Author's Note: The story you are about to read is fiction. In real life, intelligent people use condoms.
My name is Bernie, and I own a used bookstore. No, no, no, I'm not that Bernie. I don't do burglaries on the side, I don't have a lesbian best friend - or nutty gay guy friend if you saw the movie with the fabulous black actress playing his part, and I don't solve murders in my spare time. I have an exterminator for any mice, not a cat that I have to worry about feeding all the time. And worst of all, I don't write anywhere near as well as the guy who writes about that Bernie. But still, he only hints when he writes about sex; I like to get kind of graphic.
I've also never been in jail like that other Bernie; I don't carry lock picks either. The only locks I have any interest in opening are those on chastity belts. Does anybody know what a chastity belt really looks like or how it works? Do they exist? Did they ever exist?
If you've ever been in a used bookstore, you know that there's a lot of down time in that business. There's plenty of time for me to do crossword puzzles, read oodles of books and, when the opportunity arises, lock the door and give one of my customers the fucking of her life. Believe me, the money is decent but those fringe benefits are incomparable.
Zelda waltzed into the store one day looking for that book by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Her face looked like a young thirty-something but I knew that she was much older when she told me her name. I mean, who the fuck nowadays names a girl Zelda? She had to have been at least fifty with a name like that, likely more.
Now, the way I do my seduction — which may not be the right word, because all the women who I wind up fucking — not the ones I strike out with - come into the store, if not outright looking for it, certainly aware that every man wants to fuck them and receptive to the right approach — is with my eyes. (Damn, that was some compound sentence. In school I would have been thrown out of class for writing like that. Sorry.) I don't mean looking them up and down; I can get a reasonable picture with an overall glance from the counter the second she walks through the door. And that overall glance is sufficient; as long as she's not obviously disgusting, she meets my criteria. What are my criteria? Simple. If I can get my rocks off every couple of hours without having to take the cunt out to dinner or a movie and without throwing up, she'll do.
When I say every couple of hours, I don't mean to suggest that my batting average is anywhere near that good. That's simply my fantasy goal. I don't even score every day or even close to every day, unless you want to count the palm and five fingers that I can always rely on in the apartment or in the back room at the store. And that's what I do every few hours, even if I do manage to get laid or blown on the job. That's why I put in the room with no windows except for the one-way mirror like they use on Law and Order, so I can be getting myself off and still see if any customers come into the store. But if I've got willing female company back there, I do lock the front door. Imagine what would happen if I pulled out of a woman just as she was about to get off in order to ring up a five dollar sale.
Not that I put any special effort into making the woman cum. I mean, I'll hold back for a little while to give her a chance, but my real fun is letting go with my white stuff whenever my balls say so, whether she's ready or not, if you know what I mean.
So what I'm saying about my eyes is that I use them to hold the cunt's attention. I look into hers without trying to stare her down. I'm not a Wild West gunslinger, I'm just trying to communicate with her without having to say 'let's fuck' out loud — that's for later. Sometimes she'll blink and turn away, and I'll know that I went too far or just struck out. Shit, most of the time they turn away. But that's life. Anyway, sometimes she'll hold my gaze, sort of like 'I get you but don't bother me, I'd rather go home to my vibrator' or some thought equally dismissive.
But every once in a while she'll smile back at me, like 'oh, there's someone who'd like to fuck as much as I would, let's see if I want to follow up, ' and then I know that I've got a fighting chance. So I'll stay behind the counter and ask her, in a voice that she'll have to lean forward to hear, if I can help her. Maybe she'll say that she's just browsing; then I'll stay where I am and follow her with my eyes through the various mirrors hung up to deter shoplifters. Or maybe she'll ask for a certain section, or even a specific book, and I'll answer her like any good merchant.
