Roy L. Pickering Jr.'s Blog, page 18

FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS (Chapter Fourteen) - YVETTE

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No credit is deserved for recognizing beauty of the traffic stopping variety. I would not be surprised if many of you consider me to be a shallow individual, one whose life revolves around hedonism and eye candy. But truth be told, I take great pride in my powers of observation regarding subtle attractions. In creating woman, God presented man with a cornucopia of delights. If one looks past the obvious, beyond the superficial, he will come across far more precious and lasting attributes in the fairer gender.

Such was the case with Yvette. The rigors of her trade caused prettiness to be of minimal concern. Perhaps if she worked at an upscale restaurant she would have focused more on her appearance to get bigger tips. More valuable when working at a neighborhood diner was a comfortable pair of shoes. She was easy to look past, but if you chose instead to look close, your eyes would spot a glimmer of diamond beneath the coal.

Life had not been particularly kind to Yvette, as I was to discover. And I would end up adding to her list of woes. This was not my original intention, of course. I simply wished to reward her for the smile she greeted me with each day.

Yvette is a waitress at the diner around the corner from my apartment. She served me breakfast regularly, and for this reason an attachment was formed. Perhaps the mother-child bond is likewise explained.

She wasn't overly chatty or nosy - so much for comparisons to Mom. "How are things with you?" was as deep a question as she would pose. But the familiarity bred by frequent visitation caused me to volunteer a good deal more information than was customary. The fact that I wasn't putting moves on her no doubt played a part. We were just making conversation for the sake of hearing our own voices, and as time went by, ended up finding out quite a bit about each other.

There was one question I didn't ask, despite my steadily growing curiosity. Curiosity isn't the best choice of words actually, for I was fairly certain of what the answer was. Only a husband's fists could make the bruises that sporadically showed upon her. But it was none of my business, and I had no intention of making it so.

Intentions are only as strong as a person's will, however. If you remember anything I've told you, remember this.

On a day Yvette was unable to force a smile past her fattened lip or a sparkle past her blackened eye, I found myself no longer able to maintain silence.

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"When is your break?" I asked.

"Why?"

"Because I thought you might want to talk about it."

"I don't," she said meekly.

"How about some revenge then?"

She looked at me curiously. "What kind of revenge?"

"The best kind," I said as I took her hands in mind. "The kind that helps you forget about the rest of the world for awhile."



Yvette pulled her hands from my grasp and looked at her wedding band, at all that it represented. She had promised for better or for worse, but worse was taking more out of her than she was willing to give.

"And what do you get out of it?" she asked.

"Maybe I get to see you smile."

"That might be asking too much."

"I'm willing to give it a try."

"I think you'd be better off ordering breakfast and leave the smile making to circus clowns."

"Okay. Two scrambled eggs, ham, homefries, a toasted bagel and coffee." Yvette didn't write down my order. She had already known what it would be.

"It isn't as bad as it seems, Michael."

"There are a lot of ways to touch a woman, Yvette. None of them should leave marks like that."

"His job is very hard on him."

"What does that have to do with you or that bruise?"

A tear slid from the corner of Yvette's good eye. "I'll tell you at three-thirty. That's when I go on break."

Yvette's husband was one of New York's finest, a fate I wouldn't wish upon my greatest enemy. His days were spent sifting through piles of manure disguised as human beings. To forget about this he went home and drank. When his memory persisted in spite of the liquor, he would lash back at the world. Yvette was the world's designated stand-in.



For reasons I've never fully understood, many women have a tough time fighting back or running away from the men who they love in spite of themselves. When he carries a gun for a living, that probably makes it even harder. Excusing bad behavior and convincing themselves that the last time really was the last time is something women like Yvette have mastered. Blaming herself was another neat trick she had perfected. She was convinced that her inability to conceive a child was at the core of her husband's rage. Only the innocence of a baby could wash away the stench of the streets.

I chose to put a more simplified spin on the matter. Yvette's husband was an asshole and his actions would be rewarded by my fucking his wife. Crude and juvenile perhaps, but straight to the point, and what better path is there to take to a point?

Why I believed my penis could serve as penicillin for an unhealthy marriage, I'll never know. We believe what we wish to be true. I thought I could give a sad woman much deserved moments of joyful surrender. And from the way she moaned beneath me that afternoon, it seemed my mission had been accomplished.

"I feel like my life took a wrong turn somewhere," she said as we lay contentedly on my bed. "But it isn't too late to turn back. I think I see a better way now."

The way she looked at me, I was pretty sure who she thought would provide that way. Ordinarily I would have begun climbing out of the hole I had dug for myself right away. But I didn't want to spoil things for her. I would let her bliss be uninterrupted for the time being. And so I kissed the places her husband had seen fit to strike. Then I kissed the place he wanted to be an exit door for his heirs and gave Yvette the best tip she ever got.



I arrived at the diner at my usual time late the next morning with hope that our relationship could go back to normal. The previous day would be our special secret, acknowledged from time to time with a knowing grin. When I gauged the bounce in Yvette's step as she headed towards me, the lilt in her voice as she greeted me, and the tenderness reflected in her eyes, I knew that my hopes were not to be.

Our conversation was similar to past occasions, except for a new found giddiness to her words and the question she asked as I paid the bill.

"Three-thirty?"

"Sure." The bruises her husband caused had yet to heal. It didn't seem right to disappoint her so soon. I took a break from writing each afternoon anyway, and Yvette was as good a way to spend it as any.

So this became the new pattern of my life. Three times a week Yvette and I would fornicate as feverishly as if we were responsible for the survival of the species. On the days I didn't have breakfast at her diner, she would remain out of sight and mind. Much like a soap opera or daytime talk show, I served as a temporary escape from reality for her. The arrangement should have been sufficient. But after about a month, Yvette began to express that she wanted more. It ceased to be about strings-free sex. The sex would be followed by imposing questions.



"What do you do on the days I don't see you?"

"How come you're never home when I call?"

"Are you doing this because I'm married, so you know it can't get too serious? If I was available would you still want me?"

I'd answer as I answered all women who wished to know more than was good for them, telling whatever lie would momentarily appease while simultaneously planning my escape. I had become Yvette's bad habit and would now have to cure her cold turkey.

At 3:30 on the fifth consecutive day I kept away from her workplace, someone knocked on my door. I was not surprised by who I found on the other side.

"Hi, Michael."

"Hello."

"It's been a while."

"Has it?"

"Are you busy?"

"Actually I am. I'm in a real groove with my writing. I try not to disturb a good flow if I can help it. They're not that common."

"I was beginning to worry that you're avoiding me."

"Worrying isn't good for you, Yvette."

"I'm not asking for an explanation."

I hadn't planned on giving one but refrained from telling her this.

"I don't want to be taken for granted," she continued. "I get enough of that at home." She undid the top button of her blouse and opened it wide enough for me to glimpse the bruise over her collar bone.

"Do you get enough of this?" I asked, after which I gently kissed her discolored flesh while drawing her into my apartment. Although my brain was warning that I would be better off sending Yvette on her way rather than setting a false precedent of reliability, my sentimental heart was wary of crushing her spirit.

I swore to myself that this would be the last time I played the part of Yvette’s Band-aid. She would have to find someplace else to heal. If our arrangement went on any longer things would start getting complicated, and I liked my life simple and manageable. Easily said, but as it turned out, not so easily done.

"Yvette, what are you doing here?" I asked reproachfully upon the occasion of her next unannounced and unwelcome visit.

"I thought I'd surprise you." She held up a bag of groceries. "Make you breakfast instead of only serving it to you. Free of charge, too. But judging by the scent coming from the kitchen I guess you're already cooking for yourself."

I made an embarrassed smile. It had been eight days since Yvette last served me breakfast in the morning and herself in the afternoon. The tone of her unreturned phone messages had grown increasingly frantic over that period. I had been hoping she would get the hint. Apparently I needed to be blunt and unambiguous.

"Why aren't you at work?"

"I took the day off."

An awkward silence followed. This was supposed to be when I asked her to come inside. No invitation would be forthcoming.

"How come?" I asked for some asinine reason.

"To spend it with you. Didn't you get my message?"

'Which one of the twenty?' was the sarcastic reply I benevolently kept to myself. I vaguely recalled her suggestion of playing hooky one day to spend like a honeymoon couple. I begun glancing through the newspaper as soon as I recognized her voice on the machine, scarcely paying attention.

"Is this a bad time?" she asked.

