A Taste

I keep meaning to post this, but I keep forgetting.

* * * * *

Her broken-in jeans and threadbare shirt, through which he could make out a dark bra, clashed delightfully with his antiseptic decor. "Fancy," she said.

"Yeah," he replied, "fancy."

"Must be nice being rich."

"Indeed it is."

She glanced around the apartment and asked, "Somebody actually lives here?"

He slung his jacket onto his easy chair, threw himself onto its matching slate gray sofa, loosened his tie, and kicked off his wingtips. "I fully intend to ignore your vague insult."

"Nothing vague about it," she told him. "Thanks for letting me stay over."

"Think nothing of it. It's a long cab ride to your place of residence."

"I wish you wouldn't use that kind of language around me."

"Request denied."

She grunted.

He pointed to a hallway. "The bedroom is through there. As I am, if anything, a gentleman, I will sleep out here."

"And if I don't want you to sleep out here?"

"Then you are welcome to use the sofa."

"You are such a doofus." She rolled her eyes. "Got anything to drink here?"

"If you'll recall, I've been sober longer than you've known of me."

"People have been known to change," she said. "You did."

"Not as much as you think." He popped out his gold-plated cufflinks, tossed them into an empty ashtray, and rolled up his sleeves. "Besides, alcohol was responsible for these."

It had been years since she'd seen the scars that ran down the underside of his forearms, and their presence almost seemed to comfort her. "You think it was the liquor that did that?"

"I've chosen to believe so."

"Fair enough," she sighed. "Mind if I have one?"

"Perhaps I should have been more clear regarding the absence of potables in this place."

"I brought my own." Sure enough, there was a stainless-steel flask in her purse. "Got any place to put this?"

"There are highball glasses in the cabinet near the refrigerator."

"I thought you told me you still don't drink."

He shrugged. "I pretend."

"You are so weird." After pouring herself a few fingers of whiskey, she leaned on the counter, as casually as if it belonged to her, and took a long swallow, locking stares with him. They said nothing for what could have been hours until she asked, "Miss it?"

"Every day."

"Still? It's been, what, seven years?"

"In my defense, I enjoyed alcohol a great deal."

"Fair enough." She studied him for a moment. "Remember what it tastes like?"

He frowned in concentration. "No," he replied sadly.

She strutted over to him, taking her time doing so. "Want a reminder?"

"Perhaps I should have been more clear regarding my sobriety."

Propping her knee on the sofa next to him and steadying herself with a hand on his shoulder, she took a deep drink of the whiskey. Her lips brushed against his, and instantly he recognized the sour sting of the rye. He leaned hungrily toward her, but she backed away.

Without a word, she dipped a finger in the glass, traced her lip with it, and kissed him again. Eager for the flavor of the drink and of her, he licked and nibbled, causing her to moan.

"More," he whispered when she pulled away again.

But when she raised the glass, he snatched it from her hand and placed it on the end table behind him, not caring that there was no coaster. Her hand, now free, stroked his cheek, drawing him in.

He brushed a lock of hair from her face. "More," he told her again.

Regeneration X

Part of the reason I love Doctor Who so much is that we have so much in common. We're both dangerously curious, we both find ourselves emotionally invested in a world we barely seem to understand, we're both fashion-challenged, we're easily distracted, and our moods are epically mercurial. But most importantly, we both regenerate.

Throughout my life I have been many different people, and it’s fun to think back on who they are. Since, also like the Doctor, I'm incredibly vain, I thought I'd spend some time some of my favorites over the past twenty-five years, as a means of celebrating my thirty-sixth birthday.

I have to say, I'm pretty excited to find out what my next one will be like...

Pizza Love and Understanding

Here, during National Pizza Party Day, there's enough for everybody to have a slice...

Well, maybe not. PPC Hero does, after all, have a super-appetite.

Copyright © 2007-2012. Hanapin Marketing - used with permission.

LJ Idol, Week 28 Home Game: Walking on Eggshells

The coolest thing about police interrogation rooms anywhere in the country is that they all look exactly like they do in the movies or on TV. There's variety, of course--some have shackles, while others don't, and their sizes differ, but that's really it; they're all decorated with a metal table and plastic aluminum chairs, and they're all lit by unflattering fluorescents. Through the two-way mirror--also a prerequisite--I watched a uniformed policeman enter, legal pad in hand. Tradition dictates that he should have had a file folder as well, but this was the twenty-first century, and paper costs money and trees.

"So your friend in the other room told us the whole story," he said.

"Are we really going to do this?" I asked him.

"Do what?"

"Well, there's no Good Cop with you, and you don't strike me as a Bad Cop, so I guess that makes you Mildly Irritated Cop."

