Pencil skirt with silkscreened roses; fishnet stockings; velvet high heels; black PVC t-shirt.
He never came. In too much eyemakeup, I was standing outside the Starbucks in the cold, in my insufficient jacket from another climate. Trying to make a few more dollars for cigarettes taking my clothes off, the way the other girls did, just infinitely more dangerous. Later that night when I thought it over, back in my bed, I came to terms with the last of my fear.
I may be dumb, but one thing you can say for me is that I am not afraid. Some girls fear sex with strange men, some reject it on principal. I embraced it. No one I haven't fucked knows how I used to pass lonely nights. People judge. The feminine of the word is "slut."
Blue dress; black slip; brown boots.
The first one was a Casanova. Blonde rugby player, fan of literature and indie rock, aspiring kept man, kinky, perfect trophy boyfriend (for a night). I showed him off all over town until my ego was ready to pop. But when I got him naked all I was left with was soft rejection. I was surprised when he asked to see me again. He might have had something to prove. To be fair, he did so with dexterity and vigor. But we got tired of making up stories about how we met and agreed that we should both go back to the shadows of Craigslist.
Yellow blouse; black camisole; black cigarette pants; red heels.
It was Mother's Day. Nervously, we kept almost colliding but not. We aligned ourselves finally two hours after we were supposed to meet, at a bus stop instead of a coffee shop. We took the bus to the museum and when we came out the sky was grey and warm. Back in our neighborhood, it was pouring. We got soaked walking to my house and I ached for a cigarette (it was just that sort of summer rain that makes you want one). It was quick and his hipbones bruised. He had to get to work. I realized later that he probably had a girlfriend.
Black tank top; blue pants; black heels.
He gave me pseudonyms and lines. I said, meet me on the corner. He waited in his car across the street to check me out. He was sincere, though, in his desire to fuck me, so we did. But he had allergies and claimed he ended up in the emergency room after he left halfway through. We tried again, only this time we drank and then fucked in public. He lied like an alcoholic, so I stopped seeing him, and all his alternate personalities.
Black tulle skirt, black camisole, black heels.
Of course he was in a band, too. They all delivered pizza at the same place. Over drinks, we found out we'd gone to college together. Small world. We talked about music and when that was over we got in his Honda and he drove me around the city with my skirt hiked up, the way only a delivery man can. We traded handjobs on a terrace in the rich part of town, then went back to my place. Of all the boys I ever got off the internet, he was the best by far. A+++++++++
I don't remember what I wore. I was at suicide's door and only posted the ad to cheer myself up. It was supposed to be making out, but we were both so lonely. We needed to be closer than that. In any other circumstance, he would have been too good for me. Marginally famous, star on the rise. But that night he wanted to stay over and see me again.
He was in town on business and hot. I liked those kind, because they have a good reason. It was my golden birthday on Tuesday, I told him. No way, he said. What, I asked. I showed him my driver's license. He showed me his. We were even born in the same year. He had reservations at the Holiday Inn. The whole time we were fucking, I was humming Stereo Total.
There are more, but those others are the dreariest. You know it's a buyer's market, but it's hard to tell whether you're the shopper or the side of beef. There were last minute cancellations. There were arrogant ones who wanted to train me in bondage left holding their dicks in their hands. There were sweet ones who didn't deserve to be fucked like that. In less than a year I doubled my batting average. When Casual Encounters became Routine, I gave it up.