A Wicked Choice (7 page)

“Well, send some of that too close my way next time. Hot, hot, HOT!” Z said, as she twirled away.

Much later, after I arrived home and the drinks and dancing had worn off, I felt a bit confused. Sitting in the dark dining room, I mused about the night. I cared for Cam. He was my beau, my rock-steady. What was I doing even thinking about the dark haired guy? I was committed to Cam…wasn’t I? And besides, the dark haired guy was so gorgeous, the kind of guy that women swooned over and girls like me never got. He was right off the cover of a magazine…not that Cam wasn’t handsome, he was. But I just didn’t think I was pretty enough that any man would be attracted to me. Cam must have been desperate when he moved in with me…no way the dark
haired guy was going to give me a second thought. And, really, he must have been mistaken when he came up behind me.

Mac jumped on the table and sniffed my lips. Jack followed and sniffed my cheek. The cool puffs of air tickled my face. Neither one thought a word. At night, when the world was full of silent mysteries, they preferred the quiet stillness of simply being.

“Hi, kitties.” I scratched their heads and backs, stroking their fur until they began to purr.

My thoughts kept wandering back to that GUY. What was I doing?  What was I thinking?  I would probably never see him again, my logical mind protested. But logic did nothing to stop the thoughts that swirled through my head. Moisture bloomed between my legs as I thought of him. “Uhhhhhh,” I said, to no one in particular. I ran my hands through my hair, trying to clear my head. What was his secret? What was mine? There were just too many secrets in this world.

I climbed the stairs to the bedroom and pulled back the covers to slip in beside Cam’s sleeping body. An overwhelming mixture of guilt, betrayal, confusion, and warmth tucked itself around me, like a peculiar blanket. I gingerly reached out and touched Cam’s warm, muscular back. He stirred and let out a drowsy sigh, settling deeper into the soft mattress. I breathed in his warmth and his familiar smell as my mind worked to process everything that had happened today. I let these unusual new feelings embrace me as I fell into the land of sleep and dreams.

That night, I had a lucid dream. In the dream, I saw myself, standing on a precipice, a few feet above a dry creek bed. I looked down into the stones and dirt and saw bones scattered here and there. Directly below me was a humerus of an arm...over there was a femur. A pelvis was nearby. Further down the dry bed lay a fibula and a scapula. A few ribs were scattered about.

I looked down at my body and saw that my being did not have any bones.  Instinctively, I knew the bones were mine. I heard soft murmurs coming from my left. I glanced over and saw two figures. They were too far away to discern, but they looked like a man and a woman. They had glowing eyes, focused right on me.

“Gather the bones, Chérie,” said one of the figures.

“Bring them home,” said the other.

“Find and gather. Reassemble. Make whole. Renew…” they chanted.

I knew, in that way you know something in a dream that things were going to change soon. I looked out at the horizon and watched a thunderbolt split the sky. A light drizzle started to fall, wetting my face, my eyelashes, and my hair. The chanting continued, hypnotizing me. I spread my boneless arms and willed myself to fly, their voices fading into the night.

The next couple of weeks went by without incident. I was so busy I nearly forgot about the dark haired guy in the club. Cam and I planned for our upcoming rock climbing trip, purchasing needed supplies with our limited income. We always splurged on equipment for our sports. Cam believed that, when it came to our safety, scrimping was not an option. Hence, we bought the best quality ropes, carabiners – metal rings with a spring clip used to attach a rope to climbing gear - figure eights, and other climbing equipment we could afford. I had purchased a good pair of used climbing shoes last year, as well as a quality used harness so I was all set. All I needed was a pair of new climbing pants.

A growing excitement as well as camaraderie grew between us as we prepared.  The only hurdle to get through was that damn Northwest auction gala. Yesterday, I had spied Sue and Kate whispering in the hall as Jill pulled me into her office for a meeting about said fundraiser. They glanced over my way and giggled.

