Winston Bramblenook was your typical milquetoast. A seller of high quality, leather bound literary classics, his daily door to door grind rarely netted him any big sales. From month to month, his meager commission and almost as miniscule hourly wage were barely enough to pay his rent and the few small bills he accrued. His personal life was in even worse shape, and couldn't have been more boring if he was in a coma. Standing at a slightly above average five-ten, the brittle man weighed in at a mere hundred and thirty-eight pounds, sopping wet. If he lifted anything heavier than a box of cereal, his biceps would recoil instantly and grumble vehemently in protest.
Winston was a prudent man, very reasonable and of much more than average intelligence. He had a very large storehouse of common sense in his brainy skull, and he knew the score. He knew that if a woman wanted him, there was probably some ulterior motive, more than likely some foul scheme afoot. It wasn't that he was always a suspicious man, per se, but he was simply a realist. He was scrawny, of only average looks at best, and had nothing really to offer a woman...except his heart. And, sadly, very few women were willing to work their way past his ho-hum exterior to get to that beating gem. At least, that had been his experience.
This being the case, how he could've become entangled in the events I am about to relate, was well beyond his capacity to understand. How could he have allowed himself to become so enmeshed in such a fiasco? Had he been mad? Had his testicles suddenly become engorged with enough semen and hormones to cloud the brain he had always been so proud of? Sadly, he will never know the answers. Suffice it to say, Winston Bramblenook was just like any other man who hadn't had sex in quite some time. Backed up hormones can make thinking a daunting task and level-headed decision making all but impossible, even for a man with Winston's intellect. The poor fellow learned this the hard way.
Even before the unfortunate events took place, his choice of selling territory was not thoughtfully made. Even this decision was hormonally induced. True, it was a subconscious decision that Winston only partially realized was spurred on by recent, testosterone-laced memory, and he therefore couldn't be totally faulted for its unfortunate outcome. Nonetheless, it was a case of creaky, rusting gonads compelling the brain to do unwise things, and poor Winston paid the price.
Thus goaded on by subconscious hormonal scheming, Winston found himself working the sector he himself had requested - to the shocked gasps of both his employer and coworkers - with his suitcase full of classic literature and unrealistic hopes of selling same. The scrawny man found himself wandering the darkened, dangerous, dockside streets of New York City. His boss and coworkers thought he'd either gone insane or had somehow recently acquired a death wish.
And just exactly why was he braving this questionable neighborhood, which callously chewed up men like Winston every night - as little more than a light evening snack - when the darkness crept in? It was because of a woman - and, of course, Winston's clogged sexual plumbing. The object of his carnal affections was none other than the delicious and devious Veronica Van Meers, whom he'd only seen from afar one day as he oversaw the loading of a shipment of books onto a freighter bound for Europe.
The said delectable Ms Van Meers sat on the balcony of her third floor apartment, her long, shapely legs resting comfortably on the wrought iron railing surrounding it. For a woman living in a dockside flat, she was stunningly accoutered in a skin tight black dress - sinfully slitted halfway up her thigh on the right side - succulently clinging fishnet hose and black spike heels that had glistened in the midday sun. Her richly shining, midnight black hair had been up in an elegant bun, showing off her beautiful face. Her eyes were dark and mysterious, but totally inviting. Her lush lips seemed to beckon to Winston, even as her tongue licked them to keep a constant shine on them.
As she lounged back comfortably on her balcony with her legs up, Winston had caught a brief glimpse well up her thigh. He'd blushed, feeling that he'd somehow deflowered the woman. And he'd instantly gotten an erection... which Veronica noticed with a wicked laugh.
As he oversaw the loading of the books, he constantly stole glances of Veronica, all the while sweating nervously and trying to stand in such a way as to see both the dockside cranes and Veronica, while not letting anyone see the bulge in his pants. But the more Winston tried to hide his erection, the more Veronica noticed it, and the more she laughed - and wholeheartedly encouraged that sign of arousal. In fact, to add to his predicament, she purposely spread her legs atop the railing, slipping forward on her lounge chair, bending one leg at the knee, allowing the book salesman an unfettered view up her dress. To Winston's increased fidgeting nervousness - and utter delight - Veronica wore fishnet pantyhose, but no panties. Even from the distance he was from her, Winston could see Veronica's most intimate treasure. Not only was she flaunting it at him, but even the sun seemed to be helping him to view its seductive details, for that fiery globe was at just the right angle to not only shine directly up her thighs, but also to reflect off the railing, as if purposely lighting up that treat for his delighted eyes.
As she watched Winston stare up her dress and self-consciously try to cover his telltale bulge, she chuckled openly and puffed seductively on a cigarette that was comfortably seated in a long, black holder. She seemed so regal, so high society, and yet she brazenly flashed him as he tried with increasing difficulty to concentrate on his job. A royal slut, that's what his mind had somehow labeled her as. But, whether she was a whore or a debutante, she was still way out of his league. He had no doubt of that. So, at the time, he'd just enjoyed the view. What else was there to do? But, when his job was done, and it was time for him to head back to the office for more wares to sell, Veronica waved to him, spreading her legs a bit wider apart, bending BOTH legs at the knees, giving him his best view yet. She then kissed her fingertips, put them down between her legs and briefly tapped them against her exposed sex, and then blew that double kiss - from both pairs of shiny lips - at Winston. He was so aroused he could barely walk. Nonetheless, he tried to keep his composure. He even nodded and smiled up at her as he turned to leave. As he walked away - difficult as that was - he could hear her cruel laughter.
To be sure, this entire encounter never once CONSCIOUSLY entered his thoughts as he wandered down to the docks on the misty night of the most unfortunate incident. But, why else would any sane man brave those rough streets, selling books of all things, and wearing a suit no less?! And how is it poor Winston skipped over most of the flats in the area, making only half-hearted attempts at salesmanship at those apartments he did stop at, as if he were in a hurry and didn't really want to make a sale at all? And why did he stop at every single apartment on the third floor on the dock side of that one particular building? Surely it was a map and a plan clandestinely doled out to his totally oblivious brain by the testosterone trapped in his genitals. His sexual psyche had its own agenda, and was merely putting Winston through his usual bookselling motions before leading him to the real purpose of this nocturnal escapade. And that was, of course, sex...hopefully with the aforementioned delectable Ms Van Meers.
Winston received two death threats, had six doors slammed in his face, was flashed by an eighty year old woman sucking on a stogie, and was propositioned by the ugliest transvestite he'd ever seen, before he came to the door that his sexual subconscious had been leading him to the entire time. All those other doors were just to ease his conscience, to give him the false sense that he truly was trying to sell books in this neighborhood. But now, his hormones had him where they wanted him. Win or lose, his nether region was gearing up for a night of hot, sweaty, nasty tum-bumping ecstasy!
