American Stories. Boomer Episode 3

American Stories. Boomer Episode 3

American Stories. Boomer Episode 3 by Dewey Edward Chester. Enjoy this fantastic love/despair story, Yareah magazine friends.

American Stories. Boomer Episode 3

‘The Blonde’ William-Adolphe Bouguereau, 1898

American Stories. Boomer Episode 1   Episode 2

We met as strangers in another country. We had some history together now. But as I watched her walking along the terrace she seemed somehow changed. She was dressed all in blue —– and yes, I had to admit, she was a beautiful woman; porcelain skin, bright green eyes, tawny blond hair. I could have hugged her the way she looked…the corners of her mouth, the way she breathed, the fabulous fabrics she wore.


We had become friendly, I judged, which implied she was nice.


“We could have dinner,” I offered.


“But aren’t you tired after beating the New York Giants?”


“Naw…I feel fine; how about dinner?” I knew she had nothing to do, no planned evening or place to go.


So she compromised with me, “Can we eat in that drugstore we walked through last week?” she asked.


I thought about it tentatively: “Is that really where you want to go?”


“Yes. I like to eat in American drugstores. I know it seems queer of me.”


We sat on high stools and ate tomato broth, and hot corned-beef sandwiches. It was more intimate than anything we had done together. But we both felt somehow lonely. Felt it in each other.


We shared drugstore scents. The bitter, sweet and sour, and the mystery of our waitress who had the outer part of her hair colored red, but dyed black underneath.


And when our snack was finished, we both stared at pictures of still-life on nearly empty plates: a sliver of potato, a sliced pickle, an olive stone.


It was dusk in the street when we left. It seemed nothing new for her to smile affectionately at me now. When we entered my car she said: “Thanks…I’ve had a wonderful time.”


It was not far from her house, but when we reached the hill, I knew it was the beginning of the end. Lights were on in the homes we drove by. I turned on my headlights, then felt heavy in my heart; was a train about to crash? “We must go out again together,” I said.


“No,” she replied quickly, as if she had been expecting this. “I’ll write you a letter and tell you why,” she persisted, “I’m sorry I’ve been so mysterious. I like you so much. You should marry someone.”


“Why do you say that?” I asked, then told her how I felt about her: “I’ve had a great time with you. This night may mean nothing to you but it meant the world to me. I need to spend more time with you, to explain myself clearly.” But I knew that if I took that kind of time it must be done inside of her home…because we had already arrived.


I saw her shaking her head as I drove up to the front door. “I must go now,” she said, explaining, “I have an engagement I didn’t tell you about.”


“That’s not true,” I countered, “but it’s alright if that’s how you feel.”


I walked to the door with her. I heard her feeling in her bag for the key.


A sparrow cocked its head. I smelled burning leaves. And then I saw her looking back at me with eyes that glowed mysteriously green…like a cat’s! Somewhere a dog was barking.


“I’ve got it!” she said finally. This was her moment and she knew it. But she wanted to see me better — so she leaned her head to the left, then to the right, trying to catch the look of my face against the twilight. But she leaned too far and too long, and it was only natural when my hand touched her arm and shoulder…and pressed her head toward the darkness of my throat.


She shut her eyes, feeling the key clutched tightly inside of her hand. She said “Oh!” in an expiring sigh, and then “Oh!” again, as I pulled her in close to me, and my chin pushed her cheek around, gently. She smiled just faintly as the inch between us melted into darkness.


When we came apart she shook her head, then she reasoned with herself: she knew this would happen. But when was the exact moment of knowing?


“Can I come inside?” I asked.


She resisted my exultation but could not blame me. “This is not my idea,” she said, “Not my idea at all.”


But when I took her in my arms she could only see my deep gray eyes.


“Wait!” she exclaimed. She needed more time…to think how this all was; why all this was happening.


