…THAT BIT ME
Calvin Court is a massage therapist with a few secrets. He battles depression. He medicates with too much booze…and he’s got the hots for one of his clients.
Good thing is, the feeling is mutual.
Bad thing is, in order to get the girl, Calvin will have to submerge himself into an underground industry of such depravity his already dark mind won’t even know where to begin.
Maybe he’s just better off at the bar.
From Jeff Menapace, author of the acclaimed Bad Games trilogy, comes Hair of the Bitch, a dark and disturbing thriller with tongue firmly planted in cheek…until it’s ripped out.
Table of Contents
PART ONE: Knight in Shining Armor
1
2
3
4
PART TWO: The Freak
5
6
7
8
PART THREE: For Your Viewing Pleasure
9
10
11
12
PART FOUR: Paul
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
PART FIVE: First Gig
20
21
22
23
24
25
PART SIX: What Number Am I?
26
27
28
29
30
PART SEVEN: Fishing, Anyone?
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
PART EIGHT: The Tooth Shall Set You Free
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
PART NINE: Mr. John
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
PART TEN: Casualties
59
60
61
62
63
About The Author
Other Works by Jeff Menapace
Author’s note
Copyright
HAIR OF THE BITCH
Jeff Menapace
2014
The Bar
I enter the bar—a dive—just before closing. I need to get drunk.
The place is empty save for a bartender wiping down the counter with his back to me. He calls over his shoulder: “Already did last call. Sorry about—”
He turns and my face cuts him off. I place a hundred dollar bill on the bar and slide it towards him.
“That’s yours if you lock the door and get me drunk,” I say.
The bartender looks at the hundred, then back at me. He’s about sixty, heavy, salt and pepper hair.
“You alright, man?” he asks.
I pull another hundred and place it on the bar. “Door locked; me drunk. Yes or no?”
The guy takes the two bills, ducks out from behind the bar, locks the front door, draws the shades, then ducks back under the bar to face me.
“What’ll you have?” he asks.
“One glass and one bottle of Jim Beam.”
“Ice?”
“No.”
He gets the bottle and glass and sets them in front of me. “What happened to you, man? You look really busted-up.”
“Thank you.”
“Is…is your ear…?”
“Gone? Yes.”
“Jesus.” He fills the glass with Beam and sets the bottle next to it.
I finish the drink in three gulps. He fills my glass again.
I take a sip and say, “Why don’t you grab a glass?”
He shows me his palms. “No thanks—gotta clean-up after.”
I place another hundred on the bar. “Have a drink with me.”
He doesn’t take the bill immediately. “You sure you’re alright, man? There’s not going to be any trouble is there?”
I chuckle, and my whole body aches. I then finish my second Beam, pour myself a third, and say, “No sir—no trouble. Just offering you a drink.”
He slides the third bill off the bar, stuffs it quickly into his pocket as though we’ve just completed some kind of drug deal, then pours himself a small Beam with ice.
“Cheers,” I say, raising my glass.
He clinks my glass and takes a modest sip.
The whiskey is beginning to warm my belly, fuzz my head, and I’m on the verge of entering the Fuck It stage.
So I finish my third, pour a healthy fourth, pull the curtain and greet the audience with a bow on the infinitely trodden boards of Fuck It, and then start talking to this poor guy as though he wants me to.
PART ONE
Knight in Shining Armor
1
Philadelphia Suburbs
I arrived at work and immediately checked my client list.
No.
No.
Yes. She was my last one.
Sound desperate? I’m not. But when you rub naked bodies for a living, you occasionally pine for a star amongst the usual cast of extras.
And Angela Thorne was a supernova.
Let me reiterate; I am not some creepy massage therapist aching to touch beautiful women. In fact, to prove my point, I wouldn’t be so eager to massage Angela if she hadn’t been the one to start the ball rolling some six months ago.
During those six months of sessions, it had been innocent flirting with an erotic quip peppered in here and there. Harmless stuff, but good stuff—an hour that can often feel like a week never went so fast.
Now, Angela was not the first client to ever make a pass at me. Massage can be a sensual art; if you’re in the field long enough, it’s only a matter of time before the more brazen clientele test their chances, some of them damn fine. And yet, I always respectfully declined. Why? I don’t know. Maybe it’s that whole thing about the fantasy being better, never giving real life a chance to do its real-life thing and mar that fantasy.
Or maybe I needed a few drinks first.
With a few (or preferably, many) drinks in me, anything was possible. I will openly admit that for some time alcohol has steered my twenty-nine-year-old life and given me the necessary lifts that no antidepressant could ever match. But alas, those lifts were always fleeting. Fleeting, and habitually accompanied by the inevitable drop below rock-bottom come morning.
