Ten o’clock that night, I arrived at the famously infamous College Depot. I told myself I would not go, but apparently I lied because that’s exactly where I ended up, in a crowd of shoulder-to-shoulder college students on a bustling Thursday night, ladies night. Ladies got in free, the perfect draw for testosterone-driven, sex-charged, horny college guys by the truck full. Longnecks, affectionately termed, the special until midnight, a quarter a bottle.
I made my way slowly through the crowd in search of a cowboy hat with Casey Timmons’ face peeking out from under it, averting my eyes often so as not to mistakenly lock-up with Salivating Sam. He always stands right in the walkway, his eyes ogling, his chin dripping with drool, his hands way too feely for their own good, as unsuspecting women pass by in search of their destination. To make matters worse, I was a lone female, his primary target.
I felt a warm body behind me, as an arm slipped around my waist. I spun around, my hands prepped and ready for the big shove off, certain it was Salivating Sam.
“You came!” I heard the words escape a familiar face as I turned into Casey, minus the cowboy hat.
“I was looking for the cowboy hat,” I yelled over the music.
“Took me a while to find you, too, without the khaki’s and the massage chair.” He kept his hand around my waist, settling in behind me as the line of people moved forward. Leaning his head over my shoulder he continued, “What are you drinking?”
“You might as well stop planning how you’re going to get me drunk and get in my pants,” I teased, holding both of my hands up with the mark of the minor, two black X’s, one on each hand. Bold art, to which bartenders roll their eyes, letting you know how much you inconvenience them as they hand you your six ounce glass of water.
“I guess I’m just going to have to settle for dancing.” At a hurried pace, he led me to the Latin club.
“You would start with this club,” I said, stalling against him. “You’ll have to show me. I’ve never done this before.” He pulled me onto the floor where a heavy bass rhythm sounded. I looked around at how everyone moved within their own little space, yet their bodies said so much. It was subtle, but with great intensity.
“It’s all in the hips,” he explained, drawing me close, his hand in the small of my back. He pressed my hips to his as he guided, allowing me to become acquainted with the rhythm. I fell in love with the music. The beats. The sensuality. The freedom. Latin music was proud, yet needy, romantic, but raw, formal, yet so very intimate. And Casey Timmons, he moved like no other. We danced four hours straight with unmatched stamina, until the place closed.
Wet from head to toe, I had sweat through my shirt, my hair matted to my head, and my boots, the ones my mother gave me, loose, the leather expanding with my body heat. We walked outside into a light, warm summer rain.
“Aw, that feels so good,” I said, arms out wide, my head thrown back, welcoming the rain. Casey’s arms slipped familiarly around my waist. He pulled me into him, his mouth finding mine as he kissed me, baring the same intensity with which he danced. Rain trickled down his forehead, over his provocative blue eyes, and onto his lips, drawing my attention to their fullness.
“You feel good,” he said, his voice warm and low. “You hungry? Let me make you breakfast. I make a mean omelet.”
One thing Casey was not, shy. He didn’t beat around the bush about anything. If he wanted something, he asked for it, or went after it with vigor. You never had to wonder what he thought or where he stood. Rest assured he would tell you.
I thought I was carefree and adventurous. After meeting Casey, I realized, I was carefully carefree and adventurous. Casey did everything with intensity, fully committed, no holds barred. He made no excuses for being himself. I don’t think anything scared him, not life, not love, not even death. He put himself out there, openly inviting rejection or acceptance, whatever came his way.
That morning after he made me truly the best omelet I ever ate, he didn’t boast, he laid it all on the line. “He just had to be with me,” he said.
I liked him a lot, who wouldn’t, but I surely didn’t feel like I just had to be with him. Armed with a serious lack of commitment to everything, really, I never felt like I had to have or do much of any one particular thing. I did find his honesty refreshing. No games, no bullshit. He was who he was, take it or leave it. I decided to take it.
