9. Bored
(the last cool girl)
I’d like to destroy you. No seriously. Nothing would make me feel better. I am goddess in the night. The best pussy out. The only bitch on your mind when I enter
the room. Any fucking room. I can have anyone that I want. Men desire me. Devastation follows me everywhere I go. It’s not always easy. I’m not very interested
at all in most of the men who try to pursue me. Who think they have a fucking chance at all. I just wanna fuck people up. Real good. I want to prey on them.
Attack their vulnerabilities. Expose their many weaknesses. And have them eating from my dirty hands. Licking off my dirty feet. And saying anything. Agreeing with
everything. And forgetting about everything else in their lives just to get some veiled shot at me. Just to have me destroy them for an hour. Just to have their pride
vanquished. Their dicks between their legs. Their self-esteem cracked in two. This is what I am capable of. Completely fucking dudes up. I have all of the power. I
always have all of the power. And I make the fucking rules up in this little game that we play. One I’ve never lost at. Because in the very end, I win.
In the end, I’ve always fucking won.
The Hemlock. I wait at the bar for my drink. My whiskey on the rocks. The Minutemen play on the jukebox. Dark lighting everywhere. Cute bartenders. There are a
lot of people out tonight. The day before Halloween. I stare into the shallow depths of tattoos and black shirts and leather jackets and facial hair. Lots of bad hair on
faces tonight. Quite a few people are in costumes. I see Winnie the Pooh taking a shot of Jager. Me, I think I’ll wait for tomorrow night to get dressed up.
My drink arrives. I take a sip and look at myself in the giant mirror across the bar.
Short matte black hair with red clips in the sides. Thin lips painted a perfect pink. High cheekbones blushed with pink. Pale brown eyes. White fur coat. Short black
dress. Milk colored skin. Fishnets. Knee high leather boots.
This is me.
The best bitch out.
Stalking the night the night like a predator. Looking for the perfect man to destroy.
That magic man.
I turn from the mirror and bump into like three people trying to squeeze by me. Shit. It’s really crowded in here at the moment. It actually annoys me that I even
have to be here right now. I should be home getting ready for tomorrow night. The big production. My fourth one this month. I’m so, so tired. I’ve been out
scouting my location all day and drawing up my huge plans and getting everything I need purchased and ready to fucking go. Pounding out every single detail for
show number four.
But damn, I need rent money. I remembered that about forty-five minutes ago. How I’m about a hundred short and I have until November third to pay. So I had to
get all dressed up. Get all cute and shit. And bring my ass down here and get loose and work my magic. I don’t really have another choice.
I take another sip and walk around. Ready to make my moves at any moments notice.
This short dude with a shaved head and a goatee walks up to me.
“What’s up with you?” he asks.
I look him up and down. It’s a little uncomfortable. He’s really short. Wearing skating shoes. About the only things he’s missing is a beanie.
“I said what’s up with you, bitch?”
“Bitch?” I snort. “Are you fucking serious?”
“Fraid so.”
“You need to get lost, dude. For real. Get the fuck out of here.”
“Fuck you, hipster chick. I wanna do things to you tonight.”
I start laughing. What a fucking joke. This guy is totally not what I’m interested in tonight. I need a man who’s never been put in his place before. Who’s perfectly
adequate. This dude is just way too Bro.
Way too fucking short.
Plus it looks like he’s a skater.
I ain’t suddenly seventeen all over again.
And the guy says, “Don’t laugh at me.”
“Then quit talking to me, dude.”
“You think you’re better than me don’t you?”
“Yeah. Actually I do.”
“Look at you, bitch? You’re wearing a fur coat in my bar like some piece of fashion model trash.
Fishnets like a hooker. Halloween’s tomorrow night.”
“Look at me? Look at you, Tony Hawk fanboy. You’re a fucking midget. You’re wearing blue and gray flannel and skate shoes. And you shave your hair.”
“See, this is why I’m digging you. I love that you’re talking shit back to me.”
This black dude in a maroon flannel and a red beanie comes up from behind the short guy and goes, “Who’s this?”
“This is the girl that’s coming home with me tonight.” He steps into me and tries putting his arm around me but I knock it away.
“Don’t fucking touch me, man.”
I slam the rest of my drink and set my glass down and start walking away.
The short dude grabs my arm. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
“Outside actually. For a cigarette.”
“Fuck your disgusting habits. I don’t do stupid shit to myself.”
The Minutemen slam into Black Flag and I snap my arm out of his grasp and say, “But you have a goatee. Isn’t that doing something stupid to yourself everyday you
wake up and don’t shave it.”
The black guy laughs and the short dude calls me a bitch again and I walk outside.
