Intoxicated

by Cynthia Dane

  When my waist hits the counter, I remember what it was like to bend that brat over my bed and fuck the fight out of her.

  I also remember what’s so embarrassing about it now.

  “You’ve got a look on your face that says you’re a big ol’ idiot, and you know it.” My grandma points her fork in my face before shoving it back into her potatoes. “What did you do? It was that girl you were telling me about, wasn’t it?”

  “Something like that.” I keep my nose pointed to my food.

  “Didn’t knock her up, did you?”

  “I sure hope not, Gram.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past you. You boys are more careless today than you were back in my day. You have all these birth controls and STD tests at your disposal, but do you do anything to protect yourself? Noooo. You keep leaving it on the women, and God knows half of them are too stupid to know the way to the nearest clinic these days. At least my generation can take the flak for some of that. You should’ve seen what your mother was telling your sister back when you were teenagers. Did you know that her big safe sex talk amounted to ‘Don’t do it, you hussy!’ Worked really well for your sister when she was dating three boys at once. That’s why she came to me when she thought she might be pregnant and didn’t know who the daddy was.”

  Wow. I learned a lot more than I ever wanted to know about my sister. Gross, Gram.

  “You wrapping up your Johnson, boy?”

  My fork clatters to my plate. “Come on, Grandma! We’re eating dinner.”

  “I’m not going to your funeral in ten years because you contracted some incurable disease. I don’t care how much money you’ve got. You’re an idiot if you think you can inject your Benjamins into your bloodstream and fight off viruses like that.”

  “Sometimes I can’t believe the things you say…”

  “Sometimes I can’t believe I raised such a stupid boy.”

  “Did not realize that was an admission of guilt,” I almost snap at my grandmother.

  “You wouldn’t be handing your grandma so much snark on a platter if you didn’t have something to hide. Jesus. Did I not raise you better than your father could? I know that dolt was telling you to keep your willy to ‘good girls’ but I had half a brain to give you the condoms I knew you weren’t carrying in your empty wallet. Come on! If you’re not out there knocking up some girl and getting your life in a tizzy, you’re ending up in a coffin because the syphilis rotted out your useless brain!”

  “I don’t have syphilis!”

  “You know that for a fact? Because I know what syphilis does to a person. I’ve seen it for myself. Ask me what I was doing in 1973. Go on. Ask.”

  I’m not going to ask her what she was doing in 1973. I’ll probably get a long, drawn out, dramatic story about living in some Californian city full of STDs like syphilis, gonorrhea, and the clap. You know, wholesome stuff. My grandma has a little history in nursing, so I bet it was at a clinic where she got these first-hand accounts of syphilis and the like.

  Good gravy. Did I really think about the word syphilis that much in so little time? That’s a great way to kill the hard-on that keeps popping up every time I think about Cher.

  “Wrap it up,” my grandma says with finality. “Think of it as giving your lucky lady a very special gift she might get to unwrap one day. For the both of you.”

  Whatever food I was about to put into my mouth now ends up on my plate. We’re lucky the stuff in my stomach doesn’t chase it.

  Chapter 10

  CHER

  There is nothing shameful about what I’ve done. That’s what I tell myself – and you – as I hold my head up high, don my sunglasses, and stroll into the clinic on the corner of Walk and Shame.

  Wait. I said that there was nothing shameful about it. Huh. Not my fault if these streets intersect and that’s where the sexual health clinic is. I didn’t lay down the grid that makes up Portland. Nor did I name them. If I had, I would’ve renamed half the Alphabet District. We’re living in an age where Stark Street has become Harvey Milk Street. Anything is possible.

  Like me committing a huge sexual snafu and now needing the expert advice and testing of some of Portland’s most competent physicians.

  Look, we all know I screwed up. Fucking Drew wasn’t bad enough. Oh, no. I had to go and get off on the Bareback Extravaganza complete with Bonus Creampie for dessert because I don’t love myself, probably. You know, the kind of thing you fantasize about late at night, alone in your bed, where you press a vibe against your clit and moan into your pillow?

