Searching For the Perfect Woman. (standard:romance, 1979 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jul 04 2020	Views/Reads: 1353/973	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Shawn spends much of his life searching for a perfect mate.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


Sitting on the corner of a scarred desk, Shawn decided to wait. 

"Is, is John here yet?"  a quavering voice asked from the doorway. 

Idly, Shawn glanced over, mouth open to reply.  He jerked upright in
shock, lips opening and closing, dry tongue seeming to stick to the 
roof of his mouth.  It was HER.  It was his dream girl, in the flesh. 

He saw her look around, then enter, beautiful green eyes scanning the
dirty room.  Finally, she tentatively settled down onto the other 
leading edge of the desk, only a few feet from him, a dim smile 
lighting up her face. 

Dim?  Hardly.  To Shawn it was bright as the morning sun outside,
illuminating the room in vivid  colors while causing Lord Byron's poem 
to filter through his mind, "She walks in beauty, like the night...."  
In retrospect, it should have been Kiplings, "A fool there was and he 
made his prayer...." 

"Yo ... You got something, anything?  I really need something."  Tears
came to lovely eyes as she pleaded, thin alabaster lips quivering.  
"I'm so down, so depressed.  Anything?" 

"What you prefer?" 

"Crack, if you got it?  I'll pay you back when John ... you know, gets
here." 

"I have a little powdered coke left, if you want."  And how could he
refuse her? 

Dumping the remains of a silver-plated vial into her palm, she was
shaking so much that normally shy Shawn reached over to steady her 
hand.  He could feel the heat of her breath on his palm, savoring the 
feeling, as she snorted loudly.  She then looked into his eyes, 
seemingly into his brain itself, satisfaction, however brief, showing 
in those soft green orbs. 

"You can let go now.  I'm all right," she said, looking down to where he
still clasped her wrist tightly. 

"Sorry," he said, heart beating wildly and hoping she hadn't noticed the
sweating of his hand.  "My name's Shawn.  What do they call you?" 

"Bitch, whore ... you name it.  You're well dressed, with a silver
coke-vial.  How about we go to my place after John shows?" 

"Seriously, what's your name?  I'd ... well, I'd go anywhere with you." 

"Swell, cost you six rocks, though.  Okay with you ... Shawn?" 

Dealer John finally showed.  He didn't have any powdered cocaine,
though. 

"Feds got my feed, man.  Got me plenty of crack, though.  You want
some'a that?  A little fine Horse if ya wants, or some meth?  Weed up 
the kazoo?"  He scratched filthy locks, intense eyes on Shawn.  "Should 
have some powder tomorrow, though." 

"Make it crack,"  Shawn said, bringing out his wallet, "'bout twenty
rocks."  He'd never tried crack but figured, what the hell, it was only 
cocaine in another form. 

He didn't notice the girl eying his wallet as he counted out the price. 
Expecting to buy a couple ounces of cocaine powder, he had plenty of 
cash on him. 

"Come on, lover.  We'll go home and party, just the two of us ... an'a
rocks." 

Her home was only a few blocks away.  Luckily, she had a garage that
would accept his car.  He'd have hated to park it on the street.  Once 
a middle-class neighborhood, the availability of drugs had driven most 
of the former residents out.  Her family home had been split into three 
family tenements.  Renting two of them out was, besides welfare, her 
source of income.  That and whoring, of course. 

Crack was a far different experience for him, much quicker and more
intense.  They were soon settled into a double bed, no sheets or 
blankets evident. 

"Please,"  Shawn insisted, "leave on the light. I want this night to go
on forever, and savor every sight of you." 

Giving him a searching look, the woman shrugged and dropped her clothing
onto the floor, slowly, one item at a time. 

It was wonderful to see, through a lazy haze, his dream come to life --
the perfect face, the perfect body, the perfect evening, in all its 
anticipated splendor.  Of no matter a lumpy bed, a filthy pillow 
stinking of unknown substances, the sound of scurrying rats running 
across the floor.  No matter the filth, the intense smell of rotten 
food and sewage.  It was perfect. 

