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?
"Jasmine"
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.
