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Different.

by Maria on January 17, 2010

in Dance, Dance, Write of Passage

“Are you married, PopTart?” he asked.

“I’m only 18.” I answered.

“Mmm, marry me?” he moaned, grabbing my thighs, causing me to stumble towards him, catching myself on his shoulders. He planted wet kisses along my abdomen, along the hem of my bikini bottoms. I laughed, and ran my fingers through his thick, white hair.

“I’m a bit young for you, don’t you think?” I whispered, picking his face up and looking into his pretty grey eyes.

“Hey,” he said, looking hurt, playfully. “I’m not as old as you think. “This” – he pointed to his hair – “is premature. Started when I was in college. How old do you think  I am?”

“Ummm, 45?”

“Ouch!” he exclaimed, clutching a fist to his chest. “Close, but no cigar, PopTart. I’m 37.”

“And you don’t think that’s too old?”

He grabbed my hand and pulled me down, placing it on his cock, which was hard and swollen.

“Not where it matters.” he whispered into my ear. I squeezed the base and he whimpered. “Marry me.” he repeated.

“You know, Max, I get the impression that you’re already married.” I said as I started to stroke, gently, giving him the friction of just a few fingers.

“How come?” he breathed, tucking my hair over my shoulder and fingering my neck.

“You just…you have an eagerness that the single guys who come in here don’t. Like, I’m an escape. You’re invested in the time you spend here, you obviously look forward to it. It’s not casual. For the married ones, the unhappily married ones, it’s never casual.”

Max sat back on the couch and looked at me, eyes narrowed, hands on his thighs. I released him and stood back.

“You’re perceptive.” was all he said. I had offended him. I had said too much. When was I going to learn that my tendency to over share, to be too honest and forthcoming was not a good thing in this job? I searched inside of my mind for a way to repair the damage – he was one of my best regulars, I made more in one session with him than most other girls made in a day – a week even. He’d already paid my rent for the month, and we hadn’t gotten started yet. I couldn’t think of a remedy, so I told him the truth.

“I don’t mind.”

“You don’t mind what?”

“It not being casual.”

“Mmm. Why’s that?”

“Because, when it’s casual, I feel like a piece of meat. I mean, I am a piece of meat, but it’s funny how being nothing to a guy except a pair of soft hands can make you feel unfulfilled, in comparison to the men that come in and see me as a whole person. Even if I’m just a whole whore.”

He sat up abruptly, frowning, and placed a hand on my hip. “You’re not a whore.”

I had found my way back in. I milked it. “Yes I am. I understand that, I’m alright with it. Someone has to do it, right?” I laughed, making sure it came across as pained and conflicted. I looked up at him with puppy dog eyes, holding them open longer than comfortable to make them water and pursing out my bottom lip ever so slightly.

He pulled me down onto his lap, and I clasped my arms around his neck. For the first time in all of our time together he ignored my breasts in his face, and looked only into my eyes. “You’re not a whore, PopTart. You’re a woman. A woman who’s not afraid of how beautiful she is, but knows how much more she is than that.” He ran his fingertips up the small of my back, and I felt the sincerity of his words in his touch.

“Okay.” I said softly, and I kissed him.

I had never kissed a customer before.

#5.
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Listening to: Radiohead – Nude

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My Resolve.

by Maria on January 17, 2010

in The Ex, Write of Passage

“I think I’m gonna be sad,
I think it’s today, yeah.
The girl that’s driving me mad
Is going away.

She’s got a ticket to ride,
She’s got a ticket to ride,
She’s got a ticket to ride,
But she don’t care.

She said that living with me
Was bringing her down yeah.
She would never be free
When I was around.

She’s got a ticket to ride,
She’s got a ticket to ride,
She’s got a ticket to ride,
But she don’t care.

I don’t know why she’s ridin’ so high,
She ought to think twice,
She ought to do right by me.
Before she gets to saying goodbye,
She ought to think twice,
She ought to do right by me.

I think I’m gonna be sad,
I think it’s today yeah.
The girl that’s driving me mad
Is going away, yeah.

She’s got a ticket to ride,
She’s got a ticket to ride,
She’s got a ticket to ride,
But she don’t care.

