For the spurned suitors
who seek recompense in all the wrong places…
Lars Lusts Ladies
By Greg Hernandez
Silence falls like a brick. I cannot hear a
thing. My cogitative abilities are at an all-time low. Mere moments ago a score
of birds in a tree chittered endlessly to sound a veritable alarm. A hawk swooped
in to extirpate them. It made me think about exactly how fast a bird’s heart beats
in situations where they know death is only a tree branch away.
The fact that some middle-aged woman with
a large camera slung around her neck is walking beneath the tree where the hawk
apparently is makes me chortle. Her tenacious attempts to capture the moment
with a cumbersome camera only add to the hilarity and irony of the bird’s dire
predicament. Her struggle to get a clear vantage point is evident because of
her gawking.
This
holds my attention until a sword of words pierces my heart. Now, I feel
physically sick. My chest is rising and falling faster than the birds’. The
trouble in the tree is no longer of any concern to me. What’s happening to me
now on the bench is all I can focus on. The nausea has spread all over my chest
and throat. An excess amount of saliva triggers the inevitable desire to vomit,
but my stomach is empty. I cough. I cringe. My eyes begin to water. I let my head
droop like a hook. From a sideways glance one would think I look like an
ostrich sitting on a bench. My jaw is clenched so hard that if you were sitting
near me, you could almost hear the grinding of my teeth. I can feel the people as
they walk by. I know they are staring at the top of my head. They know. They saw what just happened. They pass by and
glance: none of them sit on the
bench.
I
wish I could freeze time. Go back to that moment and yell out, “I’m sorry! I
have a problem!” I replay that moment incessantly. Her words, “Here’s where I move on now. You should do
the same,” echo in my mind. Those were her final words to me. As her number
of steps increase, the distance between us widens. The impulse to watch her
leave is ignored. My eyes rest on the letter that she left in my hands. One
quick read and I let it fall to the ground. Bile begins to rise in my throat.
Was it acid reflux or could it be the result of being dumped just now? The
realization is like a kick in the teeth. The logical phrase streams through my
mind without my permission: You got
caught cheating. Therefore she dumped you. A malevolent voice repeats the
phrase in a relentless shriek. You got
caught cheating. Therefore she dumped you! You got caught cheating. Therefore
she dumped you!
I stare at the piece of paper on the
ground– (her final gift to me) - one read through had done the job. I was
between death and life. The wind howls almost as if in response to my stiffness.
I am a statue. Like the bench I do not budge. Only the leaves, tree branches
and grass succumb to the unbridled gale. The edge of my boot rests on the
letter. She wrote it in tiny red ink. I move my boot. The letter flies away at
the first gust. I watch nature take that piece of paper and do whatever it
wants with it.
How
was I caught? Has this really just happened to me? I’ve never been dumped before.
How does one respond to this? Where do I go from here? I have no answers to
these questions. I cannot ease my fragile psyche instead memories stream
through my consciousness. A flash and all is clear. One careless act had done
the deed! Anger boils inside of me as I begin to remember.
***
Three weekends ago, I allowed an affair
to infiltrate the privacy of my life. As in, I brought another woman over to my
apartment for sex during the day, instead of well after dark. The reason behind
the difference of daylight and nighttime is significant. The doorman in my
building has known me for three years. With the amount of women that I
encounter sexually, I assume it was only a matter of time before I’d brought
someone over that he knew. The woman that he knew happens to be the very woman
who just dumped me.
I
knew my doorman’s schedule. He was easy to avoid when necessary. He always worked
from morning to afternoon. I used to greet him on my way out in the morning. It
was the mundane routine of human courtesy. That was before he resigned last
weekend. At the time I thought it was strange that he did not give me a warning
or say good-bye. Now, I know why.
So, three weekends ago, I orchestrated
an impromptu double date for myself. Yes, two separate dates with two different
women in a single day. I had dinner and a movie with my then, girlfriend. After
the movie I walked her home. She needed to go to bed early, because of a hiking
trip in the Catskills. I hate all of that outdoors stuff by the way.
