Just a little trick

~ Christi ~ 5 Comments

Just a little bit of silliness to make up for yesterday’s post. Prepare yourself, it gets sexy at the end…

You drove, I lounged in the passenger seat. The weather defied your mood: It was sunny and unseasonably warm outside. I unrolled my window, you left yours up. “I’m glad we’re together like this,” I said sarcastically through your stony silence.

“Roll your window down,” I half-whined. “We’re getting that weird reverb.” You ignored me, kept driving.

I slipped off my sandals and put my bare feet up on the dashboard.

“Quit it,” you grumbled, trying to push my feet down. You swerved a little.

“Watch it,” I warned you, moving my feet out of your reach. “Hey, is it raining in there, or what?” I tapped your head with one finger. Nothing. “I think it is raining,” I took my own joke. “Driving rain,” I drum-rolled on my bare thighs. Still nothing. Jeez.

A minute passed. “Wanna play a game?” I asked even though I knew your answer would be no.

“No way,” you said.

“Come on, it’ll be fun. You’ll like it, I promise.” I tried to catch your eye but you were staring dead ahead, focusing on the road. I continued since I had nothing else to do. “Okay, so I read about this online. It’s some new thing. I’m gonna make you come without touching you. It’s like magic or something.” Nothing, not even a smile.

“Are you ready?” I tried not to get upset about your lack of interest. “Here goes.” I put my hands up to my head to show you I was concentrating, even though I felt your eyes glued to the road. I concentrated. I thought about you, even though you were right there next to me. You’d have never let me touch you, even if you weren’t driving.

I started at the top of your head, and slowly, very slowly, thought about moving downward. I felt chills on my own head, so I knew it was working. I thought about the back of your neck, with its little hairs, and the hairs on my own neck began to tingle. This was seriously hot. I thought lower, to your chest, and my own chest, well, perked up. I thought lower, to your belly, to the top of your jeans, and lower. By then I was tingling all over – everywhere – and I knew you were, too. I could feel you shifting in your seat, trying to stop the tingling, to release the pressure, to keep your focus on the road, but you couldn’t.

“Pull over,” I said. For once, you acknowledged me, and silently pulled over. Just like I thought, you didn’t reach for me. I knew it. I kept thinking, though. I thought really hard. Again and again. My panties were wet and I was burning up and the cool breeze through my window felt really good. I bet you wished you’d put your window down, but you were sort of frozen there, eyes half-closed, pretty much a sex zombie, just like I read you’d be. I concentrated some more, and you actually let out a small moan. Woo-hoo! I thought. It was totally working.

Okay, time to seal the deal, I thought. “Where do you want to come?” I asked. You tilted your head toward me but you didn’t answer. I could feel how bad you wanted it, which was really rare. I smiled again even though you could probably barely see me with your eyes almost closed. “Where?” I asked again, knowing that you wouldn’t tell me. “My boobs? My face?” I laughed like I was daring you, and I sort of laid down on your lap, against the steering wheel, facing you but barely touching you, really. It was all you needed. I laughed as you tried to jerk your hips toward my face. It was too late. Your jeans were already soaked through.

“I did it! I can’t believe that worked.” I grinned at you and you actually looked down into my face and touched my hair. I was so happy I almost cried.

A couple of minutes passed and we both straightened up and looked at your soaking wet jeans. “What the hell am I going to tell my mom?” you asked. I cracked up. “Wanna stop at the mall?” I suggested as if I just thought of it.

 

Celibacy sucks

~ Christi ~ 6 Comments

Let’s talk about my mom. It’s time, don’t you think? I’ve been putting this off for a while because, well, it’s hard for me to talk bad about my mom. But if you’re really going to know me, then you need to hear this. I’ve mentioned it once before, but my mom was a slut.

If you ever met my mom – you know who you are – you’re probably laughing right now. Go ahead, I’ll wait. Okay, okay, wipe the tears off your face and hear me out. It’s true, that doddering old lady you remember truly was a slut. I know, it’s not easy to comprehend. I probably sound insane to you.

Let me think. My mom grew up in the 50s, long before the women’s movement and the hippie years. She messed around in high school and barely began to explore her slutty tendencies before she married a jerk at nineteen. The jerk fucked around on her before he walked out and took their ten-year-old daughter – my sister – with him.

Now, if you’re still paying attention, this is when my mom made a break for the dark side. I wasn’t around yet, so I can’t give you the gritty details. All I really know, I learned from my sister on a gruesome night at the beach that began with an argument and ended with me lying awake on the floor of a scummy motel bedroom listening to the sounds of my sister fucking her girlfriend. So let’s take a detour.

