Chapter 8
Waking up in a place that’s not yours is always slightly disorienting. My eyes open to sunlight streaming through sheer purple curtains and to a clothes-cluttered bedroom. Last night, Dee and I talked some more after going inside her apartment. Turns out, she didn’t have sex with the homeboy. She said he spent the majority of their time at her apartment on the phone with a friend. Idiot. She asked me if it would’ve bothered me if she had—my answer was yes. But . . . I would’ve gotten over it.
I slip on a pair of boxers, then I follow the smell of bacon and the sound of music to the kitchen. Dee stands at the stove with her back to me, singing along to “Beneath Your Beautiful” that pours out from the stereo, which is mounted below her cabinet.
Her voice is adorably bad—off-key and screechy—like a mating cat’s. Her reddish-blond hair is pinned up with chopsticks—still color-streaked from last night—and the only piece of clothing she’s wearing is my button-down, blue shirt. As the song ends, I applaud.
She spins around, spatula in hand. “Morning.”
“Nice shirt.”
She shrugs. “Since I was making you breakfast, I decided to go full fledged cliché and wear it.”
I step up close and plant a sweet kiss on her lips. She smiles, shyly. “Are you hungry?”
“Starved.”
Dee hands me two glasses of orange juice and grabs a platter of bacon and scrambled eggs from the counter. We sit at her small, two-chaired dining table and dig in.
“This is good,” I comment.
“Organic turkey bacon. It’s like crack. One taste, you’ll never do pork again.”
As we eat, I take the opportunity to check out her place. Before, I was much too preoccupied with making her moan. It’s neater than I expected, and eclectic. A red recliner whose fabric has seen better days is stationed next to a round, mosaic-topped table, adjacent to a comfy looking beige couch with a soft, brown blanket thrown across the back. Floral pillows of all shapes are scattered around, and a tall lamp with a beaded fringe shade stands in the corner. Just a few picture frames decorate the walls—one is of Delores, standing next to a thin woman with similar hair color, who I assume is her mother. Another is of Dee, at about thirteen, with one arm around the shoulders of a braces-adorned Kate Brooks, and the other arm around a brown-haired boy, who must be Dee’s cousin. All three are wearing roller skates.
I swallow a forkful of mouthwatering eggs and ask, “What are you doing today?”
“I have to hit up the farmers’ market in Brooklyn . . . but otherwise, nothing.”
“Do you want to hang out?”
“Okay.”
“We’ll swing by my place so I can shower, and I have to make one quick stop, but after, I thought we could go to Central Park?”
The beauty of living in the city is there’s always something to do. Even if your ass is sitting on a park bench and you’re feeding the pigeons, it feels like you’re doing something.
“Sounds good. I’ll get dressed.”
Thirty minutes later, Dee’s freshly showered and walking out of her building with her hair in a bun, wearing a silver, strapless shirt, black leather pants, and tiger patterned high heels. Luckily, my illegally parked motorcycle didn’t get ticketed or towed. Dee gazes at the bike appreciatively. She runs her hand over the seat and it reminds me of how she ran her hand over my stomach, inching lower and lower. I pick up her hand and kiss her palm. “Don’t stroke it like that unless you mean it.”
She reaches up on her toes and whispers in my ear, “I always mean it.”
I pull a cap helmet out of the pack on the back of my bike and place it on Dee’s head, buckling it under her chin. She’s the perfect mixture of sensual and adorable, sexy and cute—I could eat her out right here on the street.
She climbs on my motorcycle and winks. “Take me for a ride, Matthew.”
I rev the engine. “Hold on tight.”
Not every girl is cut out for riding on a motorcycle. One or two have clutched me so tight they left nail marks and cut off feeling to my extremities. Another time, a chick didn’t grip strong enough—was too busy “wooting” and waving her hands in the air—and she almost gave me a heart attack when she went sailing off the back. Thankfully, she wasn’t harmed. Dee squeezes me just right—one arm around my waist, her other hand on my thigh, the splendid feel of her tits pressed against my back and her chin on my shoulder blade.
I’ll gladly give her one long ride after another. Both kinds.