Come morning when flashbacks of the previous night’s debauchery eventually came together and burned my face with shameful recall.
Come morning when the poison thumped my head, leaked nausea from my pores, and frequently jammed an invisible finger down my throat.
Come morning when the depression I didn’t think capable of getting worse somehow managed to plummet further still.
But did that stop me from doing it again?
As soon as the hangover and memories of a deeper blue faded, that siren song in a bottle that forecasted zero chance of inhibition would seduce me all over again. And so what? I would defiantly proclaim to the only ear willing, no, wanting to listen ("only ear" a prophetic pun I would regrettably exhibit). So what? It made me feel wonderful, if only for a short, deceitful time, and it stopped all the goddamn voices in my head.
Wait. That’s not right.
When I say voices, I’m not talking Son of Sam shit, like I’m receiving homicid
al advice from a dog. I’m talking about thoughts. A continuous loop of negativity, reminding me who I am, and what I am. Thoughts of inadequacy and self-loathing that bring my depression further south.
The paradox is that I’ve been told I give off an admirable appearance to others. I’m no stud or anything (especially not looking the way I do now), but I’m tall, reasonably fit, and on my less-miserable days I would say an above-average face stares back at me in the mirror.
I’m also a good bull-shitter. Not a con-man or anything like that, just able to convince people that my head is filled with optimism as opposed to razor shards from half-empty glasses.
The problem is that it’s hard to be “on” all the time. Being a little blue periodically is one thing, but being riddled with feelings of inadequacy 24/7 while your shell tries to portray a different story to the public without cracking? It takes a toll on you. And what does that toll end up costing?
Numbness. You become numb. Act the part long enough, and soon you forget who you are. How to feel.
And that was me. Numb. Numb and…disturbed? Is disturbed the right word? How to explain. Okay, here’s a start: I don’t like people. In fact, with the exception of a rare few, I must confess an actual disgust for the human race, and, more often than not, I have morbid and violent thoughts playing over and over in my head…
The Bar
The bartender sets down his drink and takes a step back. I smile what must be a gruesome smile and assure him all is well. He doesn’t look assured. I sigh and dig for another hundred, lay it on the bar. He eyes it like it’s some kind of rare artifact. I remind him I said the word “was”—I was numb and disturbed. I then promise him I’m not anymore (at least not numb—disturbed, no question).
He eventually takes the money, again quick and cautious like it’s a drug deal.
I smile the gruesome smile again, notice his drink is near empty, pick up the bottle, and gesture a refill towards his glass. He accepts.
I tell him again that all is well and that I’ve had enough trouble for a zillion lifetimes, so he needn’t worry. As my story progresses he will no doubt grow cagier; the content of my tale will become so sensationally fucked-up and absurd that he will figure me for a drunk (probably, I am) who is embellishing events in his pickled mind (unfortunately, I won’t be), or just flat-out lying (again, unfortunately, I won’t be).
But this is a good thing. I don’t want this guy freaking out halfway through and calling the police or pulling a shotgun out from beneath the bar. If he thinks I’m full of shit and eventually starts to accommodate me with a whatever you say, pal smirk as I babble on, so much the better.
Soon he is sipping his new Beam with ice.
I continue…
1 (still)
So…how is all my personal bullshit relevant to massaging this woman tonight, you ask? Well, believe it or not, it was all my personal bullshit that got her noticing me from the start.
Crazy, huh? Thinking I’m fooling the world (and for the most part, I believe I was), letting them think that I was as stable as a horse’s home, yet after only six sessions with this woman she’s able to see right through my act, inform me that my dark side was no secret to her, that I needn’t suppress it in her company; she found it intriguing.
It was this uncanny insight and an ability to embrace the unknown from a relative unknown that had me separating Angela from every other offer I’d received in the past. There had to be something or someone out there other than alcohol capable of ripping off my numb-fitted wetsuit (or at least tear the fucker), and I thought Angela Thorne might be the one to accommodate me. Her beauty was irrelevant. What lay behind that beauty was the real prize. The thing that tickled something inside me I thought all but extinct.
The fleeting, piercing looks I’d catch her indulging in, as if she too had had her share of the exterior and now longed for more essence. The things she would say, their delivery, never actually crossing the line, but taunting it, giving me just enough to fill in the tantalizing blanks on my own.
And believe me I did.
I just wondered, if the time ever came, if I’d have the balls to act on it; or would I end up turning a grand prize like Angela into another one of my consolation fantasies.
2
“Calvin, your four o’clock is here.”