Shawn felt a glow of anticipation, brought on by the drug and the
culmination of a life's dreams, intensified by deep green eyes inches 
from his own.   The drug helped compound each touch, each sensory 
feeling in sensitive fingertips, lips, and tongue.  He started by 
licking her eyebrows, pausing at a moistly dripping nose.  Then came a 
long exploration of that perfect mouth. 

His hot throbbing body slid slowly down the length of hers until his
knees settled on the floor, slipping on something slimy on the dirty 
surface while eager tongue and lips enjoyed, no, became entranced by 
strange tastes, familiar, yet oh so strong and fulfilling. 

Forcing himself up the filthy mattress, sensitive flesh melding into
hers, he thrust, seemingly endlessly, into a waiting sheath, sword 
straight and sure, piercing willing gyrating flesh.  The act seemed 
endless, never ending and never fated to end. 

Then came the farts. "Phhoooomph, Phoomp, Flluuuuuuuuuph."  As she
clasped him tightly, her butt played a symphony, emitting clouds of 
stink.  The tender moment ended, rather abruptly, as his shaft deflated 
from sword to dirk, down to a wet needle. 

As the farting and smell forced drug-induced effects from his system, he
came back to reality, noticing her teeth, or absence thereof. They were 
lying loose on a table at the bedside. As was a wig.  One green contact 
lens had come loose during the intense activity, half-way out of her 
eye. 

She stared up at him, a smile on her face, lips puckered for a kiss. 
Instead, he jumped to quivering legs, covering wilted genitals with one 
hand. 

"Uh, I forgot.  My wife's coming back from Virginia tonight.  I have to
meet her at the airport," Shawn lied while anxiously searching the 
floor to retrieve his clothing. A strong urge, stronger than the crack, 
telling him to get the hell out of there.  So much for his dream girl. 

*** 

Now older and not so sure of himself – of fulfilling his dream – Shawn
has switched from cocaine powder to crack, using more of it, even at 
work. 

Productivity suffering led his boss to investigate as to why.  Finally,
came the inevitable confrontation. 

"If you want to continue working here,  you'll have to see the company
shrink," he was told, in no uncertain terms.  "You've got to kick this 
drug habit.  I'm tired of hearing crack-vials crunch when I walk near 
your desk,"  Shawn's boss admonished him.  He was also placed on paid 
leave until the problem was resolved. 

Desperate, Shawn enlisted the aid of his sister, Ellen, by then single
again and living alone. 

"I'll lock you in your room, so you can't get any drugs?" she suggested.
 Bars were installed on the lone window in there, as well as new locks. 
She would only open the door to slide in meals. 

It wasn't long before he was suffering, more than he ever had in his
life.  A doctor had to be called in twice, paid extra for the 
housecalls. 

"I recommend a drug-based assisted living home, Ellen," the doctor told
her, but Shawn insisted on kicking it on his own.  He did have the help 
of medication.  The best succor, he found, was in constant dreams of 
his perfect woman, his dream-girl.  With her waiting, somewhere, he 
knew any effort was worth it. 

The medication made him sleepy, him not resisting that urge, preferring
dreams to the pain of  withdrawal. 

He couldn't sleep 24/7.  One afternoon, tiring of endless television,
Shawn went through niches and crannies of the locked bedroom, finding a 
dusty photo album on a top closet shelf.  Leafing through it, he came 
upon a faded photo, that of a young woman holding an infant.  It was 
the girl of his dreams. No doubt about it. 

He jumped up, pounding on the bedroom door.  "Ellen, Ellen," he
screamed, "Ellen, come here, help me." 

Fearing some sort of medical emergency, his sister barged inside,
finding her brother groveling on the floor, the album open in front of 
his shaking form. 

"Here, Ellen," he cried, pointing at the picture, "wh ... who is this?" 

"Why, that baby is you, Shawn.  With Mama." 

The End.


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