I loved the yin and yang of my job juxtaposed to Casey Timmons. With the clothing company, everything was pristine and feminine. The fashion shows were regimented, everything had a time and place. Casey was real, organic, and masculine. A little rough around the edges, he was perfectly imperfect.
For the next year, everything we did, we did hard and with zest. We laughed, lived and fought hard, and, dare I say, loved hard. I never told him I loved him, because I didn’t know if I did or not. What is love? I knew how to define lust and I was definitely in lust with him. Hands down, I had an appetite for Casey. I felt like I loved him, such strong words. Those three little words carry so much weight, maybe even burdensome in their heaviness, can change things and complicate things to a point where they become unrecognizable.
I liked things just the way they were. We were having a good time. We were young, too young to profess our eternal love. Focused on working, paying bills, getting an education, we were busy living. Independent of one another in our own pursuits, my life was mine as he owned his, but we openly, freely shared our lives with each other. I had never witnessed love that acted as such. I assumed what we had equated to an overly affectionate friendship.
I couldn’t believe it. This thing, relationship, whatever we were in, was so different from my parent’s exchange. I wish they had this. This was not suffocating, co-dependent, or abusive. It didn’t hurt. Whatever this was, it was great. Life was beautiful. And the sex was outstanding.
I hadn’t been with anybody since my first time with Jeremiah. God, I missed him. I tried not to think about him; it hurt too much. Still quite inexperienced at nineteen going on twenty, Casey, three years my senior, gladly showed me the ropes. Wow! This sex thing was revolutionary. I got on the pill, scared out of my mind with the thought of pregnancy.
My only complaint with the pill was I actually got my period. My late bloomer status, coupled with my athleticism, meant I never had to contend with a period. I thought maybe I wasn’t normal. Most of my friends had theirs since age thirteen. Maybe I wasn’t all female. Maybe I brought it on myself as a tomboy, always complaining about my femininity. My boobs got in the way of playing basketball, and as my hips widened I found it added seconds to my best running time. All of my feminine attributes only seemed to annoy me, holding me back. Did I curse my own evolution?
I used to wait for my period to start, any month now, I would convince myself. Finally, I came to believe it never would arrive. Once I got on the pill, everything started and became regular. Ecstatic for about the first three-months, I soon found myself wondering, what in the world had I done! The whole period thing was a complete drag. I weighed my options, the pill accompanied by a period and birth control or celibacy?
At this point, celibacy was out of the question. Like the old saying, you can’t unring a bell. Been there, done that and quite frankly, I liked it. I began to come into myself, embracing my femaleness. And much of that could be attributed to time spent with Casey, both in our everyday lives and the intimate moments we shared. Growing up, my gender often proved inconvenient. In my life now, in the fashion world and with Casey, my gender was the main draw.
I became comfortable with myself, and my body, with every body. I loved the human form, both male and female, the construction, the curves, the peaks and valleys, the way all the parts fit together to form a functioning human being. The one thing most often taken for granted because it is reflexive, this vessel we live inside and navigate, and the things we’re able to achieve with it. It’s astonishing. The idea that you can take one human form and join it with another, like a lock and key, unleashing em
otions, spirituality, and pleasures unique to that one solitary act, confirmed for me the belief it should be enjoyed and cultivated without shame.
The culture in which I grew up led me to believe sex was shameful and secretive, something people did in the dark, if they did it at all, and they surely didn’t talk about it, something you did with only someone you loved, married. At one time I believed that, as so I was taught.
Then I started to think, where does that leave those of us with uncertainty as to whether we want to get married? Are we supposed to remain celibate for eternity, never to experience another in the most intimate of ways? I didn’t regret the night I spent with Jeremiah. I wanted to share myself with him. Maybe I felt some shame afterward, only because I had been conditioned to feel so. But I didn’t wish I could take it back. It meant something to me. I carried that moment with me always.
After meeting Casey, things rolled along, and I came to a point where I wanted to share myself with him, too. I did, many times, and I loved every blissful minute of it. I felt safe, respected, and coveted with Casey. With him, through him, in the most intimate of settings, I started to think of myself as a woman. I found sex fully liberating.
