"My beloved is white and ruddy, the chiefest among ten thousand. His head is as the most fine gold, his locks are bushy, and black as a raven. His eyes are as the eyes of doves by the rivers of water, washed with milk, and fitly set. His cheeks are as a bed of spices, as sweet as flowers; his lips like lilies, dropping sweet smelling myrrh. His hands are as gold rings set with the beryl; his belly is as bright ivory overlaid with sapphires. His legs are as pillars of marble, set upon sockets of fine gold; his countenance is as Lebanon, excellent as the cedars. His mouth is most sweet; yea, he is altogether lovely. This is my beloved, and this is my friend, O daughters of Jerusalem."
--Song of Solomon 5:10-16
* * * * *
"Well, you didn't seem to have any problems with me being a pro at that party last month," I yelled into my cell phone, "why are you freaking out about it tonight?" I don't know why I let men get to me like this, especially when I know at some point they always disappoint. Why I would think this putz was any different, I don't really know—wishful thinking, I suppose. Well, I guess this is what I get for wishing.
So here I stand, in the middle of my bedroom in my tiny apartment in any city in the world. Could be in Paris or Pakistan, Moscow or Manhattan, Boston or Bangkok. Tonight I am home, instead of somewhere anywhere in the world I am at home, not by choice, but I am at home, standing in the middle of my bedroom in my tiny apartment. Cell phone is securely placed against ear, hair pulled back so as to more clearly hear the lameass excuses of Roger—I'm sorry, it's Keith—no wait, it's Alex—no no, it's Friday night, on my calendar, 8 to midnight, it's Jerry—"Jerry dammit, why did you even bother setting me up for this evening if you knew—YOU KNEW you would have your kids this weekend?" It seems more and more all men come from the same family, more and more it's Roger Dammit or Jerry Dammit or William Dammit; I ought to know better by now than to try to set up evenings in advance with the Dammit Brothers.
So here I stand, now almost ten, the night virtually wasted. I mean, I suppose there are a hundred parties up in the hills I could crash tonight, all with money and coke, all with testosterone and posturing and drunkery and everything else the Dammit Brothers do to cover up their soft inner cores. And I am quite sure I could make a killing, I could bring home a couple of Benjamins. I sure could use those Benjamins too, Jesus, the rent is due on Monday. It's late, a cab will take too long to get here, by the time I get out to one of those coke parties up in the hills everyone will already be loaded, everyone will already be getting laid, and I will be stuck sucking the cocks of the drunk losers who came alone and who will leave alone. It's late, and though even with that I could make at least a hundred, I don't think it's worth another night of lost dignity.
So here I stand, yelling at the gentleman caller who I met about a month ago at one of those coke parties up in the hills. As you can tell by my raving into my phone, his name is Jerry. Jerry something—I know his last name, it's written down here somewhere, I have to have it because I called him. I had to. It's almost ten and he was supposed to be here by eight. He was supposed to pick me up and we were supposed to have a nice dinner, maybe take a nice drive up in the hills, I would give him the fuck of his dreams, and he would pay me at least enough for rent on Monday. That was the plan. The only thing is, Jerry is annoyed I called because he is having trouble putting his shared-custody kids to bed.
"Has it occurred to you, Jerry, that you are fucking me in the worst way tonight?" I know that's no way to talk to someone who was going to pay my rent for me, but this is ridiculous. I gave up the best worknight of the week for this asshole, and he has the temerity to blow me off. I understand that girls like me aren't supposed to expect much out of the Dammit brothers, but believe it or not, "believe it or not, Jerry, I am a person too." Slighting hurts, it even hurts whores.
"I at least am an honest so-called whore." Not that I cared for Jerry—I take that back. He seemed a decent guy, collegiate, young, divorced, soft yet well spoken. Why divorced, I didn't care to ask, why single, the same. Were I in high school I would have been ga-ga for a guy like him. I'm not saying I have no emotional tie to him—had this been solely a business transaction to me, I could be as cold as I needed to be. But I did like him, I liked his smile, his soft hands, the way he talked to me like I was better than I am. Perhaps he really is like that, I'll never know now because the prick stood me up.
