The Patsy
a novel by
Glenn Donovan
Chapter 1
Art walked out into the warm October night aggravated with himself for popping off at that supercilious asshole, Hong. Fuck him, he thought to himself. Hong was one of the people Art didn’t have to take shit from in his life –and there was a long list of people he did have to take shit from so why shouldn’t he put him in his place?. Hong was one of those covert assholes, taking subtle, indirect shots at you, but then he acts like a virgin getting felt up for the first time when he’s called on it. No, it wasn’t about Hong. What bothered him was that he knew that he was the one who looked like a jerk – not Hong. Who cares, he told himself, trying to calm down. It will all be forgotten – probably was already by now. But still, he had that regretful, embarrassed feeling that he hated. It resided in his stomach and just kept him uneasy, playing back the stupid scene in his head. Art realized that he had a pretty good buzz on, too, which probably hadn’t helped. The combination of a workout and four Scotches in less than a half an hour will do that to you, he thought. Art pressed the button on his key chain and heard the “boop, boop” unlocking the car. He slid into the BMW 540 and grinned to himself, as he had done each time since he’d purchased it a few months ago. This was a fucking car, he thought to himself. He’d traded up from a Maxima to this, and now he knew why people bought luxury cars. The solid thud of the closing door, the immediate reaction to his turn of the ignition key, the leather under his ass – it was sweet. Whoever said money couldn’t make you happy was probably poor, he thought to himself as he pulled out of the Saw Mill Athletic club. It was 10:49 and Art thought, well, it wouldn’t hurt to stop into the Whitehorse for a quick one. See who’s around. He was supposed to go by Gina’s, but she wouldn’t mind if he was a little late. She didn’t seem to mind whatever he did. What an easy-going chick she was. She loved sex, had a body like a stripper and she didn’t need commitment. Art thought it was a perfect situation about half the time and the rest of the time he knew there had to be something more.
Art opened the window as he pulled out of the parking and kicked on the sound system, selecting the sixth CD in the ten disc changer, via remote control. He always thought this a little odd – a remote control for a car stereo. The CD player was in the trunk so it kind of made sense. It was just that everything was so technological and this just always struck him as over the top. Ahh fuck it, he thought to himself – why does little shit bother me so much? The angry words of Trent Reznor began to echo through his head. Nine Inch Nails, Pretty Hate Machine. Art pressed the accelerator down and let his thoughts go. Of course, they returned to her, Michelle. Divorced and separated for almost four years now and still he couldn’t get her out of his mind. It wasn’t love any more. It was either anger or guilt mostly now. Tonight it was anger. He’d just heard from his lawyer. It seems Michelle wanted more money. She just couldn’t stand to see him improve his lot in life at all, could she? It was all about the fucking options. Art had been awarded five thousand options to purchase Sequent stock at nineteen dollars per share when he joined Sequent. They accrued to him over a five year period, with the first fifth available after his first year and then the rest in even chunks quarterly. During the property settlement, his wife insisted he pay her out then and there for fifty percent of the then current value of the options, which was about fifty two grand. So he gave up his half of the equity in the house which had covered it.. Two years later, fortune had turned in Art’s direction for once. He’d had stock option awards in the past from other companies which ended up being worthless, but in the past two years, Sequent’s stock had split and had traded up substantially. He’d ended up executing his current grant of six thousand options, struck at nine dollars and fifty cents while the stock was trading at seventy dollars. This netted Art three hundred and fifty thousand after fees and commissions. He’d put one hundred grand down on his condo. He still had to take out a two hundred and fifty thousand dollar mortgage and between taxes, insurance and common fees he still wrote a check for over twenty four hundred dollars each month. But at least he had a nice three bedroom condo with a garage and a fireplace. Better than the shit-hole studio apartment he’d been living in for the almost four years since