BainsBane spends the night with franksolich (rated: PG; complete)

[franksolich]

The business partner came over after the neighbor’s wife left, as he had some work that needed done, and needed to pick up other work already done.

“I heard you had a problem the other morning,” he said; “did they use a straight-edge, or electric?”

I ignored the question and immediately told him that I had an unexpected visitor for the night, and described her.

“Where is she now?  I’d like to see them--, er, her,” he said.

Sure you would, I thought to myself.

“I’m not sure exactly where they’re at right now, but [the property caretaker]’d suggested we all go swimming, but I tell you, the way other people gape and stare at her--and he’s been the worst of the lot, since he first laid eyes upon her--I didn’t think that was such a good idea.

“You know how everybody acts, when down there swimming.”

The property caretaker is well-known for his personal integrity.  In his mid-30s, a married man (but no children), a veteran of the U.S. Navy, a hard and conscientious worker, a good neighbor, a friend to all those in need.  All that he has, he owns; he doesn’t owe any bank or even his father-in-law, a dime.

However, as his wife commented to me one time when she was angry with him, once he takes his clothes off, he can become quite a clown.

“And here, she’s a screeching banshee she-woman; imagine what she’d think.

“She’s a primitive, and primitives get insulted and indignant real easily; they have no sense of humor.

“And too, she’s a women’s-libber, and when there’s not a reason for a grievance, they create one out of thin air anyway.

“It’d be hazardous; she’d accuse him of trying to have her without her consent or something, and as you know, everybody always believes the woman.

“So anyway, so as to keep any mischief from happening, I suggested that since she’s never seen this area, since she has no idea what Nebraska’s like--the parts outsiders never see--he instead take her for a leisurely country ride, showing off all the places he care-takes, the rivers, the flora, the fauna, the vast panoramic vista of the Sandhills.

“That’d keep any, uh, anything, from happening between them.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Just then, the telephone rang.  It has a red-white-and-blue blinking light that indicates it’s ringing, but we were in the kitchen, and the telephone’s in the dining room, so I had no idea.

The business partner heard it, though, and went to answer it.

When he came back, he announced, “that was Dane, down at his repair shop.  He says he’s having trouble getting one part, and so the car won’t be ready in the morning.

“It’ll however be ready the day after tomorrow.

“It looks like you’ll have her for not one night, but two nights.

“Good luck.

“I’ll be at the bar tonight, to join you.  I want to take a look at them--er, her.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

I managed to get more work done after the business partner left--this was brain work, not manual work--until the femme showed up from the big city, with two of her friends.  They were going to join us for supper at the bar in town.

One of the femme’s friends, unaware that one can read lips even if from across the room, asked her, “aren’t you worried about that sort of woman spending the night with him?”

No, not at all, the femme said; “big boobs don’t excite him any more than they’d animate a dead fish.

"They should get along fine; given what she is, she wants to be valued for her mind, not ogled for her body."

to be continued

[franksolich]

She and the property caretaker finally got back, but she being hot and sweaty, had to first freshen up.

I stood at the doorway of the bathroom, an arm upraised and an elbow propped against the frame, as she dried her face.  I was also looking for something; if she had those little bite-marks on covered parts of her body, it was likely she’d have at least a few others on her neck and face.  “Well,” I finally asked, “did you two have a good time?

“And if you don’t mind telling, what is it, exactly, that you did?”

“Oh, we just rode around, and he showed me all sorts of interesting things.”

“Such as?” I asked with a growing trepidation.

“The Sandhills, of course,” she answered; “the hills, the valleys, the rivers, the birds, the cattle, the bison, the llamas, the horses, the deer, the prairie dogs, and I got some great pictures of flocks of bald eagles.

“It looks so empty out here, but there’s more out here than what’s in Minneapolis.”

She was avoiding my question.  “But what was it that you did out there?” I asked again.

“Oh, we explored some things--”

My face turned white.

“And we ran around and laid in the grass--”

My hair stood on end.

“We played,” she said; “he’s such a funny guy.”

My blood ran cold.

I was aghast.  As soon as she could, she was going to report the property caretaker for harassment at least, having her against her will at most, and she being who she was, people were going to believe her, not him.

Leading to the foul ruination of a man, his reputation, and a marriage just because she‘s a lying bitch who enjoys making life miserable for men.

“And then the children--”

Whoa, I said, what children?