Once inside her home, I realized what I should have known all along. Everything was luxurious: a Bokhara rug was stretched on the floor. Oil painted screens, Chippendale tables, Regency chairs. A Tiffany stood on the desk.


Already this British woman defined a new school of thought. I said, “You’ve got exquisite taste.”


But she made no comment. She poured me a hot cup of tea.


Yes, I thought, she was different from women I’d known. She possessed wealth from another place and time.


She was standing over there against that blue print wall, sipping tea from her cup. Apparently she was waiting — for something.


“Have you seen what you want, yet?” she asked me.


“Oh!” I answered quickly, “I want it all!” Suddenly my fingers squeezed my tea cup, and in my mind a soft breeze blew. And then I heard Dianne Bakker say: “Do you see what you want right now?”


I felt I was standing on the edge of a cliff. Could I fly if I jumped?


“Why won’t you answer me?” she asked.


“I told you, I want it all!”


And she replied, ever so casually, “Then come and get it!”


And when I came toward her, she was waiting to be held. She moved her head from side to side as before, only more slowly this time…and she never took her eyes from mine.


Then suddenly she felt me trembling, and I discovered it too. My arms relaxed around her, but immediately she spoke to me roughly, pulled my face to hers, then raising her knee, she pulled up her skirt and struggled out of her panties.


I was not trembling now, as I held her tightly to me…as we knelt slowly down together. She put her arms around my neck and seemed to cling when I kissed her.


I pulled myself on top, holding her at the hip. Her tongue burned my chest… then slowly I entered myself inside of her.


I thought she would scream, she was so tight. She stiffened. Then she relaxed. She moaned and started a rocking motion that was sure to bring us home.


I opened my eyes and stared into her face. She was sweating, as we moved together, as her breath became short. Her moans were words I could not understand.


I pushed myself deeper inside of her…until she grabbed my neck and tore my back with her nails. Then slowly…she surrendered.


“Do you love me?” I distinctly heard her ask. But I rode her faster and harder…and in my mind I was hearing that jazz man’s raging horn, and I humped this White woman harder and harder…and harder: “Do you love me? Do you love me?” the horn had wailed defiantly at the crowd.


But now it was I who played those notes—inside of Dianne’s womb.

View Comments (4)

Dewey Edward Chester, Ph.D. (eq.), is a Los Angeles Professor of Screenwriting, and the author of “Boomer: Sex, Race and Professional Football.” He is a former professional football player, and was nominated for the prestigious White House Fellowship for Journalism Award, sponsored by President Bill Clinton’s Administration. **Boomer by Dewey Edward Chester is also on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. Enjoy the reading, you cannot be indifferent.

More in Books

Creatives working at The Phoenix Artist

Independent venue launches hub for London’s creative community

Yareah MagazineJuly 19, 2016

Sunday Poetry with Jenean C. Gilstrap. A Midnight Clear in Kansas

Yareah MagazineJune 19, 2016
The Nantucket Book Festival

Book lovers. The Nantucket Book Festival features a stellar line-up of authors and events

Yareah MagazineMay 11, 2016
Ceramics by Sister Augustine

Author John Schlimm has won a Christopher Award for Five Years in Heaven

Yareah MagazineMay 5, 2016
Ken O'neill. Casino Woman in Red Throwing Dice

Sunday Poetry with Jenean C. Gilstrap. Today: burn baby burn

Jenean C GilstrapApril 24, 2016
Lions painted in the Chauvet Cave. This is a replica of the painting from the Brno museum Anthropos. The absence of the mane sometimes leads to these paintings being described as portraits of lionesses. Source: Wikipedia. Author: HTO - Own work (own photo)

Sunday Poetry with Gypsy Woman, Jenean C. Gilstrap. Today: Home

Jenean C GilstrapApril 17, 2016

Yareah Magazine

Art is Everywhere and Up to You.

About Us - Press Kit - Contact Us

YM on Twitter

Top Posts & Pages

Yareah® Magazine is a Registered Trademark in the United States