"Actually ..." Completing the sentence became unnecessary when Roberta emerged from my bathroom.

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"Something smells scrumptious, she said. "I'm ravenous."

I dreaded having to introduce the women but Yvette took me off the hook by promptly turning around and walking away. I closed the door and wondered which diner in the neighborhood I would be taking my business to now.

You're probably thinking that this was the end. I certainly did. So imagine my surprise when two minutes after putting Roberta in a cab and returning to my apartment, there was a knock at the door. I'll give you one guess who it was.

"Alone at last."

My surprise registered plainly.  Yvette responded to my expression of bewilderment with a chuckle.

"Why the face, Michael? Did you think I was angry with you?"

"Sort of," I answered numbly.

"But why? I know you have girlfriends running in and out. I admit I was a little jealous at first. Then I decided I was being silly. You don't let my being married spoil your fun. So why should I get upset? As long as you don't take me for granted. And that's what you've been doing, Michael. But I forgive you."

"You do?"

"Of course I do. I don't want to lose what we have. The only reason I can stand living with my husband, the only thing keeping me from going crazy, is the time I spend with you. I'm not asking you to take any vows. I'm not demanding monogamy. All I want is an hour a day, as many days as you can spare. Because those are the only times I can be who I really am, the version of me who isn't walking on eggshells afraid to say the wrong thing that will set off an angry drunk."

"Has he beaten you again?"

"Terrence doesn't need to hit me to hurt me. And the reason I come here is not so you can lick my wounds."

"Then why do you come?"

"Because I love you, stupid."

My sole thought was that if Yvette's husband beat the hell out of her and still she wouldn't leave, what could I possibly do to get rid of her. No answer came so I decided to wing it.



"Yvette, this has gone a lot further than I anticipated. I was hoping to ease out gracefully. Okay, cowardly. But it doesn't seem that's possible. You're not thinking about leaving your husband for me, are you? I mean, I really do think you should dump the guy. But for yourself, not for me."

"I'm not leaving Terrence. I'm committed to my marriage. The fact is, I'm trying to save it."

"By fucking me?"

"Every time Terrence sobers up and realizes what he's done, it tears him up. He can only cope with the guilt because I forgive him. The reason I can forgive him is because I'm sinning too. And I don't feel guilty about us, because his sins are what drive me to you in the first place. So everything works out. Up until now, anyway."

"So this isn't about you being in love with me?"

"Yes, that's part of it too. You think I can't love you just because I'm using you? Don't tell me you're that naive, Michael. Learn to appreciate the irony. Terrence loves me and treats me like a dog. You could care less about me and treat me like a princess. I love both of you for different reasons. And I'm using both of you in different ways."

"I'm glad you have this worked out so well for yourself, Yvette. But I'm afraid there's one little flaw in your plan. Suppose Terrence finds out about us."

"He won't."

"Now who's being naive?"

"You're saying you want to end this before my husband finds out and comes after you?"

"Something like that."

"Michael, the only way Terrence could find out would be if I told him. If I did that he'd hurt me, and he'd kill you. Of this I have no doubt. Now I can only think of one reason why I would do something I knew would get you killed. If you took away the only thing in my life right now that's any good. I love you, Michael. I need you. You don't have to love me back. But you do need to be here for me. Because if you don't I'll be very sad, and in my grief I might say things to Terrence that you'll regret very much."

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"You have a real fucked up way of showing someone you love them."

"It runs in the family. Now lets move on to more important matters. Did your date tucker you out? Or do you still have a couple of good screws left? Because I'm horny as hell and I've got a whole day to kill."

My life had become a psycho feminist movie. The blood must have drained from my head, for I felt dizzy. But it went to the place it was needed, so I was able to give Yvette exactly what she wanted.


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TO BE CONTINUED (on April 15th)

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FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS (Chapter Thirteen) - SALLY

"You've got mail" are the words that greet me each day when I log onto America Online.  I can almost see what the speaker looks like, have pictured his miniature domicile behind my computer screen.  He is sort of my unofficial roomie.
My initial purpose for acquiring internet access was to use it as a research tool that would save me trips to the library.  I am a man easily distracted, however, not to mention curious by nature, and above all else, a social beast.  So it wasn't long before I grew intrigued by the peculiar world of online chatting. Browsing through personal profiles became an addictive habit for a while, and eventually I came across one that seemed too good to be true.
Sally’s micro-autobiography described her as being drop dead gorgeous, five feet ten inches of long legged perfection, one hundred and thirty five pounds of curvaceous and toned womanhood, and possessing a sexually insatiable appetite.  How could I resist making contact?  If she was not taking considerable artistic license with her description, I was a few types on the keyboard away from heaven.
Speaking online is a far different animal from face to face conversation, or even from communication over the phone.  This is because one can carefully construct in advance what they say, and control with ease what they decide on second or third thought to leave out.  You are in the privacy and comfort of your own home, impossible to be physically located unless you choose to divulge such personal information.  This causes guards to be let down and a high level of intimacy to be reached at a faster rate than usual.  Actually, I think that part of the reason for my opening up to Sally so readily was that I didn't truly believe she was real.  It felt that like the man who informed me that I had mail, she existed only within the confines of my computer terminal.  It is easy to see why many people have fallen in what they perceive to be love with people they have never met.  The peculiar phenomenon of computer mating is a potent draw for thousands upon thousands of lonely hearts.

I, of course, have no difficulty meeting women in real time and space.  There is no need for me to get my rocks off through a box filled with complex wiring.  Nevertheless, I would be the last person to rule out any method of communication that could lead to carnal pleasure, and in the case of Sally, this was the path taken.
After a month of chatting and emailing and exchanging on-screen photographs, we decided to get together and see if reality would live up to electronic fantasy.  The easy manner in which we vibed in cyberspace suggested, if not downright promised, that we would enjoy each other's company.  And if she matched her snap shots, which showed her to indeed be stunning, it would definitely be on.
I was the first to arrive at the bar we agreed to meet in.  Never having been on a blind date before, I found myself amused by the unfamiliar emotions experienced.  Nervous does not adequately sum up how I felt, nor would I go so far as to say I was excited. But the anticipation certainly produced a rush.  I felt like a spy, my mission to investigate the prospects of lust, love and all that lies in between.
Our eyes met immediately upon her entrance.  I could see she was relieved that my appearance lived up to what had been billed. As for her, she was not quite as pretty as she photographed.  Although her skin was flawlessly smooth, her facial features were a tad hard for my taste.  But she was certainly attractive and her body was as extraordinary as advertised.  This was more than enough for me and what I had in mind for the night's festivities.  Score one for AOL. 

Within an hour, aided by an excellent bottle of wine, it was as if we were old acquaintances with but one crucial piece of business to attend to.  Sally and I had now seen and heard one another.  We had inhaled each other's scents and felt one another's touch.  Only our senses of taste remained ignorant, for I was not counting the kiss on the cheek I had greeted her with.  I am not a man who is satisfied by a nip or nibble.  There was a feast before me that I intended to devour at first opportunity.  As Sally was finishing off her third glass of wine, drowning the last of her inhibitions, I knew that meal time would be arriving sooner rather than later.
Sally and I both honestly expressed before meeting up that we were enjoying our statuses as single people.  Until the right person came along we were content getting to know the wrong ones who passed through.  We had already determined that we were a pleasant match as conversationalists.  The time had come to find out how compatible we might be in a more private setting with more intimate activities. Glass of wine number four sealed the deal.  I slipped my hands onto her firm waist, slid my tongue over and around her own, and simultaneously our names were signed on the dotted line.  Anyone who wants cyber sex can have it.  I prefer a more personal touch.
Almost wordlessly it was agreed that we would go to my apartment.  Plenty of words had already been typed, a sufficient amount more had been said.  It was time to use our mouths for more pleasurable purposes.
She could have stopped me later in the game than she did.  I guess I should be appreciative of this fact.  At the time, I could only be furious that I had not been alerted far earlier.  It would have been considerate of her to notify me prior to our agreeing to meet, to making goo goo eyes at each other, to kissing one another.  Certainly before my fingers were preparing to set free the breasts they had been enjoying the contours of.
"Wait," she said, sliding towards the opposite end of my sofa.
"What for?"
"There's something I haven't been honest about.  Something I've been keeping from you.  I was going to hold off on getting together for a couple more months.  By then my secret wouldn't exist anymore.  But that isn't really true.  The evidence might be gone, but the secret will still be there.  And I can't lie to you about something like this.  I thought maybe I could, but I can't.  So I decided to meet you, in case I got lucky and it turned out that it didn't matter that much."
"What are you talking about, Sally?"  I prepared myself for the standard "It turns out that I actually do have a boyfriend and/or husband" speech, deciding on the fly which words I would use to convince her that at least for tonight, it didn't matter.  As for tomorrow, it still wouldn't matter to me.  She could deal with it however she saw fit.
"We have something in common, Michael.  Something I plan to get rid of, but I haven't done so just yet."

