After some mild foreplay and a quick crinkling of a condom wrapper, he is on top of me. Although I am thankful he didn’t try to go down on me, I am barely wet and he’s inside of me. He pets my bangs, brushing them further down onto my forehead. All I see are gold and diamonds as he leans forward and covers my mouth with his, like a lion ferociously yet gently killing a silent gazelle. Despite the bottle of wine which he’d reluctantly downed three quarters of this is still the most sober sex I’ve had in years. Wishing he hadn’t insisted on leaving the unforgiving hotel room light on, I focus on the popcorn ceilings and pray he won’t make me get on top. Not tonight. Not the first time. I am relieved yet slightly disappointed that he didn’t break out with any of the kinky shit that I’d imagined- hadn’t bent me over his knee and spanked me, hadn’t made me call him “Daddy.” The way I saw it I may as well try to have the most interesting and freaky sex I could and perhaps eventually something would take me off of safety down there and release the trigger I keep trying to look away but he keeps turning my chin towards him.

            “Let me see those pretty green eyes…” he says. Being pretty much absent of tits or ass, I always got the “eye” or “leg” men, despite my gimpy calves.

      I try to forget that I hadn’t had time to freshen up my makeup and I look at him vulnerably, sensing this is what he wants. He stares back as if he can see through me, all the way down inside me to the tip of his cock that is gradually going deeper and deeper, harder and harder. I sense he is about to cum so I grab him tighter and prepare to begin my act. I’d gotten pretty good at faking it by now. Breathe hard… scream scream… Oh god oh god….yeah yeah blah blah blah…next. Then all of a sudden he stops. What is going on? He hasn’t cum. He is still inside me but he has stopped moving like he is waiting for me to do something. I guess I have to ham it up even more. I don’t know what to do. Out of desperation, I start to move my body, move my hips, pretend I’m in a sex movie. After a while something starts to feel good. I move my body more, trying desperately to find that spot again. I find it again. I move around it more and more. Something clicks in and I’m on autopilot. I can’t help it now. I realize what is happening but I try not to think about it. I don’t want my nerves getting in the way. I concentrate on the spot. He is still. It is all me. I tell him “Don’t stop…Don’t stop !” anyway. All the years of trying flash before me, all the boys, all the girls, everone I could remember sleeping with are brewing inside me,  culminating to a final climax. It has all been about this moment. Time is standing still. And all of a sudden it comes. Orgasm. Real shrieks of pleasure. Real sighs of relief. Sober.

       As he climbs off of me and I settle into the crook of his armpit, not even worried about the millions of zits whose wrath I am sure to invoke by resting my face on his sweaty tattoo covered chest, I feel something I have never felt before. I suddenly understand why she called him “Daddy.” I feel safe. Like I am suddenly resurrected from the mundane bowels of the concrete jungle out there. Protected by one of its kings.

            When we wake up the next morning, I know it’s time to make the call. My mother is expecting to pick me up from the airport tomorrow. I stare at the beige hotel phone and pray for a wave of genius. I’m twenty two years old. Too old to be worried about what my mother thinks of me. Look at the train wreck she married for Christ’s sake. I look at Jonathan. He’s just out of the shower and he’s sitting on the edge of the bed in yet another pair of eighties mod print briefs taking some cash out of a red and white striped Barbasol shaving cream can and stuffing it in the bottom of one of his weathered, steel toed motorcycle boots. He seems so comfortable in his skin. Suddenly I care more about not hurting him that protecting my mother. My mind wanders to last night. I realize I am not embarrased or ashamed of him, that that is just a feeling I am used to but it does not apply here. I am actually proud of him. Proud to bring him home with me. A calmness washes over me, and for the first time in years I feel like I own my life. I dial the number.

      “Hello…” The soft whispery voice that I was so dreading I am now happy to hear.

      “It’s me…” I say.

      “Amy… oh my gosh I had the funniest dream about you.”

      “Really… what was it?”

      “Oh my gosh… Well I dreamt that you came for Christmas and you brought this tattoo guy with you and gave everyone tattoos for Christmas presents…”

      “Well… funny you should say that…”

“We’re here sleepyheads!!!” Jonathan yells as he slams the gearstick into park. He gives Dominic a look and they both get out to go get our “rooms.”