"Shouldn't you be taking this a little more seriously?" he asked.

"Look, Officer..." I squinted at his name-tag. "... Reynolds. Do you know how many times I've done this?"

"A hundred and two."

"Seriously?"

His expression told me nothing.

"That's really cool." I reached into the pocket of my trademark brown leather pea coat and pulled out my notebook and pen, which, for some reason, they hadn't confiscated. "Can I write that down?"

"Be my guest." He clicked his own pen so he could record the upcoming conversation. "Do you know why you're here?"

"Because some guy in a trucker hat got punched in the face."

"And the girl..."

"Don't call her a girl to her face," I interrupted. "She hates that."

"... woman with you, a Lisa Green, states that you were punched in the stomach."

"True."

"Did you happen to see who did it?"

"I did not," I replied. "I'm assuming it was the same guy." It wasn't.

"That seems unlikely."

"The bar was kind of crowded, and my attention was already occupied."

"By what?"

I smirked. "By the ladies. The attention-getting ladies, if you catch my drift."

If he had, he didn't let on. Definitely Irritated Cop. "Why did you volunteer to come in to sign an affidavit then?"

"I didn't," I replied. "My friend did."

"She gave us a description of a white male, age eighteen to thirty-five, dressed in blue jeans and a denim jacket."

"That could be anybody."

He rolled his eyes. "The victim said he didn't know who assaulted him either, so he's not pressing charges." That was probably because he didn't want to admit that a diminutive woman knocked him out with one punch. "That said, between you and me, were you the one who did it?"

I snorted. "If I had, my knuckles would be broken, and he wouldn't have suffered a concussion. I'm a wimp, Officer."

"I see." He jotted that down. "So you think it was your companion?"

"She hits like a girl." Well, a cave girl. Especially when somebody knocks the wind out of me.

"I thought you said she didn't like to be called a girl."

"There's no reason that statement has to leave the room, is there?"

He shook his head.

"Then she hits like a girl."

"Is that a no?"

"That is a 'I can't tell you for certain.'"

He stood and said, "Mr. Fuentes, we don't want to take up anymore of your time." What he meant was that he didn't want me to take up anymore of his time, but calling him on that was a good way to get pepper-spray in my face. "You can go ahead and check out and go your own way."

"Do I need to sign anything?"

"Only whatever Roger gives you when you check out."

"Roger?" I both grinned and frowned. "Is he ever not at that desk?"

"Not as far as I know." Heading for the door, he recommended, "Stay out of trouble, Mr. Fuentes."

That wasn't likely. "Have a nice evening, Officer!"

He grunted.

After I'd been processed, I exited the building, only to be greeted by Lisa, who was leaning against a lamppost, lighting a joint.

"You've got balls of solid steel," I told her, "going into a police station with an eighth of weed in your sock."

"Being here with you after all these years," she replied, "inspired me to act out."

I chuckled. "Why don't we head back to the Village and find ourselves bar without fisticuffs on tap."

She held out her arm, and I wrapped mine around it. "Let's."

A quick train ride later, we wandered the narrow, vibrant streets of my favorite neighborhood in which to drink a lot. While contemplating a well-worn pub, a douchebag in a gray, three-piece suit, a black shirt, a white tie, and a camel-hair overcoat rounded the corner, thus lowering the tone. Something about the way he studied us with his expensive, horn-rimmed glasses and looked away as if we weren't there made me want to break my knuckles on his nose. It didn't help that he was informing his cell phone, "Our business partnership goes into full effect at the start of the next quarter. I suggest that, between then and now, you grant Mr. Franklin sole contact with my company, inasmuch as you can't be trusted to ..."

All of the color drained from Lisa's face. "Wait a fucking minute! I know that asshole's voice!" She then squeaked, "Sean?"

The douchebag turned back around, this time with his eyes wider than I'd ever seen anybody's get. "Fuck me in the ear!" he replied before dropping his phone and running like hell.

"What the fuck was that?" I asked, intending the question for anyone who might be listening.

"Take me home," Lisa replied.

"What... ?" I repeated.

"Take me home now."

Since she was my best friend in the history of the entire world, I obeyed, but not before picking up the discarded cell and pocketing it. I loved myself a good mystery.

OOH! TACOS!

Drawing Back the Curtain

On Cartoonist Day, we get to see who's really in charge.*

Copyright © 2007-2011. Hanapin Marketing - used with permission.

* Hint: it's PPC Hero.

