A COLLECTION OF LOVE SCENES(Charles E.J. Moulton) NINE LOVES SCENES FROM NINE SHORT STORIES I HAVE WRITTEN

Enjoy!


1

The doorbell rang.
Still laughing like crazy, he ran to the door, crazy with energy.
Opening the door, Beatrice stood there in her flowery dress and frizzy spring hairdo.
She started laughing along with Kevin.
“What are you so happy about?”
Kevin just couldn’t stop singing with joy.
“I just saw a bird,” he laughed. “He, the rain and the sunshine turned a bud into a flower. Now, he and his family are sitting on the branch tweeting like webmasters.”
Beatrice didn’t know why, but Kevin’s happy mood made her laugh, as well.
“You are completely nuts.”
“No,” Kevin laughed. “Blossoming.”
With that sensual comment, the couple fell into each other’s arms, kissing like newlyweds.
By the swaying of the branches and the blooming of the magnolia, their spirits mingled, creating their own form of spring awakening.


***********

2

She raised her eyebrows. “My English,” she said in luscious mezzo, “is very inadequate. Ma parlo italiano. Ho lavorato in Venezia.”
I had studied Italian, but only because my ex-girlfriend Letizia had lived in New York City for a year. We had a stormy relationship which consisted of three things: art, fighting and making love. By the end of our relationship I spoke almost perfect Italian and that was when she broke up with me. Gerald had insisted that I keep my Italian alive and so I did. Once a week we went to an Italian restaurant in the village and spoke only Italian. He mused that it would improve my writing skills.
Anyway, Letizia was a very hot memory even now.
It was fascinating to find out that this Russian dish was an expert linguist. I offered her a bathrobe, which she declined and so we sat there, this vixen and I and spoke Italian for what must have been an hour. We drank our champagne while CNN kept on reporting crisis after crisis.
Her name was Olinka Petrova, or so she told me. She had studied architecture in St. Petersburg and minored in archaeology. To celebrate her diploma she had actually travelled to Venice on vacation with her boyfriend at the time. After the vacation, back in Russia, she had found him in bed with another woman. She broke up with him and packed her bags to go back to Venice, which she actually loved more than her boyfriend. She decided to stay there and soon found a job as a waitress.
Now, I began to wonder why she told me her life story.
She fell in love with an art collector that by chance had dined in the place she was working at. He was a Russian man named Mishka Jolesh.
This began to become interesting. I started listening very carefully and felt somehow that I was either being led astray on purpose or that this woman was a defect and would soon by found in the Baltic with a knife in her back.
He was rich and terribly educated and everything that Olinka Petrova loved. She quit her job as a waitress and went to jet-set parties and met famous art collectors.
Everything turned once Olinka discovered his real intentions. In the beginning it was just fun and games. He “gave” her to friends at receptions and she got to wine and dine strange men during business trips abroad.
Before she knew it, she had turned into a luxury escort girl.
He turned out to be a smuggler and a thief and now they were back in St. Petersburg. She said to me that she very much would make love to me, because she liked my eyes. Mishka was willing to negotiate a deal with me about meeting Gerald, but only if I made love to his girlfriend, she said in perfect Italian.
I asked her how he knew that I was here. Olinka responded that she answer that, only that when they had followed Karpoff to the airport there had been someone else chasing them and warning the kidnappers that they were found. So they booked a second plane and left early.
I had actually expected to find nothing.
What I had found was wandering right into the hands of the thieves that I had looked for.
I asked her what kind of fiancée she had that asked her to do such a thing. She answered that she had nothing against doing it with me, because I seemed like a nice guy. I was a nice dude in spite of the fact that I had pointed my gun at her.
I asked her how they could find me when the secret service and the feds were after them. She answered that it was quite easy when not many people knew I was here. They had given the secret service false clues. They knew how they worked.
This turned me on. She led the conversation into another direction and asked me what painter would’ve liked her body. I smiled a smug smile and felt a bit strange in getting friendly with someone that was allied to the kidnappers. On the other hand, if I got friendly with her I could maybe make a deal with them to release Gerald soon.
I told her that Rubens liked vixens, but that those ladies were hefty and bleak. He was very much in love with his second wife Helen Fourment and used to paint her naked countless times. Rubens’ women were flabby. Olinka was well trained, big breasted and suntanned. I told her that Velazquez would’ve chosen her as a model. The early Dali as well, the late Boucher or Michelangelo would’ve liked her. Olinka said that Mishka always called her Rubens copulative wonder and so even the late Rubens would’ve been inspired by her.
I realized that I had been sitting in full clothing with a smuggler’s naked girlfriend for a half hour now. We had emptied a bottle of champagne and were ready for the next one.
Then Olinka asked me something, again in Italian, that had me wonder what she meant:
“William, che cosa è peccato?”
The buxom vixen looked at me and smiled. From a porn star this question would’ve triggered a massive lust, but she was so serious about this that I smiled back at her. What was sin?
I answered:
“Il peccato è qualche cosa di difettoso che vada contro umanità.”
Sin is something that goes against humanity.
She argued that making love and enjoying sex was not sinful put part of divine creation. Art depicted sex in a creative way. Being married was another thing. Faithfulness was important. If the other one allowed the partner to fool around it was another thing.
Thefts, murder, betrayal, all of those things were sin. Making love was beautiful. If making love to Olinka was a way for William to get back Gerald, all the better.
I said to her that if this were a book, it would probably come into the category of Harold Robbins or Jackie Collins. She disagreed. This was a detective story. Possibly Ed McBain or Ellery Queen.
With these words, Olinka moved a step closer to me on the couch. I had been very gentlemanly up until now. I had sat with a gorgeous naked woman and not touched her once.
She unbuttoned my shirt and kissed my chest. Soon enough my shirt was off and I dared to touch her beautiful breasts. The nipples were swelling to the size of cherries in my hands.
This didn’t feel like sin at all. It felt like a wonder.
As she caressed my member to full length, she gave me a very long and passionate kiss.
She took me by the hand and led me to the bedroom.
We lay down on the bed and spent the entire night making anxious obsessive love. It was about four a.m. when Olinka ordered the Martinis. I drank mine with gusto and thought nothing of it.
A few minutes later, everything went black.