It’s very cold tonight. I light a Parliament and button up my fur and shake my shoulders out.
People everywhere. The city is alive. A massive bloc of Ceaser Estrada supporters march through the streets in their green shirts, holding their signs.
News said today that he was up almost twenty points.
Ten thousand people attended at rally for him at the Civic Center.
Ten people were arrested as a fight broke out between some Gayle Webber supporters and Estrada volunteers.
People in D.C. talked about cutting off funding to the city if Estrada was somehow elected.
A communist mayor, they cried. That would be the most devastating thing to happen to the U.S. since 9/11.
Worthless fucking pundits.
I see a couple dressed up as Roger and Jessica Rabbit walk by me with another couple dressed as Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd. I see Betty Boop and Dean Martin.
Someone in a Nixon mask. Davy fucking Crockett.
I take a drag and look to my left and see Rex Hopeless. He’s with his girlfriend and some other guy I don’t know. They’re all smoking cigarettes, standing about
twenty feet down from me near this bullshit place, the Space Gallery.
I start for them.
I say, “Sexy Rexy is a motherfucker.”
All three of them turn and look at me and Rex smiles awkwardly and says, “Stacee Ramone.”
“Rex Hopeless.”
Me and Rex go back all like three months ago when I met him outside of the Homestead bar at Penelope’s birthday party. He spent more time picking up on me that
night than hanging out with his girl and like two weeks later, I ran into him again backstage at the TV On The Radio, Oh-Sees show at the Great American Music Hall
and we ended up fucking each other.
Like shit.
Like, Oopsie.
Penelope gives me this hate stare but whatever. That fucker she’s with fucks all these other bitches. A lot of other girls.
“What are you doing here?” Rex asks me.
“Having a nightcap.”
I watch the other dude take a drag of his cigarette, his eyes glued to me, stuck to me. His lips creased into a smile. His mind imploding with all the ideas that he
could do something to me tonight.
And he could actually be a real possibility for me.
So I smile back at him.
I say, “Rex, be a gentleman and introduce me to your friend.”
“Wait,” his friends says. He adjusts the collar of his jean jacket. “You don’t know who I am?”
“Who are you?” I say.
“Tell her Sexy Rexy.”
Penelope rolls her eyes. “Oh, God,” she groans.
And Rex goes, “This is James Morgan. He’s a big time published author.”
James does this sideways grin and takes a drag and shrugs his shoulders. “That’s right.”
Penelope flicks her cigarette into the street and says, “Jesus Christ. I’m going back in. I can’t listen to this shit.”
She stomps off and James turns to Rex and goes, “Dude, I’m sorry, but your girlfriend sucks. It’s just a fact of life. There is nothing decent about that stripper.”
“Just lay off, James,” Rex snorts.
“So what’d you write?” I ask, jumping back into the conversation.
“The international best-selling novel, PieGrinder.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
James’s body language completely shifts. His demeanor transforms in the blink of an eye. Even Rex shakes his head at me as James makes this disgusted face and
says, “For crisskaes, Rex. Where the hell do you find these un-intellectual bores?”
And it is at this exact moment that I know I have found my mark for the night. This great looking, egotistical, self-conscious asshole in a jean jacket, a 400 Blows t-
shirt, white jeans, and black boots. And I’m gonna fuck this guy up. I’m gonna fuck with his mind and turn him back into the unconfident piece of self-doubt he no
doubt was before his book.
I take a deep, deep drag, and I say, “Well shit, mister. Why don’t you buy me a drink and tell me all about it. Tell me about your book, James. Educate me on why
you’re so fucking great.”
His face lights up like a coke fiend whose dealer has just called him back.
Taking my hand, smashing his cigarette out with his boot, James pulls me back toward the bar doors and says, “I don’t know if there’s enough time in the world for
me to go over why I’m rad. But I’ll try, Stacee. Believe me, I’ll try.”
James and I find a small table next to the pool table. Agent Orange blasts from the speakers. Beside the ATM machine, Ren and Stimpy make out while Bob Barker
stands near them slamming a pint and yelling about how Ren and Stimpy’s Price is Right.
James drinks a double Whiskey Sour and I sip another whiskey straight. I’m getting kinda tired though. It was such a long day. But with someone like this, sometimes
you have to have a little patience. With a guy like James, a lot of the time you have to sit and listen to an hours worth of bullshit about how much they’ve
accomplished. And how much they change people’s lives. And how many people love them. And how all your favorite shit sucks.
Tonight, it goes a little like this. James Morgan says, “But seriously, babe. You’re a fox and I’m brilliant and there ain’t nobody on my fucking tip. Nobody is doing
anything as fucking out there and stylish and provoking as I am. I’m fucking James Morgan, baby. My name is fucking gold.”
