Wifetheif
Experienced
- Joined
- Aug 18, 2012
- Posts
- 737
I read almost no contemporary literature. I'm also a huge fan of Old Time Radio shows. One of the greatest shows was "I Love a Mystery" about three detectives and their pint-sized, blonde, and incredibly stacked secretary get into one hair-raising scrape after another. The series was written by Carlton E. Morse who was also one of the first pervayors of "fan service" in modern media. In a family radio show, he inserted racy content like strippings on a regular basis. Almost always it was the AAA detective agencies secretary Jerry Booker who bore the brunt of these. In one episode the bad guys are looking for a treasure map. They are convinced that Jerry is hiding it on her person. They make her take off her "coat, shoes, everything" Only once Jerry is completely and totally nude in the audience's mind does her boss come to the rescue with a blanket. I know it was radio, but we all know our imaginations are more powerful than and prose or drama. Anyway. in 1988 Morse released "Stuff the Lady's Hatbox" an I love a Mystery novel in which the trio of Jack, Doc and Jerry go to Las Vegas at the behest of a client to recover $250,000 in stolen loot stuffed in a women's hatbox. Jerry has been brought along as a lure for dissapating young and handsome millionaire involved in the mess, so she is dressed very slinkily. The set up: The boys have recovered the money, still in the hatbox with the bad guys in hot pursuit. The reach their hotel. Jack hands Jerry the hatbox and she runs for the lobby of the hotel while the guys deal with the thugs. Hot on Jerry's heels is Lilly, a gangster mol and babe supreme. Now, THIS is how you write a catfight!
The first time Jerry realized, to quote, “sister Lilly was my everloving shadow” was three steps inside the lobby, where she felt the other’s claws in her bare shoulder and a vicious yank on the low neckline of her dress that, “damn near unhorsed me!’
There was a rending tear from neck to hem and a gusty breeze that told Jerry an awful truth; she now had a southern exposure more interesting than lawful.
Well, that was too much. Now she was fighting for more than Hilly Halliday’s hatbox. That was a two-hundred- and twenty-five-dollar cocktail dress Lilly ruined. Two could play at that game!
Jerry Booker, secretary, now a small blonde tiger, dropped the two-hundred-fifty-thousand-dollar pasteboard container on a lobby chair and turned on her natural foe just as the latter’s fingers reached for her hair. Jerry ducked, grabbed the hem of Lilly’s Skirt, butted her in the stomach and came up fast, whipping the circular skirt up over Lilly’s head, popping buttons from the bodice and splitting the waistband of her slip. For one precious moment Jerry had the girl’s head and arms in a sort of sack. From the armpits down there was nothing but girl, draped in a lacy, fig leaf size black bikini.
Busy as Jerry was, she got one glimpse of the grandfather of all night clerks behind the reception desk, his ancient eyes popping and his grizzled mustache alert and quivering over and open mouth! The callow bellhop looked as though he had been transported into the delights of a Turkish harem.
But Lilly wasn’t standing still for this cat-in-a-sack gambit, and before Jerry could get her breath, Miss Las Vegas had yanked herself free of her shreds and tatters and came at her intent on the kill. Before Jerry could recover, Lilly came down on her bare foot with a sharp French heel. Pain exploded in Jerry’s foot, shot up her leg, and burst out her eyes in hot sparks and tears. Even in the blind excruciating pain, she felt Lilly’s fiery fingernails run down her neck and chest and fasten to the front of her blouse. A second more and Jerry realized that she was as unencumbered by the refinements of civilization as Lilly herself.
Those old guys sure knew how to write!
The first time Jerry realized, to quote, “sister Lilly was my everloving shadow” was three steps inside the lobby, where she felt the other’s claws in her bare shoulder and a vicious yank on the low neckline of her dress that, “damn near unhorsed me!’
There was a rending tear from neck to hem and a gusty breeze that told Jerry an awful truth; she now had a southern exposure more interesting than lawful.
Well, that was too much. Now she was fighting for more than Hilly Halliday’s hatbox. That was a two-hundred- and twenty-five-dollar cocktail dress Lilly ruined. Two could play at that game!
Jerry Booker, secretary, now a small blonde tiger, dropped the two-hundred-fifty-thousand-dollar pasteboard container on a lobby chair and turned on her natural foe just as the latter’s fingers reached for her hair. Jerry ducked, grabbed the hem of Lilly’s Skirt, butted her in the stomach and came up fast, whipping the circular skirt up over Lilly’s head, popping buttons from the bodice and splitting the waistband of her slip. For one precious moment Jerry had the girl’s head and arms in a sort of sack. From the armpits down there was nothing but girl, draped in a lacy, fig leaf size black bikini.
Busy as Jerry was, she got one glimpse of the grandfather of all night clerks behind the reception desk, his ancient eyes popping and his grizzled mustache alert and quivering over and open mouth! The callow bellhop looked as though he had been transported into the delights of a Turkish harem.
But Lilly wasn’t standing still for this cat-in-a-sack gambit, and before Jerry could get her breath, Miss Las Vegas had yanked herself free of her shreds and tatters and came at her intent on the kill. Before Jerry could recover, Lilly came down on her bare foot with a sharp French heel. Pain exploded in Jerry’s foot, shot up her leg, and burst out her eyes in hot sparks and tears. Even in the blind excruciating pain, she felt Lilly’s fiery fingernails run down her neck and chest and fasten to the front of her blouse. A second more and Jerry realized that she was as unencumbered by the refinements of civilization as Lilly herself.
Those old guys sure knew how to write!