After we arrive at my building, we park in the private deck and head to the lobby. Delores admires the impressive architecture while I retrieve my mail from the box. When we walk into my apartment, I tell Dee to make herself at home and hop in the shower. After I’m dry, I slip on a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt. Leaving it unbuttoned for the moment, I walk back to the living room in search of Delores. She’s staring out the picture window.
“I think I’m going to call you ‘Upper West Side’ from now on,” she tells me with a grin.
“But ‘God’ is much more accurate.”
She moves to the bookcase. “These are great pictures.” She’s looking at one I took of Mackenzie last year, blowing a kiss at the camera. The lighting brought out the brilliance of her baby blues.
“That’s Mackenzie,” I explain. “The niece I told you about Wednesday night . . . who’s technically not.” I point to another picture beside it. “And that’s my parents.” It’s a black and white—my mother looks blissfully clueless, my father grumpily oblivious; their everyday expressions.
I pull out my camera bag, making sure I have extra film, checking the lenses.
“Do you have a darkroom?” she asks.
“I do, actually.”
A look appears in her eyes that I’m beginning to grow familiar with—one that says she’s turned on. “Will you show it to me?”
I put the camera down and raise my arm. “Right this way.”
Officially, it’s a walk-in closet, but windowless and large enough for a shelf of chemicals and a table with a row of developing trays. The lighting is low of course, with a sepia-tinted hue. I close the door behind us, as Delores looks around. And that feeling of playing seven minutes in heaven when I was thirteen washes over me. But heaven, back then, was never this beautiful.
Dee’s eyes rake over me from head to toe. “Do you have any idea how sexy this is, Matthew?”
“A little bit,” I admit.
She presses up against me and my back hits the closed door. Dee kisses my chin, then scrapes it with her teeth. “Will you take my picture sometime?” She bends her knees and slides down my torso, her warm hands leaving a trail of heat as they skim my chest and stomach.
I swallow hard. “I will definitely be taking your picture.”
She peppers my stomach with soft kisses. “We’ll be like a modern day Jack and Rose from Titanic.”
Breathing heavy now, I say, “Jack was a p-ssy. If I were him, I would’ve tied Rose up, gagged her, and tossed her ass in a life boat. Then I would’ve gotten in after her.” I’d like to point out that if Rose had just done what the hell Jack told her to, they both would’ve survived.
Dee wets her lips with her tongue and slides my jeans down over my hips, freeing my already aching dick. She wraps her small hand around the base, pumping slowly. “Until you take those photographs of me, and develop them here, I want you to think about this the next time you’re in this room.”
Still stroking the base, she covers the tip with her lips, sucking gently and flicking it with her tongue. I lean more weight against the door—my knees going weak. She removes her mouth, peels the foreskin back, and takes me fully in.
And I can’t help but moan. “Fuuuck.”
Her mouth is hot and wet and so tight, bright dots appear in the darkness of my closed lids. Slowly she increases the suction of her mouth, the speed of her rubbing palm—my hand buries in her hair and tightens.
Dee hums around me, and I beg, “Faster . . .” She grants my request and her head bobs quicker, dragging me closer with every pass of her mouth. I pant. “Dee . . . yes . . . gonna come . . .” She sucks me even tighter, and then I’m coming, groaning raggedly, gripping her hair in my fist—trying not to pull. As soon as she releases me, I sink all the way to the floor, breathing like I completed the New York marathon.
I reach for Delores—pull her up against my chest. I kiss her nose, both cheeks, and finally her mouth, thoroughly. “I’ll remember that for a long, long time.”
“Mission accomplished.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
I take my helmet off and lock it onto my motorcycle. “No, I’m serious.”
Dee hasn’t gotten off the bike. “I’ll wait out here, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Come on—it’s halfway over already—I just have to drop off my envelope.”
“Have you never heard the saying, ‘As nervous as a whore in Church’?”
“Knock it off with the self-deprecating comments. If that’s the standard, I should be sweating bullets. Let’s go.”
“Do I have to drink blood?”
“Only if you’re baptized.”
If you haven’t figured it out yet, we’re at St. Mary’s church. It’s Sunday—and on Sunday, I go to church, even if it’s only for the tail-end of the mass. I have a deeply held belief that something terrible will happen if I don’t.
Twelve years of Catholic school will do that to you.
I drag Dee into the vestibule. She steps carefully, like she’s walking into a haunted house.
