The Sportin' Life (3 page)

Who can tell what
’
s going on with this guy, what with the constant stream of women passing through his bed. You listen to him talk and you
’
d think he was more their fan than fucking Helen Gurley Brown or whoever is the gals
’
messiah now, but I don
’
t know, I think that something
’
s amiss, and I think it has to do with his mother, who was a regular ball buster by any standards. Whoever said that only the good die young was as deluded as the schmuck currently in jail for patient rape. Kevin
’
s mother never had a kind word for anybody
—
except other women of course, and I bet she was some sort of closet dyke, if they had those things in her generation.

One thing you can say for her is that she taught him superlative manners, and the women he slimes with that impeccable social grace never fail to notice or appreciate his way with doors, cigarette lighter, fur wraps, and soft, intimate chatter, the kind no real guy gives a fuck about except as a means of getting a fuck. To watch him, you
’
d think that he lives to pull a broad
’
s chair out, to lean toward her in that lugubrious way and ooze charm all over her like it was a natural part of him, some sort of glandular secretion that is released from his pores instead of sweat.

Lately all he talks about is Liana, some broad he screwed (both physically and emotionally if you get my drift) but who managed to retain a hold on his psyche after a bunch or years and no doubt a bunch of other women. It would be funny if she were the same Liana I dated and screwed, but I doubt it because his Liana is first of all in New York and second hot stuff according to him, while the Liana I fucked was some sort of cool, aloof bitch who had the balls to ask me to stop right in the middle of the session with a vague comment like,
“
I think this isn
’
t going to work, Lou. I
’
m awfully sorry.
”
This one was icy and unavailable for any kind of real excitement and hardly the type who could
—
get this
—
give a guy a hard-on over the phone just at the sound of her voice
—
if you can believe that I
’
ve got some real estate in
Florida
you might want to option.

A guy like me has to be real careful with the babes. They see my size and can automatically think that they
’
re doing me a favor by letting me plug them. I
’
m nobody
’
s wimp and I hate those soft emotional guys like Kevin who can get away with all that sensitivity because they have the macho looks to pull it off. I may look like a wimp but under it all I
’
m a macho stud and maybe I act even a little more macho than I really feel just to reassure the broads that I
’
m a real man. Fuck
‘
em, because no matter what, some of
’
em will beef about one thing or another. Which of course they would probably never do with Kevin. He says fuck a dog or a dandelion, they say sure. He says suck him and they open wide. Of course I
’
ve never actually seen ol
’
Kevin in the sack, but I
’
ve seen him in every other situation and it isn
’
t hard to figure how they melt in bed when they practically slobber all over him in other areas of life. Imagine if he were a fucking doctor the response he
’
d get
—
actually he
’
d probably knock them so far off their feet that he
’
d have to fuck his women while they were comatose from an overdose of excess pizzazz. Knowing Kevin, he
’
d probably be a psychiatrist if he were a doctor
—
never knew one of them who had his hair screwed on straight or who performed any function at all, but at least that way Kevin
’
d have the couch available at all times.

So here we are in
Beverly Hills
and we walk along inside the Rodeo collection which absolutely floored me when I first got to town. Imagine all that luxury, all that luscious pink marble, just the color of some broad
’
s twat, and escalators
—
fucking escalators
—
outside in the open air. Kevin was as impressed as I had been, not that he noticed the scenery at all except for the women, the armies of gorgeous, long limbed
California
women who look like they stepped right out of some magazine. Women so healthy that everything is as firm as on a guy, but not quite, and so shapely you want to fall to your knees and thank God for making this the true Garden of Eden.

We wander into this little shop called the Heart in Hand Gallery and it is devoted to rocks, as they call they nowadays crystals, and other handmade jewelry that is supposed to bring you luck or love or spiritual growth or whatever else you figure you lack. I didn
’
t hear the salesgirl mention that any of them could bring you brains, but that is not a commodity particularly valued in this locale. Naturally Kevin is interested
—
I guess he figures he can use crystals as a homing device to add even more women to his harem. He even mentions to the sales girl that he once owned a crystal which he was so sad to lose. Privately he tells me that no, this is not just a come-on, that he did have a crystal that Liana, naturally, had given him, and now it must be some kind of mysterious destiny that he should discover this place. That
’
s what I mean about macho. A guy who looks like me says something like
mysterious destiny
and right away you figure wimpette but Kevin super stud says it and they all sigh, aah…so cute…so sensitive.
”
It could replace syrup of ipecac in the medicine chest.

After Kevin has acquired several crystals, some rocks
—
tumbled stones
—
for his bedside and has made a date with the blond salesgirl who if not jail bait has just graduated from that category yesterday, we head out for a drink. We sit talking and sipping our beers and what do you know but Kevin hands me a box and inside is a crystal he decided I would like. It
’
s a bird and Kevin says it reminds him of the bird in the little medical symbol, well the bird is silver like the chain, but in its claws is a clear rock, like a raw stone, and I guess it is pretty interesting, and I am impressed because I never suspected that Kevin had any real affection for anyone at all, least of all me. It almost makes me feel guilty for the way I detest the guy, but luckily I learned to deal with guilt long enough ago that now I can take it or leave it alone.

