Warren's Women 01

Warren's Women
A Series of True Stories

By Paris Waterman

Introduction:

Warren Ammerman was a good friend of mine for four years. I knew him longer than that, but for those years we were together almost daily. He was not a womanizer; but women flocked to him. In this series I will try to show him as he was − a guy who lit up the room on entering. Men liked him almost as well as the women did. They admired his proficiency with the opposite sex, and enjoyed his company because he could drink and joke with the best of them.

For two solid years I answered his Monday morning calls – all of which were from the females he'd met that weekend − all of whom wanted more of his, shall I say, presence?

But Warren had a lonely side too. As I understood it, his mother left him with her sister when he was about 18 months old. He only saw her once after that, at his 6th birthday party. I don't know her reason for abandoning him, Warren never went there. But I know he missed her, and the longing he had for her was evident to any female coming into contact with him; in his eyes, his aura, and his nonchalant acceptance of the female presence regardless of where they were or how beautiful the woman was.

He died tragically at 27, after being run over by two tractor-trailers on the Garden State Parkway.

There was an endless parade of beautiful and not so beautiful women at his wake. I counted over two hundred before realizing there was no end in sight and quit counting. In subsequent weeks I bedded two of them simply because I had known him; known that he'd been with them. It seemed enough for them. I accepted it as a parting gift from Warren.

I know I can't do his memory justice, I'm not that good. But we talked a great deal about his sexual activities, and we shared some exhilarating experiences together. What follows are my recollections about several of Warren's women.

At any rate, every once in a while I get a story just right. I think I've managed it here. I'd appreciate hearing from you, especially if you agree with me.
PW

*******

Warren sat hunched over, on a wooden bench about five yards inside the eight-foot high fence surrounding the yard. He gazed forlornly at the rivulets of early morning light breaking through the birch trees. He wore only his pajama pants and sandals. He took a deep drag on his cigarette, exhaled the smoke through his nostrils and reached for the cup of coffee on the bench beside him.

He sighed, leaned back against the garage wall and sipped the last of his coffee. The wall was cool on his naked shoulders. He listened to the birds gabbling and bickering at the feeders in the trees and continued to calm down. Last night had been a bitch.

I get so tired of chasing after new women all the time. It gets so friggin' mechanical, he thought with an air of utmost weariness. He slapped his leg, which had fallen asleep and continued with his soliloquy.

I can't seem to fall in love. Why? Am I such an egotist? Its painfully obvious women are my vice, an addiction like booze or heroin. I gotta have a new one every day. It's all I think about and now I'm trying not to get morbid, or worse.

He took a deep drag on his cigarette and half sighed, half exhaled. The smoky vapor drifted away over the fence behind him.

Sometimes I amaze myself, I mean, know the guys are in awe of my successes, and how quickly I pull them off. If only they knew how little it really means. How I'm on automatic fucking pilot most of the time. Sometimes I'm not even thinkin' about a woman at all, but then I spot one lookin' at me, and then wham! It starts all over again. Before I know what I'm doing I've got her alone someplace. Shit! I don't even remember what I say to 'em.

Laughing out loud, Warren took a last drag on the cigarette and flipped it into a nearby shrub.

Shit, the guy's would kill to know what I lay on 'em, but for the life of me, I don't remember. I get 'em alone, give 'em a pat on the ass, and before I know it, I've nuzzled their pussy, they've sucked my cock, and we've fucked like rabbits. It's wham, bam, thank you Ma'am!

Getting rid of them is harder than finding and fuckin' 'em. It's kinda like a dream. I'm beginning to wonder, is it really a dream?

2:20 PM: Humming along with Previn and the Pittsburgh Symphony, Jasmine poured soothing bath oils into the tub then turned and admired her body in the full-length mirror as she slowly stripped off the shirt, let it fall away from her shoulders and turned sideways and examined her breasts. She acknowledged their firmness and with a tight smile and reached under them to trace their curve with her fingertips. Inevitably, her fingers slid out to the nipples and gently squeezed them.

Jasmine's mouth opened as if surprised with a quizzical 'O' and observed them grow hard at the touch. Unbuttoning her jeans, Jasmine tugged them down over her hips, letting gravity take them to the floor. Her panties had also pulled down to her thighs and she gazed at the pubic hair curling up over the top of them. Her mouth still shaped the 'O' as she ran her hand across her flat stomach, permitting her little finger to slip down under the elastic and enjoy the soft, silken tufts just above her mons.