I followed the downward direction of her gaze and the hint proved sufficient.  I would not need to see the evidence.  It was unnecessary for Sally's mystery to be literally revealed.  I got the nauseating picture, understood with total clarity the trait that we shared.  Sally and I both urinated standing up.  Not only did I have mail, but I also had a male.
She or he or whoever/whatever was hastily shown to the door, after which I did some heavy gargling, showering and drinking.  I had never been more infuriated or appalled, yet a part of me could not help but admire the skill of the deception.  I could not think of a single guy who would have turned Sally down before the nasty little secret was revealed. 

I called up a lady friend who I knew wouldn’t mind my late night request to stop by.  More importantly, I knew from firsthand knowledge that she was exactly what she appeared to be, all woman. I raced to and then through Theresa with fervor, followed this up with a rock solid sleep, and awoke the next afternoon with order restored to my world and Cyber Sally relegated to the most confidential chambers of my memory bank.
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TO BE CONTINUED (on April 12th)

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FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS (Chapter Twelve) - RAVEN

I didn't think anything was capable of distracting me from a third row center court view of Maria Sharapova’s legs. So it was much to my surprise when I found myself paying little attention to her match against Serena Williams, who I also don't mind watching run about. What mesmerized me instead for the near three hours their contest took up were the gams and everything northward on the woman seated beside me. She possessed the tranquil beauty one usually associates with women who accompany middle aged celebrities to televised award shows to make them even more enviable. Her skin was the color a brand new penny, but worth considerably more to my appreciative eyes. Her attire subtly hinted at the extravagance of what she had to offer. She had a regal bearing, remindful of a tanner Princess Di as she watched the green ball whiz back and forth.

We played the game that people play, sneaking peeks when the other wasn't supposed to notice, graduating to eye contact of increasing duration, eventually accompanied by a smile, a hi, small talk about the match, then about anything that would keep the conversation going. By mid-third set I was bold enough to inquire what her plans were after the match. Her schedule was tied up by her companion one seat over, an absolutely hideous woman who greeted me upon introduction as if meeting a leper. They had probably been friends since high school, for my recollection of that period is of the prettiest girl's best friend always being among the ugliest, and having the worst attitude problems to boot. What caused this I never did figure out, though I do have a few theories which I won't bore you with.

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I had to settle for exchanging phone numbers. Raven's business card informed me that she was a lawyer, and her aura suggested she was a high profile one. My friend Jamal would have termed her a first class lay, but I know from experience that bank accounts and social status neither improve nor detract from the quality of sex.

It was a bit tricky arranging to get together. Raven seemed to have prior obligations for every minute of her life. After two and a half weeks of phone tag and tentative engagements which never panned out, we managed to meet one Thursday night for a late dinner. The period of anticipation had heightened my already substantial interest in her, as well as given me time to rehearse my intended spiel. I suspected that she may be more expert at detecting bullshit than the average woman, so prepared to be at the top of my game. Time was obviously a valuable commodity to her, so it was imperative that I make what little I had count.

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The restaurant I selected was suitably elegant and wallet thinning, with atmosphere to spare. Raven looked even more resplendent than I recalled, and if I do say so myself, I was her match. All of the fairy tale elements were in place, except that happily ever after was not a consideration. Happily all night would suffice.

I entertained her with anecdotes about my life as a Navy pilot who braved the dangers of Desert Storm, went on to be a real live cowboy on a cattle ranch in Montana, and then secured a life lasting fortune by patenting a software program later sold to Bill Gates. It's amazing what you can convince a person of due simply to having varied acquaintances, being a good listener, spending a few hours reading, and possessing the ability to lie with absolutely no compunction. Give enough obscure details and they'll take you at your word every time. It wouldn't require much probing to expose my fabrications. But no one ever calls me on this stuff. You can only sell folks what they want to buy, whether they are aware of the desire or not.

Raven told me about her experiences as a corporate lawyer, of which I took note so as to include the profession in my cast of characters. This is what I do. I use the lives of others to create ones for myself. What would you prefer, that I tell the truth? Why subject others to the tedious facts of my existence? I want to entertain and be entertained. Truth would only spoil things.

But it would make me a better person, is that what you're thinking? Better than what? What crime am I committing? Who's getting hurt? Some feelings and egos may suffer damage on account of my actions, but neither are made of glass. Your problem is that you have a preconceived notion of what to expect from a confession. “Where's the remorse?” you ask. And where is the Freudian interpretation of my actions? You want me to proclaim that I do what I do because I miss my father or want to fuck my mother. I recall some childhood trauma and everything is neatly explained and justified. There has to be a rational explanation for how the monster was created, so you won't have to fear becoming one yourself.

Who gave you the right to judge me? The only difference between us is that you merely wish, I do. You stubbornly persist that love is the answer but have no idea what the question is. You're so smug about knowing who you are, but what does that accomplish other than keeping you from seeking a better self? Why be grateful for being fairly certain what tomorrow will bring? That’s only because you plan to live it exactly as you did yesterday and today. Not exactly a great accomplishment, merely re-treading what you have mastered rather than venturing to explore new territories. And what's so tragic about dying alone? Is there really any other way?



Stop looking for deeper truths. Sometimes people take or give simply because they want to gain or lose something. That's it. The big mystery has been solved. I'm not suppressing any inner demons. I am sampling life. I do not run away because there is something I don't want others to know. My feet stay in motion because if I stop in one place I will take on a definition, and once I'm defined, that's all I can be. Love means selecting a decorative prison. I prefer to be out in the cold, with the option of changing my scenery at will. If that makes me an asshole in your opinion, I can live with the label. But if I'm missing out on something, I at least know what it is. Can you say the same? Can you live with that?

As the evening progressed, Raven went from telling me what she is to who she is. She had been married, but it only lasted eight months. The marriage had been one ongoing argument which started shortly after the honeymoon. Its cause was Raven's dedication to work, which her husband felt took precedence over everything, including him. He longed for a more traditional wife, one who would make him the center of her world. Not that he ever admitted this. He just came up with one thing after another to complain about, until he found something big enough to create an ultimatum from.

"We had barely discussed having children before we got married. Now suddenly it was his number one priority. I was just beginning to make my mark at the firm, I was finally being assigned to the bigger cases. It was the absolute worst time to put my career on hold to have a baby. Richard wanted to know exactly when the right time would be. A fair question, I suppose. He didn't want to have his first kid when he was in his forties. He thought I was being selfish. I couldn't deny what he claimed and I didn't have any definite answers. None he wanted to hear anyway."

I looked sympathetic and held her hand. This was pretty heavy stuff for a first date. Usually it took a person considerably more time or alcohol to reach such a high level of intimacy. But Raven had less time to budget than most.

"My parents raised me to always strive for the best, and that's what I've done. But they didn't tell me how much I would have to sacrifice. At first it was just trivial things. I didn't get to go to parties and goof around with friends as much as other people. There was always something more important to take care of. But the things I’m missing out on have been getting a lot bigger lately. Richard and I could've had a good life together. I would love to be a mother someday. It seems I'm screwed no matter what. I can't be happy unless I'm the best, but to be the best I have to forfeit happiness."

"You just need to find a man who understands that you have things to take care of other than his ego. That might be harder than it should be, but not impossible. You may even have already met him."

You're probably thinking that I'm going in for the kill at this point, and you're right. But I was being honest as well. Raven and I really would have been good for each other. She was looking for someone with enough flexibility to fit into her consuming and unpredictable schedule without taking the lack of quality time personally. My perfect match would be a woman with enough going on of her own not to crowd me. Neither of us would have been the most important thing to the other, so the odds of either of us hurting the other were greatly diminished.