“Oh, we’d gone to your neighbor’s house, and the children wanted to come along, so we took them.  Evrybody had lots and lots of fun.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

*****ANNOUNCEMENT FROM franksolich*****

My apologies for the short, jerky chapters, but I'm in-and-out of here, waiting for the imminent denouement of a Great Tragedy in real life.   All I can do is sit and wait.

BainsBane and her sister shrieking she-women swarmettes don't need to worry about it; it affects franksolich only distantly, peripherally.

My bitch is that I predicted this would happen.....thirty years ago, and nobody paid any attention.

Thirty years, twenty years, ten years, five years, a year ago, six months ago.....

Nobody paid any heed.

There's a lesson in this for primitives; ignore the advice and counsel of franksolich at your own peril.

[franksolich]

When we walked into the bar, I noticed Swede--he’s the husband of the owner--the cook of Norwegian derivation whose specialty is Italianate cuisine, was working this evening.  He saw us at the same time, grimacing at me, and smiling at her.

He shoved the waitress aside and come over to take our order.

“So…..I heard you had a lady barber last weekend; how was she?”

I ignored the query and ordered my usual, a hamburger well done, pressed down hard on the grill so as to squeeze out every drop of grease, french fries cooked on the grill instead of in the fryer, and a side-dish of sour cream.

We were at the big round table where all everybody was--the femme, her two friends, the property caretaker and his wife, the business partner--and Swede went over to her to take her order.  But rather than simply standing there, pad and pen in hand, he pulled up a chair so as to sit closely beside her and discuss each item on the menu.

She finally decided upon insalata caprese, strolghino, agghiotta di lumache, buccellato, grissini torinesi, gnocchi di semolina, penne all'arrabbiata, spaghetti alla carbonara, risotto di seppie alla veneziana, acciughe fritte in pastella, impanata di pesce spada, cotechino friulano, asparagi bianchi e verdi, formai de mut, ricotta affumicata, and for dessert, torta caprese.

Swede beamed.  As he passed me, his back being turned to her, he cupped his hands and extended his arms out from his chest, grinning and silently whistling.

There was much chit-chattery and gib-gabbery and mumble-jumbery going on, but as it was too many people, I didn’t bother trying to decipher anything that was being said.

The business partner and I found ourselves being shoved further away as others came into the bar, took chairs, and made places for themselves at our table.

Finally I said to him, “you know, this is really odd.  This is Monday evening.  Mondays here excepting during football season make a nursing home at midnight seem lively and animated.  Why do you suppose this time, though, the place is packed?”

“Maybe they’re coming in to look at something--er, see somebody,” he said. 

- - - - - - - - - -

When she got up in the morning--she’d taken the news of being delayed here one day further rather too well, I thought--she poured herself a cup of coffee and came out to the back porch to join me.

I was sitting there smoking a cigarette, but instead of my usual nocturnal unattire, was covered from head-to-ankle in a union suit, with long underwear underneath.

“We need to talk,” she said.

“I get the impression you resent having me here, but I was invited to be here, and it’s not my fault there’s a delay in getting the car fixed.”

Oh, no, I assured her; “it’s not your fault, and this is the only place you could be.

“But I on the other hand get the impression--it’s rather hard to miss, madam--that you don’t like me very much, despite that I’m the only person around here who’s treated you with respect, keeping my eyes off your body, and appreciating you for your mind instead.

“You know,” I said, snuffing out my cigarette, “you don’t have to like me, but you could at least be indifferent to me, rather than hostile to me.”

“Oh, but I do like you,” she said; “I like you very much.”

Being a primitive, of course she was lying; it’s second nature to them.

“Well, whatever,” I said, “but I need to tell you something.

“Remember Romeo, from last night?”  I was hoping she hadn’t gotten too tanked, because it was important that she remember Romeo, which is his nickname, not his real name.

“I know Romeo like the back of my hand,” I told her; “and while Romeo’s a good friend of mine, I need to warn you about him.

“Romeo’s one of the ranch-hands who works across the road, and keeps beer in one of the refrigerators in the garage here, for days when it’s hot.  He’s unmarried, and makes good bucks because he’s a hard worker.  Also, women tend to be attracted to him.

“But let me tell you, Romeo’s no good for women.  He’s a tomcat, who uses women once, and then drops them.  ‘A woman’s got one shot with me,’ he says, ‘and if she doesn’t pass the first time, there’s not going to be a second time.’

