Peak-a-Boo Freak
Ann Tinkham
April 2006
April 2006
Fritz sat naked on the edge of his bed. The innards of the mattress were coming out. He sometimes wondered if there were colonies of bedbugs living inside. He smirked when he thought of himself as a bug lord–sleeping above thousands of bugs. That was as close as he would ever get to lording over any living thing.
As he stared blankly at his faded Bob Dylan poster, he took a long drag on his Lucky Strike to shake the sleep from his bones. Fritz could feel the nicotine circulating to all his dozing parts–like a sergeant shaking and waking his underlings.
Which café would it be today? The Bean tended to attract sexy moms who wanted to see and be seen, with kids as accessories. Jumpin’ Java was a coed hang-out for manic all-nighters and overzealous study groups. Maybe he would go to the eclectic haunt, Clouds in My Coffee. The problem with Clouds was that at any time of day it could be a coming out party for boy-queens or a gathering of the NY Times crossword puzzle crowd, which consisted of a guy who looked like Einstein, a woman who looked like Broomhilda, an obese women with crazy hats, and a collection of Woody Allen wannabes who were trying to create little Manhattan. Clouds was definitely out. He wanted a sure deal. No, he needed a sure deal.
He wasn’t in the mood for vodka girls on cell phones with biochem books, so Jumpin’ Java was out. That left The Bean. He remembered the last time he was there; a thirty-something woman with maroon hair, violet eyes, and erect nipples was watching him. She couldn’t keep her eyes off of him. He looked down at himself, and said, "Top o’ the morning to ya, big guy."
Fritz dropped his cigarette butt into his Bud can beside his bed, heard it sizzle, and then considered his shorts options. Whatever was clean was usually what he chose. His favorite khaki shorts were stained, so he chose the loose denim Bermuda shorts, and pulled them on. He had never used these ones before, so he needed to test them out. He dragged his desk chair over to the cracked full-length mirror he had recovered from dumpster diving after all the college kids left town. In fact, all his furniture was acquired that way, save his used bed, which his mother bought him when she found out that he was sleeping on a camping pad on the floor.
He positioned himself on the chair and turned slightly to the right. Then he spread his legs so that he could view himself through the opening in his shorts. He adjusted his shorts so that he revealed his crown jewel. He grew hard again just looking at himself through the opening. Man, I’m hung like a donkey. Any woman who gets a look at this is lucky as hell.
He left the chair in front of the mirror, walked over to his pile of t-shirts and kicked a Dunkin Donuts box out of the way. Fritz pulled his t-shirt over his head and then walked back to the mirror, noting that his soul patch was becoming more of a soul pasture. No need to tame it now. He gelled his bleached hair with dark roots so it had the day-old dirty, just stuck a finger in the socket look.
On his way out, he grabbed a cinnamon frosted pop tart, but quickly discarded it in the back seat of his car. His breakfast would be black coffee and a woman.
As he pulled his Camaro into a spot in front of The Bean, he crossed himself for good luck. Catholic school was good for something.
After ordering a tall black coffee with no room for sissy stuff, he chose his seat carefully–one in the back with an adjacent popular table with only one chair. That way, it would attract no groups of chatty soccer moms.
Fritz grabbed the free college newspaper and pretended to read. He didn’t really give a shit about college happenings or crappy articles written by opinionated college dweebs. He held the paper up and peeked out the side of it. He willed a hot chick to come over to the table-in-waiting. Fritz imagined a slender Barbie gone bad, a voluptuous goth girl, or a sex-crazed preppy lady. After nearly 30 minutes of emptiness, a weathered, plain Jane forty-something woman arranged herself, her romance novel, and a fancy coffee drink at the target table. Damn. Oh well, she’ll have to do.
He peered out the side of his paper as the woman with droopy eyelids, heavy lip liner, and frosted hair sipped her frozen drink through a straw and dove into her novel. His eyes followed hers as they followed the words. She had no idea that she was being watched. They usually didn’t at first. She finally looked up from her book when his stare became heavy. She glanced over at him and back at her book. Damn. Come to me, mama.
He wrestled his paper and scooted his chair, hoping the movement would get her attention. She looked up and then back down at her romance novel. He had read one once, and imagined that he was far better-hung than the character with the giant cock. He would give this matron a run for her money. He struck his pose and cleared his throat several times until she looked straight at him. He wiggled his thigh back and forth. She looked down at him and up, and then down and then up. Then came his favorite part.
The moment of realization.
It’s for you, baby doll. It’s all yours. Her eyes widened as they looked up and down, up and down. He could feel himself growing in response to her gaze. He was throbbing so hard, he felt he would burst right then and there at The Bean. But he kept his cool and his hard-on.
Her mouth dropped open as she watched the show. She then covered her O-shaped mouth with her hand, and glanced around. But she couldn’t keep her eyes off of the performance in his pants. I’m fucking irresistible.
Fritz was discovering that middle-aged women were the best targets, and this one in particular was a jackpot. Confused, shocked, intrigued, flattered, and then aroused. The young ones could be tattletales with attitudes, whereas the aging ones, who had long since given up, didn’t know what hit them.
But they seemed to like what hit them. They were torn between naughty and nice.
This romance seeker was a live wire–her arousal evident; her face was turning pink, her breathing rapid, and her nipples erect, or so he thought. She sucked on her fingertip as she accepted his offering.
Just then a manager walked by, and Fritz resumed his newspaper reading position, and closed his legs. When the coast was clear, he snuck a peek at her, and she was gone. Her drink and book were still there.
He was tempted to continue the show, but couldn’t take his chances. He set down the paper, and slipped outside into his Camaro. From there, he watched her take her seat again and look for him. He imagined her intense yearning–felt the pull of her desire, and watched her through the window as he finished the job.
Ann Tinkham is a writer and instructional designer based in Boulder, Colorado.