Later on, I phoned the other woman that
I had been seeing on the side at the time, the night was still young and luckily
she was available. Her name was Cecily, a voluptuous beauty who was a former
weather woman on a local Spanish news channel. Now she works as an actress. She
also does some modeling on the side.
Summer flings are the best. We met as
the sun was setting at half past eight. My eyes zeroed in on her curvy figure. Her
auburn hair shone in the fading sunlight. There was something alluring about a
hot woman walking toward you with the sunset at her back. Without heels she is
still above six feet. I prefer women who are taller than me. It makes me feel
like a conqueror. I was compelled to grab her and mount her on the sidewalk. Of
course, I did not. We ended up going out for happy hour drinks in the east
village, two for one drinks were the special. We made out at the bar near a
window. Onlooker’s gaped at our overzealous usage of tongue. Our passionate
ways caused us to feel confined to the small bar, so I took her out dancing at
a night club. Our night ended at my place. It was the first time that I had
allowed Cecily to sleep over. Normally our trysts would occur in the early evenings
after some dinner and wine. Women have such an affinity for food and wine, so
naturally, I do too. This time, it was late and the sex had been just too good.
Like I said before, I was careless.
A few rounds left me exhausted. Before I
knew it, I woke up to my alarm at 9:30 in the morning. We showered and had a
small breakfast, which consisted of toast, eggs, ham, grapes and freshly
squeezed orange juice. Upon finishing our food we kissed a bit and said our
good-byes. I threw myself back into bed and thought of the glorious sex that
occurred last night. I laughed at how easy women were. Sex was fun. It was hard
work, great exercise that leaves a young man feeling immortal afterward. A few
minutes of pleasurable contemplation went by undisturbed until the buzzer
sounded. I leaped out of bed in a frenzied state. Who? What? Why? Those were
the three words that screeched in my mind. It turned out she left her carton of
cigarettes on the bedroom nightstand.
“Wonderful!”
I thought. “These are the pains of being involved with a smoker.”
I put on my flip flops and a
t-shirt. I gathered her smokes and took the elevator down. She was standing by
the desk chatting with the doorman. Their conversation came to an abrupt halt
when she saw me coming. She smiled at me. I returned the smile. Then she
pointed at me and my smile faded from my lips like an apparition does after
delivering a cryptic message to the lead protagonist in an epic. The doorman
inclined his head at me, I froze. My heart skipped a beat. It was the doorman
that knew my girlfriend. How could I have forgotten? It was the morning!
***
The left side of my face is twitching. My
neck and back ache. The sun is setting now. How long have I been sitting like
this? I could not have been here for more than two hours. I finally look up for
the first time since she departed from my life. A monsoon of regret channels
through my subconscious.
“Should I have seen this coming? Of
course! Do I have a problem? Maybe, possibly, it could be that I have
commitment issues. So what? I’m young, I do not wish to be tied down, but at
the same time it is nice to have someone to talk to, lie in bed with and rub
your body when it is sore.”
The feeling is worse than being up for a
performance review at a job you loathe. There are no private quarters to discuss
your failures, successes or short comings; only one woman sitting next to you
on a park bench with those malignant eyes, which burrow through your spirit and
leave you feeling vulnerable. It’s funny when bosses decide to fire their
employees at the end of the work week. Statistics indicate less confrontation
is involved that way. That is how Alice, my now ex-girlfriend, thought. Dump
Lars on a Friday evening and not an ounce of defiance shall be displayed. She
was right, there was no contest.
Alice handed me a pink slip two hours
ago. That cold and lonely bench numbed my ass. I straighten up and hear my back
crack all over. I stretch my neck out and lean back on the bench, the wind begins
to pick up again. Suddenly, I think about my uncle. His words surging through my
mind in a loud drill sergeant type of voice, "Stop feeling sorry for
yourself, you goddamn pussy! Don't cry! Laugh! Laugh goddamn you! I'm the
alcoholic and your daddy is dead, so you need to be the one with a sense of
humor! Now give me your best joke!"
