The sexy coed wanted to learn about writing--but Stanley
gave her a memorable lesson in research.
"The Immortal Molly Jones"
by Jimmy Walker
from
Adam
Vol. 6, No. 10, 1962
HER LEGS were the first things he noticed.
They were long, slender, curvy legs balanced on spike heels drilling twin
holes into his doormat. Flesh-colored hose grasped the curving ankles and
calves in a gossamer embrace held taught by garter hooks high on the swelling
thighs. The lumps of the hooks were visible beneath the clinging material
of her skirt. They were the only flaws in the smooth symmetry of leg that
swooped upward from delicate ankles to a generous and mobile pelvis.
"Hullo, I believe I have an appointment. I'm
Molly Jones." Her voice was like a clear mountain stream chuckling over
clean white stones.
Stanley's eyes slipped up hurriedly
over a variety of attractions that rivaled most National
Parks in scenic interest. He looked full into her face, noticing pouting
lips and gray, smoky eyes. The sun back-lighted her golden hair in a radiant
glow.
"Yes, of course. You're the journalism
student from the University. Come in." He pushed the door open.
She came out of the sunlight into the shadowy,
tobacco-hung intimacy of his den with the long-legged stride of a young
collie sniffing the smells of a strange kennel. Stanley smiled in admiration
of her undulating buttocks chewing at each other like the jaws of a contented
cow.
Molly moved around the den with an easy grace,
delighted at the shelves of books, then stopped to study a stone idol.
She leaned over his desk to examine the rack of pipes, arching her back
and thrusting out mature breasts that could have graced a ship's figurehead.
"Do you prefer meerschaum or briar?" she asked
with a knowledge that surprised him.
"Algerian briar, with a filter." Stanley waited
while she made a note of his answer, then invited her to sit down and be
comfortable.
She settled her ample hips on his couch and
ran her hand appreciatively over the rich leather. "So this is where you
write?"
"It suits," Stanley said simply. "I wrote
my last two books here. The others were done wherever I happened to be
at the time: Africa, Peru."
"But this is where you did Lost Conquest,
your Pulitzer winner. What a perfect spot for it!" Molly's eyes were bright
with excitement. "I've read all your books. You've been my favorite author
since I was a child."
Stanley grimaced. "Suddenly I'm ancient."
"Don't feel that way. I like mature men."
She studied his tweedy figure with an intent longing.
He waited until Molly had observed him point
by point, then grunted, "Mature enough?"
She ducked her head t make a note on her pad,
ignoring his question. But he couldn't help seeing the flush of color that
rose to her cheeks.
He sat on the couch and let his thigh
press against hers. "I suppose you're going to ask what kind of typewriter
I use and what brand of paper I type on and does a beginning writer need
an agent?"
"Are those the questions every young writer
asks?"
"Invariably."
"Then I won't. Instead, I'll throw it open
to you. What advice would you give an aspiring writer?"
"That's easy. Get a job in advertising and
sell underarm deodorant. There's where the money is."
"No, that won't do at all. I want immortality.
I want to write with my soul."
"That's infinitely more difficult. All of
us wrote with our souls when we were young. We wrote beautiful, fragile
little things that were wonderful for our souls. But there's no demand
for souls."
He put his hand on her knee to emphasize the point and felt the flesh
firm and alive under his fingertips. When she didn't pull away he continued,
"Those who kept writing with their souls became teachers of writing in
universities or presidents of writers' clubs and never sold anything. A
few of us forgot our souls and became novelists. We learned to write with
our guts."
"I don't understand."
"It's as simple as it is difficult. And since,
as I've said, it's infinitely difficult, it follows that it's also transparently
simple."
Molly's pencil flew in a spasm of note taking.
"Let me get all this down."
"Put those notes aside and listen. My first
novel was about a mountain. How would you begin work on a subject like
that?"
"I'd go to the library and look up everything
I could find about mountains."