“Hey, Cheerio,” Kate called. “Thanks a million for covering for us. Oh, right, I already said that. Don’t want it to go to your head.”

Sue added, “You’re really just the lass for the night, girlfriend.” Why she had to add “girlfriend” was anybody’s guess. We were SO not friends. She and Sue had bumped knuckles and wiggled their fingers at each other and roared with laughter.

What was their problem?
I wondered, gloomily, stepping into Jill’s stuffy office, my red sneaker soles catching on the linoleum. I lurched towards her desk before catching my balance.  Today, her office smelled like stale perspiration and printer toner. Jill looked up from her pile of freshly printed papers. She wore a low-cut white blouse. Her heaving breasts appeared tortured as they peeked out over the edges of a huge white lace bra that cut into her skin. I imagined a set of pleading eyes on each breast, begging for release. She gestured towards an older man sitting in a chair to the right of her desk. She gives me one of her menacing glares before stretching her face in what must be a smile. I took a step backwards in fear.

“Chérie Manhattan, meet Joe Dallas. You’ll be Joe’s…Mr. Dallas’, I mean, Go-To girl at the fundraiser.”

The man, around forty-five years old, had graying brown hair and a pock-marked face. His teeth were stained a puke yellow hue. He had a handkerchief in his hand and kept mopping his brow. I noticed a slight tremor in his hand as he raised it to his forehead as if even he were hesitant to touch his greasy face. A green polo shirt stretched across his immense paunchy frame. A wrinkled jacket was folded in his lap. He plastered a leer across his puffy face and looked in my direction. I wrinkled my nose in distaste, a queasy feeling churning in my gut.

“What do I have to do?”

“Mr. Dallas is our M.C. for the evening.  He’ll command the auction…with excellence I might add!” She paused and gave him a conspiratorial smile. A rosy blush flowered in her tight, strained cheeks. “…and you’ll need to fetch the auction items, hand him descriptions of the pieces we want to sell, things like that.” She added, “You’ll need to dress very well, very well indeed.” She nodded to herself and to Joe as if that was obvious.

Joe Dallas chimed in. “Yes, wearing suggestive attire will help us sell things, sweetheart. You dress like a racy doll, and we’ll sell things like hotcakes flipping on the griddle.” He slapped his meaty palms together and rubbed them briskly. Taking in a breath, he blew it out slowly, as if savoring the image of me in some whorish costume.

Inwardly, I winced. I was not this idiot’s sweetheart. This guy gave me the creeps. There was no way I’d dress up for him or for Jill.

“I’ll see what I’ve got in my closet,” I conceded.

“I can help you pick out something. I’ve got an eye for this kind of thing,” Joe added, glancing Jill’s way for confirmation.

“No, thanks,” I said, smiling weakly. Why did I always pretend to get along? Sometimes I disgusted myself. “I’ll manage.”

“Get there early so we can fine tune the way we want to organize the evening. Be prepared,” she stressed, giving me a squinty-eyed, intimidating gaze.

As I forced the door open, I noticed Sue and Kate were still in the same spot.  They looked up; saw my dark expression, and both spluttered. “Guess you met Mr. Dallas. You two will make a fine duo. So sorry we can’t be there to help you. You know how it is when something comes up that you just can’t avoid.”  They were laughing so hard, tears were streaming down their faces.

Now I knew what their hilarity was all about – Mr. Dallas. My face reddened, and I quickened my steps. Once outside, I took a calming breath of the fragrant summer air. The high clouds in the blue sky were expansive and comforting. The sun touched me with a warm caress. I sighed.

The thought of working with Mr. Dallas was repulsive to me. Jill was frightening enough to be around, but this guy was an indecent nightmare. I jogged to my car in an attempt to ease my tight gut. As I turned the corner, I saw a friend of mine, Michael Ziegler. Michael was good looking, in his early 30s. He wore faded jeans and a denim shirt covered with dirt from a day’s work as a carpenter. He was leaning forwards, shaking sawdust from his hair.

“Hi, Michael!”