A suited, gray-haired gentleman comes through the double doors carrying a brimming collection basket. Perfect timing. I slip my envelope in and bow my head as the priest’s voice echoes through the speakers from the main chamber, working up to the final blessing. Dee watches, copying my stance as she stands beside me. Before the priest is finished, a commotion of clattering feet coming up the stairs from the basement draws my attention. Through the side door, Sister Beatrice Dugan steps into the antechamber with a dozen Sunday school students in two lines behind her.
Sister B was my first sexual experience. Well . . . my first self-sexual experience. She was all of our firsts—the closest Drew and I have ever come to a three-way.
Wait, that last part is gross, forget I said that.
Anyway, puberty is a confusing time for a boy. Having a f*ck-hot teacher who happens to be a nun made it more confusing. I got carried away when I first discovered the joys of masturbation. Unfortunately, I didn’t just “choke the chicken”—I literally strangled the sucker. That’s how, at thirteen years old, I ended up diagnosed with CPS—Chafed Penis Syndrome. I don’t need to elaborate on that do I?
My mother may have bought into the doctor’s explanation that my CPS was caused by keeping a wet bathing suit on too long, but my father sure as hell didn’t. In one of our more tender conversations, he told me spanking the monkey was nothing to be ashamed of, that it was like electricity—God wouldn’t have given it to us if he didn’t want us to use it. But, like all things, moderation was key. I calmed down after that chat, and was able to engage in regular self-pleasure, without inflicting injury.
Sister B quiets the giggling kids with a look. Then with an Irish lilt that time hasn’t diminished, she says, “Matthew—how are you, m’boy?”
“Right as rain, Sister B.”
“Right as rain and yet still late for Mass? Tsk-tsk.”
I shrug. “Better late than never.”
She smiles. “I suppose you’re right, though offering a few Our Fathers as you pray for punctuality may be in order. I saw your parents at the early mass; they’re looking grand as always.”
I nod. Then I turn to Dee and say, “Delores, this is Sister Beatrice, my grade school teacher. Sister B, this is Delores Warren.”
Sister B greets her. “Pleased to meet you.”
Dee waves. “Hi.”
Sister Beatrice’s brow wrinkles. “You look uncomfortable, m’dear. Why is that?”
Dee fidgets. “I just . . . I’m not Catholic. Not even a little.”
Sister B pats her shoulder, and in a hushed voice tells her, “That’s quite all right. Neither was Jesus.”
When we get to Central Park, I take out my camera and get a few great shots of Dee by the fountain. I take some more nature-themed pictures of the leaves as they’re blowing down from the trees. Then Delores and I lay next to each other on a blanket, on a grassy patch, heated by the warm sun of the fall afternoon. And we trade questions—the random, inappropriate kind that are always fun and a great way to get to know a person.
“Have you ever been arrested?” Dee asks me as she plays with the buttons on my flannel shirt.
“Not yet. You?”
She smiles. “Arrested, but never convicted.” Then she tells me about the time she, her cousin, and Kate got caught breaking into their local roller-skating rink after hours and had to be brought home by the town sheriff. Her mother wasn’t thrilled.
“Have you ever had sex in a public place?” I ask, partially because I’m curious . . . and partially for future reference.
“Mmm . . . public place, yes—but I don’t think anyone actually saw us.”
I run my fingers through her hair, the sunlight accentuating the red highlights, making it more fiery than golden.
“Have you ever had sex on your motorcycle?” she asks. And I hope that’s for future reference too.
“Yes. It’s not as easy as you’d think. But, it’s something everybody should try at least once.” Then I ask, “What’s your favorite color? And how do you take your coffee?”
“I don’t have a favorite color—it changes, depending on my mood. And I don’t drink coffee. I try and stay away from caffeine, it’s bad for your skin.”
Dee is a foodie. She mentioned going to the farmers’ market in Brooklyn later, to stock up on fennel and lemongrass and some other shit I’ve only heard of in gourmet restaurants where presentation is more important than taste. That’s not my idea of a great meal. But she swears her homemade granola doesn’t taste anything like rabbit food.
“Is everyone in your family devout Catholics?”
