“Are you with somebody?” is the first thing you said to me leaning back in your chair to show your thousand-dollar suit to its best advantage.
“No,” I said. And gave you a wet-lipped smile and, Douglas baby, you were sprung. I could have had it then, twisted you into the most vicious knots I could have imagined but I wanted to see, see how far we were going to go. Just how bad it was going to be.
Somebody’s at the door. Probably Mother, wondering if I’m okay, or Uncle Jack wondering if I managed to slip out again. They think because it’s deadlocked I’m securely tucked away. Too stupid. Soon enough and I’ll be making like a roach and bug on out of here.
Oh, how nice. I slept. At least three hours of beauty rest. See, with you we never had time for sleeping; either we were chasing the rock or fucking or fighting. But now, since you’ve gone on to your reward, I actually find time to rest. That’s why I look better, that haggardness is gone. Sleep is truly a wonderful thing. What’s it like to be dead? Do you see me? Do you see me when I smoke your money and you’re not there to share the happiness, the bliss? Do you see me getting on my knees and giving a high school boy the best blowjob of his life for a couple rocks? Not that I have to do it, I still have quite a stash, but baby, I’m not being simply frugal, though frugality is to be admired, really, the kick is imagining you spinning in your ten-thousand-dollar coffin. How sweet!
I should go. I’m not getting any happier. Sooner or later I’m going to have to get back to it. The job of feeling good about myself, going on a mission to shake my money maker. It’s distasteful. Compared to the creeps I have to deal with now that you’re gone, you were the perfect gentleman. Even though you were inclined to punch and slap and burn, you did it with conviction, that’s the kind of lover you were, resentful, mistrustful and destructive, but we shared those qualities. But Douglas, to these young men, a woman is less than a dog, less than a shrimp plate at Sizzler. They have no idea what relationship is all about. It’s like a woman doesn’t exist other than for a fuck or to cut. Too simple for my tastes. But I have a taste for the burning white smoke, rolling into my lungs to restore my good humor for five good minutes, smoke it all, my five-O limit. I can exert self-control, something you never managed to do. See, I smoke so I won’t be sour, I prefer anything to being sour. Remember when we smoked fifteen hundred worth, and you started choking, really, turning code blue? What was I supposed to do? Call 911? But that’s not me, no. You laid there on your back gasping, vomiting, looking like you had bought it. I knelt by your side, saying, “I told you nobody can smoke that much.” Sure, it was after the fact, but did you listen? I don’t know what happened because I had to leave, couldn’t sit there and watch you expire. Just like I can’t lie here and reminisce about the good old times. One has to live in the present.
What’s a deadlock if you have the key? There I go being ironic, but you never understood irony so you don’t get the joke. Outside my dark room the hallway is brightly lit, and in the kitchen, near the living room, is my Uncle Jack, dead asleep. I guess he thought he could find out how I do it, make such quick exits. The front door opens without a creak and I slip out. Oh, the sweet fresh air, how I love it. Slip into the auto, take it out of gear and coast downhill. Yes. And the land quickly changes. From the upper-middle-class split-level ranches down to the jungle apartment complexes. Not stopping, no, not for a stop sign, I’m on a mission. I got a surprise for the fat man. How unusual, no one is lurking in front of the Kona apartments, but the yellow light is on. Where are they, the police? It would be stupid to just rush out and plunge headlong into trouble. But what the hey. Yes, the door is unlocked. Inside, I don’t see anyone waiting to do something nasty to me. Are things askew or am I getting more and more paranoid? Guess I’ll mosey up and see with my own God-given eyes the situation. The hard steel door hurts my knuckles but I knock sharply anyway. Someone walks to the door, must be looking through the spy hole at me. I put my eye to the cold metal of the door. “Fuck” is said and I hear the door unlock even through the noise of the TV. It swings open and there he is, Alton, Mister Tub O’Lard.
“Hey, it’s Miss It. She’s back.”
He grabs me by the arm and leads me into the little nut hole of a living room, nowhere to sit but a nasty couch.
“You got money, or is it gonna be the usual?”
I nod.
“What’s that mean?”
I shrug.
He opens his ham-sized arms wide and gestures for me to see the almost empty room.
“We closing up shop. Too hot round here. Police be sweating a brother twenty-four-seven.”
He comes over, perspiring like he’s drunk, and opens my robe.
“Ooh, that bra is cute but you don’t need to be wearing one flat as you is.”
I smile sweetly, as he pulls my bra aside and takes hold of my nipple and rubs it clumsily. Thinking of what the next few minutes will bring, I smile even more sweetly.
“Aw, baby, you should take better care of yourself. Bet you slipped out the house with them curlers in your hair, wearing them silly slippers, to get a blast. You know, ya still pretty, you oughta slow down.”
Oh, how nice, fat boy is giving me the just-say-no line while he’s leading me into the bedroom. I guess we’re going to be doing it on the mattress. Doesn’t look very sanitary.
“What’s it gonna be? Do it like I like, two rocks, like you like it, just one.”
He pulls my robe up, forces me stomach down onto that piss-stained mattress. Down come my panties. I hope you’re watching. I hope you see what he’s going to do to me. He’s grabbing my hips, trying to put it inside my ass, but I wiggle making him slip, hoping he’ll just do it the normal way. He pushes me away, and I roll to the wall.
“You know how I like it. You don’t give it to me I’m gonna take it.”
It’s gonna get ugly. Is it time for the surprise? He turns me over and grabs my hips again, and yanks my curlers.
“Don’t you have oil?”
“Naw. I like the friction.”
See, he’s forcing my hand down again, trying to push it in. It won’t go. I won’t let it. Pull the cute little .22 auto out the robe pocket and point it at his big stomach. He stops crawling across the nasty mattress to me. Actually, he’s backing up, smiling like a big fat Cheshire cat.
“Baby, baby, what you need? I must be scaring you. I got it in the other room, everything you need. Rocked and ready to go.”
I smile. How sweet, he’s begging just like a dog. I might be a crazy bitch but he’s a begging dog.
“Pull up your pants.”
“Baby,” he says whining pitifully, he really thinks I’m going to shoot him.
“Kneel,” I say, he does. We’re both the same height now.
“Were you going to hit me?”
“Hit you? Baby, it ain’t like that. You didn’t hear me right.”