Kicking his work boots against the truck tires to dislodge the mud from the soles, he answered, “Hi, Chér. How’s it going?” He leaned into the back of his pickup and tossed his tool bag into the cargo container. Taking a key ring out of his pocket, he sorted through the keys until he found the right one. With a click he locked the bin.

“Oh, kinda crappy... I have to work at the Northwest fundraiser in a couple of weeks, and I have to work with this horrid man.” I wrinkled my nose in disgust.

“That sucks,” he commiserated, stuffing the keys back in his pocket. “Maybe I can help you forget your troubles. Why don’t you join me for a beer? No sense drinking alone.”

I wasn’t expected home for a while. “Sure, that would be great. I’ll follow you in my V-dub.”

He climbed in his monstrous Ford F350 pickup truck and powered up the engine.  With a wave, he peeled out onto the street. I jumped in my Beetle, turned the key in the ignition, and gunned the motor to try to catch up with him.

I had known Michael for many years, since I was 20. He was a confidant at times, a great pal to hang out with at others. I had never been attracted to him, although he seemed to want to play that way with me. Truth be told, though, he felt that way about most women. He loved the ladies, and the ladies loved him. That was for sure. I just plain liked him. He had dark curly hair, velvety butterfly-wing blue eyes, and long eyelashes. His work in construction kept his 6’ body tan, lean, and muscular. With an ever-easy smile and a merry disposition, it was hard to be in a sour mood around Michael.

Michael pulled into a bar down the street called Jingo’s High and Mighty. His side door opened and he climbed out, striding towards me. “Come on, girl, let’s have us some brews.” He threw his arm around my shoulders and pulled me inside.

Jingo’s was a hip brew pub, serving some of the best suds around. It had high windows all around the perimeter, a darkened room off to the back with TVs blaring, a cherry wood bar lining the back wall, and a cozy room full of tables with comfortable chairs.  We sidled up to one of the tables and settled into our seats.

A saucy looking woman with a long black braid, wearing a white shirt and black pants, waltzed over, ready to take our order. She had a beauty mark by her lip and chewed gum with loud smacking sounds.

“What’ll it be?” she inquired, looking at Michael with ‘I Want You’ eyes.

“A couple of El Jefe Weizens,” Michael replied, not sparing her even a glance. “That okay with you, Chér?” he added as an afterthought.

“Fine.” I gave him a timid smile.

We settled back in our plush chairs, ready to relax.

“So what’ve you been up to, Michael?”

He smiled that ever ready smile of his. His deep dimples accented his smile like a couple of outward facing parentheses.

“Ah, working, working out. You know the drill.”

“I KNOW you Michael. If all you were doing was working, you’d be a very unhappy boy.”

He laughed. “You got that right. Oh, you know, been seeing a couple of girls, mixing things up a bit.”

“Only a couple?” I teased.

“That was last night. I tell you what, girl, I sure have fun doing the nasty.” He looked up towards the corner as if seeing a movie of last night’s revelry.

“Fun, huh?” was my quick retort. “What’s so fun about it?” Can’t say that I had ever said having sex was FUN. To me, it was an act that I tried really, really hard to enjoy. Every once in a while I got it right, other times I faked it. Fun was the last thing I ever felt about coupling with another.

“Are you serious, Chér? Sex is the supreme act between two people, three people, or a whole bunch of people! It’s natural. It’s wonderful. And it feels GOOD! Damn, it feels good,” he proselytized. “How can it NOT be fun?”

“I dunno, to me, it’s kinda hard.”

“It’s supposed to be hard, at least the man is,” he chortled, pleased at his own joke. “I can show you sometime. Feeling is believing...”

“Thanks, Michael, but I’ll pass. I get what you mean.” I blushed and looked away.

The waitress edged over, dropped a couple of coasters on the table and placed a cold brew on each one. She gave Michael an appreciative glance. Michael kept his attention directed my way. The waitress gave up and stalked away.