With a deep sigh, Jasmine finally edged her silken underwear all the way down and stepped out of them. Pausing a second to run her hands along the inside of her thighs, while her thumbs rippled along the dark brown down of pubic hair.

The music approached a crescendo as she tested the water with her big toe, and then lowered herself into its oily warmth, letting it envelop her. She chose to lie back with her eyes closed while languidly caressing her soapy legs, thighs and breasts. Her thumb meandered around until it found her belly button, lingering at its edge while her remaining fingers drifted down between her legs. Slowly Jasmine pinched thumb and forefinger together, tweaking lightly, deliberately dawdling, while she thought about Warren; about his trim, hard body, handsome face and his adorable broken nose.

Jasmine almost dozed off in the warm scented water, but Warren kept intruding.

Intruding.

Intruding.

Jasmine's fingers were now fully enveloped and in a hazy lust, moved deviously, curling here, poking there; moving faster, moving deeper, faster and faster....

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

Jasmine's climax reverberated off the foggy, steam-clad mirrors and tiles while her cat scurried to its safe place in the bedroom.

3:15 PM.
Jasmine, with her thick, chestnut brown hair not quite dry, hanging damply about her ears, opened the door on the first ring and stood there, chin slightly raised; an arrogant, but impish expression on her face as she gazed hungrily at Warren.

She wore no makeup. She didn't need it and knew it.

He studied her with a casual eloquence. She wore a black floor-length kimono of purist silk, trimmed in brilliant yellow (actually tiny canaries) that split along both sides almost to the hip. There was nothing under it; nothing but Jasmine. Warren knew this from the way it clung to her; molded to her breasts, her hips, and adhering to her flat stomach.

Jasmine's eyes sparkled mischievously and the sweet odor of marijuana swirled past Warren. Jasmine smiled and said, "Well, I just lost a bet with myself."

"How come," Warren asked, returning the smile and presenting the dimple women found so enticing.

"I bet you wouldn't come."

"Hey," he said with another smile, "I can always go away."

She stepped back and swung the door wide and leaned against it. Cocking her head to one side, she said, "No. No, I don't think so."

Warren went past her into a well-furnished living room and looked around. "Sumptuous," was all he said.

Jasmine closed the door and came very close to him, staring up at his face before saying, "Thank you."

She had set the table for two. Wedgwood china, delicate silverware and tall, fragile wineglasses waited patiently to serve them.

"If you'd like to wash, the bathrooms over there," she pointed to the far left.

"Thanks, I will," he said, and followed her finger's direction into the bathroom where he carefully washed his hands. The room was still warm with the memory of her bath and smelled vaguely of bath oil.

He absorbed these factors into his memory bank. When he returned, Jasmine was pouring white wine into two glasses. Motioning him to sit, she handed him a glass and held hers up in a toasting fashion.

"To us," she said.

Warren smiled and said, "To Jasmine, to Warren and to pleasure."

"Pleasure?"

"Well, you know what I mean," he added lamely. He'd thought he was further along towards bedding her.

The mischievous look crossed her face again and Warren didn't miss it. Their glasses pinged as they touched. Jasmine leaned forward on her elbows, holding her wineglass between her fingertips and stared at him again.

"I have to ask you something personal," she said, very quietly, almost confidentially.

Warren wondered what she'd heard about him. Was it damaging? But kept his face expressionless and said, "Ask away. I'm not a politician and have nothing to hide."

She smiled, pleased at his response and asked,
"How did you get that?" pointing toward his nose.

"What?"

Jasmine reached out and ran her middle finger very delicately down between his eyes, lingering for a moment where his nose flattened out between them.

"That. Oh, that. Um, er..."

Jasmine grinned, adding, "If it's not romantic, please lie to me."

"Ahhh, when I was in the Navy, I was conned into entering a boxing tournament. The worst thing possible happened. I won my first two matches.

Boy was I full of myself. Then I stepped into ring against the Navy's middleweight champion. I must've lasted... oh, forty seconds or so. He did 'that' and a couple other things the surgeon managed to repair.