So, I chuckle to myself and murmur, “Alice
wrote a nice long letter filled with beautiful recollections and disastrous
transgressions. A nice pink letter; in fact, it was so pink and it smelled so
good. Hmm, did she wipe that paper with her pussy?" I laugh aloud for what
feels like a long time. My eyes are closed. Entrenched in hysteria I picture my
uncle saluting my joke and then vanishing. An entire crowd of people replace
him, they are watching me. I don’t care. Every member of the assembled audience
can go fuck themselves, just like Alice.
A black squirrel runs out of the grass
and onto the pavement. I open my eyes to find nobody there. I look down to find
an audience of one. It stares up at me with an unwavering look. It holds an
acorn in its claws. It does not move. I blink at it several times. A tear almost escapes my eye. I brush it away
in a hurry. Nobody, not even a squirrel would see me cry. When I look back down
the squirrel is gone. With a grunt I set off away from that bench. It had not done
me any good. A strange feeling pours over me like syrup on pancakes. Was I leaving
that bench behind forever? For two plus hours, that bench had been mine.
My feet slowly begin to turn back. That’s
when I see the squirrel on top of the bench glaring at me. It no longer holds
an acorn in its claws. Instead, it holds a piece of paper, that fucking letter;
I’ll never read it again. I pray that the squirrel eats the whole thing and
chokes to death. I blink and the squirrel is no longer a squirrel. Instead it is
Alice. She is eating the piece of paper like a mad woman. “Eating my own pussy
is better than being with you, you fucking man-whore!” She chases me like a dog
chases a mailman. I run from there as fast I can. I cry out, “Alice! Oh no
ALICE! DON’T!” I know what she is after. She wants my stick and two nuggets. I
run with my hands on my crotch. Handfuls of people seem to take very little notice
of me running out of Prospect Park like a man with a case of the clap.
***
Alice exits the park with her head
up high. Her mind is a blank. The cool air is clean. Dusk has settled on Prospect
Park. She walks around the entire loop of the park once. The number of tourists,
cyclists, joggers, skaters, walkers and mothers pushing strollers has
diminished. On her way to the subway station she sees a kid crying after his
mother.
“Why do some women deliberately walk ahead of
their children?” Alice wonders. “I could snatch that kid up, cover its mouth
and be halfway up the block before his mother even noticed. Mothers these days…try being responsible!”
Alice remembers Jones Beach as a child.
She is playing with her friends and cousins in the sand. They are giggling as
they bury one friend. It is difficult for the friend to remain still because
she cannot stop laughing. Alice suddenly needs to pee. She tells her cousin.
The two of them go to their mothers. Her mother and aunt are chatting away in
Russian. Alice interrupts them and asks to be taken to the bathroom. Her mother
verbally lashes out at her. She points her daughter in to the direction of a
bathroom on the boardwalk and resumes chatting with her sister. Alice stands
her ground and vents.
“Why do you always make
me do things alone?” Alice asks.
She was eight years old and had to pee.
Her mother’s refusal to walk her to the bathroom confuses her even till this
day.
The air in the subway station is hot.
There is a strong odor emanating from the steps. It is a mixture of urine,
feces, a decaying corpse and a kitchen full of rancid food. Alice hurries up
the steps with her hand over her mouth and nose. She is sweating all over. The Manhattan
crowd is intimidating. She whirls away from the mass of people and crosses the
street. Now alone in front of a closed down bar she is panting. Thoughts of
Lars begin to seep their way into her mind.
“We first met in Prospect Park. We broke
up in Prospect Park.”
***
My heart is in my throat. I frantically
close and lock the door. At last, I’m home. The first thing I do is slide down
to the floor. My phone vibrates. I jump before answering it. It is Leslie an
old fuck buddy of mine. She greets me with a purr and a “what-cha-doing-tonight
Mr. Long-Lars?”
“Not
tonight Les. I can’t. Sorry.” I hang up.
My body is soaked in
sweat. I slowly peel off my clothes one article at a time right on the spot and
throw them on the floor. I make a b-line for the bathroom. A nice warm bath is
the perfect remedy after saving yourself from castration. After dipping my toe
in and out of the hot water, I begin to ease myself in with a loud sigh.
“Was that
whole episode real or am I crazy? I must be going crazy. I’m letting Alice get
to me. I need to forget her. That whole thing was a hallucination. After my
bath, I’ll eat something. Then I’ll take a nap and forget about these last five
months.”