Or, “I have more drive in my left pinky toe than any of these motherfucking jaw wranglers around us. A lot of people in this city, the only thing they’re really gifted
at is running their mouths on booze and coke about how they’re gonna do all this rad shit. But it never happens. Then they turn around and talk shit on me and get
mad when I don’t react to them, but fuck, baby, I’m too busy setting the bar and getting shit done to give fuck what anyone else thinks.”
And, “Honestly, Stacee. Do you think my jean jacket would look better if I dyed it black?”
It’s a fucking joke. He disgusts me more than Robert Smith’s face disgusts me.
Plus every single time the conversation briefly jumps to me and it’s my turn to say shit, his eyes wander off. They trot away quickly into the shallow depths of
stilettos and short skirts and red lipstick and massive cleavage with pretty tattoos around the edges. He watches girls as they slide by our table smiling. Girls as they
look across the room at him. Girls as they whisper to their friends and point him out.
And when he finally realizes that I’m finished talking, he looks back at me and smiles and nudges my knee with his and says, “What you just said, right on. Couldn’t
have said it better myself.”
He says, “I know. I know. I hate Franz Ferdinand too.”
Not even a listening to a word I say.
Just waiting for his turn to talk.
Bad Brains on the jukebox.
I’m gonna fuck this asshole up tonight.
Rex and Penelope leave. They stop by our table before they split to say bye and Penelope hands me a flyer for this show tomorrow night. This fashion showcase
with all these live bands and DJ Guestlist spinning.
“I’ll be there,” James tells me. “I never miss a Lamborghini Dreams show.”
“I love those guys too. That Jewelry, Electronics, and Firearms song is the boss.”
“Isn’t it though?”
James gets up to grab two more drinks and I go to the ladies room. The girl dressed as Jessica Rabbit is standing in front of the mirror doing coke from a bullet.
“I love your outfit,” I tell her.
“Oh, thanks. I love yours too.”
“Excuse me?” I say.
“I love your outfit,” she says, turning to me. “You look exactly like that Suicide Girl, Snow.”
I glance in the mirror across from me. And I actually do. “Cool. Thanks,” I say.
Jessica Rabbit turns back to me and holds the bullet out. “Take one.”
I normally don’t do this shit. I really fell out of love with it about two years ago. When the city was still really rad and fun, before all of the massive paranoia set in and
most of the cool people moved away and kids got into serious relationships and people got serious jobs. When doing coke was more of an occasional thing instead of
a fucking lifestyle the way it turned into. How all that partying really turned some of the people into monsters. It was a terrible thing to watch happen in front of
your own eyes. Watching people lose their minds. Go to jail. Lose their apartments. Lose everything. A few people even died. Like my friend Jimmy S.
But I’m really fucking tired. I could definitely use a pick me up. A little kick me in ass to get me motivated to sit through more of James Morgan’s bullshit. So I grab
the bullet and load a hit and look at Jessica Rabbit. “Nostrils up,” I say. Then slam the coke.
Wow. The shit’s good. I don’t even have to take a shit yet.
I hand the bullet back to Jessica Rabbit and tell her thanks and then walk back to the table.
James comes back with the drinks and sits down and asks me where we’re gonna go later.
“Who says I’m doing anything with you later?”
“Please,” James says. “Really. I mean, Please?”
This is gonna be good. Me making rent off of this asshole. Him not even knowing what he’ll be doing for me in an hour.
We drink more and people stop by the table and talk to James. There’s this ugly kid wearing a t-shirt with a tiger on it. He hands James a flyer for his art show and
James tells him, “Dude, fuckin’ rad. Good for you. I’m totally gonna be there. You’re like one of the sickest artists in SF. You’re big time, man.”
And the kid goes, “Tell me about it. I’m bad as hell.”
He walks away and James turns to me, smiling, and says, “Are you kidding me?” He starts tearing the flyer into strips. “That dude sucks. He thinks he’s the shit but
fuck it, you could probably draw stick people on napkins, pin them onto a wall at some “gallery” and draw fifty people so long as you were serving free wine. No way
I’m going to that shit.” He cups a hand around his mouth. “Call me when you’re getting paid and wearing better shirts, brah.”
Wow.
Another guy approaches us. He has a Nikki Sixx haircut and a bandanna tied around his neck and a Faith No More t-shirt on.
James actually gets out of his chair and gives the guy a hug and then the guy hands James some coke and James hands him some money and the guy splits.
“That’s my number one drug dealer,” he tells me.
I pick up my whiskey and go, “That’s nice. I thought he might’ve been in a band or something.”
“Oh he is,” James smiles. “But they suck. He thinks I like them a lot but I don’t.”