So why didn't I pursue a relationship with Raven? For the reason you'd least suspect. Because when all is said and done, I'm as much of a romantic as anyone else. I want to be the center of a woman's world, and I want a woman who can be the center of mine. The rub was that such a woman I had never encountered, and was not sure actually existed. I had thrown away many a good thing, but would never discard greatness. I've always known that if I ever managed to begin a masterpiece, I would give everything I had to complete it. Along with this knowledge comes the realization that I'll likely be buried in a coffin filled with first chapters, my death mourned by many, but no one particularly significant.

Raven had no discernible flaws. For a million dollars I couldn't tell you what ingredient was missing, or what was present that I didn't want. I only knew what I always know. I wanted Raven as much as I could want anything. And once my passion was spent, I would yearn to an equal degree for her to be gone.

I told Raven she was an incredible woman who must have married a fool, for as much as I understood wanting all of her attention, it made no sense to opt for none of it. Then I said that I had been to exotic places and seen many beautiful things, but none more lovely than her. In her eyes I saw belief that perhaps I was the one she could finally balance love and being the best with. Shortly thereafter, her body echoed the sentiments.

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Raven wanted to meet for lunch the next day, but I already had plans. I told her I was meeting a literary agent for lunch who was interested in representing the autobiography I was working on. In fact I was having lunch with Antoinette, a breathtaking French woman I had met the week before. She spoke little English and I even less of her language, but no matter, for a great deal of conversing wasn't what I had in mind, and most of the words I had to say to her were too naughty to be found in the French-English dictionary I was carrying around. As I was reaching over to nibble on Antoinette's ear lobe, I noticed a woman staring at and then heading towards me. A woman who looked real pissed off. A woman I hoped was Raven's twin sister, but knew I wasn't lucky enough to be getting off that easy.

"You son of a bitch," she hissed.

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"This isn't what it looks like." The way I figured, with my date not being fluent in English I had a chance to quickly pacify Raven yet not screw up my shot at Antoinette. Why pacify a woman I was already done with? If you saw the way she was looking at me, you wouldn't need an answer.

"It looks like you're a fucking asshole," Raven said, no longer bothering to keep her voice down. Since she obviously had no intention of being civilized about this, I chose to follow suit.

"Then I guess it is what it looks like." My cavalier wit was not appreciated. A sweep of Raven's hand later, I was wearing my meal.



"Nobody treats me like a whore or a fool." She was with business associates but far too angry to be discreet. "You're a worthless piece of shit, Michael. Was anything you said true? Was any of it real? Did it mean a damn thing to you?"

I know the point of no return when it's reached, so gave not a second's thought to returning. I simply shook my head to indicate a negative response to her query. An apology was deserved, but the way I saw it, my dry cleaning bill and public embarrassment equaled her wounded pride.

Raven finally remembered who she was with, where she was at, and why she was there. She uttered regrets to her colleagues, who seemed as embarrassed for her as she was for herself, then herded them out of the restaurant at a brisk pace. At the door she stopped to deliver one last evil eye, accompanied by an extended middle finger. I noticed this as I was rubbing Antoinette's thigh and looking up the words to apologize for the rude interruption.


TO BE CONTINUED (on April 9th)

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FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS (Chapter Eleven) - ROSA

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I've known Wesley and Rosa for nearly ten years. Wesley is an extraordinary saxophone player who has fronted about a dozen jazz bands during that time. I first heard him play in a seedy dive on Avenue A, which I believe is currently a Sunglass Hut. When the session was over I had to tell Wesley how overwhelmed I had been by his performance. Money and fame are apparently not in the cards for Wesley, so he settles for flattery of which he never grows weary. After taking in my words of praise, Wesley introduced me to his band mates and then to his lady.

Rosa was and is a beautiful Ecuadorian woman with a sultry accent that reverberates in one's crotch, and huge eyes which seem to be gazing adoringly on whatever they behold. These things were immediately apparent despite the low lighting and smoky haze of the club, as was the fact that she was pregnant.

Wesley and Rosa spawned two more kids in the years which followed, the last for whom I serve as godfather in a strictly symbolic capacity. The whole father figure mentor thing isn't really my bag. They seem as in love today as on the night we first met, my role model couple despite or perhaps because of the fact that they never married. They claim to want the freedom of being able to pack a bag and hit the road with a minimum of hassle, if and when either one of them ever sees fit. In their shared opinion, Abraham Lincoln's emancipation proclamation declared ownership papers of any kind involving fellow human beings illegal, so marriage should therefore be considered a crime.

Despite the lack of until-death-do-us-part commitment on Wesley's part, he manages to exist in a temptation filled environment as a relatively pure man. His expert manipulation of his instrument's keys float seductive notes from brass tunnel through ear canals and into warm, moist places where women frequently beckon him to follow. For the most part, Wesley turns down these offers. He claims this isn't so much for the sake of his unofficial union with Rosa, but because he refuses to use the gift of music that God gave him for as pedestrian a purpose as getting into groupies' panties. He considers the lust his melodic riffs evokes as evidence that he is successfully following the footprints headed towards immortality laid out by Coletrane and Parker. On the rare occasion when his flesh does succumb, Wesley always says the same words in his defense. “It’s not as if I’m a married man.

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I was perusing the shelves of Barnes & Noble one day when a siren song summoned me.

"Hey, Mike."

I greeted Rosa with a hug and asked what she was doing uptown in my neck of the woods. Though we had hung out countless times, it was always I who visited the apartment that she, Wesley and their brood shared. This was primarily because I usually got invited over after listening to Wesley play in a club and the vast majority of his gigs were below Fourteenth Street, as was his home.

It turned out Rosa had been visiting a friend. The kids were with her mother. Wesley was working with his band on some new material.

"When will I be able to find a book of yours in here?" Rosa was one of the staunchest supporters of my literary endeavors.

"As soon as I buy a publishing house. Know of any for sale?"

Rosa replied with that adorable smile of hers, taking me in with saucer sized eyes. I suppressed a thought I knew better than to be having as I scanned her ample cleavage, generous hips, and conversely narrow waist.

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"You know something, Michael. In all these years I've never been to your apartment. It's pretty close to here, right?"

"Only a couple of blocks."

There were no illicit intentions in my heart, mind or any other part of my anatomy. I was simply playing host, getting better acquainted with the wife of one of my dearest friends. It is my lot in life to be capable of many actions that later cause me shame. But I also know where lines should be drawn, at what point my conscience will start to get restless.

Rosa and I had been flirting harmlessly in a covert manner with each other for years. That was as far as things had ever gone, as far as they were supposed to go.

Not only had she never been in my home, but the two of us had never been alone together for an extended period of time. There was always the presence of Wesley, or a band member, or the kids. On this occasion however, Rosa and I were accompanied only by a near decade of repressed longing.

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In my defense, it was Rosa who initiated what was to happen. But I am not making excuses, for her advances were met by no resistance. She confessed that she knew about Wesley’s infrequent dalliances, for he was not very adept at covering them up. She felt herself entitled to one of her own, which would be equally meaningless and harmless to their relationship, and which she would be considerably more discreet about. We had both fantasized about this for a long time, and when it finally took place, it both surpassed our grandest expectations and saddened us immeasurably. We knew it would never happen again, but curiosity in the long run proved mightier than friendship or love. At least for one memorable afternoon that I simultaneously look back upon fondly and would gladly forget if I could.

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The next time I saw Wesley, I feared my guilt would be apparent. But if he suspected anything he certainly didn't let on. He seemed as happy to see his second most loyal fan in the audience as ever. So after listening for an hour or so, I did what I always do. I let my worries drift into the heavens on the wings of his music.


TO BE CONTINUED (on April 6th)

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FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS (Chapter Ten) - PHOENIX

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Her fiery mane of hair lured me away from the magazine article I was reading. Taking in the overall package, it was clear that she must have been used to eliciting stares. For even had her hair been a less spectacular hue, she possessed plenty of other eye catching features. The rings on her nose, lips, eyebrow, belly button, and at least two dozen on her ears were certainly noticeable. So too were the assortment of tattoos adorning her lean tigress body. These things probably deemed her a freak to those of a conservative nature. But the exquisiteness of her God given features, which included a striking set of emerald eyes, easily overshadowed the additional attractions.

When I took notice of her, she was already looking my way and greeted me with a shy smile. I didn't think it likely that I would be her type, considering my lack of piercings and body graffiti. But there was no mistaking her smitten expression.

"Do you ride?"

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For a second I thought she was making a sexual overture. Then I realized she was referring to the motorcycle magazine that I was reading.

"A 1974 XLCH Harley Davidson."