      Roxy and I look at eachother and I know we are both thinking the same thing. “Do you have anything?” I ask her and she starts digging furiously through her purse while I go rescue our hostage bottle of wine from the front seat.

      “Tweezers?” she says hopefully.

      “Give ‘em here” I say and we climb out of the van, our cramped bodies unfolding like encapsulated animal sponges just set in the water for the first time.

      “I have to pee.”

      “I know… you go first.” I say as we naturally scuttle away from the bright fluorescents of the hotel driveway casting their evil light that only the flying bugs of night can stand to hover beneath. I find a stone encrusted bench on the other side of the van and I go to work on the wine. The paper part is off no problem. I bend the tweezers flat and frantically try to push the cork inside the bottle. Freedom is not far away. But I hear masculine voices closing in, threatening my liquid liberty. Shit. Not until they approach do the tweezers make me feel desperate.

      “Need some help with that?” Jonathan asks as he produces a larger than necessary switchblade which he whips out and flicks open all in the same lightening speed motion, indicating years of practice. Thank God he is going to have some mercy and finally let me get drunk. He makes short work of the cork and helps himself to a long swig, several swigs, emptying a good third of the bottle. I suddenly feel like the mother hen whose baby chicks helped pick the corn and want to eat all her cornbread. He grunts and makes a face as if he’s just swallowed battery acid and finally hands over the bottle with a sinister and satisfied look on his face that says do what you gotta do, I’m about to get laid.

      I quickly grab the bottle, take a swig and pass it to Roxanne. I notice Dominic has a strange look on his face.

      “So you’re drinking JS?” he asks.

      What did he mean. That’s like asking, “Are you breathing, Amy?”

      “Yeah… here and there… but I got it under control. What about you… you finally got a couple of years under your belt now?

      It suddenly all made sense. The looks on our date, the no drinking in the van, the strained self control he always seemed to excersize around booze that seemed so deliberate. Yep… A.A. Shit. Well, at least Jonathan had come to his senses. But poor Roxanne, if she’d known about Dominic she surely would not have come. I take another good long pull on the bottle.

      “Well… I’m beat.” Dominic says, masking his panic at the newfound realization with an insincere yawn. He’s stuck on a road trip to the most decadant city in the states, perhaps the world with two alkies and a relapser.

      “Ok, well… g’night…” Jonathan says, looking square at Roxanne. She looks at me, slightly panicked.

      I shrug my shoulders. What could I do. “Just think… “ I say, trying to wind the invisible knob sticking out of her back that gives her life, “Tomorrow we’ll be in New Orleans!”

      “Yay, I can’t wait…” She chimes halfheartedly. I’m glad I’m not in her shoes. She hops up as if her springs need oiling and follows Dominic to their room. I watch her dingy, white cheetah print coat with the neon pink spray painted edges get smaller and smaller. She turns, and gives me one last glance. I smile and wave as I guiltily hand the bottle to Jonathan who sits down and puts an arm around me. I feel my shoulders stiffen, knowing I am next to walk the plank.

      It’s not that I didn’t like sex, it felt good I guess. It was just fine except there was always the moment where they expected you to cum and I couldn’t. I try to tell myself that its more of a tool than anything else. That life is a chess game between women- men being the pawns we use to maneuver against eachother. And sex, well that’s just another means to carry out our strategy. This is my mantra. Still, I am nervous. 

to be continued

Despite the feeling of freedom the wide open road offers, my mind is still habitually attached to the what-ifs of reality and my consciousness keeps visiting the part of my brain that holds all the doubt and perhaps logic. The part that is saying what are you going to tell your mother is battling the part that says you are twenty- two years old and you can do what you want. Both parts think it’s a good idea at this juncture to surprise everyone with the supersized bottle of chardonnay I have stashed in my glad bag suitcase.

“Does anyone have a bottle opener?” I say, preparing myself for the praise that is sure to come flying.