Jasmine found herself laughing hard at this revelation into his past and shook her head. "Did you really? Did you really do that?"

"I really did that." He jumped to his feet and danced around the room, flicking left jabs at an imaginary opponent, then falling on his behind and looking dazed, while an imaginary referee counted him out.

Tears of mirth rolled down Jasmine's cheeks as she dabbed at them with her napkin. "Even... even if it's a big fat lie, don't ever change that story. It's absolutely delicious."

She sighed and her eyes glittered as she finished dabbing at them. "I'm so glad we got that settled," she said.

"What?"

"That business about your nose."

"Does my nose bother you?" he asked seriously. His eyes darted from her face to her nipples, now prominent as they swelled against the fabric of the black silk kimono.

"No," she said, shaking her head slowly, continuing to stare at it with an intensity that made him a bit uncomfortable.

"No," she continued, "it gives you character."

"Thanks."

A bell or a chime sounded faintly from the kitchen.

"Oh!" Jasmine cried out as she rose from the table.

"What is it?"

"Our dinner is ready." Jasmine said softly.
"Please excuse me. I'll only be a moment."

He watched her walk into the kitchen and thought if he had seen a finer body on a woman he couldn't recall it. And he was impressed with Jasmine's intellect. No movie magazine princess here, no sir, he thought. Sitting back in his chair, Warren conjured up erotic thoughts about the remainder of the evening even as he admired the expensive furnishings. Then as promised, Jasmine was back with their dinner; filet mignon, oven-baked potatoes and asparagus with hollandaise sauce.

"Jasmine, this is..." he paused, "This is not a little thing here. This is... like your place, sumptuous. The presentation is... well, I feel I'm looking at a page from 'Gourmet' Magazine.

Jasmine felt a flush of guilty embarrassment creeping from her neck to her cheeks as she thanked him for his simple praise. Many other guests at her table had formulated more expressive, more flowery compliments, but she felt Warren's to be much more sincere. The guilt was a direct result of Jasmine's having ordered everything from a nearby restaurant and merely zapping it in the microwave.

They ate in earnest, after a while Warren put his knife and fork down and smiled at her.

"What is it?" she smiled back. "Do I have something on my teeth?"

"No he laughed. You're just so... beautiful. I can't help staring, if it bothers you, I... I'll keep my eyes averted."

To demonstrate his sincerity, he looked at his hands.

"Warren?" Jasmine said quietly. "I've been a model. I'm used to people staring at me. I accept it and don't take offense. After all, you weren't raping me with those brown eyes of yours, were you?"

He smiled at her, appreciating her candor. "No," he said flatly. "Undressing you maybe, but rape? Never, well not at the moment anyway."

She laughed. It was a tinkling sound that he savored as much as the meal.

"Good," he said, "I'm glad that's over with. Now, I've got a joke for you."

"Oh, good! I love a good joke."

"Well I should preface this by telling you that I love humor and have made it a kind of hobby of mine."

"Really?" she exclaimed, her surprise reflected in a gay voice.

"Oh yeah," he said as he folded his napkin and placed it on the table next to his plate.

"For example I've collected all of W. C. Fields' movies. Even have some tapes from radio shows he appeared on. Anyway, one of my all time favorites was a guy named Myron Cohan."

Warren's eyes dropped to the plate in front of him as he searched for the precise words, he didn't want to mess this up. She took a small sip of wine, her eyes never leaving his.

"Cohan was a master story teller, not unlike like Bill Cosby is today," he said tentatively. "In fact I think Cosby polished the timing of his early acts watching or copying Cohan."

Warren became more buoyant as his confidence in the story to come surged through his body.

"I came across several tapes of his and I treasure them. He was a salesman in the garment district here in New York, and he was so entertaining to his clients that they forced him into show business. He was around fifty when he started professionally."

Jasmine found she was thoroughly enjoying his honest enthusiasm. He was looking straight into her eyes now.

"Anyway," he stopped to laugh at himself. "I'm not sure if this is one of his stories, maybe not. But it should be. It's kinda got his stamp on it, ya know?"

"Yes I know what you mean." She gave no indication of impatience with his long prologue. Instead, her hand slowly massaged the stem of her wineglass as she took him in with her smoky eyes. Her tongue flicked out trying to capture an imaginary speck of food on her lip.