*****************

3

There was a painful silence. That elephant sat in the middle of the kitchen and waited for someone to take him back to the zoo. It was obvious. There were two choices. Patricia decline and regret it for the rest of her life. Or she move to Georgia and become filthy rich.
“But where does that leave me? I have my gallery here.”
“With the kind of money I will be earning now, you could be actually commuting every week. I could probably get you some really good contacts in Atlanta. What if I put you through to the most expensive gallery in Georgia.”
“I live on my wife’s name. Great.”
“Come on. You wouldn’t be living off my name.”
“What else would it be?”
“Nepotism.”
“That’s different?”
“I love you. Come with me.”
“Okay. There’s only one place I call home and it’s because you’re there.”
“Really?”
“Yes. This sounds good.”
“Kiss me.”
“Here’s a kiss.”

**************************

4

We had chosen the lake by my house as a place for the wedding.
The ceremony was conducted by her father. Funnily enough, in a matter of a day’s notice my parents arrived to witness it and were happy and surprised to see their son get married.
My boss also arrived and put on his Sunday best to see his best cook take the oath.
The oath itself was astonishing.
I suddenly saw Wih-Meh-Wih turn into a beautiful, buxom, human beauty. We lifted off the ground and mingled in a spiral. I literally became one with her. Our bodies turned into blue light and we swayed and hovered above the lake in a spectacular dance of spirit.
I felt her and she felt me. There was no fear and no anguish.
The night was young as we consisted of blue smoke. Here, she told me I was her wife forever. I was one with the entire creation and she told me that I could become a changeling, too, with her help.
We gradually took our human form and landed on the ground.
The party continued and now I could hear what everyone felt and said and thought.
The language was emotion and the smiles were the reward.
I now had actually felt what my wife’s soul looked like and it was beautiful. Hearing and seeing her and guessing what she meant was different than actually feeling her.
My parents and her parents became really good friends and once they left in the same space ship to visit Earth and then go to Centurinea we realized we had created bliss.
We never have sex anymore.
We just turn into blue smoke.
Our five children are changelings, too.
And, boy, can they cook.

