by Viktor Quixote
It was in the spring of 2016 that first I met Fanny LaTushe. Although I had left my job as a motel housekeeper and moved, I was recalled to manage temporarily the small motel in the U.S. Heartland where formerly I had worked. Its owner was going on a bowling excursion (a rare respite from his 24/7 workaholicism). He had always been a supportive employer,so I was happy to do it for him.
There was not much happening at the motel--just the occasional transient, the usual handful of long-term working guests--but one standout, an attractive older woman named Fanny LaTushe. Never had I seen such a perky personality alone for such long stretches of time as Fanny. I had been dismally alone since my life crumbled in 2007 so my heart went out to her for that alone. Like myself, she seemed to have become something of a family embarrassment--at least that's how her children told it. A younger man stopped by the motel to see her once or twice, but he was always gone within a matter of minutes. That hurried, unsmiling person turned out to be her son.
Fanny occupied the motel's most expensive suite, and was always alone in that rambling unit. She occasionally took her Caddy out to get her hair done, stock up on Royal Windsor whiskey, or maybe she had to get out for a while to keep from cracking up.
On the advice of my sister Consuela, I presented Hattie with a few personal items to give her empty rooms a less solitary quality. Their theme was love between man and woman, and she grew less restrained and more affectionate. Fanny LaTushe's sense of propriety made me a better man, less in a hurry; and in due time, she showed me the authentic love I have sought all my life, no holds barred--but I am getting far ahead of myself.
I had been happy simply to have a drink and gossip with Fanny--or perhaps I should say a whiskey and a laugh, because I cannot recall any happier times--and one day late in her stay, she let me crawl sub rosa and kiss her gorgeous pudendum--sweet as a mint julep. For my efforts on hands and knees, she tipped me a spent penny. Never had a single cent meant so much to me. It pays interest still in the bank of my soul.
Torrid love-making came much later, after she had been hustled out of the motel by her children back to her refurbished ranch house in Nowheresville, finding herself once again in solitude. I hadn't been on hand for her departure, but as things turned out, my moping about the place was for naught. I felt emotionally sick as I gave her suite the final cleaning, preparing it for God knows what kind of non-Fanny tenants. It was large enough to accomodate an entire family. Riff-raff compared to her, whomever they turned out to be.
Fanny had been sent back down the road by Sonny, who had appointed himself his mother's boss, relegating her to the house in town. Fanny never spent a night in her newly renovated ranch and turned up at my door in the Manor, a high-rise some 40 miles east on the same road.
(Directions: drive east until you hit a stop sign, turn right, then make a left at the library.) I stay at an oasis of elderly pulchritude inhabited by roughly 100 women, ages 62-103--eighty of them Maddie's age. I am one of no more than ten male residents. Maddie moved in and fully became the dolly I have loved and pined for since my childhood, when my dolly, salvaged from somebody's trash, was taken from me--no sissies allowed in Cuba. Half a century later in the US Heartland, my flesh and blood doll Maddie and I spent the happiest four months of my life. Mattie was vastly superior to scavenged plastic. She was the real thing.
Despite her keen sense of propriety, in private Hattie was a sensual tigress. It was my pleasure to serve her in every way: cooking, cleaning, loving, and comforting. She was truly happy here--free of intimidation for the first time in ages, with plenty of congenial company when she desired it--a contrast from solitary days at the motel or the intimidation of her son and townsfolk surrounding her ranch house. The rest of the girls in my building loved her, and she was no longer under the thumb of her son. She had found a cozy home where she could enjoy a cocktail and smoke a cigarette outside with the regulars, and toddle back to devoted servant, me, when she felt in need of private happiness. It was a carefree four months for both of us, until the vultures dropped down upon us most unexpectedly.
Maddie, I was to learn, held farm acreage worth millions, bequeathed to her by her father. She was an only child. "My daddy always told me, 'If anybody tries to take the land from you, have the law run them out of town and sell it'," she told me more than once. It must have broken her heart that her own son turned out to be the bad man. If only she had taken her dad's advice, she might still be alive today.
Viva la liberdad!
 |
| Papa Was Right |
Fanny occupied the motel's most expensive suite, and was always alone in that rambling unit. She occasionally took her Caddy out to get her hair done, stock up on Royal Windsor whiskey, or maybe she had to get out for a while to keep from cracking up.
Her son had the suite booked indefinitely. One of her houses--a ranch house in a fading Heartland town some twenty miles west--had flooded and become uninhabitable. Burst water pipes wrecked the whole place, creating a drawn-out job for insurance company workers. The reason Maddie LaTushe was living there in the first place is that she had been put off her own farm by the son introduced above. He intimidated her and that's how he always got his way with her.
Sonny had shown up unannounced at the farm she inherited from her father after the young man attempted to make it on his own in the Pacific Northwest. Uninvited, he moved his whole family into the farmhouse and before long moved her into the ranch house in town. Rather than endure her presence back at her own farm while the flood damage was being fixed, the son and his family moved Maddie to the county's only motel.
She was a mystery to me, but seemed to beckon with those lonely sky-blue eyes. It was part of my job description to keep her place in tip-top shape--fresh towels, sparkling clean kitchen and bath, glossy floors, and fresh bedding--as would be expected by a woman of quality. Before long, thoughts of romance were running through my mind as I knocked on her door daily. She was attractive, unconcerned about money, but very much on her own and lonely. She was always happy to see me. I think she would have been happy to see anyone.