Warren saw this and was momentarily distracted. He took a deep breath and continued. "All right, here goes: Jesus is wandering around one of Jerusalem's markets when he decides he really needs a new robe. After looking around, he sees a stall with a pile of robes for sale. He enters and meets a gnarly little man named Finkelstein and asks politely if Finkelstein can make him a robe. Then Warren switched to a poor Jewish dialect. "Can I make for you a robe? Of course, of course, of course; I'll make for you the perfect robe." Finkelstein waded into a pile of material and finally produces a brilliantly colored robe which turns out to be a perfect fit.

When Jesus asks how much he owes, Finkelstein brushes him off. "No, no, there's no charge. But, may I ask a small favor? A very little tiny favor? Maybe whenever you give a sermon you could just mention a little something about how your nice robe was made by Finkelstein the Tailor?"

"Sure, sure," Jesus readily agreed, and as promised, plugged Finkelstein's robes every time he preached.

Some months later, Jesus is walking through the market place again and happened by Finkelstein's stall. There is a huge line of people waiting for Finkelstein's robes. Jesus gently makes his way through the crowd to speak to Finkelstein.

"Jesus, Jesus, look what a marvel you've been for business!" Gushes Finkelstein.

"Would you consider a partnership?"

"Sure, sure," Jesus replied, and after giving the thought some more consideration, said, we can call it, "Jesus and Finkelstein."

"Uh... no... no," Finkelstein says. "It should be Finkelstein and Jesus. After all I am the craftsman."

The two of them debate this for some time. They have quite a good theological discussion as well. Finally, after several glasses of wine, they arrive at a compromise decision that had both Jesus and Finkelstein smiling.

A week later, a huge sign went up over Finkelstein's stall. It read: Robes by "Lord & Taylor."

Jasmine burst into an unpretentious peal of laughter that gave Warren a warm, contented feeling that lasted well beyond the meal.

After dinner they sat on the couch enjoying brandies. There was occasional contact. No − they brushed against one another, as if by accident. Could it have been premeditated?

"Ever play football?" Jasmine asked to get a conversation going after a long silence.

"In High School. Wasn't big enough for college."

"Where did you go?"

"Rutgers."

"What was your Major?"

"Psychology."

"Why?"

"I like analyzing people."

"So why aren't you a Psychologist?"

"Well, the Navy happened along...."

"And after the Navy?"

"Other things happened."

"You spent all that time and energy on Psychology and went nowhere with it afterward?"

Warren squirmed uneasily before answering. "Yeah, well... it made my Aunt Mary happy. She... well, she ummm, paid my way. She wanted me to go to college. So I did."

You're a nice guy, Warren, Jasmine thought.
"That was good of you," she said.

"Like err, my Aunt was good to me. She raised me when my Moth...."

Warren ended the sentence abruptly.

"It made her happy, so...."

"What happened with your Mother?" She asked this although she feared she might be crossing over a line.

"Good question," he said slowly, drawing out both words. He stared at the far wall as though conjuring up an image. "As far as I can tell, she aban... um, left when I was two years old. We never heard from her again."

Her heart went out to him. And Jasmine realized instinctively it was this facet of his personality even more so than his honesty and compassion that probably caused her to feel that way she did about him.

Another insightful concept burst upon her a moment later. This was why women found him to be almost irresistible. He was an Adonis to behold and inadvertently stirred the maternal soul in every woman he met.

"Do you have any idea if she's alive?" she asked, probing deeper into this mystery man.

"None." He hesitated and then continued. "There was one instance, I was maybe twelve. I thought... well, I saw this woman watching me. She was obviously trying to be unobtrusive about it, but I'd played too much cops and robbers to be fooled. She was definitely following my movements. I tested her by turning into a side street and waiting to see if she followed me to make sure. She came to the street and stopped, looked in and must have figured out what I was doing. She turned and walked away. When I got the corner she was gone. A month later, my Aunt received a letter postmarked Boise, Idaho. It was from her. She mentioned she'd seen me and castigated herself for her actions in leaving me, but said she'd never do it again and apologized to both my Aunt and me for her cowardice. There was nothing more."

He grimaced and clenched his fists. "Oh, yeah, I've looked for her. Hired investigators too. Nothing, she's gone."