********************

5

Elizabeth winced, her naturally long eyelashes blinking, the wind from open balcony door tickling her sleeping countenance, ripping her away from a dream. The Washington sunshine gave her promised vitamin D, hoping that she would let the light into her heart. It fleeted in through through the veil of the eyelids, at first only as a small hint, then as a definate crack in the dreamy darkness that had characterized her REM-sleep. A fleeting dream soared into the heavens, flying off like birds toward Africa in the autumn.
When her eyes opened, they only opened half-way. Elizabeth saw a sunrise that displayed maybe three or four colors or tinges. She smiled, thinking of how that sunrise just about exactly mirrored the sunset she shared during the previous night with ... what had his name been? Josh? John? Joe? She didn’t know. She only knew that it had been beautiful. Beautiful. He. He was beautiful. Had been beautiful. Was. Still. Wherever he was now.
Elizabeth yawned, letting the morning air from the open balcony window blow on her naked frame. The look of the skyline seemed fit her mood today. Fit for acrylic painting.
The blank canvas waited there by the white chair outside and somehow she wished that art student from London had stayed between her sheets last night beyond the sunrise.. Why he left so suddenly, she did not know. His muscles had been strong, his kisses had been wet and his touch gentle.
Probably built in the 13th century, it had everything a gothic cathedral should have. But it was so hidden away from the normal route that she always took back from college that she had never bothered to go there.
The bells had called her.
“What the hell?” she had thought to herself. “I have been here a year now and my art studio can wait. Let’s take a look.”
She had actually spent an hour there, taking the tour, looking at the paintings, praying to the virgin Mary and singing along in the hymns. But it was the six o’clock bell serenade that inspired her most. The small figurines circling the clock must’ve taken a year to make each and there were so many of them.
She had definately been here before, maybe in an earlier life.
Anyway, there she was in the art studio she rented with daddy’s money, painting the figurines, remembering the details and singing the songs to herself the bells were chiming.
What song was that?
Bach?
That could be.
Yes, it was Bach.
Johann Sebastian Bach.

*******************

6

The snowflakes sailed down toward the ground from that mantle of darkness. The serenity in that moment brought me that certain peace that lay beyond the troubles that sometimes come with ongoing life. My warm couch and the fireside helped, no doubt. The honest words were my feelings alone and I had no one to prove them to.