I don’t know why she’s ridin’ so high,
She ought to think twice,
She ought to do right by me.
Before she gets to saying goodbye,
She ought to think twice,
She ought to do right by me
.
She heard that living with me,
Was bringing her down, yeah.
She would never be free
When I was around.

Ah, she’s got a ticket to ride,
She’s got a ticket to ride,
She’s got a ticket to ride,
But she don’t care.

My baby don’t care, my baby don’t care.
My baby don’t care, my baby don’t care.
My baby don’t care. ”

- Ticket To Ride, The Beatles

I closed the door, completely I thought. I was wrong. The foundation had settled over the years, lopsided, being built on sand. The door frame was contorted and getting the lock to hitch itself into place proved itself harder than originally believed. I walked by the door, to the old house, all the time, glancing at it, wondering what was behind it now, if it was still the same, but never wanting to take a peek.

One day I walked by, looked up, and it was open. Just a crack, but still – open. I couldn’t not go back in but I couldn’t go back in. I stood halfway in, halfway out, for months. I tried to figure out what I should do. It was so comfortable there, in my old home. It felt safe, I knew what to expect in there. Outside, out where I was, it was frightening.

Looking around inside the house, it was impossible to not see all of the reasons why I’d moved to begin with. That shaky foundation. The floor was cracked, splits ran up the walls, paint peeled, broken glass scattered the floor, already littered with dead flowers and blood stains. Towards the back, from my one footed stance at the door, I could see a light. It was warm and bright and inviting. I wasn’t sure what it was. I was curious. If I was willing to make my way through the rubble of the uninhabitable, I would find out.

I wasn’t willing: it wasn’t worth it. I stepped back out and turned away. Out here, where I am, it was – it is – warm and bright and inviting. I can see where the light originates. I closed the door again, realizing that the house would never stop beckoning me back, never stop shifting and opening that door again. So I started to hammer nails into it each time I walked by. I hammered them in with so much force, so much resolve, that the wood splintered, the heads disappearing almost completely inside of it.

It’s not opening again.

#4.

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The Gift.

by Maria on January 17, 2010

in Write of Passage

Thinking back, they were the most hideous shoes I’d ever seen. They were shaped like tortoises, black, with thick white soles and turquoise shoelaces, fuchsia lightning bolts etched on the sides. Who in their right mind would have worn them is beyond me.

Back then, they were the most amazing shoes I’d ever seen. Mailed all the way from California, from my mom, for my birthday. It was the first time she’d ever sent me anything, and I was elated. She’d remembered that year. My grandmother wouldn’t let me try them on until I’d opened my other gifts. I tore through them, barely paying attention,  and flopped down onto the kitchen floor and started to lace them. I rushed, with such excitement, and I could barely get the strings through holes.

When I did, I shoved my right foot into one and was horrified to find that they were too small. I squeezed and pushed and forced my foot, my huge foot, my much too long for my body foot into the shoe until it was on completely. My toes were crumpled together in the front, my arch was bent to its max and unable to settle down on the sole. I did the same with the other foot, and stood. My grandfather asked how they fit and I blurted out FINE! as he knelt down to test them for growing room with his thick fingers. I stepped back, gingerly, as my feet were already burning with pain. I walked, carefully, around the kitchen attempting to convince them that all was well. My grandfather ordered me back over to him and immediately announced that my shoes were much too tight. I argued, but he held up his hand to silence me.

I took them off and my grandmother called my mom, who said she’d ship another pair as soon as they mailed those back to her. She apologized to me, wished me a happy birthday, and promised to send me shoes that fit.My grandmother and I sent them off the two sizes too small sneakers at the post office the very next morning. My mother never sent me that other pair.

#3.

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The Lunch Box

by Maria on January 10, 2010

in Write of Passage

I sat with Katie and Christina at the blue table and they were my very best friends. I didn’t have very many, being as the class I was in had a very small number of students – 12. They used to fight in the bathroom sometimes, over who was more my best friend. The day that Christina and I came to class wearing the same coordinated outfit (a white tank top and white shorts with big fuchsia polka dots), Katie didn’t speak to either of us for the rest of the week.