he moved out of his four bedroom house. Another fifty grand on furniture – not buying nearly as much as he’d thought fifty grand would buy, but definitely nice. After the college funds totaling sixty grand for Ashley and David that he’d started, he’d barely had enough left to pay the taxes which his accountant estimated were due on the income. Now Michelle wanted fifty percent of the part he’d just realized(minus the fifty two grand he’d already paid in the home equity) and was taking him back to court for it. She’d used her right as the custodial parent to make Art disclose his income and discovered this recent windfall and had jumped on him immediately. That attorney of hers was a cunt. How many lives had that woman ruined? Well, at least he didn’t have to pay her legal fees this time around. And this time he would fight. His lawyer told him that he had a good chance of defeating this move – just before he asked for a five grand retainer. Michelle just couldn’t stand seeing him do well. Wasn’t nineteen hundred a month enough? She had moved on to a guy who worked nine to five and wasn’t obsessed with his job. He was a union carpenter with a steady gig at IBM. He only made about sixty grand a year, but that’s the trade off that she made. Somehow, it still seemed that she felt like she was entitled to a share of his lifestyle. Art was sure she’d done pretty well with the house over the past 4 years – she’d probably made as much in equity as she was seeking from him. Why wasn’t Art entitled to half of that? I’m gonna ask my fucking lawyer about that, Art thought. The Whitehorse bar appeared briefly in his headlights as he pulled into the parking lot. He realized that he was just upsetting himself thinking about all this crap and told himself that everything was fine., and that thinking about it wouldn’t change it.
The Whitehorse was Art’s kind of bar – a dive, possessing all the features of a bar Art favored. When you walked in, the bar went straight down the right wall, tables on the left and a pool table in back. The jukebox was surprisingly good with a great mix of classic rock and all the new metal, pop and techno you could want to hear when you were obliterated, but most importantly, it wasn’t patronized by a bunch of punk ass corporate types. Art parked and walked quickly to the door. He wanted a drink and was dying for a cigarette. He never smoked in front of the tennis crew, it wasn’t allowed in the club anyway. He hoped Lisa was working tonight. He walked in the door, and took a seat about midway down the bar. Lisa was down at the end, talking to some chick with big hair and a fat ass packed into black jeans that were way too tight. Art looked down the bar at Lisa and smiled. She glanced up at him for a moment and then turned back to the fat-assed chick to continue her conversation. Art tried to appear nonchalant, looking around the rest of the bar. Big Anthony was up at the end, drunk to the point of speechlessness. There were a few guys watching Monday night football. Art glanced back at Lisa.
She looked back at him, and said “Art, cool your fuckin’ jets, I’ll be with you in a minute”. Her tone of voice stung Art. He could never catch a break in this place.
He decided to retaliate, “Take your time Lisa, I wouldn’t want to interrupt your active social life with bar tending.” The second he said it, he sunk down further on his stool, regretting that he’d taken the bait.
Seconds later Lisa sauntered up the bar saying, “Scotch, Art?”.
Art replied, “Yeah, make it a double. And how ‘bout a pack of Marlboro Lights?”. Lisa nodded, reached under the bar and tossed a pack of cigarettes on the bar. She proceeded to pull the Dewars down from the middle shelf on the wall, threw half a handful of ice in a highball glass and filled the glass within a quarter of an inch of the brim with Scotch. Art greedily grabbed the glass and took a long pull from it. The familiar burn and taste were like an old friend. Art couldn’t get enough of Scotch lately. It seemed that the only time he could relax was after about six scotches and he wanted to get there fast.
Lisa looked at him wryly and asked, “What’s up your ass tonight?” Lisa knew people. She could read them fast. Troublemakers were shown the door quickly and when a friend needed a kind ear she could lend it, although Art was not convinced that she liked most people. It was clear that she was mixed about Art. She was nice to him because he was a regular and tipped well, but at the same time she seemed to dislike him on a visceral level. Like a dog that doesn’t like a stranger, minus the bark.