"My ex was a real motorcycle freak. That's all he ever talked about. I couldn't help but pick up some stuff."

I pointed to a tattoo on her right shoulder blade. "That his bike?"

"Yeah."

"Mind if I take a closer look?"

“Sure, go ahead.”

I moved to the seat beside her and slowly appraised the works of art framed in skin. I could tell she was turned on by my eyes gliding over her body.

"They're beautiful."

"Thank you."

"So is the canvas." A little corny, but judging from the way her face lit up, definitely effective.

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"You did say EX-boyfriend, right?"

"Mmm hmm."

The train slowed as it approached the next station. She looked out the window resignedly. "This is my stop."

"Are you going someplace you absolutely have to be?"

"Not really. Why?"

"I was hoping you would accompany me to Brooklyn, give us a chance to get to know each other. I'm going to pick up my bike from the repair shop. We could ride back to the city, have dinner together. What do you say?"

The doors opened. She didn't pay them any mind.

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"My name is Phoenix."

"I'm Michael."

Phoenix had been born and raised Mary Ann Wenkle in Nowhereville, Nebraska. At the tender age of sixteen she took off with her boyfriend Bobby for infamous New York City, setting up in a roach infested apartment in the East Village. Shortly thereafter she met Dagger, and Bobby no longer seemed so cool and dangerous in comparison. It was Dagger who came up with her new name and persona and swayed Bobby to move back to Nebraska solo. When Dagger was sent to prison, Phoenix spent the next couple of years living recklessly. Then she hooked up with Rex, the aforementioned motorcycle maniac and most beautiful man Phoenix had ever seen. So beautiful that she put up with the multitude of other women in his staple for three years. But when he invited one to move in with them, she decided that enough was enough.

Her second period of living alone led Phoenix to conclude that what she needed was stability. All the notions that had once seemed antiquated and sent her fleeing from her childhood home now didn't look half bad. Marriage, a home, children - these were the things life was ultimately about. No matter how many tattoos she got; body parts she pierced; clubs she partied at; drugs she experimented with; or men she slept with; none of this had been able to provide a happiness that lasted.

She didn't come right out and say it, but Phoenix' recitation of revelations could only mean one thing. The next relationship she intended to get into would have to be serious, with strong potential of becoming permanent. Her days of waking up beside a face she didn't recognize were behind her.

In order to have sex with Phoenix I needed to win her trust. This would take time, and time would build up her hopes. When she finally gave in, it would be to officially welcome me into her life. For me it would be a farewell. I would have to deceive Phoenix into believing I was open to sticking around, wait for her to put her guard down and legs up, and then sucker punch her. Why cause her the pain? Why not just do the leaving now?

If I knew the answer to my questions, perhaps I could change them. But the only thing I know is that when I want a woman, I want her, plain and simple. I will not be satisfied until she has become my lover. Once this has been accomplished, whatever it was that made her irresistible vanishes, or perhaps it remains, but the juices of sex bolster my immune system and make resisting quite easy. I believe in strong beginnings and abrupt endings. The middle never held much interest for me.

We saw each other for six weeks. Each date I was certain would be the one where she finally broke down, but Phoenix was taking the art of taking things slow very seriously. It was a little frustrating, but not much. I sincerely enjoyed her company and was fascinated by the world within the underbelly of the city that she exposed me to. And when she wasn't around, I had no difficulty locating women willing to move a lot faster. My only concern was the growing warmth in her eyes, though this was the very thing I was striving to create. Phoenix was falling in love, and the term “fall” is used for good reason. One usually has to fall first in order to end up flat on their face.

Our first time together took me by surprise. We were riding my bike on the Belt Parkway when Phoenix indicated for me to pull over. She brought me behind some bushes, where we made feverish love as traffic raced by. I didn't even have time to take my helmet off.

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I learned something about Phoenix that day that she had been hiding from me. She absolutely craved sex, in fact, she was a nymphomaniac. No psychiatrist had ever made this diagnosis official, but had they mouths from which to speak, my bed, sofa, bathtub, kitchen sink, coffee table, dining room floor and windowsill would have given testimonials in support of the theory. With great effort she was capable of refraining from having sex for a decent period of time. But when she was partaking, she needed to do so a lot. A whole lot. Phoenix had been planning to make me wait another week or two, but the hum of my Harley's 1500 cc engine between her legs convinced her otherwise.

After three less than enthusiastic phone conversations and a schedule grown considerably busier than the previous month and a half, Phoenix began to get the hint that I was not planning a wedding date. Hints not being enough however, she eventually point blank asked me. I'll lie like there's no tomorrow to get in a woman's pants, and be equally honest to get out. So I confirmed Phoenix' worst fears. She pressed for a reason and I pitched my stock answers, but she batted them all way. She claimed not to care that I wasn't emotionally prepared to commit, or that I didn't think we were right for each other, or that I wanted to and in fact was seeing other women. Phoenix wanted to have me by whatever rules I chose to apply, or so she claimed. I knew better than to believe that. She just wanted to keep me around until my defenses were worn all the way down. Since she was leaving me with no convenient way to exit the relationship, I saw no recourse but to bluntly tell her that she couldn't have me because I didn't want her. As for why, since she had not found the reasons I gave acceptable, she could pick whichever one she was best able to live with.

The look in her eyes proclaimed that the world had come to an end, but in fact it must have continued, for I heard from her a week later. I screen all of my calls and would not have picked up had she not mentioned my antique, monogrammed pocket watch. It had been passed down to me from my great grandfather, who conveniently possessed the same initials as myself. I had been searching my apartment with the tenacity of a blood hound for several days, but it had not turned up.

"So if you want your precious watch back, drop by my apartment. I suggest you come now rather than later, because I'm having one hell of a time resisting the temptation to smash it with a hammer."

Something told me I would be better off writing the watch off. God only knew what Phoenix had in store for me. I usually operate on the principle that scorned women are to be avoided at all cost. If my loss had only been a monetary one, I would have accepted this as the price I had to pay for my sins. But the personal value attached made it imperative that I retrieve my stolen property and deal with whatever fury was awaiting me.

When I arrived at Phoenix' door, it was slightly ajar. I knocked and called out for her, but no response came. So I stepped into the small studio apartment. The first thing to come into view was the bed upon which Phoenix lay naked, spread eagle and very still, my watch atop her stomach. As I stepped closer, I noticed the open and empty pill bottle by her side. Then my eyes came across the new tattoo trailing across her stomach in calligraphy. It read simply, Michael.

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I placed the watch in my pocket and dialed 911, giving the person on the other end of the phone a brief synopsis of the situation at hand. When asked who I was, I described myself as a not so good Samaritan and hung up.

In a pizzeria across the street I waited to make certain an ambulance arrived promptly. Then I went home and cancelled my plans to go to the movies that evening. I had had enough drama for one day.


TO BE CONTINUED (on March April 3rd)

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FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS (Chapter Nine) - LENA

I suspected from the get go that Lena would be trouble, but figured I wouldn't be around long enough to get too deeply into it. With women like her though, trouble tends to strike swiftly, strongly and randomly.
Needing to take a break from writing, having penned a particularly bulky first chapter that day, I chose to waste a few hours in a bar near my apartment.  You probably figure I'm an alcoholic since so many of my evenings are spent in bars.  The truth is, I rarely consume more than three drinks and they serve merely as a diversion until my real purpose has been served.
I suppose I am a lonely sort, not talented or committed enough for writing to sustain me, so inevitably seeking companionship.  Perhaps craving for women is actually an excuse to keep me from accomplishing anything.  If I could reverse the durations of my writing and break periods, who knows what I might achieve.  You may think I never make it to a second chapter because I play it by ear and depend on inspiration which never comes.  In fact, the reason I stop writing is because I am not creating a masterpiece, and I would rather stop and try again than carry on with mediocrity.  I prefer failing at greatness to succeeding with something commonplace.