This day, all of us wore different things, and we were getting along fine. In P.E. we had practiced running the mile for the President’s Physical Fitness test and we were tired and famished. “Stupid presidents and their stupid fitness tests. Girls can’t do pullups and climb ropes.” Katie huffed and puffed. “María could” Christina retorted. Katie didn’t say anything but looked sullen as she started opening her milk carton. “Only climb the rope. And one pullup.” I offered. My grandfather had built me a jungle gym in our backyard when I was in California for the summer as a surprise and I’d developed quite the upper body strength over the past few months. Katie still frowned as she she drank, pulling the carton down and revealing a chocolate mustache. She saw me looking at it and wiped it away with the back of her wrist.

My grandmother had packed my lunch that day, but I wasn’t sure what she’d given me. Probably fried bologna I complained to myself. My lunch box was plastic, yellow with a fading Charlie Brown scene painted on the front. It came with a thermos, which I opened first, happy to find apple juice, still cold. I poured some into the lid of my thermos which was also a cup and pushed it aside. I had a bunch of grapes, some with their stems still attached, of the red seedless variety. My sandwich was peanut butter and grape jelly, on whole wheat, and some plain Lay’s potato chips were in a small bag underneath it. What did I have to do to get my grandmother to buy some chips with flavor? I really wanted to try those sour cream and onion ones, but, all in all this was a good lunch.

We ate in silence, waiting for Katie to lift herself out of her mood since Christina and I had learned that it was impossible for either of us to do so.I finished my food messily and rabidly. By the time I was finished I had crumbs all over my shirt and peanut butter spread over my chin. Christina finished her cafeteria spaghetti, or as much of it as she was willing to stomach. The class was lining up to go back alreadyso we decided to leave Katie where she was, still poking her fork in her pizza, eating only the little cubes of pepperoni off of the top.

She was standing behind us soon enough, smiling from ear to ear because Jonathan Crutchfield asked her if he could have her sugar cookie and their fingers touched when she handed it to him.

#2.

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Embarrassed

by Maria on January 10, 2010

in Write of Passage

I was 12, and I loved him. I loved him so much, in that awkward stage between woman and child. My breasts had just started developing, and I was being noticed by boys for more than my curly hair and my big ears. It was a magical time in my life. I wanted him to the be the first one to touch them, see them. Well, besides Javier, but Javier didn’t count – he groped them without permission in class one day, and I punched him in the arm.

I hated New York, but I loved it. I was used to North Carolina, to mild winters and quiet nights, people who spoke with warm twangs and comforting colloquialisms. New York was bitter, there were no smiles or salutations to strangers, the ‘children’ weren’t really children at all. They traded their parents’ porn in the hallways at my middle school, smoked real cigarettes instead of just pretending they were with empty fingertips and their warm breath against cold air. It was terrifying, and it was invigorating.

I loved that New York boy. He lived down the street from me, and he and his friends would play curb ball outside of my house. I would sit in my living room window and watch them, out of sight. Not that it mattered, they never looked in my direction, even when I was out in the open. They were too cool for the little bony girl with broad shoulders and big feet. They hadn’t noticed my new tits. I wanted them to. To notice me. And my tits.

The day after one particularly heavy snowfall, I heard the sharp bring! of a basketball hitting cement, over and over and new that a new game of curb ball had just began. I was prepared, I was going to be seen today. I was already dressed, in the tightest jeans I had, which weren’t actually tight, just too small for me after my latest hormone induced growth spurt, and a clingy shirt. I slipped on my mother’s heeled snow boots and my black coat, checking my hair in the mirror and prancing delicately out of the door and down the stairs.

I worked my way over to them, this little brown girl attempting to saunter like a grown woman and failing miserably at it. They didn’t look away from their game. I was almost across the street, to the opposite side of where the love of my life was standing, almost directly in his line of sight. And I slipped. The sole of my mother’s boot made contact with the slick black ice on the asphalt, and I went flying. In a second, I was spread eagle, on my back. I looked as if I were attempting to make snow angels where there was no ice.

“Daayuummm!” came the exclamations from the curb ball boys. I closed my eyes, too slow to attempt to play it off, too embarrassed to think of anything else to do but just lay there. I opened my eyes to find my love leaning over me. His long lashes fluttered as he blinked at me. “You aiight?” he asked. Before I could answer, he decided I was and walked away, continuing his game with his friends.

I lifted myself up out of the road when I heard a car round the corner. I wanted to die, but I wasn’t brave enough to do it that way. I figured jumping out of that window I spied on them from so often in the past would be quicker.

#1.

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