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Girls on the Prowl
- Collection of Classic Erotica - Book 27
- Narrated by: Virtual Voice
- Length: 5 hrs and 9 mins
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Girls on the Prowl
Narrated by:
Virtual Voice
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This title uses virtual voice narration
Virtual voice is computer-generated narration for audiobooks
Publisher's summary
Lawrence Block on GIRLS ON THE PROWL: “GIRLS ON THE PROWL was first published by Nightstand Books in 1961, with Andrew Shaw credited as author. Harold W. McCauley provided the cover art. The principal characters—one hesitates to characterize them as titular—are Saundra, Marilyn, and Joan. (Joan is the lesbian.) “A mere forty-three years later, THE BURGLAR ON THE PROWL was first published by William Morrow in 2004, with Lawrence Block credited as author. Amy King provided the jacket design, Paul Oakley the jacket illustration, while the author photograph was the work of Athena Gassoumis. The eponymous burglar—no need to call him titular—is Bernard Grimes Rhodenbarr, and he’s aided and abetted by police officer Ray Kirschmann and dog groomer Carolyn Kaiser. (Carolyn is the lesbian.) “There is, as far as I can determine, no other connection whatsoever between GIRLS ON THE PROWL and THE BURGLAR ON THE PROWL. No connection with THE BEST OF EVERYTHING (Rona Jaffe) or THE GROUP (MaryMcCarthy) either. Or PEYTON PLACE (Grace Metalious). “But, duh, I could be wrong…” # Here’s a taste of GIRLS ON THE PROWL: THE CABDRIVER’S NAME was Rick Noscaasi. He was a short, stubby man with strong arms and bandy legs. He was on the wrong side of forty by a year or two and his hair was beginning to go. Rick Noscaasi did not mind the slowness of the evening any more than he minded the hectic aspect of the earlier rush hour. As far as he was concerned, he had the best shift of the three conventional shifts. Tips were heavy and traffic was well-nigh non-existent. But it also had its bad points—too many long hauls and too little turnover, and, most important of all, too much chance of a knife in the chest. The number of cabbies with knives in their chests was a little alarming, even to an easy-going guy like Noscaasi. So to hell with that. Noscaasi had two kids at home who were nuts enough to think he was the greatest thing since Captain Marvel, and a wife who was equally nuts, convinced that he was the finest lover since Valentino kicked off. And his wife, for that matter, was a pretty fine woman. She, too, was on the wrong side of forty, and this took a little of the shine out of her. But she was his wife and he loved her. Still, a man is only human. There were times when Rick Noscaasi saw the young girls with their big breasts, the young girls in their summer dresses and high heels, the young girls with the long legs and the blonde hair and the fresh faces. And, like any man with blood flowing in his veins and an aging wife back in the apartment in Parkchester, Noscaasi would think what it would be like with those girls… He was human. But he was a good man, in the full sense of the word, and thinking was as far as it ever went. Perhaps this is not so much a tribute to his husbandly qualities as it might be, for, to tell the absolute truth, Rick Noscaasi was not the type of man who too often had the temptations of the pleasures of the flesh thrust into his face. Women did not fawn over him. Girls did not run after him, begging for his attentions. He was not chased, and, to his credit, he did not chase. That’s about it. Then there was this night in June. There he was, cruising north, when a girl hailed his cab. She was not an ordinary girl. This much should be obvious. If an ordinary girl hailed an ordinary taxicab on an ordinary June night in New York City, only a complete dolt would write a book about it. She was a pretty special girl… She leaned back lazily in the seat and spoke in a quiet, well-modulated voice. “Central Park,” she said.