Yes, the night began with a screaming fight. “You don’t know what it was like,” Kim screamed.

“What?” I asked. I was fifteen. I still trusted her.

“Mommy used to be different,” she always called her Mommy.

I stared at her in disbelief.

“She used to have men over every night,” Kim yelled. “I used to lay awake, listening to them. Yeah,” she screamed. “You have no idea. They used to come knocking at the back door late at night, calling her,” her voice was shrill. You know she enjoyed hurling those truths at me.

My sister hated me. It’s a truism and it’s beside the point. I mean, come on, if you watched your slut mom completely reinvent herself for your bratty little sister, if you watched her swear off men altogether, learn to put a dinner on the table every day, learn to keep a house, learn how to love for God’s sake, you would hate the object of her affection too.

My fifteen-year-old self had a lot of trouble handling the truth. See, my mom never fucked around while I lived at home. From when I was too little to remember until I went away to college, my mom was celibate. She threw the word around like a prayer. So from that night at the beach until I saw for myself how much men could destroy her, I denied the truth about my mom. I watched my sister walk out of our lives into the shady underworld of drugs and I was a little bit glad to see her go.

My mom clung to her celibacy until I left home. She avoided sex even while I didn’t, and as a parent I’ve got to admire that kind of dedication. But don’t you know that just about the minute I traded in my bedroom for a dorm room, she found a creep at Walmart and started fucking him? I was disappointed at first, and then it got worse. She found a – what do you call it – a sugar baby? Some black guy a good twenty years younger than her with a penchant for running up credit card bills and beating on old white ladies while he was fucking them. Yeah, great, I know. I kind of avoided home while that was going on. Then she found Mike the used-car salesman, and you know how that ended up.

So, you know, maybe I should love celibacy. Maybe I should be thanking my lucky stars. My mom’s celibacy gave me a normal life. I grew up thinking the best of my mom, never having to deal with the truth. But you know what? Celibacy just put a cork in my mom’s life, it didn’t solve any of her problems. In the end, my mom ended up dying for some guy she met in a phone sex chat room. Once a slut, always a slut. I hate self-denial.

Number 8

~ Christi ~ 29 Comments

I’m telling you, I’m an organized guy. I work in a lab during the week and I keep things humming along on time. I keep a few stopwatches going constantly.

Sundays, though, Sundays I teach Zumba. Sundays I put on my wife-beater and sweats and I teach a bunch of moms Zumba. It’s a lot like the lab, you know? I’ve gotta have a plan. I choose the music, I decide the moves. I like it, you know?

There’s a few that come every week, like I’m the one hope of escape from their boring lives. As if I’m their only way out. I like the regulars. The girl with the big boobs who always stands right up front – I like to make her shake em. I think about those tits all week and I think about new ways to make em bounce. I devise new moves for her while I wait on my stopwatches in the lab, yeah, I do.

My favorite Zumba girl is the one with no boobs and the skeleton eyes. She’s usually in the second row, over to the side, a little smile on her face the only clue. She always wears a running tank with an 8 on the back. Nobody even suspects the truth about us. She’s sure not giving anything away with those sad eyes of hers.

Zumba is hard as shit. Go ahead, laugh your ass off, I’ll wait. By the end of class, I’m usually wasted. All that fucking jumping around, hip grinding, jazz hands, all of it, it’s too much. My fine motor skills get shot. By the end of class, I can barely operate the buttons to shut off the music. I take my time while the girls wipe the sweat off their pretty faces.

“Hey, Danny, that was awesome,” the short brunette with nice boobs comes up to me.

“Thanks, girl,” I touch her shoulder blade so quick she doesn’t notice.

“I like the new moves,” laughs the blondie with the long legs.

“Yeah, you do,” I agree, eyeing her up and down.

Don’t laugh at me – this is how I remember them. I’m a scientist, remember? Everybody gets broken down. Names are too much trouble.

Skeleton girl stands off to the side, real cool, that little smile on her face. She never talks to anybody but me. I look in her direction and she gives me this sad little nod so I know it’s time.

“Bye, Mr. Danny!” the cute Asian girls say in unison and they hug me. Yes, they do. Mmm, I love their sweaty little bodies.

“See you next weekend, girls,” I say and before I get the words out of my mouth I see skeleton girl slipping out the door. I wait a minute so nobody sees me leave with her and then I head for the door.

“Bye, ladies! Have a hot week,” I call as I leave. May as well give the slowpoke fatties a thrill.

