Curled in the Bed of Love Read Online Free Page B

didn’t go any further than that, I could feel her tightening up, and she said, “Aren’t you attracted to me?” And then I wasn’t hard anymore. We’ve been going out for three months, and Linnie wants to have sex and I can’t, and when she finds that out, there’ll be no more cuddling on the sofa.
    The customers do not look too angry when I pull up to the curb. Older people like Mr. and Mrs. Lesser tend to be more civil. I jump out of the car to open the door for them, apologizing, waving my arm vaguely and offering the one word, “traffic,” as an excuse. I’m not sure how late I am, so I don’t want to be too specific.
    â€œWe’d begun to wonder about you,” Mr. L. says. Mrs. L. just smiles at me. With these older couples, the gentleman usually handles complaints.
    â€œI know,” I say gently.
    â€œMy wife left her coat in the car, and here she is, shaking like a leaf in this wind,” Mr. L. says. “And paying for the privilege.”
    Mrs. L., her arms wrapped around her chest, truly does shake from cold. I reach into the car and get her jacket and put it over her shoulders. Still, she wraps her arms around herself, as if the cold has worked its way into her body and nothing will warm her now. I’m upset that I let her down. I want to wrap my arms around her, but she’d have a coronary if I did that. When I offer her my own jacket, I can tell by the way she looks at me that I’ve crossed the line.
    I’m beginning to dread hurting these women almost as much as I dread confessing that I can’t get it up. They think I’m such a catch—the women I end up with are slightly overweight like Linnie or gangly and bony, which makes them shy about taking off their clothes, which works to my advantage for a while—and they rush to blame themselves when I breakup with them. I wish I had an excuse that would absolve them as well as me.
    When I get back behind the wheel, I apologize again. “It’s notlike me to miss my cue,” I say. “I’ll make up to you for that lost time, I promise.”
    I hate it when people say the customer is always right, but what they really mean is the verbal equivalent of a shrug: let the idiots have their way. Mr. L. shells out all this money for a limousine, he expects something beyond transportation. The whole experience ought to reek of privilege: smooth driving, no cutting other drivers off or honking the horn, a stocked bar, helpful advice, some genuine concern when he has a particular need or wish.
    â€œI’m putting on the heat,” I say. “We’ll warm you right up, Mrs. Lesser. You just tell me when the temperature’s comfortable. And how did you like walking down the crookedest street in the world?”
    I’d dropped them off so they could walk down the half-blockor so where Lombard Street is cobbled and coiled like a snake. The line of cars waiting to drive down the few yards of the crookedest street in the world stretched for several blocks, and I figured, why should they have to wait?
    â€œIt wasn’t what I thought it would be,” Mrs. L. says.
    â€œBut now you can say you’ve done it,” I say. With the tourists, you don’t leave out any of the highlights, because they want to go home and say they did everything. So far this afternoon we’ve crossed the Golden Gate Bridge and come back, circled up to Twin Peaks, driven through the park, and toured downtown. Renting a limousine for a couple of hours is a good way to familiarize yourself with the city when you first arrive.
    â€œThat wind bites into you,” Mrs. L. says. “You don’t expect it this time of year.”
    I nod. “Summer in San Francisco is a rotten surprise.”
    I’m not your talkative type of driver. That kind of thing, where you’re pressing your personal opinions on them and telling them your life story, is just oppressive to the