Art responded, “My fucking ex-wife. She won’t be happy until she sucks the last drop of blood from me.” Art tapped the package of cigarettes on the palm of his hand, packing the tobacco. He unwrapped them, took one out and Lisa offered a light. Sort of like a peace pipe, a gesture signifying a truce. Art gladly took it, flashing a self conscious smile and then drew deeply on the cigarette.
“Between the job, getting my ass whipped in tennis again and her, I’m not exactly having a great day”.
Lisa nodded and looked at him. “Well, if it’s any help, I’m having a crap day too. Business is off, the principal called about Marty today, and I’ve got my period.” Art grinned at this.
“Sad lot, aren’t we?”, he quipped. Lisa looked down at the floor and walked off towards her friend again to pick up where she’d left off.
Art was distracted by a roar from the Monday night football crowd. More like the remnants of one, actually. How could people get so excited about a game they weren’t playing, Art thought. And he’d given up pretending he gave a shit about it too. For years he’d kept track of football because sports are a sort of ‘lingua franca’ amongst men, and Art had wanted to fit in. He didn’t bother any more. One might say he’d seen the limitations of fitting in. No, it was more like he’d become bored with it. He didn’t really like jocks or jock ‘wannabe’s’ anyway, so why bother connecting with them? Art favored witty conversation with intelligent people. Although he often found them people timid and boring, and he always felt like they looked down at him. He never really fit in anywhere. That really summed up how Art felt at this moment. The foundation of it was a knot in the pit of his stomach that never really went away. It just sort of changed frequency depending upon his environs. Right now he was so uncomfortable that his ass was sweating profusely. He’d finished his tennis game over an hour ago, so he was cooled down from that. No, this was the particularly intense sense of discontentment that Art often felt sitting alone in a bar. The knowledge that none of the people in this bar liked him was matched by his disdain for them. ‘How do I feel’, isn’t that what the fucking therapist had asked him to focus on? Answer –A sense of foreboding hung over him, so hopeless and alone, but subtle –like the opposite of a buzz from a good drug, like ecstasy. Shit, enough of this self absorbed crap!!
Art grabbed his drink and drained it. He set it down on the bar hard enough so Lisa would notice, but not too hard. Lisa turned her head towards Art and arched her eyebrows quizzically. Art knew this was her way of connecting with him – both asking if he wanted another round and acknowledging that he was more than just a customer. She walked up the bar towards Art with a peculiar grace and sexiness that Art found irresistible. The kind of woman that you wanted to fuck in the men’s room drunk, at two thirty in the morning in a shit-hole bar. It wasn’t that Lisa was sleazy, it was that she didn’t play any of those stupid games that most women played. She didn’t try to act coy or coquettish. She didn’t act like a slut either. She was just very self possessed – even when she was falling apart.
As she set the Dewars down in front of Art she said, “What are you looking at? Do I have a third eye in the middle of my forehead?” For a moment Art considered answering her truthfully, but he’d learned over the years that people really didn’t want to hear what he was thinking. They usually looked at him like he was nuts when he told them.
Art replied, “Sorry, I was just wondering what was going on with Marty at school?”. Nice recovery, he thought.
Lisa explained, “He got in another fight. You know, he’s got too much of his asshole father in him I’m afraid. This time he just about knocked out a kid two years older than him. The principal said he ran up to him and bashed him in the head from behind with a book.” She half smiled as she finished the sentence.
Yeah, it’s real hard to see where he gets it from, Art thought. This was probably the way she looked when the ‘asshole father’, started a bar fight. Art wasn’t up for playing amateur psychoanalyst tonight, so he just assented to her view with a nod, saying, “The apple can’t roll too far from the tree. Don’t be too hard on him. Lot’s of kids grow out of that kind of shit”. Art had been pretty scrappy as a kid but hadn’t had an actual fight in years. His gift of bullshit and the ability to put aside his pride and run in fear had guaranteed that. Art picked up the scotch and his cigarettes and headed back to the pool table.
