Wednesday, November 2, 2011

In a Kroger's

I rattle the bars of the big animal cage and check the lock on the door for the umpteenth time, but it’s a pretty solid pad lock. She’s got me good. I thought I was going to get laid good and righteous and she slipped me a mickey. Over by the huge black cauldron the old crone, dressed in bitter black begins throwing in vegetables with an angry sigh. She gives me resentful looks. She’s an ugly old thing with a long crooked nose with a wart on it, but there’s something about her, a primitive, tough faced Tina Turner sexiness that makes me think I should reconsider her offer. She’s not that bad if you don’t piss her off like I just did. Maybe she has tits at least.

Her lips are moving, for a moment I’m scared she might be conjuring a devilish spell over the cauldron but then I hear her say “ . . . stuck up bastard . . .”

“Its not my fault you tricked me into coming here, “ I shout back at her, holding the bars in my fists. “You came on to me as this beautiful maiden of the forest.”

She throws a carrot in the pot and it lands with a mean little splash. She stomps over. “Is that all you even care about? Tits and ass? I would have loved you! I was ready to give my life to you!”

“But you’re an evil old witch.”

“But you don’t know how witches love,” she says. “You don’t know anything.”

She comes up to the cage, staying out my reach. “I thought you were different! But you’re just a slavering hound like other men. All you want is a quick one and thank you ma’am. I was in love!” She stomps off. “Oh, you’ll be fine with some shallots.” She starts chopping these little purple onions. “Shallots for the shallow.”

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She made herself into a beautiful buxom blonde twenty something and lured me in here. Oh its so dark out! And the night is so cold! And I’m so alone! And you’re so handsome and smart – come spend the night with me. I’m so afraid. Keep me warm.

Keep her warm. Shit. Now I’ll be plenty warm when she’s boiling me alive. Hey. . .

“Can I ask you something?”

She turns to look.

“How do you do that beautiful blonde thing you do?”

She practically snarls at me with carnivorous hate. Then her face softens and tears trail down her cheeks. “You heartless sonuvabitch. I was so lonely. I would have done anything for you. I’d have given you anything you wanted. Is this all you want?” She takes a framed photo down from a shelf and stares hard at it as she takes a pinch of sparkling powder and throws it on herself. She turns into the blonde girl again.

“Holy shit.”

The gorgeous blonde who looks like hell in high heels gives me a sad hopeful look. “All it takes is a photo and magic dust. Its easy. ”

“Oh my God,” I breathe. Suddenly it hits me. “Oh wow. Listen, come here.”

She comes over, looking suspicious.

“Listen lady, wait, what is that you’re doing - Scarlet Johansson?”

She smiles proudly and shoves her breasts out a little. “Do you like it?”

“Any photo?”

She shrugs.

“Like from a magazine?”


“Like Maxim?”

“I guess.”

“Or Playboy? Or Penthouse?”

“Of course.”

Oh my god oh my god. “Listen, this relationship doesn’t have to be so problematic after all . . . “

My wife comes by shoving a steel shopping cart with a sticky back wheel and a grocery list. I tell her I’m going to stay here in the Starbucks with my coffee while she shops. Just come get me when you’re ready. All the Krogers supermarkets here have Starbucks which is great. Off she goes. By the cash register the blond girl in the wicked Witch of the West outfit is checking out. I love Halloween. I’m still thinking about the woman as an old crone, the way she might look someday. Somehow a wise woman, even one with an unpleasant face is a real turn on for me. I don’t know why. What is it I’m looking for? So this is a wise old woman of the world, one who could teach me things. Imagine what she would be like in bed, this Celtic tantric honey. A wise friend, if you stay on her good side. Women in ancient times were the custodians of the great mysteries. And a woman like that, would be a fountain of infinite variety. Variety is good right?

Another woman comes through the register and I can hear her voice. She’s whip thin, worn faced, not old but with a lot of mileage, you can tell, and her smoke cured southern voice is all Jennifer Tilly and Slim Pickens. With darlin’s and ya’lls. Pure cheap floozie pick up.

I’m standing at the roadhouse bar in my jeans and denim jacket, the only man for a mile and this skinny old thing comes and smiles and looks at me hard and hungry. “What ya’ll doing here, pretty boy?” She blows cigarette smoke at me. She’s just starting to get drunk and all loosely goosey in the legs I’ll bet.

“I’m travelin. I’m stayin in a nice big room down at the Ramada.”

“I’ll bet that sure is a nice big room.”