“Yay Amy… you have wine?” Roxanne cheers from the back of the cavernous black hole. I look back at her with a wink and a smile, and as I do I catch Dominic and Jonathan sharing a look.

“What are you, crazy?” Jonathan says, a little too loudly for a second date. I swear there is an echo from the black hole that is the back seat.

“We’re driving!” He says as he grabs the bottle and quickly stashes it in a mysterious hidden compartment. The way he said it you’d think I broke out an UZI and a suitcase of cocaine. For someone raised on sips of icy Coors being passed to her in the back seat of the car, or holding on to a cold, sweaty glass of pink wine while her mom shifted on a turn, this was not a big deal. Even I can remember the good ol’ days of legal drinking and driving, and he was old enough to actually enjoy them. I guess he had a legitimate reason, us being in the car and all, but if this man thought he was going to tell me how much to drink, this was definitely not going to work out.

I pause to collect myself. “Oh, right… sorry. I guess the spirit of New Orleans caught hold of me…” I say. I look back to Roxanne and roll my eyes. Then out of Dominic’s line of sight she flashes me the silver pull top tab of what I know to be some kind of large can of malt liquor and quickly stuffs it back into her fish-shaped purse, putting fingers over her lips miming a silent oops. Under the guise of playing some music, I ask Dom if he wants to sit in the front for a while and I go join Roxy in outerspace.

“How far you think we’ll get tonight?” Dominic asks.

“We’re only going as far as Virginia.” Jonathan answers.

“You guys wanna get a room tonight then?”

“No…” Jonathan pauses. “I wanna get a room… and you wanna get a room.” He says, emphasis on the separate pronouns.

I clench my teeth and look at Roxanne to see if she catches this. She looks back at me as if she’s containing a 5ft. 2 in. body full of explosives, shrugs her shoulders, and silently passes me the large beer. Well, there you have it…separate hotel rooms. The courtship is over. Don’t need a secret decoder ring for that one. I’ll have to bang him tonight.

I fumble nervously through some tapes in the frigid darkness. I always hate playing D.J., forever fearful I’ll be judged on whatever I select. Now I don’t even know what half the shit is, Wanda Jackson… Steely Dan… Mott and the Hoople… what the fuck is a hoople… Fania All Stars…all old people shit… old …old…old.

I hand the tape box to Dominic. “Here Dominic, you pick something. I can’t see back here.” Dominic is a stand up comedian and has been uncharacteristically quiet since the hotel room discussion. Shellshocked I guess at being thrust into the loving arms of my best friend. And poor Roxanne, Dominic didn’t even drink. Her malt liquor buzz probably wouldn’t make it out of Pennsylvania much less all the way to Virginia. She’d be stuck in there sober with him. She did like him and everything but I know Roxanne and she needs liquid courage just as much as I do. And if Jonathan’s behavior thus far is any indication, I’d be in the same boat. My people pleasing gene takes over and I worry for everyone. Everyone except Jonathan. Something tells me he’ll be just fine.

I start to be thankful that we are in this piece of shit van and I will the speedometer to cooperate with me and not go past 55 m.p.h. I am in no hurry to reach Virginia which now especially I cannot think about without that other word popping up, the one that sounds so much like it but means something so different. Roxy and I are getting a warm buzz from the beer. We discover we like Wanda Jackson. We get excited about New Orleans. All the food we’re going to eat and all the loose liquor laws that we don’t have to break. A slight fuzziness softens the edges of the picture that has unfolded itself before me. I try to get comfy, propping up all my kidnapped bedding that is already streaked with black motorcycle grease and rest my head. But somewhere still in the back of my mind to the tune of the grumbling motor, right past “Virginia vagina….Virginia vagina…” and to the left of the big, neon white elephant all wrapped up in a sober sex banner lies the sleeping crocodile of knowledge that sometime between now and tomorrow night I must call my mother and let her know that “Surprise… you don’t have to pick me up at the airport!” ‘Virginia vagina…Virginia vagina…” I laugh to myself. Thank god for malt liquor.