A game was underway between a local biker-type, Pete, and some unknown kid who might be barely twenty two if he was a day old. The kid was attempting to bank the five cross-side and was eying the shot very carefully. Art paused at the threshold of the back room so as not to disrupt his concentration, but after a minute or so Art went in and sat down anyway. Distracted, the kid looked up and glared at Art for moment before settling down to further examine the shot, which as far as Art could tell hadn’t changed any in the past minute or two. Art studiously ignored him and shot a glance with a smirk at Pete. Art had played pool with Pete many times and they treated each other with a certain respect. Not anything approaching friendship, it was more like an acknowledgment between two pool players who take the game seriously, play well and respect the rules of the game. This kid was breaking one of the rules of the game – pace. Pace was very important in bar pool. We weren’t in a tournament here – in fact in tournaments he would be disqualified because there is a time limit between shots.
Pete glowered at the kid and said, “Take your fucking shot, for Christ’s sake. I don’t have all night here.” Maybe that’s another reason Art liked Pete. He had the balls to tell a little piss-ant like this kid where to get off whereas Art would never have said that, but was definitely thinking it. The kid looked up at Pete and visibly wilted. Pete was about 6’2” and weighed 230 at least. Pete was a landscaper – lawns in the summer, plowing in the winter. Besides the fact that his late thirties face was weathered from years of biking, boozing and working outdoors, Pete also had the dead eyes of someone who would just as soon whack you in the head with a pool cue as buy you a beer. It all depended on how you acted with him. This toughness was not apparent in the easy way that Pete greeted Art.
“Hey man, you here to lose your money again?” jokingly as Pete knew that Art beat him nine times out of ten. The kid finally took the shot and it miraculously went in, but off the eleven ball.
Pete asked him, “Did you call the kiss?”
The kid responded, “Don’t have to call kisses, just the pocket.”
Pete’s gaze bored into him like a jackhammer, “Kid, you ever play here before? Don’t say that you have, because I’ve never seen you here and this is my bar. So let me tell you that you call everything in this bar. Even the kisses.”
The kid visibly shaken, countered , “Fine, I’ll play next game that way.”
Pete grimaced at this last remark. He watched as the kid then painstakingly settled himself in to line up another shot. This shot was virtually impossible. He was blocked against the rail and had no clear shot at any of the solid balls. It was a clear case for a “safe shot” in which the idea is to have the object ball move to the rail at a minimum and to position the cue ball badly for your opponent so he has no shot. And it is also considered courtesy, particularly in bar pool, to not labor over this kind of shot, and even less so when there is someone waiting for the next game. All of this was lost on the kid.
Well, Pete was done with this punk. Art settled into his chair as Pete slammed his cue down on top of the kids cue and onto the table. It was done so quickly that the cue was snatched from the kids hands and he was left empty handed with his mouth agape. Pete’s face had become dark red and several veins were visible on his balding forehead.
He ordered, in a stern but controlled voice, “Kid, you’d better get the fuck out of here right now before I beat you like a bad puppy. Why don’t you take your ass and your crappy game to Boston Billiards or some other place where the pussies like you play? NOW!!.”
The kid was standing completely still. He was obviously pondering what to do. You could see that he wanted to mix it up with Pete but had already figured out that he was going to regret it. His pride showed in the way his face turned almost pink.
Pete said, “Fine, have it your way.” He brought the cue back, cocking himself, ready to swing it and took a step towards the kid.
Art stood up at that moment and said, “Hold it, Pete. Give the kid a chance to leave first.”
The kid looked at Art and said, “Who said I was gonna leave, and who the fuck are you?”
Pete took another step around the pool table towards the kid.
Art quickly stepped up to the kid, grabbed him by the forearm and pulled him towards the front of the bar. “You’re about to get the beating of your life, asshole. I’m the guy who’s trying to spare you from that.”