Try as I might, I could
not stop thinking of Alice and other ex-girlfriends. That letter she wrote, illustrated
me as a whole. “I am a conniving, manipulative,
tantalizing, vindictive, lying scum,” in essence: a sexual weasel. She is
right.
***
My first sexual
encounter occurred when I was thirteen. Now at the age of twenty-six I’ve lost
count of my sexual partners. My longest relationship is six months. I enjoy
trial runs, half a year and then “sayonara!” It normally takes me about six
months to ditch a girlfriend. That really is all the time you need to get to know
a girl and enjoy her, any time longer than that and then you’re officially
thinking about getting serious. I never think about getting that far.
My first month out of
college, I got gonorrhea, how’s that for being cruelly ironic? The doctor told
me to wait seven days before having sex. It was the longest week of my life
because at the time I had two very bodacious and exotic girlfriends, (one from
Brazil and the other from Sweden). Talk about major hotness, I had to make up a
story of feeling sick to one of them.
I forgot to mention one
very important thing: making first impressions comes easy to me it’s the
lasting impressions that are the problem. Meeting people is such a relaxing
experience for me. I’m a flirt. Acquiring a woman’s phone number, setting up
dates, going out to dance, having sex, etcetera is all a routine to me. It
comes natural.
It’s when things begin
to stray away from the routine do I lose my charisma. The routine of calling
and not calling, giving space and then suffocating the person; the rhythmic
sequences which occur in those first few months of dating are where I truly thrive.
I cannot think my way
out of precarious situations. When caught in a lie about where I was the
previous night or why didn’t I answer a text, a phone call, e-mail, or seeing,
but not responding to a goddamn Facebook message, causes me to laugh or
sometimes make an awkward “um,” “ah,” or “uh” sound. This normally happens
around the six month mark. By that time the relationship has lost its
freshness. Everything has become predictable. Sure you can learn a few more
things about the person, but what I normally learn begins to displease me. Disagreements
arise after a few months. I grow tired of being with the same woman. Once the
courting phase is over, I don’t find women to be all that interesting or
spontaneous anymore. The vibe is gone. They have now become a normal fixture in
my life and I simply do not enjoy that.
My father past away two
years ago and left me some money from his brief NHL career. It certainly has
helped me out in these tough economic times. I was always afraid about life
after college because well, what the hell am I good at? All I have are my
looks. I don’t have the walk for modeling, I’m not big enough for porn, plus
that job really doesn’t pay well for guys-I ran out of the building when the
executive assistant mentioned that gay porno pays more. No thank you! I’m not
all that athletic. I run occasionally. I hit the gym once in a while, but all
of that is predicated on different type of routine. I’m not a fan of that kind.
Unless it involves women, I don’t want to hear about it. I know I’ll never
invent anything useful. The only thing I’m good at is hooking up with
attractive ladies.
In
the past two years I’ve established quite the following on social media. As a
bored unemployed twenty-two year old college graduate with no job offers, I
decided to entertain myself on the computer. I created a YouTube account and
began making videos detailing my methods of attracting gorgeous women. The name
of my channel is called “Lars Lusts Ladies.” Four years later, I have a
plethora of videos with nearly one million views each. Why? Never once in any
of my videos do I guarantee any of my methods, techniques, tricks and
experiences will work for someone else. I just simply tell my audience the
truth: this is what works for me.
Sitting
at my desktop in my room with a tank top on, my hair slicked back, my very
first video went something like this:
“You must always
go for it. That’s my motto. Now let me expand on that. A man or woman who is
looking to ‘close the deal’ or sleep with a particular person of interest must
make the attempt. It must be a valiant effort. If not, stop watching this video
right now. Still here, good, now take a deep breath and say the words, ‘may I
have your phone number?’ Say it again with conviction this time. Mean it! Now,
why are you asking? You must understand the why. ‘I’d like to call you tomorrow
evening, or do you have plans for tomorrow? Let’s get some coffee.’ Always make
the move. Keep it casual, remember you need to show that you want it, but if it
is not available, then that is perfectly fine, because you’re more than capable
of getting something better at your next convenient opportunity. In other
words, you’re confident, you’re not worried, you’re not desperate. Plenty of
other fish in the sea and you’re an excellent fisherperson. Fisherperson is a
gender-neutral term. I say that because this video is for both men and women.”