I am awakened what feels like seconds later by the puttering of the slowing engine and what feels like speed bumps. There are bright lights flashing through the windshield. I sit up and am taken aback for a minute. There is a Wal-mart… there are trees… it feels like home. For a brief moment I allow myself to breathe. We pull into a seemingly untouched by time, fifties style, stone walled driveway of a Holiday Inn and I see a row of bright white license plates smiling mockingly… “Virginia is for Lovers.”

to be continued

 I hear the van before I see it. There is a loud squeaking of what sounds like some kind of deteriorating belt mixed with the chugging of a not so steady engine. He’s pulled up all the way onto the sidewalk and the headlights blind me as I make my way to the front door and climb in. Roxanne is in the back and I throw her my stuff.

      “Hey Amy!” She greets me excitedly.

      “Hey!” I say.” I cant believe we’re doing this!”

      “I know!” She beams. “Its so exciting!”

      “I know… so exciting!” I beam back.

I look over at Jonathan. He seems just as giddy as us as he grins widely and bounces a little in his captain’s chair which I notice actually swivels as he moves. I take a closer look at the van. Its pretty old, probably like its driver had hit its hayday back in the early eighties. The dash is filthy and covered with brightly covered Iggy Pop backstage passes. The large ashtray is overflowing with crumpled butts of the propeller shaped filters of parliament cigarettes. It looks like a million tiny little plane crashes. I can see a bit of sidewalk through a crack in the eroding floorboard. I turn around to pass Roxanne the red cup and as I look at her again I notice that there is no back seat whatsoever, leaving plenty of room for his old triumph which stands uneasily on its ancient kickstand. There is a dusty boombox also from another decade and a lot of uncomfortable looking protrusions that I guess the seats used to be screwed on to. The windows are all blacked out and the dingy grey walls are covered with miscellanaeous tags and black magic marker skulls and crossbones. “Death is certain” appears more than once. It smells like gas and it is frigidly cold.

      “Are you sure this thing can make it to Texas?” I ask, sincerely worried.

      “What are you… kidding?” He is shocked. I may as well be accusing him of murder. “This is a great van…this is what you call a real workhorse… I could drive across the country ten times in this thing…This is a great van!” he asserts as if defending the honor of his own mother.

I knew there was no argueing and something about his blind faith made me believe him. I suddenly understood how he could talk someone into paying a thousand dollars for a tribal armband.

We pick up Dominic somewhere down eighth avenue and we head south for the Holland Tunnel, one of the few ways off of the island of Manhattan. Its dark out and all the lights are twinkling in the city that never sleeps. I’ve never driven out of it before, in fact, never been in the passenger’s seat of a car here. The view is a lot different from that in the back seat of a taxi. I have butterflies as we emerge from the tunnel. The flittering lights of the city are behind us now and there is nothing but the darkness of night ahead.

I hear Iggy’s scratchy voice from the tape player, “I’m a passenger…and I ride and I ride…” . It’s a strange new sensation leaving all that activity, all that hustle and bustle that I love, that I am used to as our little party on wheels bounces down the highway leaving nothing behind but a trail of abandoned responsibilities and black smoke.

to be continued

     I splurge for a cab ride home from work, stopping at the liquor store on the way home for a couple of jumbo bottles of cheap Chardonnay. I need something to steady my nerves. I have to pack. I hate packing. How are you supposed to know what you feel like wearing tomorrow, much less days from now. I try to think what I would want if I could only wear one thing for the rest of my life. I throw a few of my favorite vintage dresses and my favorite old holey jeans into a black plastic garbage bag. Over a few coffee cups of the cheap wine I try to explain the situation to Stephanie who is expecting to share a cab ride to the airport with me in a couple of days. She is hard to smooth over.

      “But you don’t even know this guy Amy..”

      “It’s fine…” I reassure her, topping off our cups. “He’s Jonathan Shaw.”

      “Are you sure its ok?” she asks.

      “Yes!” I huff. She exhausts me with her counterculture naivete. “Its fine… he’s like really famous… plus you should see his house… he owns a whole building in Chinatown…” I say, trying to reassure her knowing there’s nothing like the smell of money to calm a  girl’s nerves. “Now , can I borrow your red glamour girls slip dress or not?”

      “OK…” she relented, “But you better bring it back!”