Setting my glass back down, I look hard at James and go, “Damn, man. You are fucking ruthless. Do you respect anyone at all?”
“Oh hell yes. A lot of people.” James slams the rest of his drink. He says, “But let me tell you something. This is San Francisco. A million egos on the loose fueled by
cocaine and opportunity and they’re all just ramming into each other. Everyone in this city wants to be a known and wanted commodity so they try and stand out
by running their mouths and talking their shit up and it’s crap. I know you probably won’t believe it but before I got a book deal, I didn’t say shit about my novel to
no one. I kept it to myself and worked my ass off behind the scenes to make the deal happen and only after I signed that huge contract did I ever go off about my
shit in front of other people. I waited until my hard work paid off and I blew up. This ain’t no gallery show in the fucking Tenderloin or opening for some Japanese
band at the Knockout. I am talking about checking your mouth and your ego and working harder than anyone to get the fuck on the ladder and then, once you’ve
accomplished something, maybe swing by me at the bar to tell me about it. Shit, I’ll probably even buy you a drink that tastes better than the two dollar PBR you
got some stupid art school cunt to buy you after you showed her your empty wallet.”
I roll my eyes. “Nice speech, Ghandi.”
“I got way more than that one.”
I finish my drink. “Oh yeah.”
“If you wanna hear them.”
I lean across the table and rub my foot against the inside of his legs. “I do. All of them.”
“I thought you might.”
I smile. “Let’s scram, Mr. Published Author.”
We go to my pad. Me and James. I live in the Palm Leaves motel on sixth street and Market. Right in the heart of Skid Row San Francisco. But a few better suited
names that I can think of for this concrete jungle box of typhoid are: Hepatitis Hotel.
Worst Place Built.
Tooth Fairy’s Wet Dream.
The Ebonics Fundraising Headquarters.
By the way, I love it here. I moved in like four months ago. After I got so fucking fed up living with a bunch fucking retards every other place I moved into.
Seriously. Nobody wants to hear The Game bumping from your room at anytime. Nobody cares that your butt rock boyfriend bought a new bike. Or that your new
tattoo hurts like hell.
This film dude I know, Duncan he’s also the night auditor at the Palm Leaves and I ran into him at this special screening of that Paul Thomas Anderson movie, There
Will Be Blood and he told me he could get me a room there for sixty bills a week.
I jumped at the offer.
Nevermind the neighborhood. Or that half the tenants of the Palm are crack smokin’ hookers. Or that for the most part, the place smells like a toxic mix of bad
breath, tuna, and infected piss.
This place has character.
Six floors. Walls painted purple. Gold shag carpet. Eucalyptus trees in the lobby. Paintings of angels and JC and dogs slung on the wall. Sound of showtunes in the
lobby. Toothless adults walking around speaking gargle. Screams from behind closed doors. Cold sores. Television sets turned way loud.
It’s pretty much like the most awesomest haunted house ever!
I live on the third floor in room 312. A Craigslist description of the pad would go like this: Nice sized studio apartment with bathroom and kitchen. TV box furnished
plus free cable. Carpet has some red stains on it and the walls aren’t in the best shape but feel free to fix it up however you want.
My own description, it goes like this. You walk in. High ceilings. Pretty big space. Small table and chairs immediately to the left. One wall covered with three posters:
Three Six Mafia. Jay-Z. Mike Jones. Straight ahead, a small white and black tiled bathroom with a pink floor rug. To the left of that, a small kitchen. Fridge. Stove.
Overhead cupboards. Small, glossed over window with a view of the alley and the building across from mine. Shitty yellow lighting. A mural of a bowl-legged stripper
fondling a Chinese midget in a Danzig shirt painted on the back wall, right above the futon I sleep on. Coffee table with empty whiskey and wine bottles and ashtrays
all over it. Two large windows on the right wall covered by white see through curtains. A wooden desk and lamp and labtop pushed under the windows. A walk in
closet across from the futon. Tons of clothes and shoes. A table beside the closet with the TV and my record player on it. Crates of records below the desk. A
welcome mat with George Clinton smoking crack at the foot of the door.
This is my apartment on Sixth street and Market.
I tell James to have a seat wherever and then I walk into the kitchen and grab a bottle of Two Buck Chuck and my wine opener and two glasses.
As I open the bottle, I can hear James in the living room pounding his coke down with a lighter. He shouts, “You want some of this?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t.”
He doesn’t say anything. Loud snorting sounds ensue. I fill the glasses and walk back into the other room. James is sitting on the futon, the baggie and half-cut
straw lying on the coffee table.
I hand him a glass of wine and sit down next to him.
He takes a drink. “Has anyone ever told you that you look almost exactly like that Suicide Girl, Snow? Almost exactly. It’s pretty cool.”
