Meet Lucas: THE PROFESSIONAL
Long Branch, New Jersey
July, 1976 Saturday Morning
Mary Greenwood paid me ten dollars to mow her lawn. After we slept together she paid me another fifty. The fifty wasn’t for the sex—at least not that first time—but so that I wouldn’t tell anyone what we did.
“I’m giving you a little something extra to keep this between us,” she said. She already had her hand in her nightstand drawer.
Money was the last thing on my mind when a naked woman was lying next to me. I had my eyes glued to her round chocolate backside, and though we’d just done it twice, that lovely sight had me thinking that if she were game and would wait a few minutes we could go for round three. Then she rolled back to me, clutching a thick wad of bills. The twenty on the outside of the roll snatched my attention away from her nakedness.
She flipped through the wad and said, “So ten for my yard, and what, Lucas? How much will you blackmail me for to keep this quiet?” She was smiling with those full, cushiony lips that had fired up my lust the day we’d met, but it was a cover. Her eyes showed that she was serious about me not talking.
I wouldn’t tell anybody. That was one thing my neighbor Cameron told me when he’d sat me down to have the man-to-man talk about getting down. He’d told me that if I wanted a chance to go back, do her right the first time, and don’t put her business out in the street. But he’d been talking about girls my age.
Mary wanted to be discreet because she was thirty-two years old, which made her fourteen years older than me. This was back when Disco was new and before anyone had ever heard of two-legged cougars. So even though I was a legal adult, if word got out that I was taking care of Mary’s yard and taking care of her body, she’d be branded as some kind of molester. That wouldn’t have been the case, though. After that first time, if anyone was doing the molesting, it was me. I wanted Mary to get her money’s worth. Every time.
I won’t say that Mary and I had been planning what happened that first time. But I had a sense—going back to the day we’d met a year earlier—that something could happen. I saw it in her eyes. Even then, at seventeen years old, I was able to read a woman’s eyes.
How many times has some poet written that the eyes don’t lie?