********************

7


His stomach rumbled.
Twenty minutes past one. What would he say to her?
His third gin had not really mingled well with the rest of the booze and fondling Pamela was not really a good move, either.
Minnie had pulled the soap dish off the wall and ripped off his jacket. James had slammed the doors after her and the boss had come in and threatened to fire them.
They had left, but only to keep fighting all the way home.
As Minnie was packing her bags, she announced that she was moving back to L.A. and that James could count on a truck coming soon to pick up her things.
Since then no mails, no phone messages, no letters.
Two minutes to go.
A man in a blue uniform blew his whistle and a female speaker announced the arrival of the 14 Coast Starlight from Los Angeles after 34 hours of travel.
James shook his head. If Minnie really never wanted to see him again, why did she take the train all the way here? There were three hour flights here, for Christ’s sake.
He saw the train slowly emerge toward the platform and the strange hiss as it stopped made James almost wet his pants. Knowing her financial state, she probably had a luxury room in first class. Knowing her mind, she probably had prepared a performance worthy of a politician, a long speech recited by a lawyer and brought forth in a leather case.
As Minnie stepped off the train, she was dressed all in red with a white feather boa wrapped around her shoulders. What was more amazing was that she was not alone. She had someone with her. This woman was so stunningly beautiful that James nearly lost his mind. Contrary to Minnie’s fantastic blonde mane, this woman was a brunnette with shoulder length hair. Her eyes were half closed and she wore dimples when her red mouth smiled. Her nostrils flared as she laughed and her cleavage showed off a remarkable bosom.
Who was Minnie bringing with her?
As Minnie and the other person walked up to James, he felt like a little boy caught with his hand in his pants. They just stood there in the midst of all these people looking at him. Minnie was drunk and she stunk of champagne. In her hand was a half emptied bottle of their favorite brand, a 2009 Nicolas Feuillatte Brut Premier Cru that had a price tag of about $ 200.
“Hi, James!”
Minnie’s croon had legs.
“We’ve talked so much about you,” the other woman crooned. “Now, we want to devour you. Slowly.”
The two women giggled.
“Don’t follow us,” Minnie said.
“We know where you live,” the second female countered.
Slowly, but surely, the nameless woman leaned over and gave James the most intense tongue kiss that he had ever received. All the while, Minnie grabbed James by the crotch and rubbed her long finger nails into his manhood.
Then the two women let go, grabbed their Samsonite bags and eloped.
James was left at the train station, baffled.
It wasn’t until a moment later that he realized that he should most certainly try to see where they went. Needless to say, they were not to be found and so James went back home and turned on the TV.
It was midnight when the phone rang.
James had fallen asleep in front of a re-run of Bonanza and now woken up to Beverly Hills 90210.
The woman at the other end seemed familiar and it didn’t take long for him to realize that the female was Melissa with her husky alto voice that had enticed him with what most certainly was a D-cup bust.
“We are in the executive king suite at the Fairmount Olympic Hotel in the Central Business District, 411 Unversity Street. Do you mind coming over?”
“Well, okay,” James stammered, “it’s a bit late, but...”
Melissa hung up.
James took a long look at the receiver producing the long tone and finally hung up.
It took a long time for him to decide what to do, knowing what this could be. Minnie’s revenge plans had been long and calculated.
James showered and put on his Yves Saint-Laurent, stepped into his Chevy. He reeked of Calvin Klein, wearing his titanium frame Louis Vuitton eye glasses. As he parked in the driveway of the hotel, a piccolo was there to pick up his car and gave him a slip that would automatically grant him access to his vehicle. He announced to the reception that he was meeting Miss Minnie Dremond in her suite and was to take the elevator to the fourth floor to room 401.
The hallway seemed endless, but once there he realized that the door to the luxury suite was ajar.
He stepped in carefully and found no one in the whole suite. There was a clock ticking on the vestibule mantle piece and a note, saying: “Back in five minutes. Melissa”
James walked to the window and looked out through the window, he opened the balcony door and stepped out and walked in again. He found a full glass of whiskey with fresh ice inside. He smelled it. His favourite brand. Tullamore Dew. He took a sip. What a glorious taste.
Ten minutes. Still no one there. Why had Melissa and Minnie called him up and left him here?
He turned on the television and caught a rerun of Dallas.
By the time he had witnessed Kristin shooting J.R. for the millionth time, he had been waiting for an hour.
He stepped out of the suite, ready to leave the hotel, when he saw Minnie kissing someone he didn’t know. He was a hunk, clearly someone that would be found flirting with strange women. Melissa was there, too. She was kissing someone else.
The two women were obviously very busy leaning against the wall and necking their one-night-stands.
James wandered into the suite and smiled.