I jog down the steps to the family locker rooms with the private showers. I make a beeline for shower number 8. Our place. Number 8, which I’ve been envisioning all week, number 8 that I printed out real big and hung above my desk in the lab to remind myself, number 8, like a set of dark, sad skeleton eyes.

When I get there, the door is standing open, the number 8 hidden inside where I can’t see it. What the fuck? Skeleton girl is nowhere to be found. We had plans. I back out of the room and suddenly the kids’ screams are coming from fucking everywhere. I feel their hot, grimy little bodies crowding me.

“Hey, dude, are you using this room?” some dad with a dripping kid in tow asks me.

“Yes,” I answer. I walk back in to number 8, slam the door, lock it behind me, and jerk off into the sink while I think about wringing skeleton girl’s neck next week. Afterwards, I rinse off in the shower and then I leave, calm as can be.

I stop for breakfast and while I eat, I consider next week’s moves, minus the neck wringing. I promise, you don’t have to worry. I’ve got zero homicidal intent. I’m just a scientist-slash-Zumba-teacher. Through the clarity of retrospect, the obvious conclusion surfaced: Things don’t always turn out as planned.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7bIfhJjMP2I

Movie night

~ Christi ~ 4 Comments

I wrote this for a friend. Sorry about the obnoxious purse comment, S.

Portia got her nails done right after work: long gel tips, hot pink, no art. She didn’t have the cash. Not since Sven had dumped her last week on the street corner in the rain, like she was some whore.

I’m not, Portia reassured herself as she dashed home to pick up supper before the movie. She sighed as she pulled her second to last Lean Cuisine out of the freezer, and she groaned when she saw that it was chicken with mushrooms and potatoes. They were all chicken with mushrooms now, Portia surmised. She tried not to be fatalist as she carefully dabbed the buttons on the microwave. Gotta protect the nails, she thought. They gotta last til I find a new guy, she rationalized.

Portia pulled the steaming Lean Cuisine out of the microwave, burning her wrist as she did. “Shit!” she screamed, even though Sven wasn’t there. No one to kiss it better, Portia thought sadly. She shook it off, wrapped the food in a towel, and tossed it into her large purse before heading out to the theater.

A girl’s gotta do something to keep her spirits up, Portia told herself as she made her way over to the multiplex. Gotta put yourself out there, girl, she thought. Portia knew she was right. She was a survivor.

Portia put her movie ticket on Sven’s credit card. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt me, Portia joked to herself. She sat near the back of the theater, plunking herself down next to an older man with a graying beard. Portia liked how strong his hand looked on his soda cup.

“Hi, there,” Portia flashed him a smile when she had gotten her jacket off. “I’m Portia.”

“Michael,” the older gentleman replied.

So far, so good, Portia thought as she opened her purse. Damn, the mushroom sauce had leaked out of the Lean Cuisine. Portia could have cried. Now her purse would smell like fucking Lean Cuisine for God knows how long. Portia actually felt tears welling up as she pulled out her fork.

“Here you go, young lady,” Michael handed her a neatly folded, clean, white handkerchief. “Don’t make a mess now,” Portia thought she detected a hint of a drawl. Oh, a real southern gentleman, she thought with glee, scarfing down her Lean Cuisine.

Fuck Sven, Portia thought. You can do better, girl. Portia gulped down her last few bites, eyeing the silly commercials on the screen, then she shoved her Lean Cuisine tray under the seat in front of her and kicked it away with the tip of her high-heeled boot.

“So, Michael,” Portia turned to her seat mate, “what do you do for a living?” Portia neatly folded the dirty handkerchief and tucked it into Michael’s jacket pocket with her hot pink manicured fingers. He looked surprised.

“A gentleman never discusses what he does for money,” Michael upbraided her with a frown. Portia was nonplussed. She slipped her pink manicured hand around his neck and trailed her fingers through his thick gray hair.

Portia liked this guy. She tossed her smelly purse a few seats away and cozied up for the movie. The lights were going down and Portia needed more Lean Cuisines. Fuck you, Sven, Portia thought as she laid her head on Michael’s shoulder. He smelled good, like fresh cut wood. See, Sven, Portia thought. I can do better.

Michael used a firm hand to push Portia’s coiffed blonde head off his shoulder and he stood above her in the dark theater. “Good night, young lady,” he said as he picked up his coat. “Enjoy the movie.” He made his way out of the theater as the movie began.