Many
of my relationships do not even make it to six months, because the women I date
eventually find out exactly who I am. Some don’t like it while others go along
for the ride and read what I say about them with absolute glee or anguish.
Since I started using social media the women have been flocking to me like
maggots do a carcass.
***
I am suddenly thrown out of my thoughts
by a rasping at the door. There is a deep voice from right outside the bathroom
door. It is loud and steady. It reverberates throughout the bathroom, “Oh Peeeeeter.”
The knock that follows shakes my senses. Instead of exploding out of the
bathtub my body sinks in. The water is up to my lips. I did not lock the
bathroom door. Everything is going wrong
today, I think.
The voice booms, “OH PEEEETER.” The voice
is not familiar. I manage to cease my paralysis and jump out of the tub. I
reach for the first sharp object I can find, a small pair of scissors that I
use for trimming my hair and pubes. I stand there on the rug dripping, scissors
in hand. The bathroom door begins to move ever so slightly. I rush it and swing
the door open. Suddenly the ground meets my face. I look up. It is dark in the
hallway. The light from the bathroom provides a faint hint of a face.
“Wow, these voice
transformers really are something! I thought they didn’t work,” says Rebecca. She
turns on the light in the hallway and purses her lips. “Really Lars, get a
grip…”
“Becky!
What the fuck? I almost killed you!” I say getting up.
“Yeah, good thing I
tripped you. I’m still alive and you just may have a concussion…cold bath huh?”
Becky says
She walks into the bathroom, retrieves
my towel and throws it at my crotch.
“Lars Peter Williams, put your towel
back on, please!” She playfully averts her eyes.
I did not bother to cover my privates.
Becky had seen them before, years ago when we first dated back in high school.
I was her first real boyfriend. She was a junior and I was a senior. It was the
day after prom. I did not put any pressure on Becky to have sex. She was a
virgin, which turned me on at the time. I wanted that chance to be her first.
***
So there we were in her bedroom, doing what
we always did, talk. I was waiting for the opportunity for her to ask me about
sex again. She often did. How many partners had I had before her? How many
times had I done it? What hadn’t I done yet? And my favorite, who have you
slept with, that I personally know? My answers were always ambiguous. Mystery
was my ally. It always made girls chase me. Only, Becky was different from the
rest. Her questions stemmed from genuine curiosity; almost as if she were
amazed and impressed by me.
“How
big are you?” Becky asked. Her face filled with wonder.
“As
big as you need me to be.” I countered.
“No,
I’m serious. How big? Can I see? I want to measure you.
“Why?”
I asked. “Is this some kind of joke you popular girls at school play?”
“Popular?
If it weren’t for sports, I’d be an outcast, you know that Lars.”
“Yeah,
I know, just that- well, umm, nobody has ever asked to measure me-my-down there
before. Come to think of it, I’ve never measured myself.”
“Well,
let’s do it now. I’ll get the measuring tape.”
Becky was beyond weird. I had had three
girls prior to her, but Becky topped them all. She was a star on the girls’
varsity diving, track & field team at our high school. At that point in my
life she was the most physically developed specimen I had encountered, yet
there was something genuinely childish about her. Perhaps it was due to her
age, I mean she was only 16 at the time. I couldn’t figure her out.
She lay on her bed reading a book, a
languid look about her. Her countenance had changed since the day before.
During prom she seemed frazzled and hurried. I knew there would be no way I’d
homer that night. Instead, I made up my mind to wait. How long, you’re
wondering. Well, I decided on a week. After that I would dump her and move on.
Although I was fascinated by her, I did not wish to hang around and not get
laid. It was definitely a challenge to break down this barrier that she created
to block me from not only sex but actually getting close to her.
