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“The world will always welcome lovers….. As Time Goes By …..”. (click to play the song while you read the story)
A sad and sensuous melody wafts in from the Really Old Oldies Station playing on the radio in the bedroom. The classic melody melts into the candlelight and steam above my sunken penthouse bathtub hidden in the clouds of a Big City Skyline.
Amber tendrils of her dripping hair draw arabesques on golden skin along the supple curves of her torso. Eyes half-closed, pouting mouth, she tosses her head toward me with a gaze that would light wet firewood. There is nothing in the world but her and me.
Lifting a leg above the water, she rests her foot on my shoulder, stroking my hair and neck, tickling my ear with her pinkly painted toes. She makes me smile idiotically, yes, please-do-it-ically. I tilt my head to meet her foot with a submissive animal twitch that lets her know she’s my master.
Her leg bends slightly. A rivulet runs down her leg, melting into the canyon between her thighs. Her heel nestles next to my throat as she massages my temple with her toe. I lift my hand out of the suds to blow her a bubbly kiss. My eyes follow the ruffled waves as they ripple on the shores of her ample, island breasts. Tiny bubbles swirl and burst beneath her nipples like a tiny, iridescent fireworks show.
Slowly her caresses shift, her slick skin slithers on mine, the tip of her toe traces my chin, the contour of my lips. My eyes loose focus as I submerge myself in sensuousness. I nibble at her perfect toes, tickling with my tongue. She giggles, then laughs out loud. That sound! If it was food, I’d gain a hundred pounds!
“Oh, baby…” My voice is a horse whisper. She whinnies and lets her arching foot slide down my pecs. Her toes dig into my skin, her sole rests on the wild pounding in my chest — she can feel it! Very still, she listens to my heart with her delicious toes. It’s pumping! Out of control, like some menacing machine! We both know where the blood is going now…Shadow, I love you. 
She bites her lower lip. Her breathing quickens. Like a female Captain Ahab, she lowers her boat urgently into the bubble bath scented waves to hunt for the great, white sperm whale.
“Oh yeah, baby. Lower away!”, I say, urging her on.
As the keel of Shadow’s boat rides on the waves of our passion, I hear, in the back of my mind, the voice of Gregory Peck intoning Herman Melville’s immortal words:
“The whale, the whale! Up helm, up helm! Oh, all ye sweet powers of air, now hug me close! Steady! helmsman, steady. Nay, nay! Up helm again! He turns to meet us! Oh, his unappeasable brow drives on towards one, whose duty tells him he cannot depart. My God, stand by me now!”
The perfumed waves mount into a frothing tempest and splash onto the bathroom floor. My Moby Dick rams and hoists the shuddering bow of her sensuous ship until her timbers creak and moan, and then explode, giving way to screams!…the same, impassioned screams that have summoned the wandering souls of humanity into the next generation of baby bodies since the Omniscient Creator orchestrated the first primordial conception of homo sapiens in the dim mists of…
“Bbrrrrriiiing! Bbrrrrriiiing!”
I opened one eye slowly and carefully lurched my aching head up off my desk. Oh, (Bleep)! I was dreaming again! A very moist dream. For the third time this week I’d fallen asleep in front of my computer monitor. I felt like “Johnny Dollar, PI”, in the old radio program I used to listen to when I was a kid, except for the fact that he had an expense account because he worked as a claims investigator for some big insurance company.
I have a lot of expenses, but I didn’t have any accounts. Every time Johnny walked around a corner somebody hit him on the back of the head and knocked him out. He spent all of his time trying to figure out who did it and why. Usually, it was because of some women he was mixed up with. You think he would have learned to stay away from corners.
“Bbrrrrriiiing! Bbrrrrriiiing!”
The (bleeping) phone was still ringing! My answering machine picked up the call. I heard my cleverly conceived marketing message start to play as I looked foggily at the sign painted on the opaque glass of my office door:
The Un-existential Detective Agency of America (T.U.D.A.A.) !
“We dig up the truth for you”
SAM SHOVEL – Proprietor and Public Dick”
____________________________
Excerpt from Chapter One of THE BIG BLEEP, a novel by Lawrence R. Spencer