With that, the kid pulled his forearm loose forcefully and swung a hay maker left towards Art’s head. Art ducked the punch by dropping into a crouch and then exploded up into the kid’s midsection with his right shoulder, lifting him off his feet and slamming him onto a table. Pete ran up and grabbed the kid by his hair, pulled him out from under Art and began to drag him across the floor towards the door. Art backed off. Fuck him, he thought. If he wants a beating, Pete’s just the guy to give it to him.
As Pete crossed over into the front room of the bar, Lisa came running around her fat-assed friend at the end of the bar, yelling.
“Pete, you leave that fucking kid alone or your gonna be spending the night in jail.”
“Just puttin’ out the trash, Lisa, no need to bother yourself with this.” He continued to drag the kid, now by his shirt which was starting to rip. The kid was half walking, trying desperately to get his feet under him – but Pete was moving too fast. Pete strode quickly towards to front door, opened it and dragged and then pushed the kid out the door. The kid slammed into a cement post which supported the front overhang that stretched to length of the shopping center. He fell, got back up and started screaming at Pete. Pete began to turn to head back in, stopped and wheeled back to face the kid.
“O.K. kid, now that whining cunt can’t save you.” At that he charged the kid. The kid got off a punch but was then smothered in a half nelson. Pete administered the choke hold with his left hand and punched the kid in the face five times in quick succession with his right hand. Pete then released the half nelson and dropped the kid to the ground while the kid held his hands to his face screaming. Pete took half a step back and kicked the kid full force in the belly. The blow actually lifted him up off the ground and sent him sprawling onto the asphalt that made up the strip mall parking lot. Art was watching from the door and could see the kid’s body heaving up and down. Probably crying he thought. He felt bad for the kid, but he’d clearly asked for it. And if he was going to survive in the bar scene, he’d better learn how to act at a pool table. Pete whirled around, his adrenaline still pumping and strode back towards the door.
Inside the bar, Lisa began to yell at Pete. “What the fuck is wrong with you? He’s just some stupid kid. What, you didn’t like the way he played pool?”
Art interjected, “No Lisa, he took a swing at me and Pete finished what the little shit started.
I’d say he got off light.” Art turned and looked at Pete for encouragement.
Pete laughed, “Shit, it was nothing. Just a little too much testosterone. The kid was long on balls, short on brains. He’ll go home and tell his friends about the two guys he took on tonight. Fuck her Art, she don’t understand. Lisa, you callin’ the cops? If you are, I’m out of here. Otherwise, let’s play some pool Art.”
Lisa watched, sputtering as Pete turned and walked back towards the pool table. Art let out a laugh[gdonovan1] , more like a giggle watching how this frustrated Lisa.
Lisa whirled on him, “What are you laughing at? You’re worse than him. You can’t even finish your own fights.”
For the second time tonight, Lisa had hit Art where it hurts. He immediately retorted, “Is that what you’re teaching Marty, to finish his own fights? Sounds like that’s working just fine for him.” Art headed towards the back of the bar. Pete was already racking the balls. Art picked up his scotch and knocked back the remains. His heart was racing and he was already regretting what he’d said to Lisa. She really brought out the best in him. Art looked down at his shoes and suddenly remembered that Gina was expecting him. It was 11:35. She would still be glad to see him if he left quickly.
He looked over at Pete and said, “Hey, I gotta go. Pussy’s waiting.”
Pete acknowledged this, saying “Man’s gotta have his priorities. Do me a favor, throw her one for me, okay?”
Art laughed and said, “Shit, at my age, I’ve only got one to throw. Say, do you have any herb? This chick loves herb. I tell you, she’s crazy when she’s straight, but when she’s high, she’s like a porn star with no gag reflex!!”
