It's hot, it's always hot and sticky on nights of any importance. Or maybe that's just how this emotion feels, hot and sticky with desire and need. The bar was loud and smoky and perfect. My hair is large and out of control, there is no amount of pomatum that can smooth it into the waves. The are are moments here, in this place, in between the overly false exuberance and sweat and dancing that I am finally LIVING. There are moments when the demons are asleep.
***
She's at the bar, and she's the only one who has any truth to her. She's not pretty, not really. Her hair is too big and her face is too-well nothing. It's unremarkable. She'll probably have that face, looking just the same until she's an old woman. She's leaning into the music in her chair, not really dancing but leaning all the way in. I think, finally, it's time. She's worth it.
***
There is a man at the end of the bar. He's awkward, and he's watching me. It's wonderful to be noticed, so I take extreme pleasure at being creeped out. He looks like he's never been out of the advanced mathematics field in his life. Maybe, for him, I can be the glamazon the world thinks I should be. I let my fingers trace the mouth of my glass beer bottle, slowly. Maybe it doesn't look sexy. Probably it looks ridiculous. But he's watching. I lean into the bar, thrusting my breasts toward the ceiling in a ridiculously feminized motion, laughing at nothing when the bartender glances over. Now I know I look ridiculous.
***
She's playing to me, I can tell. She's arching her back and letting her too-big hair skim down the back of her neck. This is my moment, if I don't look like a total nerd this could be it. I put my glass down a little too hard and the water with lemon that I ordered earlier spills down the side. It might not be liquid courage, but somehow she beckoning to me without even looking at this end of the bar. I can feel my throat constrict, I'm sure my nerves are showing in my adams apple. I don't plan what I'm doing and all of a sudden I'm in front of her and she's looking up at me, waiting for me to speak.
***
"Buy you a drink?" He's forgotten to say the whole sentence out loud. He doesn't know how to get the bartender's attention, that much is obvious. I order two whiskey sours. I'm not drinking alone. My world is suddenly bright and shining, and he's lost all his awkward tendancies. He's Cary Grant, or Clark Gable, or Humphry Bogart. Electrified, I take his hand.
"Dance," I whisper shout in his ear but I don't have to explain, because we're already halfway to the dance floor.
***
She's become beautiful. She's not a good dancer but she thinks she is, and the whiskey is making me realize that I don't need to worry, this is something I'm good at. I'm good at women. We're spinning and I'm trying to catch the rhythm of her hips but it keeps changing as she rolls and dips with this song that I know. Everyone is watching her and I don't mind, because they're watch me too. Her glory enfolds me and then we are both beautiful. She is the one, this is what I've been waiting for for since I discovered myself in my mother's basement.
***
I think it would be delightful to take him home. I'm not a predator, but he looks like he needs kind word and a kinder hand, and I can give him those things. I've never done this before-taking a man to bed without knowing his name-but it looks to me as if he's never been to bed with a woman so I guess we're even. It's my good deed for the night, and I'll wake up tomorrow morning to revel in the guilt and the shame of it all. We're walking back up the long hill to my house and he is holding my hand. The bar was delightfully warm and throbbing and now this air is perfectly freezing. I need this. I pull him under a street lamp and when we kiss for the first time, I feel every muscle of his body giving in. He is mine.
***
She's beautiful still, standing on the grey-brown linoleum of the mid-century house that she must call home. Her jacket is thrown carelessly on the table piled with old bills and the everyday detritus of pockets. My hands are on her, grabbing her hips, pulling them into mine. When she kisses me it's sour, hinting of the beer she had abandoned in favor of something stronger. We stand there, clutching each other, willing our bodies together through the protective layers of clothing.
"Come with me." It's whispered in my ear and it's too cheesy to be sexy, but it's sweet. She's pulling me into the bedroom that must lie deeper in the house, but I can't help myself as a I slow down.
"I've never done this before." I'm talking to my shoes, but she answers.
"I know. I'll teach you."
I know she will.
***
He's on the bed and straining, he can't get his belt off and his hands are shaking. He doesn't want to pull his pants all the way off for some reason, but he's fumbling with his boxer shorts beneath as if with enough willpower they will just disappear. He's awkward again, not a black and white movie star. I can feel the self loathing creeping back and I will it to stay away for just a few moments more. I prop myself up on my elbows, thrusting my chest toward him in what I'm sure is a ludicrous pose. It works. He stops fumbling and looks at me. Then, he reaches into his pocket. Good, he's brought protection- that saves me an uncomfortable search through the dark.
***
She is here and I am ready. She's leaning up into me, and I know I can't resists much longer or the moment will be lost-I'll explode all over her bedroom and wouldn't that be a scene for her roommates to find. I look down at her and she looks up into my eyes, greedily. Pulling her face into my neck, she nuzzles my ear and whispers,
"Hey, You're amazing!"
It's time. My pocket is empty, but my hand is full. As the knife slides between her ribs she looks momentarily ecstatic, then confused. She dies without fanfair.
She's the one.
She's mine.
My first time.