"No, Molly, no! That's all wrong. You go to
a very large and difficult mountain and you climb it. You go all the way
to the top. No cheating. And before you're even part of the way up, you're
living on guts alone. By the time you've done it, you're washed out, wrung
out, and your soul is numb. The only thing left is guts. And that's the
material for your story."
"I've never done anything like that."
"It's the only way. You have to live it first.
Then you know all you need to know. If you put it all down carefully, precisely
the way it was, and get it just right, it'll be literature."
"I thought fiction was just make believe.
You're supposed to make it up.”
"Fiction is truth. First you live it. Then
you write it down. With your guts."
"A girl doesn't climb mountains and fight
in revolutions and shoot lions. My ambition is to write romantic novels."
"What do you know of romance?" Molly tried
to speak, faltered, and finally confessed, "Not much."
"How will you write it? Do you intend to go
to the library stacks and look it up under `L for love?' No, you must have
an affair with a man, get involved, live it deeply until you know everything.
If you have any luck, you'll forget your precious soul and write it truly
with the only thing that counts-guts."
"My instructor never mentioned this in Creative
Writing II"
"That's hardly surprising. Look at me and
pretend you're writing a love scene. Could you accurately describe me if
I'd not been here with you?"
"No."
"You see? When I take you in my arms like
this, you feel certain things. And whatever it is you feel, it's real and
it happened to you, not somebody else at some other time."
"How would you describe my face?"
"Your face is a moon rising in the warm night
of my desire. Your lips are trembling with passion and, beyond the sooty
veil of your lashes, your eyes hint of hidden pleasures. Even the glory
of your bleached hair is stimulating, for it reminds me of an angel with
a tarnished halo."
Molly pressed her cheek against his.
Her breath whispered like cat fur in the softness of his ear. "That was
beautiful. But the part about my hair is fiction. I'm a natural blonde."
He tilted her chin and smiled. "Are
you?" he asked, settling his lips over the hot volcano of her mouth. He
tasted the fiery sweetness of the crater. Stanley didn't let her go, but
prolonged the embrace until her interest exceeded his.
He felt her fumbling with the buttons
of her blouse. He had counted the buttons. There were three. And her lips
held him prisoner until the third was undone. At last she released him
from the kiss to press his face into the open front of her blouse.
The nipples were erect like ripe plums on
the puddings of her breasts.
Stanley rolled her down on the couch and the
springs groaned under the weight of them both. She was a good woman, as
good as his first glimpse of her legs had promised. But she was wrong about
one thing--she wasn't a natural blonde.
When he finished, Stanley got up and discreetly
turned away to fill his pipe while Molly regained her composure. By the
time he'd finished tamping the last pinch of stringcut tobacco into the
bowl and had it well lit, she was dressed.
"Well, Molly, now do you understand what it
is to experience what you write?"
"No! I couldn't put down words for that. It's
too personal. I want to hide it."
"Hush, Molly. You're talking like a woman,
not a writer." Stanley selected a sheet of bond and cranked it into his
portable typewriter. He sat down and flexed his fingers over the keys.
"I'm a woman. But I also want to write. I
want to be immortal."
"But, my dear Molly! You are immortal. You
have become a part of my experience. You'll live forever." He typed a few
words on the paper. "Please excuse me. I must work."
"How can you do it now, when we just finished?"
"Guts." He continued typing.
"Will it bother you if I look over your shoulder
while you write?"
"Certainly not." He puffed at his pipe and
continued typing.
She moved behind his chair and looked at the
sheet of manuscript paper in the machine. She read the words left by the
pecking keys as they raced across the paper:
THE IMMORTAL MOLLY JONES
Her legs were the first things he noticed.
They were long, slender, curvy legs balanced on spike heels drilling twin
holes into his doormat. Flesh-colored hose grasped the curving ankles and
calves in a gossamer embrace held taut by garter hooks high on the swelling
thighs. The lumps of the hooks were visible beneath the clinging material
of her skirt. They were the only flaws in the smooth symmetry of leg that
swooped upward from delicate ankles to a generous and mobile pelvis.
"Hello, I believe I have an appointment. I'm Molly Jones."…
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