I chuckle. “Devout is kind of a strong word, but we all go to church.” I think about it a little more, then say, “Well, all of us except Drew. Besides weddings and baptisms, he hasn’t willingly stepped inside a church since we were kids.”
She turns on her stomach, resting her chin on my chest. “What made him the black sheep? Did he find a six-six-six tattoo on his scalp or something?”
I smile, because I’m sure several of our ordained teachers held that very same opinion about him.
“No. Drew and God had a falling out when we were about ten years old. That was the year Steven’s mother, Janey, was diagnosed with breast cancer. The parents sat us all down, told us she was sick, that she’d be getting treatment from the doctors, and that we had to pray as hard as we could that the treatment would work.
“Drew didn’t take the news well. He couldn’t understand why, with all the dickheads in the world, God had to afflict someone as nice as Janey with a terminal illness. Anyway, she did chemo and eventually went into remission. But when we were in high school, the cancer came back hard and she was gone within a few months. She was the first person I knew who died. By the time I was born, my grandparents were long gone. My aunts and uncles are still around, but Janey went at age thirty-nine, which, even as a kid, seemed young to me.”
Delores’s mouth turns down in sympathy.
“But the real kicker came at her funeral. Steven’s father, George, was just wrecked. And, unfortunately, useless. That left all the heavy lifting to Steven. He made the big decisions, he played host to the guests at the three-day wake. He was sixteen years old—Alexandra and he had started dating a few months before Janey passed.”
I watch a flock of three sparrows, flying with precise synchronization as I continue the trek down memory lane.
“So, on the day of the funeral and burial, there’s an early viewing—just for immediate family. Steven wanted to be there first, to have some private time with his mom. Drew and I went with him for moral support. And the priest at St. Mary’s at the time was Father Gerald—he was a real old-school, arrogant, prick of a priest, you know? He comes in where the three of us are sitting, and he tells Steven his mother died because she wasn’t pure. That if she had been holier, God would have saved her. Then he said her death was also a sign of our lack of faith. That if we had believed more, God would have answered our prayers.”
Dee’s mouth falls open. “That’s terrible. What did Steven say?”
“Nothing. He was too shocked, too grief-stricken to say anything. Drew, on the other hand, has always been quick with a comeback. So he gets up, gets right in Father Gerald’s ugly face and says, ‘F*ck you, Father, and the donkey you rode in on. Isn’t there an altar boy somewhere you should be trying to ply with sacrificial wine, so you can get laid?’?”
The corners of Dee’s mouth turn up. “The more I hear about this Drew guy, the more I’m starting to like him.”
I nod. “Father Gerald turns, like, frigging purple and is just about ready to smack Drew a good one when John, Anne, George, and my parents come in. So Gerald holds off, only to try and get Drew booted out of school the next day. He said if he didn’t apologize, he’d have him expelled. Although John didn’t like what the priest had said, he leaned on Drew to apologize for being disrespectful. But he wouldn’t give—refused to say sorry to such ‘an evil f*ck.’
“And then, Anne started to cry. She sobbed about how if Drew got expelled it would ruin his life, and where did she go wrong. That’s when Drew caved—’cause he just couldn’t handle making his mother cry.
“He wrote a letter of apology to Father Gerald and jumped through every hoop the old bastard gave him for penance. That’s why Drew can quote the Bible—word for word—because Gerald made him copy it, down to the last punctuation mark, every day after school. Anyway, by the time his punishment was lifted, Drew was convinced Catholicism was just a racket and that God doesn’t give a shit about any of us.”
Dee tilts her head and regards me thoughtfully. Then she asks, “But you don’t believe that?”
“No, I don’t. I asked Sister Beatrice if what Father Gerald had said was true. That if we had had more faith, would God have answered our prayers.”
“What did she say?” Dee asks.
In my best Irish accent, I reply, “She said, ‘Matthew, m’boy, the Lord answers every prayer . . . but sometimes, the answer is no.’?”
Dee thinks that over for a moment. Then she says, “Well . . . that kind of sucks.”
I grin. “That’s what I said too.”
Then I wonder aloud, “What about you? Did you grow up religious?”
“Yeah, you could say that. My mother’s always been a spiritual grazer. A taste of Mormonism here, a scrap of Protestant there, but nothing ever stuck. She was interested in Kabala way before Madonna made it all the rage. These days she’s into Buddhism—worked out well for Tina Turner.”