I confess that during my days in the rural motel business, I allowed myself to fantasize about any rare single female guest that checked in. My idea of romance with a client was basically carnal. But such a relationship would never fly with Fanny. She had been raised to observe romantic protocol. Although playful as a kitten, she was by no means a loose woman. Somehow, she made me understand this without rejecting me. That alone was enough to civilize me. I accepted her cocktails and enjoyed our afternoon visits on a purely Platonic level. We fell into the habit of passing hours at the kitchen table over snacks, drinks and a lot of laughter. I became interested in her as a person.
I would have walked away from such a measured deepening of relationship from anybody else in this rural area--women of ill repute, ex-wives and desperate farm girls happy to submit to sodomy on the first "hook up"--but Fanny possessed an aristocratic quality rare to that rustic part of our nation. To defile such a self-possessed woman would be a sin against the Madonna.
Sonny had shown up unannounced at the farm she inherited from her father after the young man attempted to make it on his own in the Pacific Northwest. Uninvited, he moved his whole family into the farmhouse and before long moved her into the ranch house in town. Rather than endure her presence back at her own farm while the flood damage was being fixed, the son and his family moved Maddie to the county's only motel.
She was a mystery to me, but seemed to beckon with those lonely sky-blue eyes. It was part of my job description to keep her place in tip-top shape--fresh towels, sparkling clean kitchen and bath, glossy floors, and fresh bedding--as would be expected by a woman of quality. Before long, thoughts of romance were running through my mind as I knocked on her door daily. She was attractive, unconcerned about money, but very much on her own and lonely. She was always happy to see me. I think she would have been happy to see anyone.
I confess that during my days in the rural motel business, I allowed myself to fantasize about any rare single female guest that checked in. My idea of romance with a client was basically carnal. But such a relationship would never fly with Fanny. She had been raised to observe romantic protocol. Although playful as a kitten, she was by no means a loose woman. Somehow, she made me understand this without rejecting me. That alone was enough to civilize me. I accepted her cocktails and enjoyed our afternoon visits on a purely Platonic level. We fell into the habit of passing hours at the kitchen table over snacks, drinks and a lot of laughter. I became interested in her as a person.
I would have walked away from such a measured deepening of relationship from anybody else in this rural area--women of ill repute, ex-wives and desperate farm girls happy to submit to sodomy on the first "hook up"--but Fanny possessed an aristocratic quality rare to that rustic part of our nation. To defile such a self-possessed woman would be a sin against the Madonna.
 |
| This casting for the budoiur. |
On the advice of my sister Consuela, I presented Hattie with a few personal items to give her empty rooms a less solitary quality. Their theme was love between man and woman, and she grew less restrained and more affectionate. Fanny LaTushe's sense of propriety made me a better man, less in a hurry; and in due time, she showed me the authentic love I have sought all my life, no holds barred--but I am getting far ahead of myself.
I had been happy simply to have a drink and gossip with Fanny--or perhaps I should say a whiskey and a laugh, because I cannot recall any happier times--and one day late in her stay, she let me crawl sub rosa and kiss her gorgeous pudendum--sweet as a mint julep. For my efforts on hands and knees, she tipped me a spent penny. Never had a single cent meant so much to me. It pays interest still in the bank of my soul.
Torrid love-making came much later, after she had been hustled out of the motel by her children back to her refurbished ranch house in Nowheresville, finding herself once again in solitude. I hadn't been on hand for her departure, but as things turned out, my moping about the place was for naught. I felt emotionally sick as I gave her suite the final cleaning, preparing it for God knows what kind of non-Fanny tenants. It was large enough to accomodate an entire family. Riff-raff compared to her, whomever they turned out to be.
Fanny had been sent back down the road by Sonny, who had appointed himself his mother's boss, relegating her to the house in town. Fanny never spent a night in her newly renovated ranch and turned up at my door in the Manor, a high-rise some 40 miles east on the same road.
(Directions: drive east until you hit a stop sign, turn right, then make a left at the library.) I stay at an oasis of elderly pulchritude inhabited by roughly 100 women, ages 62-103--eighty of them Maddie's age. I am one of no more than ten male residents. Maddie moved in and fully became the dolly I have loved and pined for since my childhood, when my dolly, salvaged from somebody's trash, was taken from me--no sissies allowed in Cuba. Half a century later in the US Heartland, my flesh and blood doll Maddie and I spent the happiest four months of my life. Mattie was vastly superior to scavenged plastic. She was the real thing.Despite her keen sense of propriety, in private Hattie was a sensual tigress. It was my pleasure to serve her in every way: cooking, cleaning, loving, and comforting. She was truly happy here--free of intimidation for the first time in ages, with plenty of congenial company when she desired it--a contrast from solitary days at the motel or the intimidation of her son and townsfolk surrounding her ranch house. The rest of the girls in my building loved her, and she was no longer under the thumb of her son. She had found a cozy home where she could enjoy a cocktail and smoke a cigarette outside with the regulars, and toddle back to devoted servant, me, when she felt in need of private happiness. It was a carefree four months for both of us, until the vultures dropped down upon us most unexpectedly.
Maddie, I was to learn, held farm acreage worth millions, bequeathed to her by her father. She was an only child. "My daddy always told me, 'If anybody tries to take the land from you, have the law run them out of town and sell it'," she told me more than once. It must have broken her heart that her own son turned out to be the bad man. If only she had taken her dad's advice, she might still be alive today.
Viva la liberdad!
Viktor Quixote
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