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The Courting of Miss Tate

29 march, 1993

The girl with brown eyes had made her home above Boaz in a small apartment building in the quiet center of the town. Memories drew him towards her, and he began to stare longingly out the window after her as she strolled to and from the building. He loved her mustache. He loved her oddly shaped breasts. He wanted to curl up next to her and slowly examine her navel, which he was sure was turned inward. His slow, golden pubic hair always seemed to intercept his romantic notions, and soon nothing but pictures of strange and slow mixings of hair and fluid were enticing him. It hurt to reject notions of romantic love. Slowly they left him until he could see the girl with the brown eyes only as the girl whose thighs he wished to part.

"Fucking whore." He was in the shower. Boaz was cleaning himself. He caressed his anus with the white bar of soap and stared distractedly at the faucet from which there was no water coming forth. He spread his cheeks and leaned forward, feeling the water course over the sensitive area below his penis and warm his inner thighs.

"Goddamn whore." He refused to use his towel to dry there, only wiping the top part of his crack. His armpits were sore from the swift application of his deodorant. Unopened magazine solicitations littered the area surrounding his sink. He looked at the Smithsonian and National Geographic, "Fucking Fascists." He saw a picture of an African refugee child. He brushed his teeth as he urinated. He brushed his hair as he swilled about some mouthwash.

He felt angry because his true purpose has been betrayed by his dream, a nice dream where he found himself sharing a hammock with the girl with brown eyes in the middle of a plain. The hammock had been attached to two oak trees by his landlady and they were enjoying the slow rock of the hammock in the breeze. They two were together, together, and he finally awoke when he could have sworn he felt her hand cup his balls but when he looked down he saw no hands around his penis, not even his own.

He threw the towel down and rushed to the window to watch the girl lock the door and head down the street. She left the building sporadically, usually sometime between quarter of eight and eight thirty, but he seemed to manage to catch her quite often. He used to believe that his ability to see her was testimony to their bond, but he didn't want to believe that anymore.

He began writing a note to her one night, after he had watched the news. He began, "Hello, Would You Be Interested in Coffee with Your Upstairs Neighbor?" and rewrote it four times, until it came out clear and yet informal, when he realized that there wasn't any reason for her to be interested. If she wanted to have coffee with him, she would have left him a note, would she not? Why not leave the note anyway? He put the note aside, he was too tired to debate the issue tonight.

Several weeks later, he found the letter under an old pizza box. It had been five work days since he had seen her, and this served only to reinforce his disbelief in their bond. About two weeks prior he had begun to picture her while masturbating, and soon he was jacking-off regularly to thoughts of her willing participation in gentle sex acts. He found that the more he masturbated to her mental image, the less effective it became in inducing orgasm, so she began to become less willing. He began to cum regularly again.

When he finally was unable to see her in the morning, he found himself unable to mentally coerce her into participating in his masturbatory fantasies. He began to drink before he went to work, and he developed the habit of putting off his long cleansing showers. He was secretly enjoying his hiatus from his sightings, and he let himself lapse into a world untouched by her. Except when he fell asleep. His sleep seemed to betray his desire to rid himself of her. About every other night he could not help but dream of laying with her, her soft, sagging breast pressed up against his neck in his bed, so vivid and real that he found himself waking up and looking for her.

It was soon after he had stopped looking for her that he finally, accidentally ran into her. He was in the garage of the building trying to extract his bicycle from an old rack crammed with other bicycles when she came in to get her car. She hardly glanced at him as she walked past him and he felt his stomach tighten as he smelled her. He found his confidence within him and donned a cocky smile and turned to stare at her. She didn't notice him until she was in her car, waiting for the garage door to open at which point she looked at him and frowned and drove off a bit faster than was appropriate. He forgot about his bike as he walked after her car. He barely jumped back into the garage in time to miss being hit by the closing door.

Seeing her definitely had an adverse affect on his ability to fantasize about her. Rather than the recent frenzied masturbation sessions where he watched her breasts flop before him as she sat astride his cock, he found himself drifting off into bouts of depression, sometimes even letting his hand lapse off his penis as the golden-clear pre-cum clung between the two. What could he do? and what did he want? "Fucking Whore." That was easy. She was not worth it. Why had she ignored him? He was a handsome fellow; a salesman at a rather prestigious clothing store had once told him so.

