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Wednesday, September 1, 2010

My First Short Story, Before I understood the Concept of Short

I am sitting here waiting on Paul. Paul is my man. He has been my man for almost five years. Sunday will be our five-year anniversary. Five years with the same man. Married to another woman for our entire courtship, mind you.
I am what some would call a mistress, but honey that is nothing more than a glorified name for a backdoor slut. I think that sometimes it was the role I was born to play, “The lusted after whore.”
It started when I was a freshman in high school, Coach Dennison then Mr. Smith. Both married, both evil as hell for turning my young ass completely out. I got caught up with coach because he found me smoking a joint one evening after practice. Coach should not have really known me, didn’t even teach freshman P.E. He was a football coach who taught upperclassmen. He was so fine back then, I actually saw him a few years ago at a reunion, and he was graying around the edges, but still good looking, and still married. Anyway, back to my story. The fine son-of-bitch said that to avoid a call to Gran I had to hang and smoke with him later. So it started with us just smoking and watching movies at his frat brother’s apartment. Then after about a month… You know when I look back on it, I bet he was just trying to build my trust by waiting to make his move, bastard. I remember it like it was yesterday. Walked up in the apartment looking like a chocolate dreamsicle. Nothing out of the ordinary just this time he brought something to drink on.
We had a deal: I brought the weed; he brought the food and entertainment. Sometimes we would get real high and play board games. We got really tight. But this night we got drunk, I had been smoking weed since I was eight, but I had never drank so it made me loose. Honey, before I knew it he had lifted me up on that counter and ate me like Mom’s Apple Pie chile! We started spending many evenings in that position, the strange thing was he never penetrated me. I never even saw his dick. It lasted up until the end of the Fall Semester of my junior year. Coach’s wife believed that he had been cheating on her with a co-worker or someone at the school, and she had decided to schedule a meeting with the principal when she realized that he had been fool enough to fall in love. I remember seeing her in the hall that day. She looked so much like me that she could have been my mother. I remember feeling like if she noticed me she might figure out that it was me, I remember wondering, “what had she done to push him so far away from her?” I remember realizing that my closest friend and I had to stop being friends. Coach took two years off on sabbatical after that. I knew it was to give me time to graduate. I was glad, cause I knew if we ran into each other we would want to hang. I missed him so much that it ached at times. It took me years to get over losing Coach. We finally had a chance to say goodbye at the reunion. Spending those nights with Coach’s face between my legs opened up a can of worms inside me that I still haven’t been able to close. Made me a woman in a lot of ways, more than sexually. We became friends. I learned what men are like and how they think.
Then my senior year I was flunking trig miserably and Mr. Smith gave lessons in fellatio to help me pass. He was a trip. He thought that he was so important and that his family was so perfect. He got on my nerves, but I kept our bi-weekly appointment until I knew grades were in. With a few indiscretions I left high school with two scholarships and a 3.5 GPA.
I decided when I left high school that I wanted a real boyfriend. You know put the past behind me and move on. Since I was still a virgin in the traditional sense of the hymen. I didn’t plan on being easy, but some man would be inside my body making me scream and moan like the women in the movies Coach and I would watch, and soon.
Which leads me to my first, and only unmarried, boyfriend: a football player named Baxter I met at cheerleading practice. I did not mention that I was a cheerleader?
Well, before I began my life as a mistress, I was born to a whore. To this day I have no idea who my father is and neither does my mother. I was a prom night baby, but Mama was a rolling piece of ass. It was just her and Gran by then, My grandfather had died in the military when my mother was 7. My Mom started college the summer after I was born. She got a business degree. She slept her way to top executive in an ad firm, and moved our little family to the suburbs. When the struggle was on she spent every night that she wasn’t away on business or fucking anything that protruded, with Gran and me. We would listen to Lena Horn, Nancy Wilson, then the Supremes and the Temptations. We would dance the routines and sing the songs. I still consider those nights near and dear to my heart. I knew what my mother was doing with her bosses, I would even watch when she brought them back to our home. How do you think I fell so easily into Professor Smith’s lap? When I was fourteen she met a man that actually loved her. He was crazy about her, but he did not want kids. She never even mentioned me to him. They dated for a year and he never came over. When he proposed she cancelled Gran and me like two stolen credit cards. We weren’t even invited to the elaborate wedding that she had the audacity to send pictures of. I only saw her two or three times after that in life. That’s enough about her. I cheered through high school and my first 3 years of college. I liked it and had the body for it. All these secrets have aged me. Sometimes you need to tell it to cleanse your soul. You know what I mean?
