to me," she said. "He worships my every move. I've been with him for years. Came to work as a maid. That was a long time ago when I had dyed my hair red. He took quite a fancy to me."

"And he allows you to go around whoring?"

"Please,"
she said. "Watch your language in front of a lady. My commodore and I have worked out a compromise. He has a bad heart condition—one so awful he could go at any minute. When I started working for him, he thought I was real pretty. I started peeling everything off—everything except my red panties—thinking he wanted to ball. Then he told me the sad news.
All
he wanted was for me to parade around in front of him—doing
lewd
things." She sighed.
"It
was hard for me to think of anything lewd seeing that I'm a lady. But he told me some things he wanted, and I did them just to please him. I felt sorry for a man who can only watch."

"Maybe that's what he really digs," Numie said. "Like your friend, Yellowwood."

"No friend of mine," she said. "The sheriff's a real sickie. But my commodore is very gentle. He just whispers encouragements while I get it on with a super stud."

"The commodore must have a lot of pull in this town if you can just walk in the jailhouse and get me out while blowing smoke up his nose."

"My commodore is a very rich man, and Yellowwood is on the take. He was just a cheap crook in the bolita racket until my commodore bought the office of sheriff for him."

"When will the Commodore show up? I'd like to meet him."

"I bet you would, sweetie," she said, fingering his chin. "I'm sure he'd like to meet you too. With my Commodore, one never knows. He just pops up on the doorstep. His real life's on the mainland. He never lets me go there, though. He claims he comes to Tortuga for 'slumming'. I told him, 'Don't associate me with no slum'. He didn't, of course. My pad upstairs is very elegant. Why don't you come up and look at it? Plus what other sights I might be showing."

Lola's apartment was a mass of white. No color anywhere, except in her face.

To furnish it, she'd dipped heavily into her experience of watching Jean Harlow and Joan Crawford movies. Lack of access to the rich furnishings once available to those two movie queens hadn't stopped Lola. She resorted to what she could find at the local stores and the
city
dump. Coats of white paint and yards of shiny white satin had brought renewed life to the opulent taste of another time.

In the middle of the living room stood a Victorian adaptation of a Louis XV chaise longue. The central place for Lola's operations, a way station en route to the bedroom. Hanging near it, melted tallow covered the missing or substitute bits of an overscaled chandelier. Beside the chaise stood a round ornate reed table—dominated by a lamp with a shade fashioned like an artificial lily .

Opening onto the living room, the bedroom invited with a high-posted brass bed, again enameled a glistening white. A shirred satin canopy shaded it, and filmy draperies were held back by garlands of make-believe roses and lilacs. Carefully placed against the headboard were pillows, each one different in shape, but all lacy and feathered around with fringes.

Everything designed to remind one of a heady background for seduction.

Lola held up a rhinestone-covered box beside the bed. "In here are some of my beauty aids. You'll forgive me while I make myself more alluring—if that's possible." Into the bathroom she disappeared with the box.

He slipped out of his jeans, tossing them on the white carpet.

Moments later, Lola was back. "Wow!" she yelled, squealing with delight. "I wonder if I could lose weight dieting on weenies all week." She was wearing nothing but pink panties, red Joan Crawford fuck-me shoes, and that platinum wig. Though it sagged in parts, her body was actually like a girl's" tiny breasts forming contours on a slender frame that was emaciated. Her mouth was painted a turkey red. She wiggled her hips over to the bed.

"These white satin sheets are a little much," he said, patting them invitingly.

"Men perform better on satin than cotton," she confirmed.

"Let's give it a try." He grabbed her, cupping her tiny breasts and pinching the nipples until she screamed.

"You're hurting me," she protested.

"And you love it!"

Her only response was a soft moan before plunging her mouth onto him. Suddenly, she jumped up. Her back to him, she lowered her panties, revealing her buns. Then she fell on the bed, butt up. "A five-alarm's fire's raging in me," she said.

"Let's put it out," he said. He never saw her front part, and didn't have to look into her eyes as he did his work. Deeper and deeper, he took the plunge. Lola screamed once, but
it
was mostly moans reaching his ears. He rode in further, exploring more.

The bedsprings were rusty and creaky—providing just the kind of rhythm he needed to do his job. She'd brag later about having had him—he knew that. But the joke would be on her. She'd never really have him. He gave them sex, but he'd never give of himself. Not to Lola. Not to anyone.

The rhapsodic sound of her voice, the way her body was turned on, the way she needed what he offered—everything blended to make him a man again after that nightmare in jail. Riding to his finish, he was the one groaning now.

Immediately recognizing the signs, Lola started to protest, "Don't, don't, lover man. Make
it
last all night."

Yet her contracting and pulling only goaded the inevitable. Soaked with sweat, he tensed—holding back as long as he could. But his release was violent, spasm after spasm. His energy drained, he collapsed on top of her.

She turned her head around, wanting to be kissed.

Ignoring her at first, he started to pull out. His job over, he'd earned his supper. After all, he didn't kiss fags. But the compelling hunger of her eyes—unlike the desperation in Ralph's—told him he'd better satisfy her in that way. Pressing toward her, his mouth met hers. He was quick and efficient. But also thorough, competent in his job. Kissing her was no more unpleasant than many duties he'd been called upon to perform.

The nails of her right hand dug into his back. "I need you!" she cried. "No man has ever made me feel like that. No
man.
Don't ever leave me,
please."

"Fuck, Lola," he said, slowly pulling out of her body—even though her muscles were fighting his going. "Who's gonna leave? I'm gonna stick around a while."

In the middle of the night, she rubbed her butt up closer to his.
It
was good to have someone young and alive with her tonight. All those nights listening to the commodore's snoring was more than she could bear.

In some ways, Numie was like a son-lover to her. All her life she'd wanted a son, and had cursed nature for making that dream impossible for her.

He'd come into the bar when she was at loose ends. She was fearing life was passing her by. She certainly wasn't getting any younger, and the commodore's days were clearly numbered. The prospect of her own aging—faced with that empty bed—was getting too much for her.

Numie had been more than just a robot moving inside her only hours ago. She thought he was really falling for her. She could just tell. Chalk it up to her woman's intuition. Of one thing she was certain: she wasn't just a job to him, another performance in a lengthy career. After all, he'd kissed her—and he didn't have to do that.

He'd satisfied her sexually, but he'd also awakened other longings in
her
—
longings
she'd tried to forget. She needed deep down involvement with another human being, and just not for sex either.

She'd seen desire well in Numie's eyes when she had stood practically naked in front of him. It must have been exciting for him to view a body such as hers. She could just imagine some of the tricks he'd turned-probably all with pudgy middles and everything sagging. Her breasts hadn't altogether fallen yet, and she'd strictly watched her diet. Her figure had remained trim. When Numie grabbed her breasts, she knew she'd turned him on. Her only disappointment was that he had failed to take one of them in his mouth. She loved to have that done.

Reaching over in bed, she stroked his smooth thigh with her hand—not enough to wake him up, just enough to make contact with him. Then she pressed her mouth gently against his. He moved, but didn't wake up.

How exciting he was to her!

She snuggled next to him, resting in the cradle of his arm.

Through this man lying beside her tonight she could rediscover her own long-lost girlhood.

She just knew it.