Jumping up, he began to fling boxes into the garbage and socks into the hamper as he embarked on a cleaning frenzy. By the end of forty-five minutes, he had cleared a path from the bathroom to the bed to the kitchen. He thought about inviting her up to see his apartment now. If only he had begun to clean a little earlier, it might have been appropriate to invite her up, but being that it was after ten o'clock, it was no longer appropriate to call up a stranger and invite her to see his place.

At one point he discovered that he could hear conversation in her apartment by putting his ear up to the vent in his. From what he could tell, she tended to talk a lot on the telephone. She used phrases repeatedly and tended to trail off at the end of her sentences. He wished he could have been talking to her.

Toward this end, he screwed up his confidence, put on a pair of pants and ran down to check her mailbox for her last name. Running back up to his apartment, he called information and got her number. Setting down a pad of paper and his favourite brand of disposable pen by the telephone, he picked it up and dialed her number. He knew she was on the telephone, but he had gathered the fact that she had call waiting or two lines. Sure enough, it rang. She answered and calmly asked, "Yes?"

His knuckles hurt and there were marks on the wall from where his watch had hit it. "Fucking Shit." Boaz could not remember recently finding himself at a loss for words, but having heard her cordial answer to his call, he found himself unable to reply. She again asked, "Yes?" and he found without any other option but to breathe heavily into the receiver. She did not grant him the pleasure of a response to his respiration.

Later that evening his telephone rang. He stumbled across the room, out from his chair where he had been asleep and knocked the phone off the table. Reaching down he managed a "Hello?" as he brought the receiver to his head. "Excuse me sir, but if you make an obscene phone call to me again, I will be forced to call the police," and she hung up.

"Fucking Whore." He was in the shower. He felt bad this time though, because he didn't mean it. Why had he called her and not said anything? Why hadn't he been able to talk to her? He slammed his hand into the door of the shower and cut his knuckle. He sighed and soaped it up carefully. Holding his fist under the shower, he stared at his hand for a long time.

Meanwhile, his sexual agitation rose as his masturbatory frenzies subsided. There was this girl at work, a secretary, Jame, who had flirted with him, who began to take on a role in his fantasies. Boaz didn't feel himself attracted to her, but it was about time something other than his hand provided genital stimulation.

They went to see a new foreign film at the nearby cinema. He had chosen the movie; he didn't think she would like it. She fell asleep against his shoulder in the middle. Afterwards they went to some small jazz club to listen to music. Again he had chosen the club. As she sat there idly, staring rather blankly at the bassist, he found himself wondering why he wanted to impress her with his tastes.

They stayed late and they each had three drinks. He noticed that her wrinkles and blemishes seemed to disappear with each deep gulp of his gin and tonic. The last act was a spicy saxophone player with a funny skat-singer, accompanied by drums and a bassist. The crowd seemed to thin out and they were indeed somewhat isolated at their corner table. He brushed his leg up against hers and looked to see how she reacted. A few seconds later he felt her hand drop under the table on his leg. He tensed as he felt his penis begin to rise. She smiled coyly as she slowly eased her hand back, down his leg. He stared intently into his drink and tried to ignore his stiffening cock. Soon she had unzipped his fly and dipped her hand in. He gripped the leg of the table as she began to stroke his penis in long, gentle pulls. He looked at her and saw her staring up at the bass player with a strange, dazed smile on her face. He looked up at the band and saw the bassist wink at her and smile a cocky smile.

Boaz felt queasy and backed away from the table. He reached down, freed her hand from his fly, and zipped it up. Fishing out a ten dollar bill, he dropped it on the table, grabbed his coat off the back of his chair and stood. She glared at him, "What's wrong with you?"

"I have to be up early for work tomorrow." He tried not to notice the patrons and the band members staring at him. "Are you coming?" He asked her in a patronizing tone.

"I don't know what your problem is. I want to stay to hear the rest of the set," she turned to look at the band and crossed her arms across her breasts.

"Nothing's wrong with me, I just don't feel like being here anymore. Do you want to come back to my place?" He felt dazed, as he realized he was impressed with her use of the word "set."

She was obviously perturbed, "No, I'll see you at work tomorrow." He pushed his chair in and brushed past the thick-set bouncer on his way out.

As he let himself into the building, he applied a drunken kiss to the name plate of "Miss Tate," finely scripted next to his typed "Mr. Reynudo". Why she even had flair in the way she scripted her name! What would happen if he were to knock on her door? Was he really that drunk? Boaz sighed and abandoned all other plans as he sat down on the toilet in his apartment.

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