‘I used to do porn,’ she says. ‘No shit,’ I’m thinking. I knew it. Her technique the night before reminded me of several porn flicks I’ve seen over the years. It looks good on camera, but you know it isn’t accomplishing jack. I brought up something I thought she said the night before: did you ever have sex for money? ‘Are you asking me if I was a prostitute?‘ she says. Notice, as I did, that she didn’t immediately refute it in disgust. See, to me, it wasn’t too far-fetched that she indulged in prostitutorial behavior. I know it’s not a word, but it feels right. Since she was a former stripper and a former porn actress, prostitution was the logical glue that holds the two together. You don’t just jump from one to the other without a go-between. And she mentioned it the night before in her drunken stupor – just the word, but I thought it interesting that it was on her mind. ‘Oh no’, I said, backing off. I was just contributing to the conversation. She said okay and, again, didn’t refute anything. Wow, right? To top it all off, she explains why she may have to change her name, again. Again, you ask? Yes, she changed it a couple of years back because she didn’t care for it. I think there may have been extenuating circumstances, but who am I to judge? Her stint in pornography was short-lived, apparently, because she didn’t want to take the tests. Don’t laugh, there are tests in the porn industry: health screenings, to be exact. She DIDN’T WANT to take them because – brace yourself – she wasn’t sure if she really wanted to know if she had anything. So now her name was forever on a list, just in case there’s an epidemic. All I could do was stare. And nod. And stare. This chick was off her rocker.
How is it that I plucked the craziest bitch right out of the Midwest? All the women in this world, and she had to be the one who opted to pop up on my doorstep. What does that say about me? There were others interested. But why did I migrate to this one? Has my subconscious been forever altered to zoom in on females who have issues greater than my own? Again, what does that say about me? This was my attempt at being more optimistic, I said, less judgmental and open to new experiences, I said. Damnit, so-n-so, stop making assumptions and just enjoy someone’s company, I said. Unfortunately, this escapade has set me back quite a bit. I’m lucky to even be leaving my house.
And what set of bad habits would be complete without…smoking. Apparently, she quit but was really craving one all of a sudden. This was one of my prerequisites: I can’t stand smokers. After so many years working in bars, I’ve had my fill of second-hand smoke. It gives me a headache, nausea and stinks up my hair. Who wants to kiss an ashtray? Who??? So, she and her infinite charm went in search of a bum to cigarette…I mean, a cigarette to bum. She laid a $20 bill on the table and bounced off. A few minutes later, I paid the tab (we split it) and we headed out – no cigarette. Aww.
In the car, she leans over the center console, lips puckered and eyes shut. Imagine a Hitchcock theme song playing in the background. All I could see was her infected lips coming at me in slow motion: her chapped, over-plump, possible STD-infected lips. Okay, I admit, I kissed her…for about a split second and pulled away. I couldn’t do it. I made some lame excuse and started the car. I can’t remember ever feeling more disgusted. It reminded me of smelly-girl and her big lips wrapped around my strawberries like it was sexy. Ugh, what the hell was I doing?
We drove around, trying to decide what to do, ending up at Wal-Mart. I thankfully got out of the car. She did nothing but complain about the area I lived in: there’s nothing to see but houses, it’s dark, it’s so far. Mind you, I live in Sandy Springs, which is a spit away from Buckhead/Atlanta. She complained incessantly that I lived in the suburbs in the middle of nowhere. She was an idiot. Once inside Wallyworld, she headed straight to the pharmacy, having missed it by ten minutes. Ha! I went to the restroom, while she wandered. During dinner, we discussed this scary movie we both liked and thought it would be a good idea to watch it. I thought it was a spectacular idea, especially if it tired her out and removed any wanton attempts at sex. If you ever find yourself in the middle of Wal-Mart, needing assistance of any kind, there’s a better way of getting it – other than just asking. Be loud, obnoxious, flail your arms a bit and breathlessly share how badly you need a particular item. It works. I found her in electronics, surrounded by FIVE (yes, 5) employees trying to find this dvd. They were all eager to help and stared at her with this wide-eyed fascination, as if to say, ‘is this chick for real?’ I just stood there in disbelief – at her loud breathlessness (if that’s possible) and at the fact that these employees were eager to help. At least four of them were probably supposed to be at a register and the fifth one was gay so I’m sure he was quite taken with Deluded and her embellished antics. But again, they were actually helping.
They found the dvd. Great. And one was rewarded with a hug…and a kiss. Wow, really? I wanted to mention that he should probably get some mouthwash from the health and beauty section if he knew what was good for him. I rolled my eyes and headed to checkout.
Home. Finally. We were actually laughing and having a pleasant time. We poured some wine and popped the movie in. I actually started to think, hey, maybe this isn’t so bad. We could be friends, pen pals, maybe even writing partners. I’m looking on the sunny side of the street now. Yay. Of course, it was only a matter of time before she would fuck it up. Part way through the movie, she starts to migrate to my side of the sofa. I curled up in my corner as far as I could possibly go. She didn’t get the hint. Laying on my hip, she finally pops her head up and asks me: would you hold me? For the first time during her visit – and maybe her life – I said, ‘no.’ I don’t feel like snuggling right now. She bolted upright. ‘Wow,’ she said. She repeated it as she stood up, ‘wow.’ She retreated to her laptop, as usual. But thankfully, she was dressed this time. I didn’t feel bad, either, but I had to ask as if I didn’t see anything wrong. Nothing, she says, and continues to type on her laptop.
The movie ended and we called it a night. Or at least I did. She slipped into her negligee, took her pills, poured another glass of wine and drank herself to sleep. But not completely. As I tucked myself in on my sofa, the television down low so as not to disturb the princess, I heard the unmistakable sounds of overly dramatic breathlessness. This bitch was masturbating in my bed – and wasn’t even keeping quiet about it. Did she think it would entice me to join her? I was frozen in place. What do I do? Tell her to stop? All I could think of were germs all over my sheets, my comforter, my pillows. That comforter was going to be expensive to clean.
Damn. If it’s not loud music, it’s loud moaning. I can’t win. I turned the television up before the noise made me puke in my living room. I know writers crave experience to fuel their creativity, but this was ridiculous. And then my heart sank. The next day was Sunday – my only day off. What the hell was I going to do with her all day long?