      I hear a horn beeping outside. “Shit, he’s here… I gotta go…”

      “Amy… he’s not even coming in?” Stephanie asks, suddenly appalled. This, from a girl who last week when she’d brought home a one night stand told the guy to please not leave his number?

      “Guess not…” I say as I pour my wine into a red plastic to go cup and throw the second bottle in to my garbage bag. Remembering that he’d said I may want to grab a blanket, I go to my closet-sized room and grab my pillow and down comforter. My bare twin mattress looks so lonely now. The black floral print Betsey Johnson curtains are the only evidence of  life. I hear the horn again. I turn off the light and shut the door.

to be continued

      Back at my apartment I shower, fuel up with coffee, put on a fresh coat of warpaint and generally prepare myself for reentry. When I get to work, Tanya and Mai are there. As I enter the store, they both look up from what they are doing. They are staring at me with the sheepish pride of proud parents. Roxanne must’ve told them about our date already.

      “Something came for you Amy.” Tanya sing songs, smiling. “It’s in the back…”

      “OK,” I singsong back as I eye them suspiciously. They turn in unison, watching me like a hawk as I make my way to the crowded stockroom wondering why they are in such a state over the stretch gabardine dress I had transferred from the Madison Avenue store. Then I see them. There amidst piles of  blue and gold lurex cardigans and the mountain of miscellaneous mateless shoes waiting to be organized sits the evidence. Unlike my childhood reccuring dream of the black patent leather Mary Janes that were never in my closet the next morning, this morning something has succeeded in transporting itself from the other dimension.

      Oh no… He has sent me flowers.

      How oddly old fashioned and embarrassing. And how did they get here already. He must have gotten them right after he dropped me off. That seems right. He hadn’t yet had time to come to his senses.

            I look back at Mai who I can still feel staring. “And there’s something inside…” she says excitedly as she reaches over and shakes the tissue paper as if I’m a small child on xmas needing to be inticed to open my own gift. I hear something jingle. I fish around in the tissue paper until I feel it. It’s a necklace, A silver pendant with an old school looking number seven and lucky written across the top. I feel myself blush. Am I not going to be able to blow this one off? It seems he really wants something. Doesn’t he know I’m easy? He doesn’t have to do all this just to get laid. All he had to do was try. I’d sleep with anyone on my quest for an orgasm. Not even Hayden and all his hickies had made the wall crumble.

      Then I see a card.

            Amy, I feel lucky to have met you. See you at seven…

                                                            JS

      What was he talking about? Then my stomach does a flip as I remember.  Last night over wasabi dumplings and a large Asahi and after him not laughing at me when in my 5-inch platforms I bumped my head on one of the many Japanese paper lanterns that were strewn from the ceiling in Angel Share, the Blade-Runner-esque warm and foggy-windowed sushi bar on the second story above St Marks’ books, I’d told him how I was going to Texas for Christmas. And then I’d agreed that it was a good idea when he’d offered not only to go with me but to drive down in his van, stopping in New Orleans on the way. Always a sucker for an outrageous drunken plan, his enthusiasm penetrated me, squelching any inhibitions I had like baking soda on a grease fire. Somehow knowing I still needed a security blanket, he’d even said I could bring Roxanne and his friend Dominic whom we’d run into that night and conveniently Roxanne had a long standing crush on.     

      But it was morning now and the fire of fear was back. Shit, didn’t he know drunk talk when he heard it? How was I going to get out of this one? Did I want to get out of this one? It did sound fun but I already had a plane ticket, and how was I going to bring a forty-five year old man home with me? I mean my mom was pretty laid back and all but I was still her baby. Bringing someone home with me that was older than her own husband might trigger even her parental gag reflex.

      I look at the pile of tea rose bias skirts waiting to be hung. I am still a little buzzed from last night and my ears ring slightly. No. I want to ride this snowball of a distraction. But the thought of having enough to talk about to fill a two day road trip and a big empty van echoes in my brain. How could I spend that much time with someone deflecting and dodging the topics of my real life… Hayden… what the fuck I am gonna do with my life…No I don’t think Mr. Jonathan Shaw was the type to play the violin at my pity party, nor did I want him to. And I fear my wall of deflection is not that interesting. I have to call Roxanne. If I can get her and her gift of gab to go with me we can keep the momentum going.