These were the thoughts keeping me company as I watched Lena from my barstool.  She sat at the opposite end of the bar in a dress cut low enough to draw men effortlessly, and in all likelihood purposefully.  But one proposition after another was shunned with scarcely a glance at the proposers.  She seemed bored by the scene, but then why be in it, at the center no less?
It was a slow night lady wise, the one I was observing being the only one not already spoken for who even remotely piqued my interest.  Had I been hell bent on getting laid, I would have headed elsewhere in search of odds more in my favor.  But for the moment I was content with my thoughts, my drink, and my view.
From time to time she would look in my direction, but with no more focus or attention than if I were a piece of gum stuck to the wall.  I got the impression that she had drunk quite a bit, though she was nursing the concoction currently in front of her.  If I was right, she certainly was a mellow and composed drunk, and such a state can only be achieved through years of practice.
When the seat beside her became available after the sixth consecutive guy who dared to occupy it was rejected and sent scurrying along, she surprised me by placing her purse on it, smiling, then beckoning me to come over.  I didn't need to be asked twice.  She kissed me passionately the moment I arrived by her side, as if we were long parted lovers finally reunited.  I registered no surprise, for very little surprises me.  She called the bartender over to pay her tab.  When he returned her credit card, a quick glance informed me of her name.  She kissed me again, then took my hand and allowed me to lead her outside.       
"I just live a few blocks from here."
She smiled absently at the information. 
Some people get paranoid when good things come their way hassle free.  I was used to easy, but even by my standards this was eerily elementary.  Why couldn't the next War and Peace or Catcher in the Rye come to me in a like manner?  We walked in silence to my apartment.  I commented on it being a beautiful night, to which she responded by briefly gazing at the sky.  That summed up the verbal foreplay.
We were in my bedroom, clothing dispensed of, my hands getting acquainted with the feel of her full bodied voluptuousness, when Lena grabbed my wrists tightly.

"I love you, Eddie."
"Huh?"  Her silence was finally broken, only to get my name wrong.
"Why did you leave me?  You know I can't make it without you."
She looked directly at me, but I clearly was not who she was seeing.  Lena was tripping on something a lot more powerful than what the bartender was serving.  Either that, or she was a certified nutcase.
"You're such a cold bastard."
"Look, Lena ..."  The rest of what I had to say was cut short by her slap across my face.  I was starting to get annoyed.

"How could you use me like that?"
"I just met you.  I haven't done a damn ..."
This time I caught the slap before it reached me.  That was it.  It was time for Lena to hit the road.  I began guiding her out, but she pulled free from my grasp and backed away.  Tears were welling up in her eyes.
"You never loved me, did you, Eddie?"
Intuitively I knew I could make this go in a variety of directions, including the one I had originally intended.  She wanted to make love, but only to some guy who wasn't there, who wasn't me.  Since she was deluded enough to think that I was him, I needed only to play along.  It was well within my area of expertise, pretending to be someone I wasn't.  The only things different were that I wasn't in charge of who I got to be, and I wouldn't get to go by my real name.
Was it worth it?  Was Eddie someone whose throat Lena intended to slit in the middle of the night?  I had no idea what being a surrogate for this guy would entail, beyond what my crotch was anticipating.
I put my hand tenderly on Lena's face.
"Do you still love me, Eddie?"
"As much as I always have."  I meant the meaningless words as much as the real Eddie probably would have, and since I was being him, I could not be held accountable for a single thing I said or did.  This empowered me with limitless freedom.  An actor is not responsible for the actions of the character he's playing, nor do the actions have real consequences.  It's all make believe.

"Do you still want me?" she asked.
"More than ever before."
"You'll marry me then?"
"Whatever you want, baby.  Whatever you want."  But first I would get what I wanted.  Then I would call for a cab.  Which is what I did.  And by the time I held the car door open for her, Lena looked at me with recognition, or lack of it rather, which told me that reality was beginning to kick in.  As the taxi pulled away towards the address she had given, Eddie and I waved goodbye.


TO BE CONTINUED (on March 31st)
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FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS (Chapter Eight) - JENNIFER

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"Michael?"

I turned my attention from the replica of a Tyrannosaurus Rex hunting down a Brontosaurus. I had been meaning to check out this exhibit at the Museum of Natural History for months. Show me a guy who doesn't like dinosaurs and you'll be showing me one deeply disturbed individual.

"Jennifer!" Of all the women I knew, she was among the last I expected. It had been so long. My God, it had been fifteen years.

"I can't believe it's really you," she said.

"Me neither." My high school sweetheart, prom date, first ever girlfriend in the flesh. "You look incredible, Jennifer." And she did indeed.

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I caught up on the passage of her life over lunch. Jennifer lived in Chicago now, where she worked as an investment banker. A five year mistake of a marriage had produced a cherished son and a substantial amount of misery. For the latter reason she was in the process of getting a divorce. She was staying with her parents for a couple weeks as a brief respite from the tribulations of real life, which included a custody battle for her son, Paul.

Over drinks I provided the details of my considerably less complicated existence. She was proud of my attempting to be a writer and certain I would eventually make it to a second chapter and beyond. Her words of faith and encouragement made me feel like the teenager I had been when we first met.

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Had it really been one and a half decades ago when I believed we would be together forever? It didn't seem she had aged a day, or that my heart beat any slower upon looking at her. The details of the day we broke up came back to me with startling clarity. Jennifer had no definite proof, but strong enough suspicions regarding enough of the girls I had fooled around with behind her back to pull the plug on our relationship a few weeks before graduation. It struck me as no big deal at the time. My cockiness and luck with girls had grown immeasurably in the two years since Jennifer and I conducted our first experiments in the art of kissing and introductory anatomy. And even if I had managed to remain monogamous throughout high school, going to different colleges would surely put an end to that. Our romance, sweet as it had been, had doubtlessly run its course. My only regret was that unlike the majority of my on the side girlfriends, Jennifer had not yet granted me access to her most prized treasure, and now likely never would. We had done just about everything under the sun short of intercourse, and with this I would have to make due.

To her credit, Jennifer dumped me in a calm, dignified manner. Every word of her indictment was well rehearsed, and my attempt to dispute her claims was half-hearted at best. Despite her apparent lack of emotion however, I knew I had hurt her far beyond what she allowed me to see. At the time, I didn't think she would ever forgive me. And perhaps she never would have, had another man not come along later who sinned far more grievously against her.

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By the time we were downing after dinner cocktails, I knew my wish come true at long last.  As I gazed affectionately at the girl who had taught me about love, I wondered if she had it in her to re-teach the lessons I had somehow forgotten. Then I realized the more pertinent question was whether or not I had it in me to learn them again.

When we arrived at my apartment I was as drunk as I wanted to be, and Jennifer as drunk as she needed to be.

"Better late than never" were the last words she spoke before we progressed to make tender, poignant love.

"Worth the wait, don't you think?" were the first ones I said when we were done.

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Jennifer didn't answer. She had a lot on her mind, and mine was surprisingly full as well. I was actually thinking about resuming a relationship with her, long distance at first, then her eventually moving back to New York or me heading out to Chicago. I had no real ties here, other than my love for New York City and my Mom. My mother would have no problem with abusing her frequent flier miles.

I said I thought about these things, not considered them. This night was clearly an end rather than a beginning. The tears falling quietly down Jennifer's face said as much. They broke my heart, even though I knew they had nothing to do with me. Maybe because of this.

Then I found myself jealous of her pain. That I had never cared enough to hurt so bad, or been cared for enough to bring about such misery. The feeling only lasted for a moment. What good could misery possibly do for me?

"I wish I could do something." I didn't realize I was speaking rather than thinking until Jennifer responded.

"You did what you could."



As I watched her get dressed to leave, I couldn't help but feel gypped and a little angered. This was not how things were supposed to go. Our crossing paths in a city of millions and completing what had begun when we were different people, just starting to be formed, was a miracle of sorts. Miracles were to be celebrated, not moped over. What happened between us that night was special, and she was spoiling it with self pity. This was not how I wanted to remember our first time. I wanted her to be happy. What we had done was supposed to make us feel good, or else why do it?

Jennifer had finally given me her body, but kept everything left over for herself. It had been a revisiting of our past with the components in reverse position. In essence, nothing had changed between us. It appeared I would never possess all of her at the same time.

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I concluded that perhaps when the dual memories had grown faint enough, I would be able to match up the experience of Jennifer giving me her body to that of her surrendering her heart. Sadly I realized that the concocted image might be the only genuine love affair I would ever have.


TO BE CONTINUED (on March 28th)

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FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS (Chapter Seven) - CASEY

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About once a month I go clubbing with my best friend, Jamal. Without the radar to detect women's desires that I possess, he isn't quite in my league when it comes to the mating game. At nightclubs however, Jamal is almost able to keep pace. That’s because enough women subscribe to the theory that good dancers must make good lovers for him to make out like a bandit when gyrating under strobe lights to an infectious beat.