“No woman’s ever had a second time with Romeo, none’s been good enough for him, he says.

“Romeo’s a nice guy, a real charmer, but when it comes to women, he’s a real rectal aperture.

“He wants women only for their bodies, nothing more.”

“Oh, but you’re wrong,” she contradicted me; “he was admiring my mind all last night.”

She’d been drunk out of her gourd last night; she had no idea.

“In fact, we’re going out again this afternoon, because he wants to talk more.”

I arched my eyebrows, saying nothing.

to be continued

[franksolich]

“I saw that,” she said.  “You think men are pigs.”

I arched my eyebrows again.   â€œWell then, madam, we agree on something.

“Myself being a man, I suppose I know what men are.”

“I can’t believe you really said that,” she came back.

“But whoop-whoop-whoop-de-do,” I said; “I have no idea what women are, but I’m pretty sure they aren’t anything better than pigs.

“There’s no nobility in women that’s anything higher than nobility in a man.  Both men and women are crude bestial savages with a veneer of decency covering them; strip away that outer skin, and we’re all beasts.

“At heart, at the core, men want to **** women every opportunity they get, and women want to be ****ed every chance they have.

“However, to get along with others--and we’re all sociable animals--it’s necessary to have a veneer of decency; it could be onion-skin paper-thick, cardboard-thick, brick-thick.  It’s created from what we’re taught, in the matter of getting along.

“Bill Clinton and franksolich are exactly, precisely, the same, underneath our veneers; we’re both yowling tomcats, with an insatiable lust for ****ing women.

“What’s different is that while one can’t control one’s feelings, one can control one’s conduct.

“And so we have Bill Clinton with a very thin, nearly-eroded veneer of decent and civilized behavior, and franksolich with a nearly-impenetrable veneer of conduct--although it’s still only a veneer.

“My lust for women, madam, is the same passionate intensity as his, but as I told you when you first came here, in my whole entire life I’ve never made advances on any woman who didn’t want them, I’ve never lifted my hand against a woman--I’ve never even called a woman, either to her face or behind her back, any of those coarse ’names’ that seem to proliferate today.

“The gallantry’s only a veneer, but it’s obviously a thick and tough one, and thus far hasn’t shown any signs of wearing off.

“Admit it, madam--despite your protestations about being liked for your mind, your personality, your character, your whatever, at heart, you really just want to be ****ed.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

She opened her mouth to protest, but I wouldn’t have it.

“Look, madam, I’ve spent my life having to judge people by what they do, rather than what they say--”

Oooops.

I was getting into dangerous territory; since she was a stranger to me, I didn’t want her to know I’m deaf, and thus involuntarily have to be this way.  And thus far the masquerade had worked; she wasn’t all that perceptive, and perhaps thought I was just stupid.

Which was fine with me, because she didn’t count anyway.

“People’s mouths can of course lie, but their actions, their conduct, betrays the truth.

“So…..I’ve been watching you.  You’ve been doing all this talk about wanting men to like you for your mind, but at the same time you’ve been asking for sex.

“You know your, uh, most unusual attributes are a magnet to men, a big turn-on, and so you show them off, flaunt them, jiggle them around, to get their carnal juices flowing.

“And because you know something about advertising and ‘target markets,’, you make a special effort to attract the ‘most likely’ marks, in this case shallow men who can’t see beyond skin and fat.

“It’s no wonder you think men are pigs, because you’re looking only for the biggest loutiest pigs among men; decent and civilized men for whom the sight means nothing, well, they’re of no interest to you.

“You really only want sex, and you blatantly use certain, uh, features to get it.”

to be continued

[Wineslob]

Well, finally PG.


 

[franksolich]

Well, finally PG.

 

Uh huh, but there’s problems.  I’m sure God intends for me to write this story, but the Devil keeps interfering.  The death-watch in real life continues (I’ll write about it after it’s over), but as there’s nothing I can do, and as I’m geographically far away, all I can do is sit and wait.

All I can do is feed the cats, vacuum the floors, read books, scrub the ceilings, change the air in the tires of the automobile, and…..write.  Anything, anything at all, so as to not just sit here and twiddle the thumbs.

But anyway, unless it’s already obvious, an important point of this story of BainsBane is how a deaf person sees other people, and how that perception frequently conflicts with perceptions of hearing people.

We have to judge people by how they act; hearing people judge people by what they say about themselves.

And since many people say one thing and do another thing, well, there’s contradictions.