It’s late afternoon by the time we walk back to my bike. I put the folded blanket and camera in the hard-top compartment. And the scent of fresh chili dogs from the sidewalk cart reaches my nose, making my stomach growl. I take out my wallet and ask Dee, “You want one?”
She looks at the hot dog like it’s a loaded gun. “Ah . . . no. I prefer to live past the age of fifty, thanks.”
I order mine with extra chili, then respond, “The sidewalk hot dog is New York.” The same could be said for a slice of pizza.
“The sidewalk hot dog is a heart attack in a bun. Do you know how many nitrates are in that?”
“That’s what makes it taste so good. You know, for someone who claims to be all ‘carpe diem,’ you’ve got a lot of hang-ups.”
She caves. “Okay, fine . . .” She tells the vendor, “One please.”
“You want chili?” I ask.
“Sure. Go big or go home, right?”
I smile. “I like the way you think.”
We stand next to my bike eating our dogs. When Dee is done with hers, a dab of sauce lingers on her chin. Instead of telling her, I take care of it with my mouth.
“Mmm . . .” I smack my lips. “Tastes even better on you.”
She laughs. It’s a great sound.
Our last stop of the day is the farmers’ market in Brooklyn. She was limited by what could fit in the Ducati’s pack, but Dee said having me around for the trip was worth the second trek she’d have to make later in the week. I help her carry the groceries into her apartment, and I’m about to ask her out to dinner when she wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me full on the mouth.
Dinner can f*cking wait.
I drop the bags on the floor and go right for her ass. Gripping and kneading, her black pants a thin but annoying barrier. Her hands bury in my hair while I lift her and wrap her legs around my waist, giving my rigid cock the contact it craves. I suck on her bottom lip as her hands massage my shoulders, relaxing warmth spreading from her fingertips. I scrape my teeth along her jaw and swing us around, pressing Dee’s back against the refrigerator. She moans as our hips rub and grind.
We’re both panting hard as I nibble on her neck. Then she moans, “Matthew . . . Matthew, I need . . .”
My lips move against her hot skin. “God, me too . . .”
“I’m . . .”
The next thing I know, Dee pulls out of my grasp and shoves me on my ass in her haste to run down the hall. I lay on the floor, breathing heavy, trying to process what the hell just happened—when the unmistakable sound of upchucking emanates from the bathroom.
Bet you weren’t expecting that, huh? Makes two of us.
My stomach rolls as I walk down the hall—the sounds of Dee’s sickness making me really f*cking queasy. I brace a hand on the doorframe. “Are you all right?”
She sits in front of the toilet, a tissue covering her lips, her eyes closed.
“Do I sound all right, genius?”
“No.”
She moans . . . in the not-awesome kind of way. “You and your stupid chili dogs. I think they were bad.”
Like any accused man, I launch a defense. “They weren’t bad. If they were bad, I’d . . .” And I can’t even finish the sentence. Because heat closes in on my face, and my stomach twists around on itself, and I’m diving for the plastic wastepaper basket in the corner.
Which just makes Dee vomit more.
And I think of Lardass and the Barf-o-rama story from Stand by Me. And I’d probably laugh at the entire situation, if I didn’t feel so frigging awful.
Eventually, we crawl into the bed and lay next to each other—me stretched out, Dee in the fetal position.
“This is all your fault,” Dee whimpers.
“You’re right. You’re so right.”
“I hate you. No—I don’t mean that, I like you so much. I think I’m dying, Matthew.”
“You’re not dying. But I might be dying.”
Even though we’re naturally stronger than women, it’s common knowledge that men are ten times more affected by illness. Just ask your husband or your boyfriend.
Dee opens the drawer of her nightstand, jostling the bed as she pulls something out.
“What are you doing?” I groan. “Stop moving.” It’s the first time in my life that I’ve ever said that to a girl.
“I’m writing a note to Katie to have you f*cking arrested for manslaughter if I die . . . and the hot dog man as an accomplice.”
“You’re a cold woman, Delores.”
“Better you learn that now,” Dee says, even as she moves closer to me. I rub soothing circles on her back until she rolls over and takes my hand in hers. And we stay like that until we both fall asleep.