      “Hello…Betsey Johnson…” It’s her. I beg her to get her shifts covered and go with us.  “Please…please…please…” I say.

      “I do love New Orleans…” she says.

      “And you do love Dominic!” I say.

      “Yes I do!” she agrees, and with a little finagling of her schedule she is in. All the Betsey girls help out. Another advantage of working at a company full of women. If there is  just a hint of romance involved they will do anything to help you conspire to get it. Good. At least no matter what happens with him, we will have fun. At least until it’s time to go to Texas. Then I’ll be on my own. 

To be continued….

Scabvendor.com would like to thank Amy Fields for sharing her book with us. You can read her last two excerpts by scrolling down.

I wake up the next morning to birds chirping. Strange. Was I still in New York? I jolt up and for a split second wonder where I am.  I’m in a loft bed… there’s a window above me… Oh yeah Jonathan Shaw’s apartment building. I look over and see the snoozing pirate. He’s got a knit skullcap pulled down over his eyes and is snoring like a tiger. For some reason this makes me smile. Great, if I hurry I can sneak out before he wakes up and sees me all leftover, except for one thing… I have no idea where the hell I am. I vaguely remember flying past the crowded bars of the L.E.S, a visit to the South Street Seaport where despite the bitter cold, Jonathan had insisted on stopping and had proceeded to stare wistfully for several minutes into the filthy East river like it was the clearest, steel blue Pacific like a drifting sailor looking for land.  Whatever discomfort I felt was numbed by the starry eyes of a first date, but somewhere in my gut I knew that if the situation was repeated somewhere down the line, after the pink cloud burst, I’d be bitchy and nagging.

I thought the date had gone pretty well, although I didn’t know how to measure my own feelings without the lingering desperation of unavailability that hung looming like a black cloud over everyone I’d ever been attracted to. At least he seemed to like me. He’d paid for all the drinks for both me and Roxanne, but I did notice a hint of judgment at the quantity. Well, it certainly wasn’t going to work out if that was the case.

It seemed being old had its advantages. We were waved into every bar ahead of festering crowds. People stared with a strange combination of respect, fear, and disgust. I guess in the East Village, he was somewhat of a lowbrow celebrity. The looks didn’t seem to bother him any though, he made his way through those sheeple like he was parting the Red Sea, and everyone else existed only to pave his way. We even got free drinks by the Hells Angels bartender at Niagara (the new fancy place the owners of Coney Island High had opened) whom Roxanne and I, tried as we may have, had never even been able to squeeze a smile out of.

The looks bothered me though. Had they been staring because of the age difference… which would have been okay, or was it because I wasn’t her. The last one, the one that called him Daddy. Was she prettier than me? Younger?

I tiptoe down what looks like an old ship’s ladder, wincing at every creak. I can’t wait to tell Hayden. Maybe seeing that other, more together people than him are interested in me will be the thing that drives him into a jealous rage, leading his one-track mind straight to yours truly.

I remember now Jonathan had wanted to show me where he lived which had made me very nervous. I hadn’t been drunk enough for kinky little girl role-play sex. But he had a way of “making suggestions” that you just couldn’t fight. So, soon I found myself as if on autopilot walking up the stairway of his old art deco building. There were insane graphic tile mosaics everywhere, beautiful art dripping from exposed brick walls, giving way to shiny wood beamed ceilings and floors. There was a front porch, a back porch- who had a porch in New York City? And the clincher- an entire wall darkly stained wooden bookshelves full of every book you could imagine (of course my eyes went straight to Lolita) with a rolling antique library ladder. With signs of intellect, and each pleasing aesthetic I’d felt my shoulders relax, and my jaw unclench.