LJ Idol, Week 26 Home Game: Sated

Most pornography is produced by males for a male audience, and therefore it tends to favor male fantasies. Whether we dream of being all powerful or powerless, one thing is for certain--the pleasure is all about us. For example, if a woman suddenly finds herself consumed by an unexpected, libidinous frenzy, porn would dictate that she begin by performing furious fellatio on her partner.

It turns out this is not the case at all. She came four times before I came once. Between that and the weed, she fell immediately to sleep.

Being objectified sexually was something most men didn't really mind, and, Lord knows, I've had a lot of sex with a lot of women who really didn't know much about me. In this real-life porno, however, something seemed off. I existed only to scratch Emma's itch.

I remained in her bed for quite a while, wondering what the hell had just happened, until I finally decided that any thinking could be done better in my own bedroom. All I had to do was find my clothes.

My khakis and underwear were easy; they were dangling, inside-out, from my left ankle. The reason they were hanging there was the same reason I only needed to locate my right boot and sock. My tie, still knotted around my neck, was clenched in her fist. I tugged gently, but it didn't give. I tugged harder, but it still wouldn't give. I yanked, and that caused her to roll over in the other direction, taking my neck with it. Slipping it over my head, I twisted and arched and squirmed my way to freedom.

The condom plopped into her wastebasket before I untangled pulled my pants and pulled them up. I located my missing boot on top of her bureau, my shirt in her half-open closet, and my sock in the tiny hallway outside of her room.

After dressing, I wondered if I should take my boots off to tiptoe over her hardwood floors to her window, but a long, deep snore from the bed informed me that I'd be okay. All the same, I'd prefer a few moments to myself to get my thoughts together, so I crept as softly as I could for the exit.

And then, just before I made it to safety, she began muttering. I froze. My ears strained, until they heard, "Just bark if you need me."

I retrieved my belt from the fire escape and returned home.

Work the next day was tedious, which was just fine with me. Had anything exciting happened, like, say, former child star Julian Glass getting arrested for DUI as he had twice already this month, and had I been stuck standing outside the courthouse with all of the other alleged journalists, our tape recorders and notebooks in hand, I likely would have snapped.

Every inch of the news floor sensed my frustration and confusion, and all stayed away, except for Bill, who didn't know the meaning of the word couth. He said, "You look like someone beat the hell out of you last night. And you look like you kind of enjoyed it."

I enjoyed it a lot, actually.

That evening, I knocked on her door the instant I'd made it to our floor. When she didn't answer, I tried again fifteen minutes later, and again after another twenty minutes. After the fourth attempt, I gave up and headed to my room.

During the immeasurable amount of time lying on my mattress, staring at the ceiling, I'd completely forgotten that my favorite way to alleviate boredom and stress was smoking weed. When that factoid came back to me, I headed immediately to the fire escape, reaching for my pipe and matches; I mean, if there ever was a time for getting thoroughly baked, this was it.

On second thought, if there was ever a time for not getting thoroughly baked, this was it.

I had nearly made it outside when a barely audible shuffle rattled from the wall. My legs propelled me to her door, upon which my knuckles rapped.

She answered immediately, my tie in her hand-- exactly where I'd left it. "Here for this?"

"Yeah."

We both alternated between looking at each other, looking at the floor, and looking at the ceiling. Finally, I coughed out, "We should talk."

She sighed and beckoned me inside.

We shared a long, anxious moment until she spoke up. "I don't know where to start."

"I'll go," I said, choosing my words carefully. "I have serious, serious opinions... beliefs, actually... about taking advantage of someone under the influence of... you know... anything."

"I know!" she moaned. "I'm so sorry!"

"I know!" I moaned. "I'm..." I frowned. "Did you just apologize to me?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Because I came here to apologize to you."

"For what?"

"For taking advantage of you."

She laughed. "Dude, wasn't I the one who tore all your clothes off?"

"Yeah, but you were under the influence."

"So were you."

"I'm a professional," I told her. "You smoke, and you turn into this lust-crazed monster. That's what I took advantage of."

She paced back and forth, to compose her thoughts. "You're saying I was so strung out that I would have fucked anything, and you just happened to be there?"

"I wouldn't have phrased it quite like that."

She sighed. "Dude, if it were anyone else, I probably would have just run away and played with my toys."

"Really."

"Maybe not anyone else, but you catch my drift."

"Oh." I asked, "So what does that mean, exactly?"

"Dude," she replied, "let's not turn this into a thing. Let's just chalk it up to a bad night."

"I don't know if I'd call that bad."

She grinned a crooked grin and pushed a cinnamon curl behind her ear. "How about 'poor judgment'?"

"Close enough." We simultaneously sighed, letting the air out of our shoulders. "I should probably go then," I said.

"Yeah, dude," she replied, "you probably should."