As with everything to which there is a climax, there must be a fall. Why, when life rolls along at a perfectly pleasant pace, does the bottom ultimately fall out? While I began to experience the pros of sex, Kat found herself trapped with its consequences.
May 1999, I returned to my apartment in Nashville from a meeting with a potential music publisher. I heard the phone ringing as I clumsily fumbled with the key, opening the front door.
“Hello,” I called into the phone, my breath short. No one answered.
“Hello?”
“Harley,” Kat’s voice whispered tearfully.
“Kat? What’s wrong?” My heart raced, a sudden shot of adrenaline bucked my system. She didn’t answer. “Talk to me, Kat,” I demanded, scared out of my mind.
“Harley, I think I might be pregnant,” she cried.
What do you mean you might be pregnant! I wanted to blurt out. “Okay, Kat, what do you mean you think you might be pregnant?” Maybe she was scared over nothing.
“My period’s late.”
“That can happen sometimes,” I reasoned. “How late?”
“Three months.”
How could you not have your period for three months and just now say something? I cursed to myself. I bit down on my lip, prohibiting the words from darting out of my mouth as I transitioned to action mode. “Okay, this is what we’re going to do. Where are you?”
“The payphone at school.”
“You go home like nothing’s wrong after school’s out. Don’t say a thing, Kat. You can’t tell Dad. Don’t tell Ma either. Just don’t say anything. I’ll be there tomorrow morning. You’ll come back with me. You’ll stay right here, with me. Everything’s going to be okay.”
“But I can’t leave him,” she sobbed.
“Who?”
“Joey. I love him, Harley.”
“Harper? Joey Harper. No, Kat. I told you to stay away from him.”
“The last thing I need is I told you so, Harley. I thought you would understand. I thought you’d be there for me.” My ear buzzed with a dial tone.
“Kat? Kat!” I called with no answer. “Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!” I cursed, smacking the receiver against the phone with every exclamation.
Gum On A Map
Kat was determined she and Joey would get married, and make things right. Dad kicked her out of the house, as expected. Disappointed in herself for disappointing him, she cried for days. I hadn’t seen her that upset since he shot Barnaby, her puppy.
He shot her puppy with a twelve-gauge, the same shotgun he waved around at us whenever he got the notion. Barnaby was the sweetest thing and he shot him, and just stood there, unaffected. Mom went ballistic, one of the rare times I saw her go off on him.
“Why did you do that? Kat loved that puppy. You rotten son-of-a-bitch!” she yelled.
I grabbed Barnaby and wrapped my shirt around him, trying to stop the bleeding. My father propped the gun beside me as I sat there in the corner of the barn, rocking Barnaby in my arms. I was twelve years old.
“Finish him off,” he said.
“You’re sick,” I replied, tears welling in my eyes.
He laughed. He actually laughed, his signature, disgusting jeer, and walked away.
Barnaby died in my arms. I took him out to the back of the property and buried him. Mom ran to the house to check on Kat. When I came in she lay in bed, her pillow soaked with tears, a vomit basin sitting beside her. She threw up so severely, all she had left were dry heaves. I exchanged places with Mom, who held a cold rag to Kat’s forehead. Mom would go baby-sit Lucifer for the rest of the night, while I stayed with Kat.
As I sat there at her bedside, I seethed, wondering how I could remove our father from our lives, get rid of him, permanently. Maybe I could shoot him, survive juvy, and get on with my life. A sacrifice well worth it, if we could all be free of him. Shoot him? I pondered. I couldn’t shoot my father! What if I poisoned him? He loved his alcohol. Can’t people die of alcohol poisoning? Scarily aware of the thoughts running through my head, I scolded myself for even allowing my mind to go there. Focus on what’s important...Kat.
Again, years later at Kat’s side, I watched her tear herself up emotionally over our father’s reaction to her pregnancy. I found myself regurgitating the same thoughts. She needed to focus on what really mattered, the life growing inside her. My baby sister was three months pregnant. How did this happen? We all know how it happens, but why did it happen, to her?