Not having sex on prom night did not
bother me because many of my friends lost their virginity that night. So, I sat
back in her chair to listen to the music on the stereo. Becky loved reggae. I
stomached it. My shirt was off. It was balls hot in June. Becky closed the
book, got up from the bed, closed the door, turned the music off, and took my
hand in hers. She led me to the bed and sat me down. Besides the humming of her
air conditioner everything was silent. She placed both hands on my cheeks and
brought me in close for a long warm wet kiss. I was perplexed. Had I figured out
the secret? Was this the way to get the real ladies? The ones who made you work
for it, you know? Just sit still and let them make the first move? Becky pulled
back and spoke.
“Lars, I don’t feel a
thing. I tried to, but I know for sure now, I’m not into guys.” Becky said with
a shrug. “I’m sorry for wasting your time.”
***
Becky and I have been living together
for almost two years. We remained friends after high school. After we both
graduated from college, she found me on Facebook. I needed an apartment mate at
the time and now here we are in Astoria, Queens. She works as a personal
trainer. With her salary and the money my dad left me, the two of us can now
manage to afford our own apartments, but this is New York City. Half of your
income goes to rent.
I walk into the kitchen with my towel
on. Becky is doing what she normally does on a Friday evening – make pasta. She
is boiling some water in a pot. She adds some salt for taste. For her, a good
meal is pasta, corn, beets, lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, some melting cheese,
a little bread and a glass of white wine from Chile. I sit at the kitchen table.
My hair is still moist. Becky continues to cook as if I do not exist. A bowl of
fruit is directly in front of me. I snatch a plum and take a deep bite. The
juice flows down my chin invigorating my senses. I feel strangely calm. My
guard has finally been let down. The words escape my lips before I can stop
them.
“Alice dumped me. She
caught me cheating.” Wow, had I really
said all of that without feeling? Did I truly just admit to it? Am I over it?
Or am I just comfortable here at home with Becky?
“So you finally got
burned huh…it was bound to happen eventually.” Becky said without facing me.
***
Alice’s best friend is a man named
Frederic. He is an actor from Chile who recently moved to New York City. He
works as a concierge at a hotel on the Upper East Side in Manhattan. During his
free time he studies voice and embodied acting in workshops. He is the same age
as Alice. They have been friends for three years. They are having dinner at an
expensive vegan restaurant in Chelsea.
“We
live in the age of intelligent idiots, brave fanatical morons and cowardly
people with good intentions,” Chanted Frederic. “You had good sex for five
months, what’s to complain about? Oh, besides now having to find someone loyal
who can fuck you better than Lars did.”
“Right,
there’s no point in getting married because of global warming- I mean climate
change; plus with the polar ice caps melting, why even have children? Corruption
and income inequality are ubiquitous. Besides, I don’t want that right now. I
mean relationships. I will concentrate on myself. I’m fresh out of law school.
This is all about me,” Alice says in a way a politician gives an important speech
in a measured tone. “It’s my life, my future.”
Frederic raises his glass of wine for a
toast. He approves of her slogan. Alice stares at him. A hint of a smile
appears on her face. She takes a deep breath and reaches for her glass.
“What
are we toasting to?” Alice asks.
“To
life and our bright futures,”
Frederic says.
The pair clink glasses and drink. A
waiter arrives to ask if they want anything else. Alice asks for the check. She
knows in her mind that she will go home tonight and rest. Perhaps, catch up on
some leisurely reading for once. She will sleep a deep sleep and not dream of
Lars.
Frederic will go home to his new
boyfriend Rodrigo, an architect. Frederic will dream of nailing his audition
tomorrow afternoon. It will catapult his career from the Off-Off-Broadway
stage. He will rise and become the next Broadway sensation.
***
Rebecca has a dinner date at the
apartment. She is expecting her date to arrive in twenty minutes. I completely
forgot. I’m still in my room unable to nap. I have no energy or desire to leave
the apartment. I want to remain in my room, but she wants complete privacy. I know
she is waiting for me to leave. I can feel her eyes drill two holes through the
door to my room.