“Would you like to see it? Got a nice big bed, you’d look good on.”

“Buy me a drink.”

As the skinny floozie lady moves away from the register a little girl dressed in pink like a princess darts up from behind her and grabs her hand and yells “Tricky treat!”. The cashier bursts out with a big smile and gives her the girl a piece of candy from an orange bowl with cartoon ghosts.

“What you say, darlin’?” says the skinny flooz.

“Thank you ma’am!”

“That’s my little granddaughter.” Says the woman proudly and then I notice a simple gold cross around her neck, and I feel ashamed.

A woman in a bar. A little drunk. A little poor and down and out. Lonely and horny like me. Take her back to the room – why does such a person seem to turn me on so much? Because she’s vulnerable and emotionally needy? Wants someone to make her feel beautiful again, just for a night? Easy to dominate? My fantasies say something ugly about me, the truth is in there somehow. The skinny, high mileage woman with her grandchild has lost her floozy sheen and seems self assured and wise.

I sip my coffee and wait, terminally bored. Another woman comes to the register. She’s obviously in a hurry to pick up some Halloween candy, unless its for herself. She’s heavy, big in the bosom with deep cleavage and her hair is all in curlers tucked under a ski cap. This housefrau in curlers definitely gets to me and I feel an embarrassing stir below that makes me cross my legs and sit closer to the little table.

I’m a young man living in that run down apartment in Minneapolis back in 1973. Down the hall there’s this middle aged woman who gives me long hungry looks and smiles when I pass her on the way to work. This morning she stands in the doorway in a thin night gown and her hair is in curlers and her face is round and full and hungry and her belly which is wide but very solid seems to cling to her night gown as I pass and I can make out the shadow of her panties beneath.

“Hey honey,” she says. “Know anything about cable TV?”

I stop and try not to stare at the nubs of her nipples which I hadn’t noticed before are poking sharply against the fabric of her nightie. I can just make out the dark moons of her aureoles. “A little. Isn’t it working?”

“No,” she says. “Hey, I’m Annie.” She holds out her arms wide and I take a breath and step into her arms and she gives me a friendly nervous hug. I feel that big sumo belly up against me and the pillowing of her breasts and for an instant can imagine what it would feel like to lay on top of all that lush fullness. “I’m your neighbor down the hall. You can come by and say hi. Cable stopped working. Can you take a look?” She steps aside and opens the door wide. “You’re a good looking boy. You always pass by and never say hi. You married?”

I step inside and she closes the door after me. There’s a huge sofa next to the TV, and the cable box is unplugged. I think I know how that happened. But maybe I’ll stay awhile. She holds up a coffee cup and the look on her face is unmistakable. “Coffee?” she says.

When I look up from my paper coffee cup the big woman is heading out the automatic doors. She chats with the floozyish Christian grandma by the ATM machine outside and talks to the little princess. They know each other and chat together. They’re such electric, bristly, expressive women. The burly woman with curlers is all movement and waving fingers. The thin woman is toothy and nervous and in constant motion.

What are they like, I wonder, when they cum. How would it feel to lie between that skinny woman’s knobby knees in the dark and listen to her gasp in time with the bed springs. I think the thin woman would be aggressive and vulnerable in the bedroom, after first being shy to undress. Eager to please. Multi-orgasmic. Nervous. She would feel her orgasm approaching and her lips would part and there's be little smoky scented whispers and she'd caress your back, solitiously and gently and in the moment it happens she would hold her knees wide and close to her sides so that her toes are touching your ribs as you feel her complete surrender and bear down fiercely into her. She would give a shiver and cover your face with ash flavored kisses. Then she'd push you off of her and light a cigarette and stare at the ceiling without talking. You'd ask her not to smoke in bed and she'd just look at you.

The other woman with her gesturing, caressing fingers, maybe she’d be very emotional when she cums. Maybe she’d just let everything bust out. You’d be inside her and she’d close her eyes and go limp and suddenly you’d feel her vagina flutter and her back would arch and coil she’d jump at you like a cat, banging that belly into you, all greedy clutching and frantic digging, screaming your name in your ear as she pulls you deeper into her and lifts her knees and curls her toes. Then she’d go limp and sob, then bury her face in your shoulder and weep mysteriously, and you want to ask why and you’re afraid because of what she might reveal to you.

God help me, these women.

In a mind game of “Could You Would You” if I had to choose between either of them and any Victoria Secret model, I’d definitely go for these. Not even a contest. That’s not supposed to happen. That’s not how it is in the movies and the soaps. You're supposed to go for the youth product.