Damn it, thought Portia with a toss of her head. Not even a second glance? What a jerk. She reached for her purse as she surveyed the theater for better options. She eyed a youngish-looking, dark-haired hottie a few rows up and then let out a little scream when she found her purse was missing.

Portia stood up and shouted into the darkness. “I hope whoever stole my purse likes mushrooms!” Then she sashayed up a few rows and sat down next to the hottie.

“Hi, I’m Portia,” she smiled and offered him her pink-tipped fingers in the darkness. He slipped his buttery fingers around hers and pulled her hand down into his bucket of popcorn with a grunt.

Fuck you, Sven, Portia thought yet again, regretfully, before she shoved a handful of popcorn into her mouth. “Yum!” She whispered into the hottie’s ear as she laid her head on his shoulder. She had to think of those Lean Cuisines. And a new purse.

 

Part of something bigger

~ Christi ~ 6 Comments

Driving into town for my Saturday errands, I saw the white fleck of her dress long before I made out what it was. It was a lovely morning, one of those first spring days that prove you’re a survivor, and overnight the trees have transformed themselves from a black and gnarled mess into a lush watercolor. I had the windows rolled down and the blossoms were blowing in and at first I thought her dress was just a fallen branch leaning against the tree. What a shame, I thought, feeling regret for the tree as I drove nearer. From about fifty meters away, I made out her hair. It hung in long brown locks against the front of her dress where her head was slumped. Not a branch, a girl, I realized and pressed the gas pedal harder, lurching the last few meters. I jerked the steering wheel as I pulled off next to her and I jumped out of the car.

I dashed over to her and sure enough she was a real girl, not a branch of petals, although I did find petals in her hair and clinging to her dress. She had been tied to the tree with a pale rope, on which I found a few birds resting. I shooed them away. She was bound hands and legs to the tree, and she slumped forward so her chin rested on her chest. She was lovely.

I paused a moment before I touched her, not wanting to disturb her. She looked indescribably peaceful. Finally, I drew two fingers through her hair and pressed them to her neck to check for a pulse. Her skin was the same temperature as the air and I felt no movement.

I removed my hand and wanted to go for help. I found I couldn’t move. I stood rooted to the spot, staring at her, absorbing her. Time passed and finally I heard a car door slam behind me.

“Sir? Do you need some help, sir?” A kind voice said next to me. The woman was small, with short dark hair. She held a cell phone in her hand. “Sir, I’m calling for help right now,” she said earnestly. What a blessing she was, that woman. Who’s to say how long I would have stood there staring?

Even now, days later, I don’t know. I still can’t get that girl out of my mind. Just now she’s driving me to pick up a spool of jute at the hardware store and telling me to take it to the tree, now shedding its petals in favor of unfurling young electric green leaves. I don’t question. I press myself into her trunk and she ties me there with the rope.

When the kind woman finds me days later I can no longer hear her earnest voice. I’m inside the tree. I can only feel her dark eyes staring, rooted before me holding her useless cell phone and wondering what to do next.

 

My second submission for Tipsy Lit, on death and her limitations. I think death is contagious, what do you think?

prompted-button

 

Crack house

~ Christi ~ 9 Comments
Copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
Copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

 

Great Grandpa Yonie taught Gretchen to play mah jong and he taught her to find pictures in things but he never loved her. He liked her well enough, Gretchen knew, but she was never his favorite. “Your cousin Sam, now he’s a mensch,” Yonie liked to say whenever she stumbled over her tiles.

Years later, when Gretchen searched for Sam at the address Aunt Rachel had frantically scribbled on a scrap of paper, she noticed the interlocking stars on the grate. Stars of David, Gretchen could practically hear Yonie’s gravelly voice in her ear. A chill washed over her.

I know, this is a dark one. Can you do better?

friday-fictioneers

 

 

Where I grew up

~ Christi ~ 6 Comments

Where I grew up, there were dumpsters next to the parking lot out front. I grew up in gritty strip mall suburbia in a crummy apartment that wasn’t hideous but it wasn’t pretty either. There was an asphalt covered play lot with a metal merry-go-round and a set of monkey bars but no swings. There were concrete tunnels for us to hide out in and those dumpsters always smelled bad but not as bad as that grape candy smell from the McCormick’s plant down the road.

Where I grew up, everyone was poor but us kids never knew we were poor. We existed in some alternate plane where we were queens and kings ruling from the top of the monkey bars and meting out punishments in the concrete tunnel dungeons. We held trysts in our gardens: the forsythia-lined collection of air-conditioning units. We were mean to each other and nobody told us to stop.