So here I stand, wearing a blouse and skirt—professional (in a good sense of the word) looking, as if I were a secretary for some power broker on Wall Street. Jerry thought I was classier than I let on, so, upon his encouragement, I dressed a little different, not the tank top and tight cutoffs that I wear on warm summer nights, not the super tight leather with the pushup bra that I wear to the up-in-the-hills coke parties. Tonight I dressed more like a middle class working woman, as opposed to the lower class working girl, as he put it. Heels, pearl earrings, some cleavage but not overly slutty. I even smiled when I looked in the mirror. For a moment I liked the idea of class, and in that premature moment I even liked Jerry a little.
That was two hours ago. "And now my night is wasted, thanks to you, now how am I to pay the rent?" Jerry was my best chance to make rent. Tomorrow night is going to be hell now.
So here I stand, dressed above my class, pissed, phone against ear, getting more pissed, listening to the whinings of Jerry Dammit, getting so pissed I could throw—SHIT—with a thud I threw the phone against the floor. They make cell phones too well these days, because all that happened was the battery came off from the back and the antenna bent. Remember when you could actually break things by throwing them on the floor? Arrrrrgh!! I walk briskly to the fridge and grab the bottle of vodka I keep chilled and take a deep pull from it. I cough and shake my head, but another pull goes down a tad easier. And a few more. I stand against the wall, dressed above my class, pissed, bottle in hand, drowning out the whinings of Jerry Dammit, so pissed I could throw—SHIT—with a thud I dropped the bottle of vodka on the floor. Fuck it, I'll clean it up tomorrow. I stagger to bed, now a little tipsy, now a little less pissed. Whoever said drinking doesn't solve your problems is naïve, for if my problem was being pissed at Jerry, it's not so much a problem anymore. Vodka one, clichés nothing.
I sit on the side of my bed and unbutton my blouse—I gaze at the mirror across the room as I undress. Can't believe I dressed so good for Jerry Dammit. I stand up and touch the mirror, touch myself, touch my cheek, I smile as my cheek feels the soft fingers. I am a good girl, I pay my bills, I don't lie, I'm honest at least to myself. There are still no blemishes on my face; every other girl I know has a scar or a cig burn from some guy that felt it necessary to remind her what she does to pay the bills. I'm lucky, I'm a good girl. I let the blouse dangle from my shoulders as I reach behind and unhook my bra. You honestly think Jerry Dammit would rather have his hands wiping the snot from his brats' collective noses than cupping THESE? Every other girl I know has at least one baby that they didn't want, and one of the grand rewards for doing so in almost every case was to have their tits stretch and soften and fall. I cup them and smile as my fingers softly squeeze the firm titflesh—I didn't let THESE go to waste in the name of premature motherhood—I am a good girl.
I slip my thumbs beneath the waistband of my skirt and, bending, I slip it down my legs and step out of it once it becomes limp on the floor. I smirk as I stand there, wearing only a pink blouse open and dangling, white lace panties, and heels—Jesus I still am fine. No stretchmarks, nothing sagging, I turn and there is no cellulite, no love handles, I still have my legs, Jerry Dammit liked my legs, especially in heels. No marks on my ass. The question beckons as I stand here before my mirror, with a girl as fine as I am (and yes I know I am fine—I am not conceded, I am convinced), why is it the best I can do is the Dammit Brothers?
"Do you really want me to answer that question?"
I gasp in fright as I hear an unexpected male voice coming from behind me. I try to see in the mirror, try to see if I can see, but he is not in range. I dare not turn around—it's bad enough he caught me like this, half naked, high, talking to myself—do I need to face my potential rapist as well? Even whores are scared of rape and murder.
Cockily, the voice resumed, "I can tell you why you can't do any better than the, what is the term you use, the Dammit Brothers."
I hadn't said that out loud, just said it in my head, didn't I? I put my hands across my chest in fear, not quite reasoning why I should do this—he has seen my ass and legs and my hair let down, and if he is at the right angle he could see my face and tits and figure in the mirror. Even whores are scared of rape and murder.