  Ah. Okay. Tough audience. I see that I am literally the only woman who has ever done that. Uh huh. Sure.

  I hope you enjoyed your voyeuristic journey into the dumbest sex I’ve ever had. What turned you on more? Watching me get pounded into submission while a jerk like Drew Benton fills me up like he’s getting ready to decorate a cake? Or was it those rippling ab muscles that flexed every time he slightly moved to the left or right? Let me guess. The hot part was watching me realize what a mistake I had made.

  Well. We’re moving on from that. After nearly a whole week of beating myself up and deciding what to do next, I’ve concluded that the best way to move on is to get a clear conscience before I jump back into dating. Most of my really rich boyfriends require an STD test up front – depending on how worldly they are, anyway – but I don’t know when the next jackass will be. So. Here we are, putting my insurance to work.

  It’s the kind of clinic that goes out of its way to make everyone feel safe and comfortable. Pillow cushions are strapped to the chairs. Tasteful pamphlets are organized by color in a large display beneath the TV playing Friends reruns. While Phoebe prances about in yet another example of exquisite ‘90s fashion, two women fill out their forms, one of them biting their nails while the other looks like she’s about to get the worst pap smear of her life. I’m not due for one, and I tell the receptionist as much as she hands me my forms and I give her my insurance card.

  Every time I turn around I’m met with the picture of a baby. Either the super pink, wrinkly newborn kind, or the happy, fluffy, three-month olds that smile because they have so much shit in them they’re about to gleefully explode in streams of baby diarrhea. At least the demographics of these babies has improved over the years. Whether they’re white, black, or Asian though, they’re all exhibiting the same big, round eyes, puffy cheeks, and happy demeanors that are meant to make sure all feel safe and warm.

  Gag me with a spoon. Or, better yet, gag me with the clinic pen I’m about to ram down my throat as I prepare to construct an extensive list of my family’s health maladies.

  Father’s side: strokes, testicular cancer, and dementia. Mother’s side: extreme narcissism. What do you mean that doesn’t count? Fine. High blood pressure. Are you happy now, doctor?

  I finally lift my sunglasses up my head so I can read the small print. Of course, now that I’m answering questions about my period – due in three days, hooray, me – past sexual experiences, and concerns I have about my health, I’m thinking about everything that could possibly go wrong. What if Drew Benton is such a man-ho he’s infected me with God knows what? What if I’m – gasp – pregnant? Doesn’t matter, because I have an IUD. We’ll leave it at that.

  Still, even if I can rationalize that I’m fine and this is simply for eternal peace of mind, I chew my nail like the woman next to me and pray to God that I’m not being punished for sexual idiocy. I have to ask myself if that fuck was worth it, you know. Say I’ve got chlamydia. Would the treatments, side effects, and sheer embarrassment I carry around be worth that lay? Will I look my doctor in the eye and say, “Yeah, totally worth it!”

  We both know I want to say no, but dignity tells me I should say yes. It’s the principle of the thing. I was wound up. Drew is – was – hot as hell, especially when he whipped out his beautiful cock. My anger manifests into horniness when I’m ovulating, which I’m pretty sure I was doing, or at least finishing when I marched over there. I’m
a real riot after reading the political news. As soon as I calm down, I’m liable to hop on a guy’s lap and scream how good it feels to get the rage fucked out of me.

  We’ll go with that.

  I’m still trying to understand my thought process last week. When I got home, doggedly defying what had happened, I went straight for the shower and had a good, long soak. Instead of distracting myself, however, I kept replaying those fifteen minutes in my head. From the moment I kissed him until I felt the rush of his heat inside of me. Boom. Boom. Boom. One instance after another, each one hotter than the last. I don’t know how a woman can be both sexually satisfied for a whole week and absolutely abhorring herself, but that’s been me. I’m sure it’s some kind of punishment that I deserve for being a whore.

  The buzzer on the door alerts us that the receptionists have let someone in. I continue to mind my forms before I’m called back with them half-finished. With any luck, I’ll be swabbing a Q-tip in my vagina within twenty minutes.