“I have heard that before. And it’s flattering. Snow is hot.”
“She’s alright,” James mumbles.
I roll my eyes. Take a drink. This guy is such a fuckface.
Picking the baggie up, James holds it in front of me and shakes it. “Come on. Do some of this with me.”
“I can’t.”
“But you already did in the bathroom at the Hemlock.”
“How do you know?”
“Come on,” he grins. “You rubbed your nose like crazy man after you came out of there.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means you did blow in there. So do some with me now.”
“James. No. I only did a bump so I could get you back here. But I don’t wanna do anymore. Tomorrow is a big day for me. I can’t be doing that shit and do what I
have to do tomorrow. It won’t work.”
“It’s just Halloween, baby. Halloween’s for amateurs. It’s like the weekend. Or having a cannibus club card. It’s not a big fucking deal. Not like it used to be.”
“I’m not doing any with you.”
“That’s cool.” He drops the coke back onto the coffee table. “Suit yourself.” Taking another drink, he goes, “Will you at least put on some music?”
“Sure.” I stand up and walk across the room to the record player and lean over and slide the crates out, asking, “What do you wanna hear?”
“I dunno. Whatchya got?”
“Everything.”
“Well what the hell is everything?”
I look over my shoulder. “Are you serious? You want me to go through all my records.”
“No. I wanna know if you have The Replacements.”
I look back down at my records. “I do. I have Tim and Let It Be.”
“Let It Be.”
“Gotcha.” I pull the record out of the crate and slide the vinyl out of the case and lean forward and put it on.
My favorite sound of all time is the soothing scratching sound that records make.
The opening riffs of I Will Dare come to life and I turn back to James only to find him reading the black Moleskin that had been sitting on my desk.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I snort, charging at him, trying to grab it back from him.
Fending me off with one of his arms, James goes, “Relax, babe. I was just curious about what you write like. I’m not judging.”
“Fuck you, man!” I shriek. “You can’t just grab somebody else’s private shit and start reading it.”
“Says who?”
“Says life,” I snort back. “That’s like the first rule of fucking life, man.”
“No it’s not.”
“Fuck you,” I say, then grab his arm and bite down on his hand.
He lets out this yelp and snaps his arm away and throws the Moleskin at me, ripping, “Don’t get psycho on me, babe. Jesus Christ! What the hell’s the matter with
you?”
“Me? What the hell’s the matter with you?”
“I was only being curious, Stacee.
“How would you like it if I grabbed a notebook of your’s without asking and started flipping through it?”
“I’d probably throw you down a flight of stairs and pee on you.”
“So how’d you want me to react, James Morgan?”
“Not like that. It’s different with me. I’m published. My shit’s sacred.”
“Oh, god,” I snort. “Here we go.”
“I’m being dead fucking serious,” he snaps, pushing himself off the futon. “And I didn’t get to read much of anything in there but I did read something that seemed
pretty awesome.”
Pause.
I gather myself. “Really?”
“Yep.”
Fuck. Now I’m really interested in this. I say, “What was it?”
James steps towards me and grabs my arm and takes the Moleskin back. Opening it, he flips it around to me and he points at the page. “This right here.” He steps in
even closer to me. “I was really interested in what I barely got to see.” He leans in real close to my face and I can smell his Calvin Klein cologne. “Will you please read
it to me?” he whispers.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
I’m actually getting turned on.
Motherfucker!
I look into James’s eyes and he smiles and backs away from me and shakes the hand I bit. “Your fangs are deadly, Stacee Ramone.”
Then he drops back onto the futon. He lights a cigarette, kills the rest of his glass of wine, pours himself another one and says, “How about it, darling? Wanna read
something to me?”
This guy is pretty good.
I take a deep breath.
“Pretty, pretty please,” he says.
I rub my forehead. I’m flustered. I say, “Fine. But just this one little bit.”
“That’s all I want.”
“Alright.” I look back down at the paper. “Here it is.”
I say, “Things That Make Me Super Homicidal…One: Assholes who do all of their banking for a month at the express ATM Machine. Two: Finger puppets. Two A: Tim
Allen movies. Three: Kids who breakout one chord acoustic guitar bullshit in the middle of a party. Four: Reggae music. Five: People who whistle to hip-hop...
shitheads. Old people who snap their grape bubble gum on MUNI. Six: Non-smoking bars. Seven: Stuffed Crust Pizza. And eight: Alanis Morrisette and her fans.”
“That was awesome,” James says. “Absolutely nothing to be ashamed about there.”
“You actually thought that was good? I think it’s a piece of shit.”
“No way.”
“No seriously,” I say. “It’s bad. It’s just a list of shit.”