BainsBane wants men to like her for her brains--and yes, she does have some--but her actions belie that, in her use of certain, uh, attributes to attract the notice and attention of those same men least likely to be interested in her brains at all.

What does she really want?

[Wineslob]

Uh huh, but there’s problems.  I’m sure God intends for me to write this story, but the Devil keeps interfering.  The death-watch in real life continues (I’ll write about it after it’s over), but as there’s nothing I can do, and as I’m geographically far away, all I can do is sit and wait.

All I can do is feed the cats, vacuum the floors, read books, scrub the ceilings, change the air in the tires of the automobile, and…..write.  Anything, anything at all, so as to not just sit here and twiddle the thumbs.

But anyway, unless it’s already obvious, an important point of this story of BainsBane is how a deaf person sees other people, and how that perception frequently conflicts with perceptions of hearing people.

We have to judge people by how they act; hearing people judge people by what they say about themselves.

And since many people say one thing and do another thing, well, there’s contradictions.

BainsBane wants men to like her for her brains--and yes, she does have some--but her actions belie that, in her use of certain, uh, attributes to attract the notice and attention of those same men least likely to be interested in her brains at all.

What does she really want?

  Sorry to hear about the life issue. Tough time and been there, done that.

My neighbors soon-to-be-ex-wife is the same way. Drop-dead beautiful, and, I may add, built the way you like women built. She'll complain that "all men want to do is **** me" but most certainly dresses and acts like she wants them to. She's an attention whore.

[franksolich]

My neighbors soon-to-be-ex-wife is the same way. Drop-dead beautiful, and, I may add, built the way you like women built. She'll complain that "all men want to do is **** me" but most certainly dresses and acts like she wants them to. She's an attention whore.

It's gotten ridiculous.

Nowadays, when a woman says "I want to be admired for my brain, not my looks," one automatically knows she wants to hop around in the sack.

On the other hand, decent and civilized women don't talk about how they want to be admired; they just allow the sight-seer to make his own decisions about what he's going to admire--and usually what he admires is what the woman wanted admired in the first place.

[GOBUCKS]

She'll complain that "all men want to do is **** me"

Good info for men who wonder how women talk among themselves.

Well, DUmp women, at least.

[franksolich]

Afraid I might be pushing too hard, and since I wasn’t going to convince her anyway, I changed the subject, suggesting we get dressed and take a drive out into the country.  She’d already seen the Sandhills part with the property caretaker and the neighbor‘s children, and I wanted her to eyeball the farming part.

As we were walking to my car, I hollered for the cats, who of course came, all agog and excited.

“What are you doing?” she asked.  “Cats don’t like to ride in cars.  Everybody knows that.”

“These cats like to ride in a car,” I said.  “In fact, they make a fuss when I don’t take them with me all the time.”

After which we drove to the highway, the cats in the back sticking their heads and noses out of the half-opened windows, their tongues hanging out, to catch the breeze.

“That is really unusual,” she said.  “Why do these cats like it?”

“When I first came here nine years ago,” I explained, “there were cats here.

“I grew up with dogs, and knew how to handle dogs.  Cats were new to me.

“Not knowing what else to do, I trained the cats as if they were dogs.

“They love playing ‘fetch’ with a frisbee.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Somewhere way out in the middle of nowhere--but a “nowhere” covered with verdant green foliage rather than the yellow-grey found in the Sandhills--we came across a stand by the side of the road, FRUITS AND VEGETABLES FOR SALE.

Underneath that large sign, there was a smaller sign, advertising TODAY: DOLLAR DAY.

I slammed on the brakes.  “I need some stuff,” I said.

“But it must be closed,” she insisted; “there’s nobody around.”

“Nobody has to be around,” I assured her; "it’s self-service.

“One picks out what one wants, and puts the money into the coffee-can--”

“You’re kidding me,” she said.  “They leave the stand and the money unwatched?”

“The family all works during the day; they don’t have time to stand around waiting for people.

“It’s easier; they just collect the receipts at the end of the day, and early in the morning before heading to work, they restock the merchandise.”

She looked at me as if I were Bozo from Outer Space.

“This is red America,” I said, “not blue America, where people emulate their politicians and steal what they can, as much as they can.  It‘s perfectly safe.”

- - - - - - - - - -

She did seem impressed by the goods and the prices.