She finished her junior year of high school and opted not to continue due to the pregnancy. She dropped out. Mom, simply beside herself, watched her baby girl make decisions and choices that would surely wreck any chance she had of a successful life. Gram welcomed Kat into her home with open arms, appreciating the company, looking forward to a great-grandbaby. My mind rested easy, knowing Gram would take care of her. What would we ever do without Gram? What does anybody do without grandmothers? Matriarchs, they hold families together simply by their presence and position, the glue that binds.
I returned to Nashville after a month at home, just in time for my departure to the next place. I hung a map of the States on the wall, pulled my chewed gum from my mouth, closed my eyes, and threw the sticky substance. It landed in the Pacific Ocean. Since I couldn’t necessarily live in the ocean, I traced with my finger from the glob of gum until I hit land, Santa Monica, California. I had never been to California, but it sounded just fine to me.
I began packing immediately, whatever fit in Charlene the Chevelle. The rest would have to stay. I heard a loud knock at the door over my radio, blaring Everclear’s Santa Monica for inspiration.
I pulled the door back and there he stood, Casey Timmons, looking fine as ever, the little douchebag. I walked away from him, leaving the door open as I turned the radio down to an audible purr. His smile quickly evacuated his face upon seeing my apartment half packed.
“What’s this? You going somewhere? You haven’t returned my calls in over a week. What’s going on, Harley?”
“Did you sleep with some other girl?” I blurted, before cursing myself. I sounded pathetic, like I cared or something.
The look on his face said it all. “No,” he stammered.
“Oh, so now you’re going to lie to me, too?”
“I want to be with you. I am with you, Harley. Why would I sleep with some other girl?” he answered my question with a question, completely pissing me off.
“You tell me. Why would you sleep with another girl? And the saddest part, I had to find out from one of your friends. Do you know how humiliating that is?” my voice broke. He came toward me. I put an arm out between us, pushing him away. Come on almond. Get a grip, Harley, I rehearsed, quenching my urge to cry.
“One of my friends?”
“Billy.”
“Cumm
ings? Billy Cummings? He’s the one who told me you’d hook up with your old boyfriend, back home. The one whose name is on that blanket, Jeremiah or whatever. He said you’d forget about me.”
“That’s why you did it,” I said, all the pieces coming together.
“So did you? Sleep with him?” he continued, picking up the quilt Kat made from a box where it lay, Jeremiah’s jersey face-side-out.
“Leave him out of this,” I lashed out protectively, jerking the blanket from his hands. “And your good friend Billy, he would tell you those things. He hit on me twice while you and I were together. God, Casey, how could you be so stupid?”
He slammed his hand down on the kitchen counter, sliding down the wall until he sat on the floor. “It didn’t mean anything, Harley. I swear. Billy kept telling me all that stuff. We went to the club. I got shit-faced and there was this girl.” He paused, looking up at me, his blue eyes watering. “It was only one time. It didn’t mean anything, I swear it didn’t.”
I felt bad for him sitting there on my kitchen floor, tears on his face. I believed he was sorry. I just didn’t know if he was sorry he cheated or sorry he got caught. And why did he feel it necessary to lie to me? “It’s not Billy’s fault you cheated. He may be a troll, but you made the choice to sleep with that girl. One time. You sacrificed this, us, for one time, a little instant gratification. I sure hope it was worth it. Why didn’t you just tell me? I trusted you.”
“I couldn’t tell you. I didn’t want to hurt you. I knew it would be the end of us. You won’t take me back now that you know.”
“So did you lie to protect me or yourself?” I scoffed. “I just don’t get it, Casey, you came on so strong. You had to have me. If something changed, why didn’t you just tell me? I get it, things change, what you want tomorrow may be different from what you have today. I could accept that.” I leaned against the counter, my arms folded across my waist. “Do you think I am so pitiful, I would want to be with someone who doesn’t want me?”
The Boots My Mother Gave Me Page 11