Pete laughed at with this comment and said, “Sure, I’m sellin’ if you’re buyin’. Let’s head out to my car.” Pete was a pot dealer as well. Art didn’t know the extent of Pete’s dealing, but he always had pot to sell when he asked. They headed out to the front room of the bar, and were met with Lisa’s stare of disgust.
Art went up to her, looked back at Pete and said, “How ‘bout a Jameson’s for the road?”. Pete nodded. Art turned back to Lisa and said, “Two shots of Jameson and I’ll settle up with you, too.”
Lisa didn’t move for a moment, and then slowly got up, heading for the Jameson bottle which Art knew was at the other end of the bar. She came back, dropped two shot glasses on the bar and looked at Art then Pete.
“You two are like the fucking odd couple. Pete makes you feel tough, Art, and Art makes you feel straight, Pete. A match made in hell.” She said as she poured the Irish whiskey into the shot glasses.
Pete moved to the bar next to Art, grabbed his shot and said, “Here’s to swimmin’ with bow legged women.” They both downed their shots in one gulp. Art settled the tab and they headed out the door.
The night had cooled a bit, maybe high fifties now, the sky cloudless, all in all a perfect night. Art walked out besides Pete towards his Mustang. It was a mint’72 fastback. It had a Holley four barrel carb, nice wheels and glass pack mufflers. Pet had said one time that ‘it ran like a raped ape and sounded good too’.
Pete motioned at Art, pointing towards the passenger side of the car and said, “Get in.” Art plopped into the passenger seat, leaving the door open. “Close the fucking door. Do you want everyone to see our business?” Art closed the door and the dome light went off. Art sat back as Pete rummaged under the seat. He came up with a Ziploc bag rolled up to the size of a cruller.
“Sweet ass Sensimillia. Hydroponically grown by my compadre’s in Vermont.” Pete crooned.
Art said, “As long as it’s not that skunk shit like last time. Not only did it taste bad, but I was totally paranoid on that shit.”
Pete looked at Art querulously and asked, “When the fuck aren’t you paranoid? It’s that shirt and tie shit you do. It makes you that way. Always having to worry about how you look and whose ass to kiss. Fuck it, I’d be paranoid too.”
Art laughed at this although inside he was pissed. At least I’m not some loser cutting lawns and selling pot he thought.
“Let’s fire some up right here, that fuckin’ kid was a buzz kill anyway.”
Art said, “Sounds good to me.”
Pete turned on the radio. Metallica was playing. He changed to a classic rock station which was playing Kansas. Art hated this crap when it came out and it didn’t get any better with time, but didn’t say anything. Pete began to pack a pipe.
“This shit is way too sticky to roll up. You got a pipe?” Pete asked.
Art didn’t but he thought Gina had a bong. Fuck it, Art could roll it if he had to. He didn’t need consulting advice from fucking Pete on how to get high.
Art said, “Yeah. Come on, fire it up. I gotta get to my lady.”
Pete lit the pipe, drew on it and passed it to Art. Art took a long toke. Too long. He coughed. His throat was burning because the smoke was so hot from the short pipe. Pete must have just cleaned it because it drew very easily. Art didn’t mind this though. Even though his eyes were watering and he was choking to keep from coughing more, he knew this was the best way to a fast buzz. He struggled to hold the smoke in, just like he did in high school, hold it until the smoke was gone he told himself. His throat cooled down and he finally exhaled.
Pete broke out laughing. “You fucking kill me. You smoke this shit like it’s the last bud on earth.”
Art didn’t care. The hit was rushing through his brain and he could feel the buzz come over him like a cloud, a very nice cloud. Art laughed at this. He always knew how to make a buzz blow his mind. This was some very good shit, he realized. He looked at Pete and asked, “How much?”
“One hundred twenty five for a quarter ounce.”
“Fuck. That’s steep. Jesus, remember when we were kids and an ounce of Colombian was forty bucks?”
“Forty bucks get’s you two buds”, Pete responded. He was all business now.