Next stop is the athletic store where Kevin buys new running shoes. I suppose he plans to keep running around the block here in
Beverly Hills
, just the way he did in
Brooklyn
. Let me try that and you have to come bail me out of jail for vagrancy and suspicious conduct. When he does it, he
’
ll probably round the corner with a bunch of women in Nikes nipping at his heels like dogs after a kid on a bike. The salespeople in this particular shop are all male, so Kevin has no chance to enhance his social life in this scene. I didn
’
t know he was still running. He assures me that it is the absolutely best way of releasing all emotions and various form of tension that are extremely unhealthy, particularly in today
’
s tense society. I wonder if it wouldn
’
t be just as effective to deal with emotions by actually letting yourself feel them and then they
’
d pass the fuck away like a load of crap down the toilet, but I figure that someone who practically causes broken hearts for a living doesn
’
t want to hear about my feel
‘
em and flush
‘
em philosophy.

Kevin loves my car. If he were a broad, he
’
d be creaming so much that I
’
d have to pull off the road to oil his joints, but as it were, I enjoy being on the receiving end of his envy, what with it being such a rare form of turnabout. He asks me to tell him about it and about the reactions I get because of it, which I happily oblige, even going so far as to embellish the truth a bit. I figure a guy like this with a great story for just about every night doesn
’
t impress all that easy, and I don
’
t ever find out if I am right or not because Kevin is just so affable with me that it
’
s almost easy to fall under his spell. He asks me for advice about the car he ought to get and what I really think is that he
’
d do OK with a skateboard but instead I nod in agreement when he mentions Jaguar. A guy as smooth as that is just about right in a Jag. He doesn
’
t have the kind of flash for a Ferrari and probably wants to specialize in the type of women more attracted by a Jag.

As Kevin rambles on about settling down, my dislike for him resumes. At least I had the balls to make a commitment once, and that
’
s more than Kevin can say, no matter how much romantic talk about finding his prefect woman he spits out. At least I did get married once, and if it didn
’
t work out forever, it wasn
’
t the worst thing in the world for a little while. I was in med school then and I was so glad to find a woman who
’
d agree to fuck me on a regular basis that I was happy to marry her. She was just a secretary and delighted to be getting a future doctor, even if she was half a foot taller than me. In the sack, everybody
’
s the same size, except John Holmes, I guess. Which is what I think made her take off
—
some brain-dead guy with his wits between his legs, and if I was sad at first to lose her, I realized that it was at the best possible time
—
before I had real fucking assets to divide. Now, you can be sure that I will really know what I
’
m doing before I marry another woman because now I have something to risk. It
’
s a fairly typical story, I guess. In fact, I can safely say that my ex is probably the one woman on the East Coast that Kevin never fucked. I figure he ran out of babes there and that
’
s why he had to come here
—
to look for fresh blood, like a thirsty vampire growing desperate in a convention of anemics.

He ought to face facts
—
which is that he is a bachelor, stud, Don Juan son of a bitch who has about as much chance of making a commitment to one woman as a pigeon does to a fairy named Tinkerbelle. Where would he get his constant reinforcements if he had to go off babes? He
’
d cheat, that
’
s where and then some broad would have a full time broken heart instead of the temporary, recoverable ones he usually dishes out like bon bons at a party. I figure that ol
’
Kevin and I are due for a parting of the ways soon, because I
’
m pushing fifty and I just don
’
t have the same satisfaction from rotating women that he gets. Fuck no. If I could find a decent girl who
’
d see me as God, just kidding, but as someone who
’
s what she really wants
—
emotionally and physically
—
then I know I
’
d settle down. Well, I think I would. As long as she
’
d sign a fucking prenup and as long as she took my mind completely off the fact that everyone else is a foot closer to heaven just by standing up in their stocking feet, while I have to keep reaching for it all the time.

Kevin

Team Spirit

When I told Lou I was moving to
L.A.
, he laughed and said,
“
What
’
samatter, Kevin, run out of women on the East Coast?
”
I don
’
t know why he sees me as such a womanizer because the truth is that all I
’
m looking for is the one perfect woman for me and then I want to settle down and spend the rest of my life with her. Right now I
’
m just interviewing, so to speak.

I love women. I love the feel of them in my arms, the softness of their flesh, the curves of their bodies, the time they take fussing to be beautiful, the makeup that they paint their faces with, the silky things they wear to please me, the light in their eyes when I enter the room. I love holding them and undressing them, making love to them. And, yes, I
’
ve had a lot of women. I
’
ve had many more women than the number of a whole football team, more even than a league, probably more than all the leagues currently out here. Maybe more than that.