“An amazing list.” James takes a drag and leans forward and grabs my hand, pulling me next to him on the futon. He says, “You write pretty well. You obviously have
exquisite taste. You wear an awesome fur coat. Your boots are sharp. You’re a total babe. It’s like you’re the last cool girl in San Francisco.”
“Awww, thanks Mr. Author. I’m not quite sure how to respond to that.”
“You don’t have to. You just have to listen to something I penned earlier today.”
“Really? You wanna read too?”
“Are you fucking kidding me? I just listened to your shit.”
“You asked me to read it, man.”
“So you’re saying you don’t want me to read in front of you?”
“Kinda.”
“That’s fucked up!”
“Dude, I’m just saying that reading a bunch of shit is gonna kill the vibe.”
James jumps to his feet. “You should be begging to hear my shit. I’m a huge author. I’m offering you a private reading. And you’re giving me attitude. What the
hell, man?”
“Don’t get mad, James.”
“You just dissed me. I’m pissed!”
“Okay,” I say. “Fine. You win this one. Read something.”
Pause.
James rubs his face. He says, “Well now I don’t want to.”
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter.
“Well you made it all awkward. Now it’s weird.”
“So what do you wanna do?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Drink more I guess.” He sits back down and grabs his glass and kills the rest of the wine. He turns to me and goes, “How about this?”
“What?”
“Captain Hipster: My black pea coat is way nicer than your brown one.”
“No this,” I say. “Captain Hipster: My ego is the about the only I can call my own.”
“Here ya go. Captain Hipster: I’d sell you my ego for a keybump.”
Another pause.
James looks at me and I look at James and he goes, “Yeah. Those kinda sucked.”
“I know it,” I laugh.
“I actually like hipsters anyway.”
“Me too,” I snort.
And James says, “They’re all pretty rad. A lot of them are my friends. And they’re all pretty good lucking. That’s a pretty good combination to have as a group of
people.”
“Right.”
This whole thing is unbelievable. I can’t believe I’m actually enjoying this douschebag’s presence. It’s insane. I don’t want to be liking this at all. I almost feel bad
about what I’m about to do to him.
Almost really bad.
The record spins into song seven. Unsatisfied.
“Look me in the eye and tell me that I’m satisfied…Are you satisfied…?
“I fucking love this song,” James snorts. He rubs his face. “I can’t believe you didn’t want me to read for you. That’s fucked up.”
“Dude!” I snap. “Give it a fuckin’ rest. Your insecurities are showing.”
“What insecurities?”
I start laughing. “That was a joke right?”
James rolls his eyes and lets out this loud sigh then reaches for his coke.
This is when I make my move.
Finally.
I reach out and put my hand over his and say, “Why don’t you lay off the coke for a little bit.”
“And why would I do that?” he snorts.
“I don’t know,” I say, inching closer to this total asshole. “How about because I asked you to.”
I put a hand over his crotch.
“Okay. Fraid so,” he says and drops the baggie back on the table.
He runs a hand down the side of my face. He smiles. His breathing is loud. He’s breathing out of his mouth because his nose is clogged from the drugs. But he’s so
damn cute. And I so don’t like him.
Sliding his hand around to the back of my neck, James tightens his grip and pulls my head forward. He runs the sides of his lips across my face, against my ear and
whispers, “You’re a stone fox.”
Tiny hairs standing up. Goosebumps. Warm sensations. Heart beats faster.
I press my hands against his face.
“What are you gonna do?” he asks.
“Shut-up.”
I slam my lips against his and push him back. He falls against the cushion and I push myself onto him and straddle his hips. My tongue halfway down his throat.
Slobber and drool. Lips smacking together.
Holding the back of my head in place, James pushes himself forward so that we’re eye to eye again. I can feel the tiny lines of snot running from his nose. It’s
disgusting. But damn, he’s a great kisser.
With his other hand, he squeezes the skin of my pale thigh through his fingers. He presses his erection hard against my crotch and I slide up and down and up and
down.
I’m wet as hell.
James drags his tongue out of my mouth and down my chin and around my neck and into my ears.
He grabs my boobs and pushes me back and I land against the cushion this time.
His tongue on my neck, one hand clamped against my ass, James starts to maneuver his other hand from my chest, down my stomach. He gets to the strap of my
thong and slides his fingers under it and keeps them moving.
I slam my hand down his and stop him. He pulls his mouth away from me and sits back upright as the Replacements rip:
“C'mon little kiddie get your head on right,
C'mon little kiddie get your head on straight, You're gonna get her down, You're gonna finger to her, You're gonna suck me down, You're gonna see to her…”
Breathing heavily, he goes, “What are you doing, Stacee?”
I lie.