But goddamn. These are fantastic women.

I hear the clatter of the shopping cart with the sticky wheel. She’s ready. There’s the little package of salmon shavings I asked for, to put on my toast. I guess that’s love in it’s own way. She's a woman.

C. Sanchez-Garcia


  1. It's a good thing you're a writer, Garce. You've got to have some outlet for all these imaginings!

    Personally, I think it says good things about you, that you're drawn to who a woman is as much as what she looks like.

  2. Garce - great observational writing. I could really see each of these women.

  3. I think women are fascinating. I only wish I understood them better.


  4. Hi Kathleen!

    Thanks! I appreciate you;re coming by and checking it out.


  5. Thank you for the pleasure of reading this, Garce.
    Made me smile.

  6. Hiya Garce. Took a quick moment to read your latest. It took me years to realize that not all women were like me...I'd see men anywhere and wonder what they were like in bed. Even now, happily-married for almost 30 years, I still look at the hands of any man I meet, to try to imagine what they're packing in those pants.

    When I was younger, I'd boldly walk up to them and demand that they show me. I was never men are so easy! But these days I try to be sneaky when I look, though it doesn't matter anymore. Most men don't seem to see a wildly-sexy woman when they look at me. I guess this is what it means to become a means men don't pause to ogle you anymore...reminds me of the old days when I'd be pregnant, proof positive that I was a sexual being, but no one would look.

    Nor do they care about all I've learned in my many years of wildly-imaginative sex...I've forgotten things that younger women haven't had the time to learn yet!

    Thanks for giving me hope that at least one man may still look at me with desire (besides my husband, who remembers how I used to look and knows quite well what I'm like).

  7. Hi Renee!

    Thank you goddess for coming by and reading my stuff.

    As you can see, I'm "reactivated".


  8. Hi Fiona!

    I think what you;re saying here actually comes to the very heart of what I'm saying. What is erotic actually? Its the mystery of the abyss between the sexes. For instance, its interesting to me that you think of men's hands. I never look at women's hands, but I think for women - now that you mention it - I can see how a man's hands might be an object of desire, because a woman wants to feel those hands running over her and loving her and desiring her. Sometimes in romance stories you read about the heros rough hands or strng hands or whatever. That's interesting.

    But also, you express the idea that at your age men stop looking at you. When I see your little tag picture up above on the comment with your deep cleavage and lush fleshiness and that big fun loving grin, I ask myself "Could You Would You?" the answer is a sharp and ringing "Oh baby yes! And twice on Sunday!". That's worth talking about.

    Our culture packages sex as youth and beauty for commercial reasons. Young Victoria Secret models are sexy. Middle aged or older women who've got a few pounds on are not. But this is an artificial construct, this isn;t what actually goes on in men's minds. What I'm illustrating in my post is an example of what really goes on in men's minds. From what I see of you in your little tag, would you look great in a string bikini? MAybe those days are over. Would you look great on a bed? Oh my god. . . watch out. Men aren't wired the way business dictates. We are what we are. If I'm daydreaming and girl watching in a coffee shop, I'm not girl watching, I'm woman watching. I find heavy women in hair curlers intensely erotic. It sounds lauaghable but that is the reality of male fantasy. Including young male fantasy too, I can tell you.

    You think the young boys have stopped looking at you. They haven't. They just don;t want their buddies to see them staring at you if you;re teh same age as their mom. But they're staring.
    And they're imagining you naked and maybe with hair curlers too.


  9. Thanks, Garce! You just made my day, even if you are only speaking for yourself! I'm off to sub in a minute, so I can't chat long.

    You misunderstood about the hands...did you ever read Xavier Hollander's "The Happy Hooker"? It was practically required reading when I was in college. I based one of my heroines on the person I was back then. Anyway, she wrote that in her years of experience, she had noted that when you take a man's middle finger and bend it down as far as it will reach on his palm, measure from there up to where it ends when it is raised up, and that's the length of him hard. Have him clasp both hands together and measure around the 2 pointers and 2 middle fingers, and that's the width you will get to enjoy. I didn't have as much experience as her, though not for lack of trying! But I discovered to my joy that she was right!

    Does that make me shallow?

  10. I don;t know if she was right or not, but I can tell you one thing for sure. Right now, any man who reads what you've just said is bending his middle finger back to his palm and checking it out.

    I haven;t checked mine out yet but you know I will.


  11. Garce, I love how you debunk stereotypes and show the eroticism of everyday life.


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