I happen to be no slouch either in the shaking my money maker department, but prefer to ensnare women in a less taxing manner, thus preserving energy for when it counts. So while Jamal gets his groove on moments after we enter a place, I pick a spot to survey my surroundings and seek the pick of the litter.

This is what I was doing one night when I suddenly found myself being yanked to an open space on the floor. I took in the woman who had brought me there without bothering to seek permission. Her face was mildly pleasing, doe eyes set above ample cheek. When she spun around I lowered my gaze for a rear view. My line of vision once again fell upon ample cheek.

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Despite her lack of etiquette, I was kind enough not to walk away. No need to be rude. The fact was, I admired her spunk. She had spotted the prize catch of the place and flung me onto her boat before I could protest. I would grant her one dance in order to demonstrate my expert moves for the titillation of more savory women who were observing.

By fifteen seconds into the song, my dance partner was clinging to me like a barnacle to the hull of a ship. If she hadn't already proven that there wasn't a shy bone in her body, she was making her point close to obscenely clear now. And if her intentions were to arouse me, she was right on the mark. She faced away once again, and the more that big ass rubbed against my zipper, the more points she scored. Then she turned back, kissing and groping me like I was the last man on earth. Though I knew I could do better, I decided that her diligent efforts should not go unrewarded.

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I was about to inform her of my decision when I was pushed roughly from behind. Turning around, I was confronted with the noticeably distraught visage of a rather large gentleman.

"Not a smart move, buddy."

It didn't appear that he truly intended to be my buddy, and I determined it would be useless trying to talk my way out of the trouble that was obviously coming. I opted not to tell the behemoth who the aggressor actually had been, neither wanting to sully his lady's reputation nor further fuel his brewery fed rage.

"Let's take this outside."

I scanned the room for Jamal, but he was nowhere to be seen. Besides, one on one was a fair fight. Not that I had any desire to engage in fisticuffs. It had been years since I last threw a punch in anger. My foe on the other hand probably did this every weekend. He was more fat than muscle. If we were to take our shirts off and pose, I would be the runaway winner. But I didn't think that was what he had in mind.

Not wanting the confrontation to take place within the club, for I would likely be banned from returning and this was one of my favorite haunts, I agreed to go outside. My hope was that he was as drunk as he smelled, and equally slow. I had no doubt that he was strong enough to seriously damage my treasured profile.

A peek at the cause of my troubles showed a face curious to see some blood shed, seemingly without a care in the world. Her man threw a roundhouse right which I ducked under. I prepared to throw a punch in return, but found my opponent clutching the hand he had broken against a light pole, failing to hold back his tears. I mercifully relieved his pain with an uppercut that left him unconscious before he hit the pavement. Then I grabbed the wrist of his lady with one hand and hailed an approaching cab with the other. Ten minutes later we pulled up in front of my apartment building. It was time for the hero to get the girl.

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Once upstairs I lit a candle, and with the press of a couple of remote control buttons filled the room with the sensuous crooning of Teddy Pendergrass. The mood set, I got to work.

"What's your name?" she whispered as I kissed her roughly, my adrenaline flowing as much from the confrontation with her boyfriend as due to her body quivering from my seasoned touch.

"Michael. And yours?" It didn't matter of course, but since she had bothered to ask, I figured I should as well.

"Casey."

"How's the Sunshine band doing?" She either didn't get the joke, or didn't deem it worthy of even a courtesy chuckle. I had her blouse halfway unbuttoned by that point so wasn't concerned if she appreciated my sense of humor or not.

"Were you trying to make your boyfriend jealous?" I asked as I removed her bra and beheld the bounty it held.

"I didn't even know he was there," she said between moans and groans of delight. "He was supposed to be watching the Knicks game."

"The Bulls were up by twenty five in the third quarter," I reported while pulling down her skirt. Jamal and I hadn't waited for the game to end either.

I began taking off my own clothing, anxious to discover if Casey was as energetic on a bed as a dance floor. Nevertheless, I undressed slowly in order to give her a good look. I was likely to be a highlight of her life, not to mention that she had lost a boyfriend on my account, so I wanted to make certain that I gave Casey her money's worth.

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"No, wait." Not the words a man wants to hear as he is stepping out of his pants.

"What's the matter?"

"I can't do this. Gary cheated on me and I wanted to pay him back, but what will that accomplish? It won't change that he hurt me, and it won't change that I still love him."

Despite her words, I saw weakness in Casey's eyes. Her tone sounded more like a plea than a heartfelt statement. A lot of men would have been stumped in such a predicament, but not I.

"Will making love to me change how you feel for him?”

"No," she uncertainly replied

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"Then why deny yourself? Don't do it for revenge or to change things. Do it for you. Do it because it will be incredible."

So she did, and so it was.


TO BE CONTINUED (on March 25th)

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FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS (Chapter Six) - SIMONE

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I thought I knew what I was in for as I headed to the Connecticut home of Marc Jacobs, a friend of mine from college.  He threw these parties three or four times a year, sometimes with a holiday as excuse, on other occasions just for the sake of entertaining and showing off how successful he had become.  Fraternity brothers and other school day acquaintances made up two thirds of the guest list, and we would have a ball reminiscing about events of no significance, except that we had all been there. I usually spent the first hour or so marveling at how poorly my friends had aged, particularly in comparison to myself. Eventually I would be as drunk as everyone else, and like all drunks, would view everything about me with childlike wonder.
This party was destined to differ from the others right from the start, for I spotted Simone as I walked in, nearly salivated at the sight of the black silk dress which clung to her body's raceway curves.  Since she was speaking to someone I didn't know, I had no valid excuse to approach her immediately.  Instead I went through the ritual of warmly embracing old chums, chastising and being chastised for not keeping in touch, exchanging numbers and swearing to get together real soon, all the while knowing that we would not cross each other's paths or thoughts again until Marc's next party. I did this more distractedly than usual, not even bothering to count how many gray hairs, bald spots, pot bellies, and recession of hairlines had begun or expanded since last we met.  I was too busy keeping tabs on the woman in black, whose perpetually in-hand cigarette created a smoky halo.
Hector Rodriguez was in the middle of charming anecdote number four about his precocious sixteen month old twins when I saw an opportunity.  Marc Jacobs had joined the conversation of the temptress and her time monopolizing companion.  Seconds later I headed over and was introduced to Grant and Simone.  Grant was a co-worker of Marc's and obviously gay.  This left Simone ripe for the picking.

Sometimes these things work out nice and easy, for me more often than not, and for this I am grateful.  I've heard plenty of stories about the lengths men have gone to get some woman into bed. These are the same guys who claim the chase is half the fun.  Well they're full of it.  The chase is work, and though it isn't necessary to hate your job, who in their right mind prefers the labor to the paycheck?  And if the amount of toil is excessive to how much you're being paid, sooner or later it makes sense to get a new job.
In Simone was the promise of one hell of a payday.  What turned me on most about her is difficult to say.  Her pulchritude was marked by piercing almond shaped eyes, chiseled cheek bones, Bridget Bardot lips, divinely sculpted shoulder blades, a waist I could almost wrap one hand around.  I made use of all opportunities to gaze at her heart shaped posterior, which moved when she walked like waves on a stretch of sea during a mild storm.  And my conclusion that she wore no bra or panties definitely added to her allure.

But if I had to choose one thing, it would her detachment.  It was impossible to tell where I stood.  Hours went by like seconds, I ignored everyone else at the party, concentrated all of my energy on enchanting this woman.  She remained by my side, so I assumed she must be interested.  But interest wasn't enough for me.  I was accustomed to women being enthralled, mesmerized.
Insecurity began to take hold, making me wonder if I was somehow losing my touch.  I had gone too far to retreat, accomplished too little to be remotely satisfied.  Simone was from Colorado and returning home the following afternoon.  If anything was to happen between us, it had to be that night.  I was considering being bold and plainly stating my desire.  But I would be running the risk of offending her, and that would make the night a complete loss.  I have been with my share and then some of women, and in every case what happened was the result of them deciding it would be so, regardless of who said what first.  With Simone I was clueless as to what she had decided, if she had decided anything, and her apparent ambivalence rendered me too cowardly to ask.     
Then suddenly she told me.
"Let's go upstairs."