Money was never an issue, the whore turned housewife saw to that. Probably worthwhile expenses not to have her bastard baby show up. Sorry I tend to ramble. Now, where was I with my life’s call to whoredom? Oh, I remember. Baxter Hinckley was my first, and may have ended up my only, boyfriend of the not married kind. He was kind of average looking compared to my previous lovers. I knew from experience that fine men cheat and I wanted somebody that I could look at, but wasn’t the star of the show. You know. Well honey, long story short, Mr. Baxter Hinckley was a full-fledged ho-mo-sex-ual. He wasn’t a sissy, but he was gay, nonetheless. Like Will on Will & Grace. If you haven’t seen it then the best way to describe it is: he was just an average guy, a little neat, but normal from a distance, but close up liked men to be close up to his behind. Lord keep us with some mercy! -- I know the Lord and I will have a lot to talk about but in heaven but it’s hard to get through life without calling on him. Another night I will never forget: The night I found out that my boyfriend was gay. Well we had been dating for a whole semester. I figured it was time to put the wheels in motion to getting rid of my virginity. So I put on some sexy Victoria Secret lingerie that I had bought with one of my mother’s guilty money orders.
Just a side bar, but how fucked up are you to send money orders instead of checks? What Mommy did you think that we would find the address and show up on your doorstep? Sorry, I just get so angry with her for dropping us like hot potatoes.
Anyway honey, back to my story. I get there sexy and smelling nice in my raincoat and rain boots, no clothes. It was raining so it wasn’t stupid looking. He lived in an apartment off campus. He said that he had it because he was a junior and his parents were wealthy alumni, so he said. So after a few knocks went unanswered, I used the key that he had mistakenly left with me after I stayed at his house for a package to be delivered one Tuesday. I knew he was there cause I could hear the music. Chile it is a strong sense that rules a woman. I felt like I should not yell to him, and when I peeped into the bedroom, I was changed forever. Baxter was giving the quarterback head and taking it up the ass from the tailback, they were at it so hard that they never looked up. Well honey I slid right back out that door into the rain and walked back to my car dumb-founded. All of those big ass men piled on top of each other naked was just nasty. EWE! I still cringe at the memory. All that night I lay in my dorm room bed remembering every time I had kissed him, every odd behavior that I should have known meant he was a gay boy. Coach had schooled me about “sissies” and “dikes”, and how they came out in college. So I was up on the shit, I just couldn’t believe that I had fell for a fool that decided not to just come on out of the closet.
He called me the next day and I dropped his ass so quick it was crazy. I advised him to either come out of the closet or lock the door. Sick bastard. He could have given me AIDS. Honey it took a year and a half to actually get the cherry popped, and you know it. To prove my point, he was married. My college roommate taught me how to please myself, but it only made me wonder more about the real thing more know what I mean? Every chance available I went home to be with Gran. I love her to death. She loves me too, but she is always in the go: personal trainer, golfing, bridge, and hospital holding babies. She never sits still, until the evenings. So to not hinder her activities, I worked at her brother’s diner during the summer’s I was home from school. I made decent money, but I never needed any.
Mom’s money orders were the only thing that she was faithful to. So I decided to save for a house after graduation. I drove a drop top mustang in high school, and I had received a vintage Vette for high school graduation. A car that I had wanted since I was in diapers. Personally delivered by my mother. I wasn’t as bitter then, so we had dinner and acted like old times, but it grew. The bitterness, it eventually became full grown hate.