  I’m slightly surprised to hear a male voice murmur to the receptionist. Riiiight. Some men are bright enough to come to these places. I hear they do great deals on cock-checks. What are they called again? That thing where they stick a finger up your ass and check the ol’ prostate? There’s nothing like a guy who will give you a tour of his prostate. Then again, depends on how the guy wants you to do it. I had an older boyfriend a couple of years ago who only got off on pegging. Luckily, I make a decent Domme, although I would never charge for it. When a guy wants me to scream at him and call him sissy so he can come, I’m inclined to indulge.

  Honestly, if I were to become a dominatrix, it would definitely be the financial kind. That may be something I look into as I age out of being good sugar baby material.

  The form asks me for my insurance number. Again. I just put my card away, so that means slamming the clipboard into the empty seat next to mine and digging through my purse.

  I happen to catch the eye of the guy who has sat across from me.

  Jesus. He looks a lot like Drew.

  I shake my head, convinced that I’ve lost every marble rolling around in there. After I grab my insurance card, I heave a mighty sigh and pick up my clipboard. 1469…

  I look up again.

  Drew looks back at me, clipboard in hand.

  There are moments in life that are too ridiculous to believe, aren’t there? Was it really not bold enough of the universe to throw this asshole in my direction in the first place? Now he’s at the same STD clinic as me? On the same fucking day? It’s Monday. It’s literally been a week (well, minus a day) since I told him how much I loved the feeling of his dick inside of me. Bursting with cum, no less.

  We maintain relentless eye contact. I pull my Starbucks drink out of my purse and give it a hearty sip. We’ll pretend he’s not thinking about me blowing him again.

  “Cher?” A woman in scrubs steps out from the back room and looks at every feminine face before her.

  I can’t leap up from this chair quickly enough. I don’t even fuck with Drew’s head by sauntering past him, ensuring that my skirt swishes. Get me the fuck away from him.

  I’m still not convinced he’s an apparition. Then again, maybe he is, and that pot cloud I walked through to get here really fucked up my perception of the world. That was another scruffy Portland guy in flannel and a trucker hat. God damnit I slept with a guy wearing a trucker hat. Sorry. Had to get that out of my system. You know how it is. One moment you’re following a logical train of thought, and the next? You’ve derailed into Ohshitsville.

  I’m weighed. I swab. I pee. I answer invasive questions that ask me about who I’m seeing, who I’ve slept with, and whether or not I think I’m in any danger. Yes. Danger. Does, “My pussy is out to get me by making me fuck the wrong dick” count? Because that’s all I can think about as the nurse takes my blood pressure and gives me a gown to change into.

  We’ll tell ourselves that it wasn’t really Drew sitting out there. Only my brain playing tricks on me. We’ll keep our anxiety down so our blood pressure doesn’t crash through the roof. Things will go smoother that way.

  “Not hearing from us is good news,” the doctor says as I finish my check-up. “We’ll let you know if there’s reason to come back for a follow-up.”

  Nothing I’ve never heard before. Yet I get the usual, “I’m going to fucking die, aren’t I?” thoughts as I pick up my purse, thank the doctor, and head out to the reception to finalize my insurance. I glance into the waiting room and don’t see any men, let alone Drew Benton. It’s a new crew of patients awaiting their fates. Friends continues to play on the TV, but by the time I walk out there, I barely recognize anyone.

  Thank God.

  “Come here often?”

  I stop at the top of the stairs leading down to the parking lot. I have a bus to catch if I want to make it back home within the hour. My alternative is calling a Lyft, but after what I went through, I’m not in the mood to get into cars with strangers.

  Slowly, I turn. Sure enough, that’s the biggest douchebag I know standing like a creeper next to the clinic entrance.

  Countdown until when he’s asked to leave. I’ll have my phone ready to take video and submit it to Reddit.

  “What are you doing here?” I level my gaze at him. Although I’d rather look at the dirt on the bottom of my shoe, I refuse to let him think he’s bested me in any way. I will not submit to Drew Benton. Nor will I give him the satisfaction of looking at my ass when I’m turned around. “Are you stalking me?”