Everything was a dollar; a dollar for twelve tomatoes, a dollar for a quart of strawberries, a dollar for thirteen ears of sweet corn, a dollar for a dozen peaches, a dollar for two watermelons, a dollar for three cantaloupes, a dollar for ten cucumbers, a dollar for two dozen eggs, a dollar for a pound and a half of asparagus, a dollar for ten bundles of radishes, and so on.

“Fresh things spoil fast, so they have to be sold fast,” I told her; “and they’re sold faster if they’re reasonably priced.”

I made my choices, and pulled out a $10-bill to pay for them, which were nine bucks, total.

Looking inside the coffee can, I said, “ooops; there’s eighteen twenties, seven tens, fourteen fives, and a bunch of personal checks in here.  No ones.

“Pick out another something to make it an even ten,” I said, jamming the bill inside the can.

- - - - - - - - - -

When we got back here, lover-boy Romeo was already waiting.

“I can hardly wait to explore…..your mind,” he smiled.

Speaking where he couldn’t hear me, I reminded her, “you know, you don’t have to go with him if you don’t want to.  I can invent an excuse.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” she said, and they took off.

- - - - - - - - - -

Having nothing in particular to do, I went to town to see Dane, the automotive mechanic of Norwegian derivation, who was working on her car.

Finn, the town cop, also of Norwegian derivation, was also there, and grinned when he saw me.

“I heard you had a close shave last Saturday.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

“Oh my,” she said, admiringly.  “You’re so very big.

“I thought only black men had them that big.”

He brushed it closer to her face.

“And oh my,” she added; “it’s really clean; it’s probably the cleanest one I’ve ever seen.

“Men who weren’t snipped, when the skin retracts, there’s all sorts of nasty-smelling crud underneath.”

He smiled.  “I can hardly wait to get it into you, babe, but not right now.”

They were laying in the back of Romeo’s pick-up truck out in the middle of nowhere.

He hadn’t yet pulled down her pants, but her top was long gone, and he’d already spent several minutes sucking on the two prominent parts; not the nipples, but the flesh that comprised them.  There’d been a lot of ground to cover, and as he gotten done with one, he flopped it over to the side, to start on the other one.

He wanted to get kissing her on the lips; these things were a turn-on, but they could be a nuisance too, being in the way like that.

“Objectify me,” she moaned, pulling his head closer to her face.

While Romeo was busy doing that, his hands were pulling down her pants, groping for the promised land.

She grabbed it and guided it inside, at which he emitted a loud “yelp!” and pulled back out.

“Geezuz, woman, what do you have in there?  It feels like the inside of a keg of nails.”

“I don’t want to get pregnant,” she said.

“Well, babe, you’re gonna have to get some of that stuff out of there, because I don’t want to poke around the inside of a meat-grinder.”

“I need to have it,” she insisted; “I don’t want to get pregnant.”

Ignoring her protests, he reached up in there, pulling out first a female condom, and then a sponge and a heavy-duty intrauterine device, and finally an industrial-strength contraceptive ring.

“You sure have a way of preventing going in,” he complained.

“But usually men don’t have a problem,” she insisted; “it’s just that you’re, well, the biggest man that’s ever gone in there.  I swear, if it wasn’t already as big as a tunnel, I’d run away, and fast, at seeing how big you are.”

“A tunnel, and a well-traveled four-lane expressway,” he said, as he began thrusting with the force of a jack-hammer.

“I love how good it feels inside you, without all that hardware,” he said.

- - - - - - - - - -

She was already asleep when I got home at night, and as I’d already figured out, vaguely, how it’d turned out, I didn’t bother her and went to sleep myself.

The next morning, when driving her to town to pick up her now-repaired car, I gently inquired, “well, how’d it go yesterday?”

“It was great,” she said; “the way he explored my mind, admired my personality.”

I arched my eyebrows.

“And he gave me his telephone number so I can call him and we can talk again.”

I arched my eyebrows even higher.

Romeo never gives out his telephone number to women, and in fact got in my face one time when I unwittingly did so, never having been aware of the phenomenon of unwanted telephone calls, as telephones aren’t part of this life.

“What’d he give you, the telephone number?” I asked.

She recited off the numbers.

“He uses a cellular telephone,” I pointed out; “why don’t you call him right now, to tell him ‘good-bye’ and that you’ll be in touch?”

She took her cellular telephone and dialed the number.

As I’d already figured out, it was the recorded “Dial-A-Prayer’ number.

the end