By Walter Scott Haskell.
In the place first, I want it understood that I am a California cousin to
a doughboy’s cootie.
When first I clapped my binnacle lights on the robust form of Susanna,
I knew that she was my meat, vulgarly speaking. I loved her very
avoirdupois, and that was going some, as she was no light article. I took
her gauge one evening as we sat in the parlor and I snuggled up to her
in a most friendly fashion. My advances were met with cold resentment.
She did not say a word, but she jammed my head against her corset in a
manner that bespoke her an amazon of no mean physical power. I thought
my spinal column was broken; but when she let go, I breathed a sigh of
relief and was contented to just look at her and nurse my sprained parts.
I decided to use diplomacy, and waited until she had taken herself to
the arbor hammock in the garden to indulge in an afternoon siesta. I
watched around, and when I saw her eyelids droop and close, her breast
heave in regular breathing as one asleep, I made my way to her side and
bent over her fair face. How my mouth watered for a bite of her, but
I almost feared that she would wake and lam me in the jaw. Temptation
was too strong, however, and in an evil moment I turned my attention to
her roll-down stocking that showed a goodly proportion of her nether
parts. With a kind of subdued clicking of my jaws, I put my lips to her
bare knee and experienced the joy of a stolen kiss. It may have been a
disgraceful act, anyway the tickle of my touch awoke her, and she kicked
unmercifully, like a cow that will not be milked. I ducked and escaped
death, with a mouthful of her blood, the best that I had ever had, for
she was my meat, and I am a California flea.
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A summer night and a maid and a man has frequently caused an early fall!
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