The Most Beautiful Woman in Town Read Online Free Page A

with all this netting pulled around me. The whole of the bed — and it was a large one with a kind of roof — had all this netting around it. I pulled it all around the outsides and laid down in there with all this netting around me. It made me feel rather queer to do a thing like that, but the way things were going I felt I might as well feel like a queer as anything else. As if that weren’t bad enough, there was a key in the door and the door opened. This time it was a short and wide negress with a rather kind-looking face and a tremendously wide ass.
    And here was this big kind black girl pulling back my queernetting and saying, “Honey, it’s time for a change of sheets.”
    And I said, “But I just checked in yesterday.”
    â€œHoney, we don’t run our sheet-changing on your schedule. Now get your little pink ass out of there and lemme get my job done.”
    â€œUh huh,” I said, and leaped out of bed, strictly naked. It didn’t seem to affect her.
    â€œYou got a nice big bed here, honey,” she told me. “You got the best room and bed in this hotel.”
    â€œGuess I’m lucky.”
    She spread those sheets and showed me all that ass. She showed me all that ass and then turned and said, “O.k., honey, your sheets is done. Anything else?”
    â€œWell, I could use 12 or 15 quarts of beer.”
    â€œI’ll get them for you. Gotta have the money first.”
    I gave her the money and figured, well, there goes that. I pulled the netting queerly about me and decided to sleep it off. But the big black maid came back and I pulled the netting back and we sat there and talked and drank the beer.
    â€œTell me about yourself,” I said.
    She laughed and did. Of course, she had not had an easy life. I don’t know how long we drank. Finally she climbed upon that bed and gave me one of the best fucks I ever had . ..
    I got up the next day and walked down the street and got the paper and there it was in the popular columnist’s column. My name was mentioned. Charles Bukowski, novelist, journalist, traveler. We had met in the air, the lovely lady and I. And she had landed in Texas and I had gone on to New Orleans to cover an assignment. But had flown back, the lovely lady imbedded in my mind. Only knowing her mother owned a photography studio.
    I went back to the hotel, got hold of a pint of whiskey and 5 or 6 quarts of beer, and I finally shit — what a joyful act! It might have been the column.
    I climbed back into the netting. Then the phone rang. It was the extension phone. I reached out and picked it up.
    â€œYou have a call, Mr. Bukowski, from the editor of the –––––––––. Would you care to answer?”
    â€œAll right,” I said, “hello.”
    â€œAre you Charles Bukowski?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat are you doing in a place like that?”
    â€œWhat do you mean? I’ve found the people here quite nice.”
    â€œThat’s the worst whorehouse in town. We’ve been trying to run that place out of town for 15 years. What made you go there?”
    â€œIt was cold. I just got into the first place I could. I came in by bus and it was cold.”
    â€œYou came by air. Remember?”
    â€œI remember.”
    â€œAll right, I have the lady’s place of residence. Do you want it?”
    â€œAll right, if it will be all right with you. If you’re reluctant, forget it.”
    â€œI just don’t understand what you’re doing living at a place like that.”
    â€œAll right. you’re the editor of the biggest paper in town and you’re talking to me over a telephone and I’m in a Texas whorehouse. Now, look, just forget it. The lady was crying or something; it worked on my mind. I’ll just take the next bus out of town.”
    â€œWait!”
    â€œWait, what?”
    â€œI’ll give you her address. She read the