"Lars Lusts Ladies" A Short Story By Greg Hernandez

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.”