Simone took me by the hand and led the way to one of Marc's guest rooms.  She had become so domineering that it seemed I had no choice but to be submissive.  Her wish was my command.  I may as well have been on a leash.
"Do you trust me?"
What was I to say to that?  I hardly knew the woman, didn't want to know her other than in the biblical sense.  She had imparted a few tidbits about herself throughout the evening.  If given a quiz on her life I would be able to furnish answers regarding Simone's career; where she was born and raised; the jumbled heritage responsible for her unique features, the irony that she did not and had no inclination to learn how to ski; that she had been a blonde for four years before returning to her native brunette status; the fact that she was opposed to the death penalty, except for child molesters for whom she felt it should be mandatory; and that she was a vegetarian with a weak spot for White Castle hamburgers.  Did having this information deem her trustworthy?  My dick and brain engaged in a brief debate, with the undefeated champion once again emerging as victor.
"Implicitly, Simone."
"Then take off your shirt."
I complied, then stood still as she dragged her fingernails slowly down my well defined torso.  When I tried to bring up my hands to return the expert caressing, she pushed them back to my sides.
"Relax.  I'll take care of everything."
"You don't know what you're missing," I said.
"I don't intend to miss a thing."
My objective here is not to be pornographic.  You may have noticed that I have not gone into explicit detail about the sexual aspects of my liaisons.  But Simone was by no means the typical girl next door, so I feel impelled to give an in-depth account of what proceeded in order to illustrate this.
"Grab hold of the headboard."
I obeyed her command, showing no reaction or resistance when the steel cuffs bound my wrists and ankles to the bed.  Only one part of my anatomy stirred as she put a blindfold on me.  I won't tell you which, but it is considerably south of the eyes.
The fingernails etched their path again, much firmer this time.  I grimaced, but did not flinch or make a sound.  In such a vulnerable state it seemed crucial to appear strong.  I felt my belt being unbuckled and pants slid down.  Then Simone sat astride me and rocked ever so slightly back and forth.  Her nails dug into my skin with what had to be all her might.  Pleasure and pain dueled to the death.  She sucked on my nipples, duplicating most of my best moves.  When she bit down, my silence could no longer be maintained.  Her response to the groan was to laugh and accelerate the movement of her hips into my pelvis.  I didn't know which would burst first, me or the bed.
Simone intuitively stopped moments before I was about to lose the battle.  She began applying a lotion of some sort to the scratches she had made.  Before I could be grateful I learned that the substance was intended not to soothe, but burn.  It was as if I had shaved my entire body and then slid into a bathtub filled with cologne.
"Tell me you want me," Simone purred, resuming her exquisitely torturous grind.
"I want you."
The sting of leather went across my chest.

"Like you mean it."
I repeated the proclamation, louder and with more assurance. It must have been satisfactory, for she moved on to the next demand.
"Tell me you need me."
"I need you."
The rocking accelerated, her metallic-like fingernails dragged down my stomach again, we both moaned deliriously in tune with the creaking of the mattress.
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The ensuing silence was like a gun shot in a library.  It was ended by two more lashes.  Then Simone did something far crueler than inflicting pain.  She raised off of me.  Never before had I so missed a woman's touch.
"Tell me."
"Fuck you."
The words left my mouth too swiftly to halt them.  What was I thinking?  One more lie is all that was needed.  I had lost count of how many I had already told that evening.  I had revealed nothing of my true self, whatever that was, but presented Simone with smoke and mirrors.  The practically naked man beneath her was a cleverly constructed hallucination.  Only the name and scarred body tissue were real.  So why couldn't my character claim to love her?  Why couldn't his mouth, or mine, or whoever it belonged to utter three monosyllabic words?
"What did you say?"
I was being given a chance to change my answer, to say the one fib I had never made.  I often wondered if the situation would ever arise when the words would be true.  If so, would I be able to utter them then?
"I said fuck you."
I felt what could have been nothing but the blade of a knife against my throat.  The dull edge of it traced down my body.  Then Simone placed the blade on my most cherished possession.  The knife began cutting through my underwear.  A scream prepared to leap from my throat.  Would it be for help, or the three words Simone had requested?  The former would likely not be heard over the din of the party, and even if it was, would bring the cavalry too late.


I heard the knife clatter to the floor.  Before there was time to register surprise or relief, Simone said a single word.  "Okay." Then she climbed back on and simulation gave way to the real thing.


TO BE CONTINUED (on March 22nd)

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FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS (Chapter Five) - JUNE

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Okay, I admit it, I'm vain. I'm proud of my body, maintain it the way one would a vintage Harley, which I happen to own so therefore should know. I'm handsome by fate, in great shape by design. The gym is my sanctuary. It is where I seek perfection. A lot to ask for but greed is no crime, and pursuing anything less than the best, nothing but laziness.

I don't go to the gym to socialize like many of the flabby morons about me. Nor do I spend half my time flexing before mirrors peacock style. If there have been any new developments to my physique, I prefer to discover them in the privacy of my home. I simply walk in, do what needs to be done, then head out. Not even leotard clad she-devils distract me.

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My work-out schedule is strict and unwavering. If I started up anything with a woman I met at the gym, avoiding her would be difficult. She could track me down consistently, screening calls or ignoring my buzzer would not suffice as blow off methods. Changing gyms would be an option I'd be reluctant to take, for I have a lifetime membership. Contrary to what you may have assumed by now, I am capable of loyalty.

Up until June, the girl and the month, I was able to comply to my rule without much difficulty. I moved about as if wearing blinders, paying nothing and no one any mind, regardless of how erotically they worked the Stairmaster. Then she introduced herself, brazenly appearing by my side as if conjured by a genie. She had a slight overbite that I found quite alluring; breasts perky as a puppy just removed from its cage in the pet store; a taut belly possessing a button I immediately longed to invade with my tongue. I briefly considered shunning her obvious lascivious intentions, but if there are men who can resist the temptation of a nubile girl in her upper teens, I believe I have made it clear by now that I am not one of them.

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Over dinner I learned that June had recently completed her first year of college. I correctly guessed her age to be nineteen. She guessed my age to be eight years younger than I actually am. I told her she was right on the nose. Despite her initial zealousness, something about June's flirtation seemed strained, as if seducing me was a chore. I babbled on about my fictional career as a model until the truth finally came out.

June’s high school sweetheart had broken things off with her. His callous reason?  Becoming a college student had failed to convince June that it was time to shed her virginity. She did not regret her decision, and I concurred. The guy was a political science majoring, J.F.K wannabe named Roderick. Certainly she could do better.

That is what just what she had decided to do. She didn't want future relationships with more suitable partners to be jeopardized by maintenance of her virgin status. Not to mention that she was awfully curious. So June spent the months following her break-up in search of the perfect candidate for maker of a lifelong memory. Not just some lucky poor, but a well chosen man.  Other than one of her professors who turned out to be happily married, her pickings seemed slim. Unwilling to settle, after all she did only get one shot at this, she figured she had no choice but to wait it out. She joined a gym to work off some of the frustration. There she spied me. Three weeks later she worked up enough courage to make her move.

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I should have known better. It takes no brain surgeon to realize that when a virgin says no strings attached, you don't take her at her word. Even Roderick was probably bright enough to know that if he had been granted permission to deflower June, he would have been promising to be in it for the long haul. There are too many beautiful young girls around with no strings whatsoever. Roderick had wisely gone off in search of them. When my turn came along, all I had to say was thanks, but no thanks. Instead I made a woman out of a girl, a mess of my life, and a major inconvenience to my work-out schedule.

It didn't take long for June to decide it was love. What else can regular sex with one partner be to a nineteen year old girl? Weights, sauna, shower, June, shower. Three times a week. By the time I decided to break the pattern, it was of course far too late.

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I hate to see a woman cry. It was time for well intentioned lies and gentle truths. I told June that I was separated from my previously unmentioned wife, but she was moving back in and we would be giving our marriage another chance. I said she would find some guy her own age who would be better for her, who would make her happy. I told June I would never forget her, and I meant it.

She spent the next few weeks trying desperately to reclaim what we'd had, for the bonds of my pretend marriage were secondary to the pangs of her first major heartbreak. I was treated to a torrent of tears, hysterics, and name calling, until finally, a quiet, steady, manageable hatred for me settled in. What she lost had been voluntarily surrendered, but nevertheless, people usually feel a measure of regret when their life is unalterably changed, even when the change is for the better. I was to be forever cast in the role of slayer of innocence in the story of her life.

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I too was changed by the experience, for I had been taught a valuable lesson. Never take away what you can't pay back. That's what I learned from June.


TO BE CONTINUED (on March 19th)

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