The summer after my freshman year I felt like my life was completely retro. I drove a 60’s car, I worked at a 60s looking diner and bell-bottoms were definitely back in. The important part of my experience that summer was George Daily. He would come in the diner every evening about 7. He ordered the same thing every night, Monday through Friday. Catfish and collard greens, unsweetened tea with peach cobbler for desert, every night. He never said a word to anyone. He read the paper, worked on a laptop through desert and left. He tipped 15% gratuity and smiled as he left his perfectly neat table. I figured he was OCD and gay. He was a beautiful man, cinnamon brown with light brown eyes, and hair that lay in a wavy Cesar cut, I never noticed the ring on his finger. You would think that by then that would be the first thing I noticed, some fools have to be completely broken to learn. We would have never spoke until one evening when we ran out of peaches. I figured he would go ballistic. I was such a drama queen about it. I walked over with his dinner and asked if I could sit down. He looked up from his paper, and said yes, with a smile. He looked confused. I was captured by his face, fine had been rubbed in and never washed off. Hon-ey, he was absolutely beautiful! I sat down his plate and slid into the booth seat across from him, took a deep breath. I explained that we had not gotten our peach shipment in time and that we did not have any cobbler for his consumption. He looked at me, and laughed. I was so relieved chile, that I sighed. We both began to laugh and he explained that he had no idea what could have been so serious when I walked over. That night George ate the apple pie and I enjoyed him, we laughed and talked an hour or more past his usual time at the diner. I think the fact that he was actually normal up close was nice. When I started getting ready to go back to school, I had to take a day off during the week. The next day George explained that he had missed me and wanted to know if we could get together at some point outside of the diner. I agreed and gave him my number. He called on the following Monday. He asked me for a date Tuesday after work. I agreed and over dinner he began the you’re so beautiful, your hair feels so nice, blah, blah, blah. I wanted to get rid of my virginity and George was too tall, brown, and handsome no to give it up to. Then his hands and feet were large enough for him to be packing.
That night we checked into a beautiful hotel downtown Chicago. The beds had 500 thread sheets and the comforter was goose-down with a silk duvet. Nice honey I mean real nice. To be an accountant he was a big spender. George purchased some of my most beautiful diamonds. He was one amazing lover and one weird muthafucker all in the same breath. He would take his ring off and do that catholic thing every time we had sex. Then afterwards he would deposit $500.00 into an account that he had setup for me. I made more money sleeping with George than I did in 3 summers working at the diner, but George wouldn’t let me quit, he needed the consistency. He always sent that money for the entire time we were together.
I use the interest from the account to pay the insurance on my storage facility. I love cars and I wanted to store my Vette and get me something new, so I bought the whole damn place. That witch mother of mine was killed a few years ago when her husband’s plane crashed and I was her and apparently his only living relative. I let the servants have the houses. They had taken care of them for generations. I allotted money to pay taxes for them for ten years, but they have to pay the utilities and upkeep. There I go again, getting off track. Where was I? I remember, George.
The sex was more than any woman should have experienced as her first. George was obsessed with me, and what he did to me in the bedroom made me take more than I should have. He made it clear that he would never leave his wife, but being my first drove him to stone lunacy. George was married to his high school sweetheart. They had two kids and a dog and he lived in the city through the week and spent the weekend with his family. I was never allowed to his downtown condo in the event that they wanted to surprise him. I could not miss one of our scheduled sex sessions. He would even leave his family to make it to our rendezvous. If I didn’t make it he would lose it. Call me over and over. He pulled the final straw out of the bag when I came home one week-end from school and found him sitting on the porch with Gran. I was dumbfounded. Yes I had missed our session at the hotel near my university, but I had a lot going on.
It was my junior year and I had decided that I had cheered my last cheer. I was focused on the grades to get into grad school. One thing about being a forbidden lover, you learn to be attentive, listen and counsel without getting too involved. So I decided to get a degree in it and get paid. See some curses can be blessing.
Oh, George. Long story short I had a restraining order issued. He violated it, and after explaining the arrest to his wife, he never called or stopped by again. I didn’t interfere with his personal life and he had no right interfering with mine. It wasn’t like our courtship was legitimate to begin with.
