Bullet Through Your Face (improved format) Read Free Page B

aren’t you married?”
“Aw, no, I’se ain’t married!” she exclaimed as if it was an
absurdity. “I gotta baby, shore, but that was juss by some fella who
raped me once.”
“Oh, wow,” Gray said. “I’m sorry.”
“Ain’t nothin’ ta be sorry ‘bout ‘cos she’s a beauter-full baby.”
Her fingers, very daintily, tacked around Gray’s crotch. Things
were moving down there again, the tent struggled to rise against the
tension. “I’se don’t want ya ta think I’m greedy’re nothing, but, ya
know, seein’s that yer hard again, I thoughts ya might wanna come
in an’ give me a fuck.”
Just hearing the word— fuck —come from her mouth made Gray
feel like he might come right there in his pants. His chest tightened.
“But-but you said you had two brothers.”
“Yeah, I’se do, but, see, they’se ain’t here right now, won’t be
home till tuh-marruh nat on account they had ta go ta Pennsylvania
ta buy car parts at some big car convention. So’s you kin come in,
an’ we’se won’t be disturbed. But, ya know, I’d have ta charge, like,
maybe . . . forty?”
All reason was lost now. Gray turned off the motor and the lights,
opened his wallet, and gave her a hundred dollars.
“Tarnations! Ya don’t have ta give me that much!”
“Take it,” he said. His words came out parched. “You’re really just so . . . beautiful . . .”
    Her face leaned
forward in the dark. He couldn’t see it as much
as feel it—its softness, its warmth. She kissed him very lightly on the
lips while her hand lingered at his crotch, his lust rekindled now
fullforce. Yes, so much lust for her, lust that felt like an inchoate,
molten
mass.
    “Come on,” she whispered. “I’ll’se make ya feel real good. You
ain’t even gotta use a rubber if ya don’t want.”
Rubbers were the last thing on his mind just then. In fact,
everything was—everything but her. Gray got out, almost fell over
in some distractive euphoria. Did she giggle? She led him into the
house, holding his hand. The front door creaked open; she switched
on a light.
What a dive, Gray thought. This looked like the place Jed and
Granny lived in before they moved to Beverly Hills. More dilapidated
inside than out, a shit-heap. But then he scolded himself. Certainly
she was underprivileged. No education? Picking crabmeat? And
she’d do that to support her child rather than go on welfare. In a lot of
ways, she was a better person than he.
“Sorry’se ‘bout the mess,” she apologized.
The words barely registered. Gray stood in a prickling fog,
staring. His eyes seemed to be entities with minds of their own; he
couldn’t take them off her. She nonchalantly turned, tossed her head,
gave a despondent smile. Then she took off the halter and, just as
nonchalantly, stepped out of her cutoffs.
God Almighty, Gray thought.
Even in this tacky place, in this tacky lamplight . . . she was
beautiful. It was a sporadic kind of beauty, an honest kind, utterly
divorced from centerfold appeal and women’s-mag chicness. Here
was a real woman, however unsophisticated, full of real life. Even
her flaws were beautiful: one upper front tooth slightly crooked,
one distended nipple minutely larger than the other, an old scar
on one knee. Beautiful, Gray thought in his daze. His mouth felt dry. She didn’t seem the least bit inhibited about standing before
a perfect stranger totally naked. Fine hair showed traceably from
her underarms. A plot of dark-blond fur puffed from her pubis, and
within it, just barely, he could see the lovely folds of her femininity.
    The large, high breasts swayed as she stepped forward. “You
ready?” she asked.
“Yes,” he nearly croaked.
The vision entranced him, pulled him to his knees. Now he was
face to face with the nebulous triangle of hair. Gray brushed the hair
with his lips; it was so soft he barely felt it. Just as soft were the backs
of her thighs, over which his hands glided until they found their way
to her buttocks. His mouth