“I’m on my period.”
“Oh for Christ’s sake.” James slides back and swings his feet to the floor. Still breathing hard, he says, “Not cool at all getting someone riled up like that and then
revealing that kind of information. Not cool at all.”
I lie again.
Because this is all part of my plan.
I say, “Here’s the deal. I’m super into you. I want this to happen and trust me, if it does, I can be a very obedient, kinda do anything I’m asked type of girl.”
“Let me ask you something then.”
“Go ahead.”
“If I asked you to come over to my apartment one night and dress up like every female character from my international, best-selling novel, PieGrinder and let me call
you by their names while we flirted and had four play and then fucked, would you do it?”
“I’m sure I would.”
A huge smile suddenly emerges on his face.
“That’s all I wanted to know.”
“But for that to happen,” I say. “I need you to do me a favor right now.”
“What?”
“I need you to jack off and come into a few pairs of kid panties for me.”
The song ends.
And James is like, “Come again?”
“I think you heard me right.”
“What kind of weird shit are you-“
I cut him off. I grab his arm and go, “Considering what you just asked me to potentially do for you, I don’t think you’re in any position to judge me by my request.”
Pause.
“It would mean a lot to me, James.”
Pause.
“I would be very grateful to you.”
James flips his head. “Me blasting a lot of giz into some kiddy underwear would mean a lot to you?”
“Yes.”
He rubs nose. “Okay. I’ll do it. Only if you do what I want you to do later.”
I scoot forward and kiss his closed lips. “Done.” I stand up and walk across the room into the closet and emerge a few seconds later with four different pairs of little
boy’s underwear.
One pair Batman.
One pair Smurfs.
One pair Undergdog.
One pair G.I. Joe’s.
I set them down on the floor next to the coffee table.
“I think I wore every pair of those growing up,” James says. “About the only thing missing is He-Man and the Jetsons.”
“The Jetsons?”
“Yeah. I had a pair with LeRoy on the crouch.”
“That’s hot,” I say. I wrap my arms around James and kiss his check. “You’re so cute.”
“I know it,” he says.
Stepping back, I say, “Watch me.” I slip out of my dress, leaving my fishnets and boots on, then sit down on the edge of the coffee table, right in front of James.
“Take your clothes off,” I say.
James loosens his shoulders then takes his jean jacket off. I see his tattoos for the first time. Both arms covered. Black Flag bars. Misfits skull. Vines. Roses. Leaves.
Black stripes around his elbows. Guns and text.
James Morgan is so the fucking stereotype. It’s so funny the way that works in this place.
He starts to take off his shirt but then stops. He says, “How about you do it for me?”
“You can’t do it yourself?”
“Fraid not, Ramone.”
“Fine.” I put my hands on his waist. I unbuckle his belt. Metal clanking together. James leans in and kisses me as I drop his pants and then his underwear.
And James Morgan’s dick, it’s not very big.
“Put your arms up,” I tell him.
“K.” He does and I pull his shirt over them and step back and take a seat again.
His body isn’t that attractive. It’s pale. His guts a little flabby. He has pretty big nipples and his dick is just kinda small. Shriveled up.
And I say, “Whenever you’re ready, man.”
“Let’s do this.”
James spits in the palm of his hand and starts massaging his dick. His eyes close. Clenched jaw. Quick breaths. Face turning way red.
He goes at himself like this for the next thirty seconds and he’s still not hard.
Popping his eyes open, he goes, “No way I’m gonna be able to get this going by myself.”
Pause.
“Ya know what I’m saying, Stacee?”
“Duh, man. I fucking know,” I snap.
I get back to my feet then kneel down in front of James and start blowing him. I work his limp little dick with my tongue. It’s like oil wrestling a midget or something.
I know when he’s getting himself in good shape when I feel his hand against the back of my head, trying to control me.
I blow him for a little while longer, until at least one side of my mouth is full, and then I slide back and spit on his cock and lean back against the floor, staring straight
up at him.
I watch him intently.
And if you’re never watched a dude jack-off before, well it ain’t exactly the prettiest thing ever. It ain’t a sunset in Malibu.
Pasty butt cheeks sucking in. Neck veins bulging. Titty’s flopping. Tinted yellow teeth grinding. Spit and skin making intense smacking noises together.
He fucks himself really fast and breaths really heavy and goes, “What pair first?”
“You pick.”
“What are the choices again?”
“Let’s see. You’ve got a pair of yellow ones with the entire cartoon cast of the Smurfs all over it. There’s a white pair with Batman and Robin high-fiving on the
crotch, cruising in the Bat-mobile on the ass. I’ve got a black pair with tiny Underdogs all over it. And there’s a green pair that says GI-Joe across the butt with a
bunch of the dudes everywhere else.”