**************************

8

George kissed Miranda tenderly on the lips and went to get the first course, his own creation: a previously prepared apetizer named Salmon and Spinach Croissant. To this, George Taylor served a chili and sheep’s cheese creme and dry martinis on ice.
The assembled sat and enjoyed the view, eating their first course, speaking of Pamela, Pierre and Paramount. The second course, Miranda’s Pizza, was served with cool 2010 white wine. By the time Mousse de chocolate à trois arrived, the adults had conversed into late evening about infidelity, rape, theatre and show business. Baby Sarah was sleeping in her crib, that had been rolled out onto the terrace, and the three adults were drunk and almost forgot the fact that this morning a woman had been perceived as a potential threat to both family and profession. Yes, there was lots of talk about Pamela and lots of talk about acting and jobs and family and wines. The consensus, however, was that the dice had been rolled and it was impossible to say on which number they landed. George and Miranda had uttered a refusal to work with Pamela and that was that. Now the question was: would Paramount accept this? Would Pierre accept it? Pamela?
Sarah left the terrace giddy and drunk that evening, promising to call them next time they both were in town. Little did they know who actually was waiting in the wings. When Godmother Sarah kissed baby Sarah goodnight, Chardonnay stinking on her breath and too many calories to burn on her hips, Pamela stood outside the door of the Mahoney – Taylor mansion. Pamela was just about to ring the doorbell when Sarah stepped onto the stone porch on her way to the driver that was waiting for her with a black Dodge.
Pamela, slightly intoxicated, didn’t know what to say. The door was ajar and George and Miranda were still organizing tomorrow’s interview. Variety was coming to the mansion to speak to the famous couple and some things were brought out from cupboards and boxes, old photos and the like. The couple heard Sarah catching her breath and her steps coming to a halt. Pamela was standing there, holding a cuddly toy kangaroo and a book for baby Sarah.
Godmother Sarah, who had been badmouthing Pamela de la Roy as the worst woman in the planet, now was lost for words.
“Is something the matter?” Miranda called out from the livingroom.
George left his study to see why Sarah was not leaving.
Once he came down the stairs approaching the front door, he saw Pamela standing on the front stoop. Miranda came along from the livingroom.
“What’s the matt- ...”
She stopped in the middle of the sentence, completely dumbfounded by what she saw.
There they were, three established motion picture actors that had foulmouthed a colleague all day. Now, exactly that colleague appeared before them.
Miranda did not know what to say, having refused ever to work with this person. And what was she holding? A kangaroo and a plastic book. It looked like a book meant for the bathtub, made of plastic. Pamela held it out and offered it out to anyone that would take it.
George looked at Miranda and Miranda looked at George. The enemy had returned.
Miranda took a step forward and, without taking the presents, cocked her head and asked: “What do you want here?”
Pamela gave them a sweet smile: “Reconciliation.”
George remained cold, but told the truth: “You were sentenced to pay 100 000 dollars for attempted rape. Now you are back with presents. Why?”
Pamela looked down. “We are working in the same business. We are bound to bump into one another sooner or later. I can’t avoid you.”
There was a long pause and it was obvious that this had cost Pamela a lot of courage to begin with. She was searching for words, fumbling in the dark, also because these three colleagues actually encountered her with more chill than she had initially thought.
The evening was Californian and warm.
The spiritual weather was very, very cold.
“Okay, I can see where this is going,” Pamela said. “All I want is to wish you well for all the projects you have in mind and give baby Sarah a present.”
Still no response.
“I never meant to hurt you, George. I was desperate that night. The love of my life had left me. I jumped on the first person that I saw and it happened to be you. Then all things went haywire. The shit hit the proverbial fan and the trial, well, that was painful. I am sorry.”
George, Godmother Sarah and Miranda looked down.
They wanted to say something, but did not.
“I know you all hate me, God knows the press does. But I am willing to change, so as a sign of good will I brought your little baby princess a toy kangaroo and this little bath book.”Pamela took a look at the book and smiled. It was a hurt smile, seeking sympathy. “I like this book, she can read it while she takes a bath.” She held up the book and showed it to the three, angry colleagues. “It’s about a happy crocodile.”
Pamela smiled again and sadly put the present on the front stoop.
“Have a good evening,” she said and walked back toward her BMW parked in the round about driveway.
She would have left, if Miranda hadn’t said something.
“What’s going on in your mind, Pamela? Why are you so nice?”
It was dark, so Pamela could only be seen as a shadow. But it was clear that this sultry woman turned around and was searching for words.
There was a long silence. In fact, the silence was so long that George was about ask her if she was going to say something.
Then she spoke with a tender and very sensitive voice words that really touched the people standing on the front stoop. The snores of baby Sarah from the play room open window could be heard and this enhanced the effect of the speech. Now, these four people were not famous stars or famous actors or rich celebrities. They were also not ordinary people. They were people, souls, humans working on their craft and living just like other people live and work on something and try to stay alive. Some people chose being bakers or plumbers. These people chose working as actors in Hollywood.
“Miranda, I know that you hate me. Pierre told me that you guys refused to work with me and that if I was in the movie you wouldn’t be. I can understand that. After all, I molested George. I don’t blame you. But something did click in me and it was that if I didn’t try to reconcile with you after working for you and liking you honestly for quite a long time, then I would regret it for the rest of my life. I don’t ask you to like me. You can hate me. That’s okay. Just please forgive me. I am not a slut. I didn’t plan to give you bad press. I didn’t plan to almost rape George and land on the cover Newsweek. I really like you guys and it is ashame that I just went crazy. I am sorry.”
The kangaroo and the bath book was still there on the front stoop as Pamela stepped into her car and left off.