I began to forget that I hadn’t had enough to drink, and like Patty Hearst I began to see my captor in a new light. We sat down on his burgundy floral print velvet sofa with the deco lines and wooden arms and he kissed me. I didn’t quite know what to make of it. It definitely didn’t feel like kissing Hayden, the excitement of the desperation of feeling the one moment you have to cling to something that you know is beyond your grasp. This was different. Strangely comfortable, and all in all, not what I’d expected. He hadn’t whipped out a schoolgirl uniform, or bent me over his knee for a spanking. He hadn’t even tried to have sex with me. Maybe he didn’t like me.

I make my way to the glass block lined bathroom, complete with a dry sauna and whirlpool bathtub. On the way I notice a portrait of Jonathan that is hanging above a steel brushed dresser. I don’t want to but I look at the signature…Pinkie Delinkey… fake ass name…her real one was something like Ethel Finkelstein- direct from Long Island. But it’s her. Roxanne had told me she was a painter. Yuck, I knew it. I try to ignore it but can’t. I actually even like it, which makes me feel even worse. All of my ambition that has been squelched through the years by high rents, bad jobs, and lots of alcohol rises to the back of my throat and I want to puke. Instead, I see a Jolly Roger-faced pin lying on his dresser so I grab it and poke lots of teeny tiny holes in the painting; unnoticeable to the naked eye but enough damage to satisfy the voodoo voices of my Cajun roots that cry for revenge.

Now I have to try and do a little something with my face before heading home or to work, wherever I had time to get to.  Maybe I was in Chinatown. I do remember whizzing past rows of steamy streets of neon-lit restaurants with their foggy windows displaying endless rows of glistening ducks while I clung for dear life and prayed that the hem of my black on white polka dotted slip dress that I had borrowed from Stephanie, or my frayed jeans which I wore underneath for warmth didn’t get caught in the spokes of his old Triumph and we’d both end up quartered and splayed for all to see, just like those ducks.

I hear something stirring upstairs. He’s clearing his throat. Shit. He’s coming down. There is no time to run. “Well just where do you think you’re goin?” He growls sleepily.

“Uhhh…I have to go…gotta be at work soon.” I say trying not to make eye contact as I am in my usual morning after whirling tizzy to make a quick escape. No real exchanges. No time for phone numbers.

“Well, if you just hang on a second I’ll ride you there on the bike.”

“That’s ok,” I say nervously, still trying to hide my face. “I should get going…I can walk.”

“Just simmer down… I’ll take you. You’ll still get there a lot faster if we go on the bike.” He says and looks at me almost sheepishly but I can see a little bit of wolf inside. I forgot. There is no arguing with him.

“OK,” I say. “Thanks.” I take a deep breath and plop back on the couch to count the seconds.

“Boy, I never seen such a thing. You’re like a little gopher trying to scurry back into your little hole.”

He is right. I don’t belong in his world with fancy apartments and time to pursue dreams. I need to get back to my shared one bedroom, my 60 hour work week filling someone else’s pockets, and hangovers distracting me from anything.

“Just sit tight… don’t you want some juice?” He asks as he makes his way to the chrome 50’s style minifridge. He is still in his underwear- geometric print faded navy briefs, the like of which I’d never seen on anyone except perhaps my own father back in the 80’s. I wince a little, but somehow they’re okay on him. They fit his character- a stowaway from a long past generation where only sailors and whores got tattooed and chivalry still existed. Maybe because they are camouflaged amongst the rest of his fully tattooed body. I take a closer look. They’re all black and grey. His torso is one big Japanese style piece, but I zoom in on the legs. They are a relationship graveyard- covered with endless colorless portraits of different women.

“No thanks.” I reply. I hate orange juice.

“Are you sure?” He asks enticingly. “I’ve got grapefruit juice.”

“Really? Grapefruit juice? Everyone always has orange juice.”

“Well, I ain’t everyone…” He says as he quickly downs 10 gulps of grapefruit juice straight out of the bottle.

I laugh in agreement and study him. Yellow grapefruit juice droplets drip from the grey section of his otherwise brown mustache and goatee leaving him looking childlike yet protective at the same time. He licks it off like a big cat, and our eyes finally meet.

“And neither are you…” he blindsides me. I blush, and looking in his warm brown eyes, I remember he’s not so bad, and my tizzy calms.

He gives me a ride home and the fresh cold air is shocking, but I cling to him.