  “Hardly,” he says with a snort. “What do you think I’m doing here? Getting checked out, like you. We don’t know where the other person has been.”

  I lower my sunglasses. I’ll be damned if he can read any part of my soul behind my eyes. “You’re right. Good to see you’re taking good care of yourself, though. I’d hate to hear that either of us contracted something unsavory after… well, I’m sure you remember.”

  He grins at me. “Only if you do.”

  Typical. Men always want to gloat about the Conquests of Cunts. I’ll be sure to carry cigarettes so he can have a celebratory smoke the next time we meet.

  “Still not convinced you’re not stalking me. Of all the clinics in Portland…”

  “This one has the shortest wait times. Same reason you came all the way to this side of town instead of sticking to your neck of the woods. Did you make a donation? I left a sizable one. Should pay for some young lady’s birth control for the next eighty years.”

  “Why are you gloating?” I ask.

  “Why are you still here, if you detest me so much?”

  “Why are you acting like you don’t know why I would detest you?”

  Drew drops his arms. “Oh, I know why.” He motions for me to walk with him down the stairs. No wonder. There’s a couple coming up them, and they’re already looking at us like we shouldn’t be hanging around the door. I go on ahead. Drew is obnoxiously right behind me. “It’s because you can’t get enough of me, yet you despise everything I do and stand for.”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” I round the corner and go down the final few steps leading to the parking lot. “My ex paid you to do God knows what. You could still be doing it right now.”

  “I could be, but I’m not.” Like a chivalrous ass in a trucker hat, Drew opens the door for me. I glare at him as I step out into the warm spring sunlight. “That job was compromised when you made me. Nice work, by the way. Nobody’s ever done that before.”

  “How many dumb women are out there, exactly? Because it seems common sense to do the slightest bit of Googling into someone you intend to date these days. What, do you think I go home with any ol’ Tinder date, fuck him bareback, and let out a el oh el whoops! when I’m fucked over?”

  “I don’t know about what you do with your pussy exactly, which is why I’m here…” Drew lets the glass door swing shut behind him. Now’s my chance to high-tail it for the bus stop, but I’m inexplicably attracted to the knob standing benea
th the green awning. He looks like a common Portlander who takes semi-care of himself. Nice jeans, tight T-shirt, fairly groomed with brown peach fuzz, and his hat doesn’t look like it was picked up out of the gutter. Still not my type, but I don’t feel like I want to throw water on him. Too bad I know who he really is. It really makes me want to throw water on him. “You might be surprised how hard it is to find that information about me. I have many layers of protection for my privacy. Did you hire a detective? Because one with loose morals may be able to find that all out in one weekend.”

  I snort. “What do you think?”

  He says something I am not expecting. Let alone with such a soft, understanding voice. “I think you’re a guarded woman who doesn’t take chances. You’ve got enough money from your past relationships to hire a good PI to look into me. In retrospect, I should’ve anticipated it and acted accordingly. Instead, I let my dick do the talking, and now I’m out a few grand.”

  Wish I could say this should be the end of it, but if Jason were mad enough to hire this fuckboy to break my heart – and my loins, probably – I can only imagine who he would go to next. He’s probably on the Deep Web right now hiring infected bug chasers to seduce me and give me God knows what. The kind of “God knows what” a condom will never protect me against, since we both know I’ve learned my lesson now.

  Or he’ll straight up hire a hitman. One never knows these crazy days.

  “You want a medal or something?”

  “No.”

  ‘You think you’re gonna apologize to me?”

  “Why would I apologize? I was doing my job. I’ve never apologized to the women I was hired to get back at.”

  I shake my head. “You’re disgusting. What kind of creep goes into your line of work? I learned a few things about you.” My accusatory finger comes right for his chest. I don’t dare touch it, though. His chest is so nice I’ll probably hop up and hump it if I’m not careful. “Some of the women you fucked with have serious issues now. Did you know one tried to kill herself?”