“O.K., I’ll take a quarter.”
“Cool”, Pete said. The money and pot were exchanged and Art got out of the car. “G’night. Thanks for the buzz.” Art said as he closed Pete’s car door. The Mustang roared to life and Pete’s tires squealed as he headed out of the parking lot.
”Boop, boop”, Art slid into the BM’er and fired it up. Not the throaty roar of the Mustang, but he’d take on Pete any day in this ride. The stereo came on very loud and Art turned it down. The digital clock caught his eye and it said 12:01. Fuck, I’d better call Gina. He hit the hands free button on the steering column which muted the stereo and said “Gina”. The phone rang and after three rings Gina answered.
“Hey, baby, what are you wearing?” Art asked.
“Flannel.” Gina replied sounding a little pissed, and then paused. Art knew she was trying to stay made at him but she couldn’t . He just waited her out another moment and then she continued, knowing as soon as she did her anger had passed. “Where are you? Are you coming over?” she asked.
“I’m on my way right now and I’ve got a surprise for you.” Art taunted. Gina loved surprises and Art surprised her regularly with jewelry or pot or lingerie.
“I’ve got a surprise for you too”, she said in the dirty-cute voice that only she could pull off. Gina was so smitten with Art that she seemed to find anything Art did sexy.
“And what would that be, Gina?”, Art asked.
“I did a little shopping today, and I’m lying here in the most gorgeous thong and thigh highs. I’d almost given up on you tonight. I’m glad you’re coming over. What have you got for me?”
“Some totally mind blowing Sensimillia.”, Art responded. “Really smooth, funky assed dope.”, Art added. Gina giggled at this. Art said, “I’ll be there in five minutes. Be ready for me.”
“I’m always ready for you. See you in five”, Gina said.
Art ended the call with another button on the steering wheel and Trent Reznor’s voice again flooded the car. “Head like a hole, black as your soul, I’d rather die than give you control”, Trent screamed. Did Trent know his ex-wife, he wondered? Art laughed out loud. “Fuck you bitch”, he screamed as he tore down Central Avenue at seventy five miles an hour.
Art made it to Gina’s in less than five minutes. “Boop,boop”. He took the steps two at a time up to her apartment. His foot slipped off of the top step and he almost fell on his face, just catching himself by the rail with his left hand. Art realized that he was pretty fucked up, but who cares he thought? Certainly not that fucking bitch Michelle!! She was asleep with another man, with his kids in the house he’d bought her. Didn’t he deserve some fucking pleasure? He’d get it too, with Gina. He didn’t have to beg or cajole her to have sex. She never treated him like some loser. No, he’d never put up with the shit Michelle put him through again, even if that meant he’d be single for the rest of his life. He tried to clear his mind as he rang her doorbell. The only complaint Gina ever had about him was that he talked about his ex-wife too much. Art had really been trying to stop this. She had every right to be bothered by this and he was definitely working on it. He could never explain to her how he felt about Michelle anyway. Gina had never been married. Shit, she was twenty five years old. She’d only moved out of her parent’s house a year ago.
Art rang the bell again. She must have heard it. He tried the handle and it was unlocked. He entered the apartment which was dark except for the flicker of a candle in the kitchen to the right. Gina must have been feeling especially playful tonight. He walked into the living room and there were candles everywhere. And there was Gina, lying on a comforter she had laid out on the floor.
Gina was a truly beautiful woman. With dirty blonde hair, shoulder length, blue eyes and a great body she was a sight to behold in the candlelight. Her face had this simple beauty, her smile was like that of a child. She was all of one hundred and two pounds and five foot three inches tall. Her perky B cup tits were capped by pink nipples like candies on little cakes.
Art loved Gina’s tits. Her nipples had those little indents in the middle that he found so sexy. and they were erect right now. Her tight stomach was attached to pneumatic hips and an ass that turned heads whenever she wore something tight-fitting. As advertised, she was wearing thigh high stockings and a beautiful lacy, sheer black thong.
