HERE IS ONE OF MINE. A CRACKBRAINED LOVE STORY

THAT I CAUTION YOU TO READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.  

YOU MAY NEVER AGAIN WANT TO EAT FRIED CHICKEN.

 

UNCONDITIONALLY FROM MY BOOK BLUE VEGAS

 

            The art on the wall was Monet.  Rather, works which had been collected by

Monet.  Seventeenth century Flemish armchairs with original tapestry flanked a

square wrought iron table from depression era Louisiana.  The mantelpiece came

from the English manor house where Edward VIII stole away for forbidden

weekends with Wallis Simpson.  Facing the fireplace, a red velvet settee from the

court of Louis XIV.  Even the most unobtrusive ashtray was precisely positioned

in this room where eclecticism was matched by warmth and charm.

            Amanda was an attractive woman.  Quite beautiful actually.  Her auburn

hair was long with a slight natural curl.  She admitted to 35 but had passed 40, a

claim few would doubt as a daily regimen of skin care and exercise kept vibrant

the weapons nature had given her.  Amanda was in love.  True and unconditional

love.  She had decorated this room herself.  Inspired by her love which was to be

forever, she tastefully fused the schematic clutter of  mismatched antiques with 

the resplendent freshness of newly cut stems which were changed each morning.

 From the most petite Lalique bud vase to the centerpiece Japanese porcelain

bowl, an energizing sweetness permeated the room.  This day it was a delicate

grouping of calla lilies and tulips the color of Roma tomatoes.  Amanda stood by

the window contemplating the water splashing from a mosaic fountain, then

turned as she heard someone enter the room.

            A tall slender woman walked toward her.  Her name was Jennifer.  In her

mid 20s.  She took off her coat to reveal

 jeans and a loose fitting vest.  Her face

was fresh and vibrant, framed by shoulder length vanilla hair which reacted to

even her slightest movement.

            Without a word, Jennifer raked back Amanda’s hair and ran her tongue

slowly up the side of her neck.  Nibbling as she nestled behind her ear.  Amanda’s

head rocked backward as she weakened with a desire evidenced by whimpers

which could be felt if not heard.  Her eyes still closed, she slid her hands beneath

her lover’s vest which soon fell to the carpet.  Jennifer unbuttoned Amanda’s

blouse and leaned forward, brushing their breasts together.  In a moment they

lay naked on centuries old red velvet, fingers locked together as they kissed.

Jennifer’s tongue slowly circled Amanda’s breasts.  Gently biting them.  Amanda

tugged vanilla hair with both fists as she felt her nipple stiffen inside her lover’s

mouth.

            Jennifer moaned as Amanda’s fingers explored her soft inner crevices,

then quickly pulled away.  “Careful baby.  Your nails are sharp.”  Their flesh

again pressed together.  Moans of pleasure echoed each caress then, “OW!”  This

time Jennifer screamed it, jerking her head in horror to see a chicken pecking at

the inner curve of her ass.

            She threw herself off of Amanda and onto the floor, feathers flying as the

chicken squawked bloody murder as it shot across the room and crashed into a

sculpture of Shen Yang marble.  Jennifer dove for cover behind a chair as a dozen

more chickens zigzagged into the room.  Naked and panic-stricken, she peeked

over the chair and saw an old man dressed in a bathrobe with a six gun on his

hip.  The man was very old.  Almost hollow.  Wore a ten gallon hat and fuzzy

slippers.  He picked up the dazed bird and shuffled slowly toward the settee and

sat beside Amanda.

            “Sorry,” the old man muttered.  “I brought Bluebell in to watch Matlock and

guess I forgot to shut the dang door.”

            Jennifer scrambled for her clothes and dressed quickly, then lost her

balance and fell on her ass as squawking poultry pecked at her bare feet.  Looked

up in disbelief at the surreal portrait of her naked lover sitting on priceless red

velvet beside a decaying cowboy in fuzzy slippers holding a chicken. She didn’t

know whether to scream or scram.  She scrammed.

            Most bored wives of privilege filled the void by having suitable sex with the

golf pro or vile sex with the gardener. Amanda opted to spend her husband’s

money on the anonymous passion of high end lesbian hookers.  But it hadn’t

always been that way.

            Stationed near Las Vegas during World War II, her husband stuck around

after his discharge.  Worked as a craps dealer in the sawdust joints on Fremont

Street.  Kept his vices in check and at the end of each week had a few dollars to

put in the bank.  Later when the corporations muscled their way onto the Strip, a

friend convinced him to take his money out of the bank and buy some casino

stock. It proved a good investment and he bought some more.  Years later he

cashed out millions.

It was around that time he met Amanda.  A damsel in distress who he helped

escape a serious jam she had gotten into with a low life who preyed on young girls

fresh off the bus.  Amanda was grateful to have been given a second chance at life,

anxious to repay the old man’s kindness the only way she knew how.  But he

would not take advantage of her vulnerability, saying only that he was happy to

have been able to help.  They developed a friendship which over time led to

courtship.  He supported her interests and treated her with a respect she had

never known dating younger men.  He was 71 and she was 24 and they shared a

love which would be forever.

            As the years passed and age started to rob him of his marbles, Amanda saw

to all his needs.  Indulged his eccentricities, of which keeping chickens in the

house was not even close to being the most bizarre.  She had sex with women

because she could never be unfaithful with another man as long as he was alive.

 And probably not even after that.  She loved him that much.

            Amanda shooed poultry off seventeenth century Flemish armchairs, then

pushed back the old man’s ten gallon hat and kissed him tenderly on the

forehead.  “You and Bluebell go watch your show.  I’ll make us some popcorn and

be right in.”

            Amanda helped the frail old cowboy to his feet and made sure Bluebell was

secure in his arm.  Then steadied him as he shuffled out of the room, the rest of

the chickens following dutifully in a row.

            This beautiful naked woman whose long auburn hair had a slight natural

curl.  This woman of desire who kept sexually vibrant the weapons nature had

given her.  This woman who could have had anyone went into the kitchen to make

popcorn for a crackbrained old man and his pet chicken. Yes, she loved him that

much.  A love which would be forever.