Whoa, Marlon thought on his way back from Tiffany’s beach pad in Malibu, that was one hell of a break from Jennifer. Surfing and … you know. Glad his brother gave him cover so he could spend a few hours at the contest and the rest of the time dancing in Tiffany’s sheets. God, her milky-white skin and hourglass-shaped back, those ski-sloped hips and the porcelain-fine breasts. And the soft, unblemished skin. Delicious.
Driving the avocado Corvette across L.A. on the 10, he could barely keep his hands on the wheel, so much did he want to reach down to his crotch and remember what it felt like, lying on top of Tiffany, her squeaky moans as he thrust and then, just then, timed just so, the explosion inside, the moans accompanied by something like a seizure, the communion of musk, perfume, sweat, all sticky and sweet and soft. So delicious.
What the hell, Marlon said, I’m on top of the world. Got me a great retainer for that screenplay about the Jewish nuns in the Nazi war factory, don’t have to work until they finish the production, got Matt Damon and Penelope Cruz in the leads. Why the hell not? Traffic was light, so he reached down and pulled himself out of the Tommy Hilfigers – hey, lucky he wore no underwear and these were cargos – and started thinking about Tiffany … delicious.
This wouldn’t take long. He remembered the golden light through her west-facing shades, the cobalt blue of the ocean’s horizon, the reflection of light from her blonde hair beneath his lips – delicious, so delicious …
Forty-seven minutes later, the E.M.T pried open the passenger door of the Corvette. When he saw the brown-gray body with the shorts pulled down below the knees, the left foot stuck behind the accelerator, the head nearly sliced off the neck, he turned around and puked on the sergeant.
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