Where I grew up, we hid behind a tree and watched a couple of thirteen-year olds make out behind the bushes and we liked it. I can still taste my shame, hear my laughter, and feel my legs stretching to get away when they noticed us watching. Nothing will ever feel that good again.

Where I grew up I used to be brave. I walked by myself to the store starting when I was seven and a friend’s big brother used to chase me every time. I always narrowly escaped.

Where I grew up we had lug our clothes to the communal laundry room. More than once my clothes were tattooed by the neighborhood badasses, and after that we hung out in the hot small room while the clothes dried. My mom wanted me to be a good girl.

Where I grew up the kids were mean to me. They called me French fry because I was a skinny white girl and they used to push on me and nobody ever stopped them. The kids were mean to me and I had to deal.

Where I grew up everybody was just getting by. There was a girl named Brandy whose dad was a drinker. She and I were fraught, like girls always are. We fought as much as we played. My mom sort of adopted her for awhile until I don’t know what happened but we didn’t see each other anymore. Brandy was cool. I don’t think she minded dropping out of school in ninth grade to take care of her dad. I saw her a couple years later on her way out of the Planned Parenthood by the mall, her hands on her big belly.

Where I grew up I couldn’t stand to go outside on summer days because of the grape smell but I never really minded the dumpsters until I got to high school and had to beg rides home from the cool kids who had cars. You know, the ones who never saw a dumpster before. Where I grew up, I learned to like ugliness.

Where I grew up, I found a story around every corner.

Thanks for the inspiration, Samara.

I’m a good father

~ Christi ~ 21 Comments

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Looks can be deceiving. I’m standing on the playground, a black jump rope stretched taught in my hands, and I see you look at me. Your eyes pause on my face and I watch the fear register on yours. You come closer and dart for your pretty little daughter. You snatch her off the see-saw where she sits next to my Sammy. She hasn’t done anything wrong but you yank her arm too hard. “Come on, sweetie,” you say too loudly and too sweetly, then you turn and glance at me again, smiling out of fear. I haven’t moved. I’m still holding the jump rope, standing there watching you judge me.

You pull your little daughter along behind you and high-tail it along the sidewalk like I’m after you. “No, Mama! You’re hurtin’ me,” your little darling cries in tow. I’m not after you. I’m just watching, tugging the jump rope even tighter. I grimace at you. You disgust me.

You probably don’t know what to think of me. You must think I’m somebody’s creepy uncle or worse, a stranger lurking here on the play lot. You want to dismiss me. You see me silhouetted dark against the sky, you take in that blue like pain, your eyes register the taughtness of the rope. You probably can’t actually do the math, what with your literature degree, you can’t balance out how much pleasure I take from the taught black rope in my hands. You just see the symbolism and rule out dad.

You don’t know much. You don’t know how much my Sammy likes it, after I’ve isolated him, after he jumps for me, after I’ve tied his hands behind his back with the jump rope. After we move together through the pain, you have no idea how much he likes my gentleness. You don’t know how I talk him through it: “You’re a good boy, Sammy. Yes, Sammy, you like this, don’t you. I love you, Sammy.” You don’t get to see him smile when I tickle him, no. It’s different than the smile you see on the see-saw. My Sammy has a special smile just for me and you can’t ever see it.

You don’t know the half of it. You think the rope in my hands is just an aberration, but you’re wrong. I’ve had this rope in my hands for how long now? Looks can be deceiving. Relationships are complicated. I watch you yank your little sweetie along by her arm as you dart away in fear and I smile.

“Come here, Sammy,” I call, the jump rope still taught in my hands. Don’t worry, it’s just a toy. “Be a good boy now,” I tell him. He always is.

Let me tell you a story

~ Christi ~ 3 Comments

Let me tell you a story about how I loved a boy once.

This story doesn’t have a happy ending.

Let me tell you how I almost died before I even met the boy. How I fought my way back to life for him.

This story always comes back to death.

Let me tell you about how I loved a boy before I even knew how to speak. I gave him my first words.

My father scrawled this story in a notebook in a drunken stupor while I formed my love into a deep, dark question and hurled it at him.

This story is a puzzle.

I begged him to slip love around my neck like some heavy leather noose.

This story is my scar.

The only answer was my own echo.

Love is the reverberation of my own voice refused.

This story is infinite.

My son scrawled this story in the dirt on the elementary school playground.

Love is never heavy enough.

This story always snakes back on itself.

Let me tell you a story about a black belt in your hand.

This story ends with your voice in my ear.

Do you mind implication?