The Sweet Scent of Jasmine

Posted: November 3, 2006 in Creative Writing, Fiction, Humor

Jasmine. The name always conjures up images of that night. That. Night. Oh what a night. It was late December, back in ’63. What a very special time, for me. It was everything I dreamed it’d be. What a lady, what a night. She had asked me in from out of the cold. The doorbell had rung as I pressed the aged ivory disk against the stop, releasing it only after the dim echoes of bells had clamored from somewhere deep within the imposing structure for a good 15 to 20 seconds. It was my last delivery of the night, and the pizza business was looking to be every bit as empty and unforgiving as a tax collector’s soul. Snow drifted down with a vague disinterest, as if falling from the sky was a mere afterthought, and piling up in deep, boot-filling drifts was merely an unfortunate consequence of a poor choice of career paths. I could relate.

The door swung open and so did my jaw. She was a vision, a goddess, an apparition I could scarce credit with actual existence. Raven black hair cascaded across ivory white skin… great, imposing acres of skin, pale, translucent yards of skin, draped ever so skillfully with a satin evening gown the color of oil smoke, or dare I say it, rich, black coffee brewed so dark and heavy it scarcely reflected light.

“Pizza, ma’am,” I remember stuttering between chalk-dry lips. You always hear the stories, usually reserved for pool boys and UPS deliverymen, but you never think it will actually happen to you. My heart pounded at the possibilities.

“Oh you precious DOLL!” she squeaked in voice high enough to shatter fine crystal. Great, pasty trunks of arms shot forward with the speed and accuracy of an Amazonian tree-frog’s tongue lashing out at a passing mosquito, snatching the three large pepperoni, mushroom and sauerkraut pies from my clammy palms. Then, her prizes secure, she turned a coquettish glance back over one expansive, mole-ridden shoulder, and with a pouty little moue added, “Poor dear. You look absolutely frozen! Come inside and let me make you something…hot.” She giggled. My heart leapt for joy!

I followed the great delicious heap of a woman deeper into her cavernous home. Amazing things were happening beneath that stygian gown, each step a miracle of human horsepower, driving the delectable mass of womanhood forward, great undulating waves of flesh fighting to and fro like two massive lava lamps locked in an eternal struggle for domination.

She plopped me down in front of the fridge, and pulled out a can of spiced coffee. She threw it in the microwave, can and all, and fired it up. Great showers of sparks danced inside the microwave, reflecting erotically in her deep-set brown eyes. Finally the delightful nectar was done, now filling a cracked, porcelain mug, warming my quivering hands. The dark beverage beckoned from within the cup, bobbing and sloshing back and forth like my entrancing hostess every time she turned. I drank deeply. Scalding nutty goodness coated my throat, filled my senses, and excited my nerves. In my mind, the sensual impacts of woman and coffee melded, became one. Strong, imposing, hiding hints of some bitter secret, made all the more delicious because of the mystery. Ah yes, she was my coffee, my stimulant, my refuge from the cold.

She smiled. I smiled. The coffee steamed, kept warm by the electric tension in the air. I took another sip, and another. I drank her in with my eyes as I drank it in with my lips. Her eyes twinkled, locked with mine, as I sipped my coffee, and as she fed piece after piece of pizza between massive, well-trained jowls. She giggled like a little schoolgirl as she wiped a bit of sauce from one of her chins. My, my, MY, what a woman!

Oh yes, I drank deeply that night. Deeply indeed.

  1. Joe says:

    Pretty good writtin’ there Tex.

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