*************

9

“His eyes, his smile and his flowers,” Lucienne said and suddenly she was a young girl again. There was a look of dreamy love in her eye that transported her family back to when she had been young. She waved it away suddenly just like she would a silly bee buzzing around her. “That was real, my fling before that is just … what did I say … scented fluff? Yes.”
“We like scented fluff, don’t we, Laura?” Lucienne’s 14 year old great-grandson Peter said.
Laura smiled and patted her son on the knee and shook her head, then leaned against her husband Robert’s shoulder.
“That particular day, it was a day in July just like today, there was no gentleman caller to walk with me. So, my brother André had to serve as my date. We walked and walked and my brother taught me about art and theatre and checked my skills on reading and writing. He always kept a note pad and a small writing tool with him and so our walks would be lessons. That day we passed a house I had never seen before. It was very well kept and had a large iron gate leading up to a gorgeous English garden.”
“Grandmother always loved the English,” young Penelope said and her sister Emma laughed.
Ethel asked them to be quiet.
“The amazing thing was the man kneeling down next to the rose bushes. He tended to them with such care that I had to convince my brother to stop and wait before we went on. He spoke to them. He even sang to them.
Well, eventually we walked on and spoke about other things. But that man never left my mind. I was thinking about that man all the time. That was enough reason for me to go there again. I convinced my brother to take another walk again with me and lead him to the house. Sure enough, there he was again singing to his roses.
I stood there a long while just looking at him. He didn’t turn around toward me, although he must’ve noticed me. Maybe he thought I was just a very nosey little brat.
Anyway, this little girl, namely me, had been standing there a long while when the man turned about in my direction anyway and asked me if I liked the roses. My brother said nothing, but knew that I was happy to be offered a rose.
Of course, we all thought that this strange man was a simple gardener. We had only seen him in his garden and people are stupid, even rich people like us were judging only by what we saw and not by what lay beneath the surface.
So to us, he was a gardener.
We spoke of the weather and of the political situation in Paris, of our King and of current French artists like Corbet, Manet and Rodin. We even mentioned the slaves in America and how they had been freed by Mr. Lincoln and that Mr. Grant was doing a nice job, considering that he was actually leading a country torn apart by a civil war. The gardener was very well read and I really wondered who he was. Well, soon my brother lead the conversation to another topic, namely our house and eventually we said that we needed to go home.
We did so, but I kept on blabbering on about this gardener who never ever mentioned that he was anything else but a gardener. All our questions about the house never referred to himself. He spoke of the rooms and of the garden and of little chores, never that he might be a wealthy man. We were stupid, as I said. I was in love, but in love with someone just like you might be in love with an animal, someone of a lower class, someone that you might want to cuddle and caress.
Anyway, I could not ever stop talking to this man. I went there every day. One day my father joined me and as we returned he was sure he had seen him somewhere. The hard part was that I really couldn’t ask him what his name was after three months of idle conversation.
The horrid thing was that I became more and more in love as time passed. My family really were going crazy.
I tried my best to occupy my time with other things like inviting other prospects of marriage and writing my diary, practicing piano and arranging dinner parties.
No matter what I did, I couldn’t get my thoughts away from this man, whose name I did not even know.
Then finally, one day, I told my father that our garden actually needed a brush-up and that we might want to hire a professional gardener. My dear father, a very busy man, smiled knowingly and was aware of my love.
He was also aware of the fact that he knew that he wanted someone of social stature as a prospect for marriage and that this man may not be the right choice. I disagreed. He might be rich and famous.
The next day, we agreed to invite the man to tend our garden, We would come to his house the same time of day and ask him if he was interested in working on our bushes, so to speak.
When we arrived, the man was not in his garden and I was devastated. We looked for him in other parts of the mansion, but we didn’t find him. Finally, we rung the bell and a very handsome older man opened the door.

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