Art was instantly aroused. He dropped to his hands and knees and crawled over to her, snorting like an animal. She giggled. Their eyes met as he moved closer and Gina’s eyes bored into him intensely, and he felt guilty for a moment. He pushed this feeling aside and kissed her passionately, pulling her close to him from head to toe. He couldn’t maintain the eye contact for too long, it made him uncomfortable.
He pulled away and said, “You are so fucking sexy. It’s so good to see you.”
She looked at him with that unreserved openness that she had and said, “Just wait. I’ll make you feel even better when you get those pants off.” She grabbed the waist of the warm up
pants he had on and began to tug them down.
Art stopped her, saying “I’m sweaty and smelly, I should take a quick shower”.
Gina put her nose to Art’s neck and pulled back, saying “You win. I like you clean, you taste better that way.”
Art pulled the pot out of his pocket, dropped it on the blanket and got up saying, “You’re gonna like this stuff. Why don’t you catch up while I shower? I’ve already got a good buzz on. I’ll be right back.” He bent down to kiss her again and then floated back to the bathroom.
Inside the bathroom, he turned on the water making it very hot, then stripped down and stepped into the shower. A bit too hot, he adjusted it till it was just right. He washed his body as fast as he could. When he stopped washing, he just stood under the water for a moment with his eyes closed.. The beating of the water on his head thrummed through his consciousness. It was pretty foggy inside of Art right now and he tried to clear his head a bit. The steam and heat seemed to be fucking him up more. He thought to himself, there is a sweet, beautiful woman who is crazy about you in the next room. Why can’t I care about her? He’d heard a comic once describe his love for a woman as the “kind of love that goes away when you’re not in the room.”. Is that how he felt about Gina?
Ugh. Art realized he was doing it again. Over-analyzing. Why not just enjoy it and stop worrying about what’s going on? All the worrying does is make me miserable. Art realized he was done with his shower and that he was wasting time that he could be spending with Gina. He turned off the water, dried himself off and headed back to the living room naked.
Gina had just released a bong hit and the smell of the pot was delicious. Art sat down and began to pack a hit for himself. Gina watched Art do this.
“I made your drink”, she said pointing to the glass at by the chair. So she had, he thought. He brought the bong up to his lips and lit the pipe and drew gently. It was an art, maximizing the buzz from a bong hit. Art drew the smoke into the chamber, watching it settle to the bottom in a thicker and thicker haze. He held his finger over the ‘carburetor’ (the hole which regulated the intake of air into the chamber) and pulled on the pipe until the hit was burnt out in the bowl. He took the bong away from his lips and covered the top with is hand, holding most of the smoke inside the pipe. He exhaled and then drew in the smoke that had cooled in the chamber of the bong. He held it for what must have been close to a minute and then exhaled. Hardly any smoke came out. Art noticed that Gina was staring at him with a mild look of disbelief on her face.
Art asked, “What?”.
Gina said, “The way you smoke pot, it’s like you’re an efficiency expert or something. I mean, you held in that bong hit till no smoke came out. It’s kind of weird.”
Art didn’t really care what she thought because at that moment an incredible head rush was overtaking his consciousness. After a long moment, he focused back on Gina. Was she sexy or what, Art thought. Laying there with her thigh highs and thong. Art leaned towards her and kissed her on the lips. Her mouth immediately opened to his tongue. They kissed for a long time. As soon as he felt her tongue on his, he began to get hard. Gina’s hand slid down to his dick which she began to rub gently. Art’s mouth moved to Gina’s neck, then down to those incredible tits. He could feel Gina arch her back up towards him as he rolled her nipples around his tongue, alternately sucking and licking them. He looked up at Gina and her eyes were closed, her head thrust back in passion. He knew exactly how to play her, he thought. This part of their relationship worked perfectly. Too bad he didn’t love her.
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