“Gi-Joe first,” James groans, sweat dripping from his face. “Then the Smurfs. Then Underdog. Then Batman. That was the order any of them came into my life. Just
like that. And hurry-up.”
“Awesome.” I arrange the underwear just how he says to, and go “Okay, whenever you’re ready, just kneel down over each pair and shoot. Just think of four open
mouths, dude. Just think you’re holding a paste gun and topping off four fucking birthday cakes.”
“Right. Birthday cakes,” he slobbers.
“And James.”
“Yeah.”
“Try not to waste too much,” I say dropping on my back again.
“K.” And like that, his stomach sucks in. Rib cage showing. His butt cheeks get even tighter and then:
“Ahhhhh, ahhhhhhhhh!
James goes straight to his knees. He starts shooting his load.
Like a pistol-BAM-he nails the GI-Joe pair.
BAM-He smokes the Smurfs.
With me clapping:
BAM-he takes out Underdog.
Bang! He smokes Batman and Robin.
Then he leans back, bracing himself with his left hand, and I’ve just made rent. With the dough that these four pairs of undies soaked in real come will fetch from
some pedophile on the Internet, I’m set for at least the next three weeks. This is exactly the type of score I needed. This is how I get by. How I’ve always gotten
by.
Grifting.
Scheming.
Planning.
A cute boy once told me that living within your means was simply living without imagination. If there’s a gospel that means anything to me, those words are easily it.
And now I can concentrate fully again on the task at hand. Tomorrow night. Another scratch on the window.
After I’ve placed each individual pair of undies into their own Ziplock bags, I walk into the kitchen and place two in each ice box.
Then I open the drawer right next to the fridge and pull out this huge knife.
It’s time to get rid of the boy. I’ve got too much shit to go over tonight for anymore more distractions.
From the living room, I can hear him getting dressed. Jeans sliding on. Belt fastened. Shoes laced up.
It kinda sucks that I have to do this. Because really, I had a pretty good time with James. I did. It was nice. He made me laugh. And that’s like the best thing ever
for a girl. Somebody who can make them laugh.
I take a deep breath.
This is always the weirdest part of the night.
Jumping back into the living room, I hold the knife above my head like a sword and yell, “Get the fuck out of my building!”
James Morgan jumps like ten feet into the air. I startle the hell out him and yell, “You fucking attack me in my own place! Get the fuck out!”
“What are you doing?” he snaps.
“You attacked me!’
“No I didn’t. I attacked myself.”
“Get out before I call the cops!”
“What the fuck are you trying to do?”
I lunge forward. “Leave before I call the cops and have you arrested!”
James grabs his jean jacket and rushes for the door. Flipping back to me real quick, he goes, “Your boots actually sucked.”
“Get out!” I scream lunging toward him again as gives me the finger and then opens the door and leaves.
I drop to the floor immediately and start laughing.
It’s hysterical.
What an amazing night.
I’m laughing so hard I got tears in my eyes. But then there’s a knock on the door.
Then another knock.
And another knock.
Picking myself off the floor, I regain my composure and yell, “Who is it?”
“James.”
“What did I just tell you, man? Leave.”
“But I forgot something.”
“What?”
“I left my fun powder on your coffee table.”
I snap my head back to the table and there it is. This dude’s cocaine. I threaten to call the police and tell them he attacked me and he comes right back for his coke.
This makes me smile.
What a dedicated user.
I grab his coke and go, “I’m gonna slide it under the door.”
“Whatever. Just give it back.”
“Okay. Here it is.” I push the baggie through the crack in the door.
“Thanks,” he says.
“Your welcome.”
Footsteps down the hallway.
He’s gone.
It’s time to get some work down.
Walking back into the closet, I grab a shoebox and a notebook and sit back down on my futon.
I light a cigarette and pour another glass of wine.
I’m flipping open the notebook when I hear this from outside of my window.
“Everyday I wake up and wish that it was Jewel who died instead of Layne Staley.”
That was James Morgan.
I start laughing as I begin to go over the contents in the shoebox.
The lighter fluid. The perfume bottles filled with gasoline. The pantyhose.
This is my arson kit.
I lift up the blueprints to the Starlight Art Gallery. Tomorrow evening’s target. Beside it is the flyer for the show happening there. The theme of the show is
celebrity oil paintings. Portraits of modern day celebrity’s from existing photos, put to canvas.
Not in my fucking city.
The U.A.P.A. will not stand for this.
Setting the blueprints down beside me, I look over the contents of my kit once again. My little toolbox. Everything I’ll need to make tomorrow night all super
spectacular.
Here I come again, San Francisco.
I have the best time ever.
I really do.
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