We reached for our beers and took a long swallow. “Yum, that’s one of my favorites.” I licked my lips, savoring the delicious liquid as it cooled my throat. A delicious feeling of warmth spread through me, as the hops got busy in their job of mild intoxication.

“Mine, too,” agreed Michael, wiping the back of his hand across his generous, kissable lips. “Back to our last topic,” he continued. “If you ever want me to tap that,” he looked at my crotch. “I’m just sayin’…I’ll show you just how fun it can be.” He viewed me intently, eyes mischievous with delight.

“Michael…” I rolled my eyes in mock aversion. I seriously wanted to move the conversation in a new direction.  This one was making me squirm and turn every shade of red.

An hour of light-hearted conversation later we each emerged from Jingo’s, a light buzz in our brains.

“You cool to drive, Chér?”

“I’m cool. I think I’ll scoot around the block to clear my head.”

He reached over and gave my cheek a friendly kiss. “Be safe, Chér. But not too safe,” he added, winking. With that, he hopped into his beast of a truck and zoomed away.

As I wandered, I thought about what he had said. Sex was fun? Sex was a lot of things, but not fun. I really wanted it to be fun. I wanted it to be something other than what it was to me, and what it was I could not say. I had always felt tortured…conflicted…drawn and repulsed…turned on, turned off. I was all mixed up. I loved to kiss, but when it veered below the belt, I was baffled and confused…averse and wanting all in the same breath. How had this happened?  Was it my upbringing?

I remember Mother Clarice dropping pamphlets from the doctor’s office on the coffee table when I was about 15. She told me to read them if I wanted to know anything about the birds and
bees. I glanced at them but they always made me feel embarrassed. They were so clinical: full of diagrams and illustrations. They made having sexual relations like visiting the doctor – something cold and impersonal to get through with and out the door. As to my father’s input, Frank and his cronies would, at times, lit with drink, whistle at me and howl when I sauntered through the house in my swimming suit. I would hug my towel around me and hurry through the kitchen where they sat, setting my sights on the pool in the backyard. I suppose they thought that was a good way to show me that I was pretty or something. It made me feel foul and violated, though.

When I became sexually active, it was SO not fun: first, Wesley…then a string of forgotten faces. I’d dress in crop tops, ripped jeans, skin tight t-shirts – whatever got me attention. Mother Clarice would raise her head up from her mixed drink, tell me I looked like a slut and order me to change before venturing out the door. Frank would try to silence her, saying, “Let the girl be, Clarice. She’s gotta have a little fun.” He’d turn and wink at me. I never returned the wink. Instead, I’d sprint back to the bedroom, grab a sloppy sweatshirt and re-emerge, well-covered. They’d never check to see what was underneath my sweatshirt - the same costume as before.

As I scanned my memories, I could not find the source…the reason I was so confused. I knew at times I was angry about the whole sex thing….sometimes sad…mostly numb. Being intimate with Cam could be fun…sort of.  When he was really tender, and I was able to stop thinking, stop trying so hard, at those times I could feel some fulfillment in it. If I was honest with myself, though, I couldn’t really call it fun.  When Cam and I had fun, it was on the wall at the rock climbing gym, racing our bikes down the street, or going out for pizza and drinking a couple of beers. Clearly, I was quite lost inside when it came to sex.

I continued my aimless wandering for quite some time. Gradually my thoughts turned in other directions. Remember when I said I was too busy to think of the dark haired guy? I was only fooling myself. When I wasn’t busy, he’d slip in like a silky piece of cloth over bare skin. I’d quickly quash the thoughts when they arose, but arise they did. I felt the strange tingle between my legs and up my spine as my thoughts turned in his direction. Oh dear, this had to stop. Then, I looked up to see a lustrous black BMW with tinted windows all around ease slowly past me. Didn’t I see that car a few minutes ago?  Maybe the owner was lost, trying to find an address.  When I looked directly at the front window of the car, it sped away. That was odd. I watched it, perplexed, as it zoomed downed the street.