Just when you think that you insanity has come to an end. It starts all over again. Same fool different story brings us to Paul. I met Paul in grad school. He is a professor of Freudian theories. Even though things with George went really bad, he kept my mind occupied in my bed at night. So Paul had to be clever and he was. He offered me a trip to Europe. We toured Great Britain and Paris. I was floored. We made love for the first time in a field in London. Yes honey Mr. Paul Martin wooed me with fabulous trips and exotic restaurants. We did what the people on TV did, and I loved every minute of it. Paul treated me like the wife and the wife like the other woman. He was key in me getting my doctorate, but he is also the reason why I began teaching instead of opening up a practice.
I have the money, and I own a New York brownstone. I can open my practice in the bottom and live up top. Gran has gotten a little slower and I would love to take care of her. See the ugliest thing about Mr. Martin is that he is a chronic gambler, on everything in life. He never lets a loss keep him down. Everybody and every situation are a roll of the dice and he is immune to the consequences. His wife bankrolls all of our indulgences, and all of his bad bets, while she drinks herself into an early grave because Paul doesn’t want children. The wife comes from old money, and she thought that marrying the refined, well dressed, beautiful Italian (she didn’t know about the black) Paul Martin would lead to the life she had always wanted. Instead it lead her to the bed of any man that told her what she wanted Paul to say and hatred of the very man she had worshipped. According to her, she got pregnant before they had actually said the, I dos so he made her have an abortion. (She told me this one night when she found us making love at a dock in Miami on their yacht.) She had a condition that neither she nor the clinic was aware of and she almost died. After that she couldn’t have children. Paul could not have been happier. Her parents were her only refuge and when they died, she did too in every way but physical. People are so fucked up.
I myself have been pregnant before because Paul refuses to use condoms. He says that if I cheat he will know it and kill me where I stand. Sigh. At first I loved Paul and maybe some of me still does, but there is a part of me that knows better. I can’t lie to myself about him leaving her. He would just go through my money like he has run through hers. He doesn’t even know about my wealth. I kept that secret. He thinks that without him I have nothing, and he is beginning to treat me like I can’t go anywhere. Well, honey. I am smarter than I look. I am pregnant, 4 weeks to be exact. When I found out I knew I was leaving Paul. He had me living in a cottage on the grounds of the University we teach at. Easy access. Ass and work are the only things Paul loves more than gambling. My best and only friend, Sharla, has been helping me. Remember the friend that taught me self-pleasure, well we roomed all four years of college, and have remained friends all these years. She kept watch over the renovations to the brownstone and secured me a new car in her name that I paid cash for. I drive one of those Mercedes Jeeps. It was Paul’s idea. He said that my CLK was too small. He thought I sold it, but it went to storage. So for my new bundle of joy, I have purchased a Porsche Sports Utility. Cayenne I think it’s called. I haven’t even seen it in person. I have not made one trip to New York. I have done everything by computer or U.S. Mail. I use public library computers and make calls from a pre-paid cell that I don’t even know the number to. I actually took a vacation with out Paul to Seattle. He ended up meeting me in California. I did it to give me a running head start.
Do you know this is the third time I have been pregnant? The last two times Paul knew from having sex with me and had a car carry me to the abortion clinic the next day. I can’t seem to find a man that’s not married, but this baby will be all mine. Paul is gorgeous to the eyes and so is everyone in his family, so I know this baby and all of the other ones too will have or had, great genes. As Betty Wright says, “Honey tonight is the night.” I am leaving Paul. I agreed to meet him tonight because it is our fifth anniversary and we never made it to Italy. So here I am in Italy waiting on the man I have waited around on for five years. Well, I have chatted you up pretty good and he hasn’t even called my cell. What do you know it was off? Well, to bad. I am off to fuck the brains out of a beautiful Italian stripper. Change hotels and rest because starting over is only the beginning. Trying to break the curse may take more than I currently have in me. My child will be better than me and never live like I have if I can help it. If we meet again I’ll tell you how it goes. Wish me luck.

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