"My God!" she says. "You look good!" Which disorients him, because she speaks not flirtatiously, but intimately.
"Have we met before?" For once it's an honest question. She laughs explosively.
"Oh, sorry! For a second I...Your brother isn't Neil Heller by any chance?"
"I don't have a brother," he says. "Not that I know of..." This sets her laughing again; she reaches toward his arm apologetically, without reaching it.
"Forget it. My husband. You remind me of him. I've been telling him he should grow a beard."
Her husband? That's the last person a chased MILF wants him to be. Yet this one seems delighted. So work with it, he thinks. "Why won't he?"
"Oh, he's very...neat. And conservative. And religious. Nobody in our whole church has a beard."
"Well, God's got one, right?"
"Thank you," she says. "That's what I keep saying." She comes closer, right into his personal space. Wally, she's picking you up. Your vibe is that strong.
"I think," she says, "God sent you to me this morning. You're like a vision." With a suddenness that makes him flinch, she turns back to the fish display. There's a glint under her eye, is she crying? She touches her cheek and turns back. "I must be making you nervous...saying that."
"Oh no." He's ready to haul the hell out of here, but her gaze holds him. From the corner of his eye he sees Rog, filming. "And don't let him make you nervous."
"Who?"
"Guy with the camera. Rog. My director. God didn't send me, but my cable station did. We're reporters."
"Oh." She barely glances at Rog, seems uninterested in this misinformation. She reenters Wally's space. "I have creeped you out, haven't I? You don't believe in God?"
"Sure I do," and though he tries to laugh knowingly, he takes a step back. "Only God could have made beautiful women."
"Well...I'm not beautiful."
She isn't. She's kind of dumpy, and her face is bland and worn at the same time. Oh, she's a MILF — big boobs, blond hair, ears pierced high up (but no earrings anymore), and, of course, a tattoo — but frankly even Simone is hotter. Yet Wally can't stop looking at her, or rather can't stop watching how she's looking at him.
"...but thanks for saying it. Even if you don't mean it."
"Come on now. Doesn't your husband ever call you beautiful? He should."
"Neil loves me very much. And he saved me. Our church isn't big on compliments. Compliments breed pride."
Her voice is filled with feeling, but now there's a crack in it, uncertainty.
"Well, my church totally believes in compliments."
"What is your church?"
"Church of Having a Good Time. None of that latter-day stuff for us." Despite his grin, it sounds lame. "We're only here once...know what I mean?"
"But then we go to another place."
"But we're here now," he says. "What's wrong with having a good time while we're here? You say God sent me to you. Maybe he did. Maybe he knows you could use a good time."
"I probably could." She shakes her head, but not at him. "What I really need right now? — is cash."
"Really? Why?"
He half-listens as she goes into a long story about her daughter and the shoes she wants. It doesn't matter what she says: she's handing herself to him.
"Honey, we were meant to meet," he interrupts. "Because with me — us — you can have a good time and make a little cash. How does that sound?"
She titters; she knows exactly what he's suggesting, he's sure of it. Then she's very close to his face again, examining it like a scientist, feature by feature.
"Fine. Let's go."
"Well, you want to have a drink? Talk about it?"
"No, that's OK," she says. "Uh, I'm Shane, what's your name?"
"Wally."
"Is that short for Wallace?"
"No," Rog says suddenly, "it's short for Wally and the Beaver. He's the MILF Chaser, lady."
"I guess he's coming with us?" Shane says to Wally, not looking at Rog.
"Oh yeah. He's my director. Rog. You sure you don't want a drink first?"
Rog steps on the back of Wally's foot. As if to say: What are you doing, man? Trying to buy it back?
"Let's just go. Wherever we are going, that is."
"Your car is waiting." There, his look says to Rog, and you doubted me? Roger grins, eyelids half-mast again. Yet Wally doesn't feel right. Not triumphant, for sure. It's like the pickup never happened. He feels tight, off rhythm. Maybe that's why, the second they climb into the Expedition, he lights up a joint. She takes it, this Shane, tokes like a pro. Rog, as usual, coughs, and she laughs. They finish the joint before reaching Lazlo's building, and start another one inside the penthouse elevator. Wally opens Dom Perignon as soon as they enter Lazlo's Playpen. (Actually Rog has to open it; Wally's already fucked up.) The pot, the champagne, his empty stomach — they make him miss two-thirds of what follows, but also make certain moments as sharp and luminous as stars through a telescope.
Would you like to see the view, he says.
No, she says.
She hasn't touched him. She wraps her arms around him and kisses him passionately. Her tongue is acrid like the pot, fizzy like the champagne, warm and beating like a heart. For a while she and he are tongues.
Naked. Both of them. Her hand on his penis. He doesn't need any Viagra. Her fingers pull...lead him not to the leopard couch but a plain white bed.
A soft curse. Rog: stubbed his toe on the doorstep, stumbled. Can they get on the bed again? The shot might be wobbly. They ignore him.
Wally inside Shane. She on her back and he on top, plain old missionary, not even tilting one side up so the camera can see the in and out. Chest and belly press breast and belly; moisture mingles. Wait — they do oral first? (The normal sequence: lick MILF's nipples, let her blow him, if she smells OK go down on her, and then give her the dog.) Can't remember. Stops wondering. Her vagina contains him like a loving mouth.
Great, great. Just turn this way a little. Rog again; ignored again.
No — yes — wonderful — no he can't be coming already — my God listen to her — OK OK OK OK OK pull out and give her the facial — but she won't let him! Her arms legs mouth tongue and vagina all hold him, bring him closer still. There! Gone oh God. Big time for the soundtrack, nothing for the camera. He keeps coming and coming after he comes.
No condom. She doesn't seem concerned, and he doesn't mention it. She strokes his face, once, down from the top of his head to his chin, and releases him. He stumbles upright, catches a damp cloth from Rog.
Wow babe. Rog is speaking to her. You really are a slut from God. So how 'bout being a slut for me...Holy shit! WALLY!
...Shane still on the bed, but now her head points toward the foot, her hands prop up her butt and her legs climb the wall. Hips rotating faintly. She gazes at the ceiling, despite the noise Rog is making.
You see what she's doing, man?
To Wally it looks like a meditation position, or a weird way to find her G spot.
Moron, she wants your baby. You can't let her pull that. Bitch...Rog has already dropped pants and underpants, and he steps toward her.
Please, a whisper from the bed, please, please don't let him touch me. Flat hand on the flat of his leg, like he's her conduit to prayer. I'll do whatever you want. Whatever else you need to shoot. But I can't have anybody else inside me.
Wally gets between Rog and the bed. Rog towers over him, but his dick is nowhere. Not today man, Wally says. Or I'll have to talk to Lazlo about deadlines and a new director. Then he gets hard all over again, as if to reinforce the threat.