I hear heavy footsteps approaching my
door. Once again, I’ve left a door unlocked. The door swings open. This time I’m
wearing underwear. Rebecca is standing in the door way with her hands on her
hips. Her green long sleeve fishnet shirt accentuates her glorious figure. Her
black bra showcases her nice chest. Her short black bob hair style is still new
to me. She got rid of her long hair after I left town for college. A multifaceted athlete and former division
one diver in college, as long as I’ve known her, she has been in superior
shape, a tomboy through and through. She is beautiful and I will never have
her.
***
I think of the time I entered the
bathroom on a weekday evening, unbeknownst to Becky who was showering at the
time, to look at my nose and back hair. When she finished, she came out of the shower
to dry herself. In an instant I saw the flesh that had been denied to me so
many years ago. It traumatized me. It shook our relationship. Eight months later
and I still lie awake at night thinking of her nakedness. I have the same
recurring dream, where I am at a bar with my best friend Jay. He’s a poet. As I
walk in to greet him, he is reciting his latest work to the bartender.
“Photography is Marijuana.
Acting is Cocaine.
But Writing...
Writing is Heroin.
That stuff is pure. Or perhaps it is more like peyote.
Being alive is like Acid.
What a fucking trip!
And death…death is like DMT.”
I slap Jay on the back. He raises his
shot glass of tequila at me and throws it back. Becky walks in with her short
hair, green fishnet shirt, black bra, black jeans and authentic converses on.
She is exquisite. I tap Jay on the shoulder. He signals to the bartender, who in
turn cuts the music in the bar. Everyone grows silent.
“Out,”
I say in a voice barely above a whisper.
Everyone vacates the bar in a quiet procession.
After they all disperse, my friend Jay winks at me and leaves. Becky begins to
saunter toward me. I grow erect as she nears me. I snap my fingers. The owner
shows me complete obeisance by running over with two large glasses filled with
ice. He places the glasses on a table near us. He then withdraws a large bottle
of Jack Daniel’s from nowhere and hands me it before running out.
“So
what’s the plan Big Lars?” Becky says as she leans against the pool table.
“First,
we’re going to drink and shoot some pool. After that, I’m going to rip your
clothes off and fuck you on the pool table there.”
Becky smiles and leans in to me. Her
fragrance is strong. It is a mixture of mangos and sex. The smell hits me like the
first breeze in the summer, it is stimulating. Our lips meet. She begins to
kiss me languorously. I close my eyes. My hands touch her waist. Her hands lock
around the back of my neck. Everything seems to be very slow. I try to keep my
eyes closed for as long as possible, because if I open them, the dream ends.
Eventually I do open them. I am alone and wet. Sometimes I do not wake up
alone. When that happens, for half a heartbeat, I believe the women sleeping
next to me are Becky, but they never are.
***
The image dissolves. I am in my
room. I’m off cloud nine. My eyes dart away from the ceiling light bulb. Becky
is standing there just like in my dream. I am frozen in time. My blood is up. My
lust is on. My lips quiver as I realize my erection. I have a craving for some
Becky. It’s the hardest I’ve ever felt in my life. She moves away from the
door, an exasperated look about her.
“You’re
hopeless,” she says entering my room.
She is raiding my dresser. I watch her
the whole time, thinking of how to ravage her. She pulls out socks, pants and a
shirt; she throws them on the bed and kicks my sneakers toward me.
“Now get lost Lars. Go
find a girl to bone,” Becky says. “Get your mind off of Alice and go. Go out
there and homer.”
With a shake of my head, I obey. She
stomps out of my room. The door is left open. I stare at her ass as she heads
back into the kitchen. I am now limp. My dream is drowned. Ten minutes later I
am out the door. My hair is brushed and cologne on, my attire without a
wrinkle. I look like a man made out of wax-artificial. Billiards enters my
mind. It is the one thing that can truly calm me down. No liquor, no marijuana
and no masturbation. Shooting some balls into holes is my kind of therapy.
***
A nice pub is located a few blocks from my
apartment. It has a pool table. I stroll in with a phony smile on my face. My
buddy Jay is doing tequila shots at the bar. He notices me and waves me over. I
jab him in the side and say “Pool, now” in a voice of a cave man. I sign us up
on the list. He offers me liquor, but I turn him down. Instead I ask for a
pitcher of water. After two games it is my turn. The adrenaline kicks in. I’m
anxious. I can always tell if my night will turn out well based off of how the first
game of pool goes.