She’d managed to sneak up on me in the break room while I was in mid-gulp of a Dr. Pepper. Admirable task for a woman her size. I choked the gulp down, bubbles prickling my nose and eyes. “Thanks, Margaret. She’s new right?”
“Yes.”
“She filling out a waiver?”
A flash of contempt crinkled the corner of her mouth. “Of course.”
I swallowed her attitude and mumbled a thank you. She left.
I tossed the can of Dr. Pepper and headed towards my massage room for final touches. I lit some fragrant candles, dimmed the lights, and switched on the stereo system. Soft music with gentle sounds of nature soon floated from speakers above.
Good to go.
I closed the door behind me, put on a friendly face, and headed up front to greet my new client.
* * *
The session with the new client went well. Nothing noteworthy—a fifty-something woman who was redeeming a gift certificate given to her at Christmas. She was quiet the entire time, even seemed a little on edge. Not all that uncommon; they are here to relax. Or it could be that I’m a male. Sometimes the front desk forgets to mention I’m a guy when a client books over the phone, and some women can be understandably uncomfortable being touched by a man they don’t know, professional or not.
Guys are always the most amusing—incapable of hiding their apprehension when I first approach, the majority. It’s always a good laugh to get them on my table and wait for the first words out of their mouths to be both a test about my heterosexuality, and a rock-solid-goddamn confirmation of their heterosexuality:
“The girls in this place are hot, man; you must love working here…”
Or something to that effect.
To which I routinely agree, but never without biting my tongue at the thought of casually telling them I was gay. I still might do that one day.
The new client was followed by a regular of mine—a sweet woman who’s been my client for over four years now. A pleasure to work with and always tips no less than twenty dollars, bless her.
But enough about all that. Only one client remained tonight…
* * *
“Calvin,” Margaret said. She caught me by surprise in the break room again. No Dr. Pepper casualty this time; I was shamelessly checking my reflection in the mirror in preparation.
I turned and faced her.
“Angela cancelled.”
Fuck.
I pulled a face of indifference over the disappointed one and hoped it didn’t look as transparent as it felt. “Oh yeah? She say why?”
She shrugged. “Nope—just said she wouldn’t be able to make it in.”
“Oh…okay.” I forced a smile. “I guess I can still make happy hour then, yeah?”
She actually smiled back—though hers appeared even more prosthetic than mine—and then headed back up front.
I didn’t know what to make of this. Clients cancel all the time, and sometimes, when I’m absolutely exhausted, it’s a blessing. Why did I feel as though I was obligated to an explanation as to why Angela cancelled?
If I were to be completely honest with myself, chances were that nothing would have happened tonight in our session that hadn’t happened already. It all came down to ego-stroking I guess. I was looking forward to an ego-stroke in my otherwise stroke-less life (take that comment as you will).
Yeah…I guess that made sense.
Dammit, no it didn’t. I wanted to see her. Touch her. Smell her.
Fuck.
Time for happy hour.
3
The bartender, a cute little blonde, leaned in to take my order.
“Can I have a Jim Beam and a lager?”
“Rocks with the Beam?”
“No, neat please.”
She smiled and went to work on my drinks.
Fuck ice, man. I needed the process expedited, thank you. People were crowding next to me, and it was making me nuts. I entertained visions of smashing a beer bottle against the bar and ramming it into the face of anyone studying me, judging me.
I secretly envied all these people I loathed. Is that possible? To hate someone you envy? All these people were happy to be here; enjoying every moment to its fullest. I did not see frustration and despair on their faces. I saw contentment and a joy for life. Were they faking it like I was? There was a good chance that a lot of them were drunk, and we are all content and joyous when we are drunk. But what if they weren’t? What if they were just happy to be who they were and where they were?
The bartender set my whiskey and beer in front of me, and not a moment too soon. “Eleven dollars.”
I handed her a twenty and told her to keep the change, ensuring future compensation. She smiled back and even winked. I’d like to think it was a pass, but she was likely doing what I’d just done—ensuring future compensation.
Without pause, I began taking my medicine. No doubt after a few more rounds I would gradually build the nerve to mingle with some people, maybe even chat with a woman or two. That was the effect alcohol had on me: it was liquid hypocrisy. My cynical demeanor would blissfully melt away the more inebriated I became. It injected me with a feeling I wished I could bottle and consume every day without fear of hangover or deeper depression.
And trust me, that last one is huge.
Hangovers are one thing; they go away with aspirin, Gatorade, and greasy food. But what many people fail to grasp is that alcohol is a depressant; it brings you up, but boy does it also bring you down. And when you hate who you are, those feelings of inhibition that are so joyous the night before come back at you like a punch in the gut the next day for fear that you might have unknowingly let someone into your pathetic little world.
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