All I'm looking for is a chance to start a conversation. Forget the weather; it turns them off. One of my friends touted me onto 'where are you from?' Non threatening, shows mild interest, allows them free rein to talk about themselves. If her hand ever touches the counter, I'll put mine on top of hers while I say something soft to her. Whatever. My nose twitches, her nose twitches and my cock starts to fill with blood.
Zelda, as I said, was looking for Fitzgerald. One of the benefits of my business is that, with so much to read and so much time to do it, I can hold a decent conversation on a lot of different subjects. So we got into a discussion about Gatsby and the Roaring Twenties — that's before my time, her time and your time too.
Her name actually fit; it reminds me of a slightly plump woman, which she was. OK, let's be politically correct and just call her 'full-figured'. But still not Rubenesque. Whichever; I just needed something to fuck. Her jeans and blouse fit properly, neither tight nor baggy; she had obviously spent good money in a quality shop to take advantage of her size.
"Ah yes," she said, "those Roaring Twenties must have been like the sixties." She said it as though with fond memories.
"You're kidding," I responded. "You're not old enough to remember the sixties." Of course she was, and I damn well knew it. Remember, she had already told me that her name was Zelda. "You must have heard about them from your parents," I added for good measure.
"Do not fool yourself, little man," she riposted with a smile, laying her soft hand on mine.
Little man? I'm six-four, a solid two hundred ten, thirty two years old. I towered over her in height and weight and, forgive me if I don't blush, but I've been told that I'm, let's just say, 'hung'. I tell myself that I'm not ugly, which is true, but that I don't have a movie star face, which is also true. To round out the picture, I've been divorced for seven years, with neither alimony nor child support payments to worry about, so I can afford to live on what the store brings in.
I do take some no small measure of pride in that 'hung' business though. That's sort of why I'm divorced. My Peter The Great — I always capitalize him like that — forever needs attention. While my ex-wife was willing to try everything — and that's the absolutely correct word, everything, including stuff I won't even write about — she got tired of trying every variation every three or four hours. Especially all night long, when she had to get up in the morning to go to work. So she left me for an older guy whose testosterone was starting to dry up, or whatever the technical word is for a worn out cock.
"Little man?' I repeated, with a smile and a brief, very brief but still deliberate glance down toward my zipper. I could have said 'Little man? I'll show you something that ain't so little', but by that time the only thing left in doubt was whether or not Zelda would take it up the ass. And that really didn't matter, so long as I was going to get my balls emptied without straining my right arm and wasting a tissue.
So three minutes later, after a quick scan of all the mirrors to make sure that no one else was wandering the stacks, I locked the front door and hung the sign that said 'Back in One Hour'. Since no passersby would know when I had put up the sign, it was good for a fifteen minute quickie blow job or a two hour fuck-her-front-and-back marathon. Whatever; Peter The Great could handle it. I left the lights on, to induce people to come back sooner or later.
We adjourned to the room with the window that looks out but you can't look in, though I had no intention of looking out since the door was locked. I wasn't really afraid that the other Bernie, the one in the books, would pick the door lock, sneak in and steal my inventory of unsalable old books.
What that room also had was a small convertible chair that opened up into a single bed. It was good for the occasional nap. The chair was always open to the bed position. There didn't seem to be any good reason to jeopardize a romantic — no, make that lustful - moment with furniture issues. It meant that I had to be sure that I had left no pecker tracks on the sheet that wouldn't wash out and that the next guest would see. No problem! Since most of my fucking is one on top of the other, it also served purposes other than napping. If the cunt had any interest in real sleep — which never happens on the first date, if we can call it a date — then we have to use my apartment or hers. I always preferred hers, unless it was out of the way or unless she had a husband tucked away there.
Not that I'd ever have the nerve to try it, but every once in a while I have this sick fantasy that maybe I should skip the sheets and use one of those pull-down rolls of paper like the doctor uses on his examination table. Alas, I had no doubt that it would scare away almost every one of them that I got into that back room. Not all of them, though; one or two might be kinky enough to get a laugh out of it.
.... There is more of this story ...