I win the first game against a guy who
had won his three previous matches. He was good, but he shot too hard. Pool is
a finesse game. After him, I played Jay. The tequila shots affected his game.
He’s an easy win. I win my next two games, both are close. I’m feeling really
good now. I finish my second cup of water. Then I head to the bathroom to piss.
As I enter the bathroom, I think of my father and all of the stories he used to
tell me about my mother. There is one that he specifically told me many times. You
could say it’s my favorite. He once told me that my mother was a fine pool
player.
Back in the old days, my mother was a
regular shark at the local halls. She took my father to school for all he had
one night. He always finishes that story the same way. “I walked into that bar
with two-hundred dollars. I walked out of that bar broke, but in love.” The
woman who died giving me birth, or so my father says, only exists in those
stories I remember him telling me as a child. Perhaps, that is who I inherited my
skills from. He stopped talking about her when I reached twelve. From then on I
only thought about her during my milestones- losing my virginity, graduating
from the eighth grade, from high school, from college and when my YouTube
channel received a millions hits. I used to think about what she looked like,
which features and emotional traits I received from her. I’ve never even seen a
picture of her. Now, I only think about her when I shoot pool.
I return from the bathroom to find a woman
with blonde dreadlocks waiting for me by the table. She is practicing her shot
with the white ball. She gently hits the white ball toward the other side of
the table. Each time the ball returns it hits the tip of her cue stick. Perfect.
It feels like I’ve beaten everyone in the bar. I can tell that she is my next
and last real challenger. She is tall with the legs of an amazon. Her locks
fall down to where her bellybutton should be; the heels make her appear to be
taller. I’m six foot, yet she towers over me. Her chest is the only average
thing about her, yet it fits flawlessly. She’s the type of woman who does not
wear a bra on the weekends. Her eyes are a piercing hazel. She is wearing
little make up, it makes her look realistic. Dangerous, I can tell. She
introduces herself as Katie.
Katie gives me a nod and asks to break
first. She sinks in three balls on the break. I never get a turn. As the eight
ball rolls in the pocket that she correctly calls, I sit there with the pool
stick in my hand smirking. I’m rubbing the top of it. I have a hard on. I know
it is going to be my night. Katie slams the end of her pool stick to the
ground. It makes a loud thud. She begins to talk trash.
“So,
best two out of three?” she asks in a sardonic tone. “When I win the next one,
you gotta buy me a pitcher.”
I rack the balls up again. This time I
break. The match is close. I reach the 8ball but miss. Luckily for me, I pinned
the white ball on the edge of the table far away from the 8ball. Katie stares
at the balls for some time. She is motionless. Her focus is intense. After what
feels like an eternity, she moves toward the table licking her lips. She bends
her knees slightly and aims. It looks likes she is going to stab the white ball
at a downward angle. Instead she hits it straight on. It brushes the 8ball
enough to make it slide in the corner pocket. The white ball ricochets, but
just misses the middle pocket. The crowd of on lookers “ooh” and “ah,” it is
unanimous, Katie is the best pool player tonight.
“One
more game, just for kicks,” she says. “Just buy me that pitcher first. C’mon
you’re not a sore loser are you? A bet is a bet.”
“No
I’m not.” I say with an insouciant shrug. I hand Jay a five. “Jay, get this lady a pitcher. Let’s rack
them up again.”
Jay brings the pitcher of beer and two
glasses over. Katie takes a swig of beer. She breaks this time. Once again, I
do not get a turn. She shows me no mercy. I have never been beaten this badly by
a woman in pool before. Call me sexist, but besides Becky, I don’t truly
respect many women. I don’t know what it is, yet this moment seems quite clear
to me. I stare at this gorgeous woman who is chugging beer faster than any of
the other patrons. She beat me three times. She is brash. She talks trash and
backs it up. Her nature captivates me. She is not a lady and I like that. The
word love comes to mind, but I take a sip of beer and wash that silly thought
away. I turn to Jay, who is sitting on the stool next to me shaking his head at
Katie in astonishment and I say, “That one, I’m going to take that one home.”
