Baby Girl

by Hildreth, Scott

  I nodded. They all nodded back in my direction. One waved.

  Teddy stood up, grabbed the bar stool, and as he walked away, said, “Nice talking to you fellas.”

  As he walked back toward our table, Teddy placed the barstool at the table he had taken it from. As he approached our table, Heather broke my grasp, and walked toward Teddy, arms open. Teddy turned and looked at her as she hugged him. He hugged her back and whispered something in her ear.

  “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me,” she said, smiling from ear to ear.

  “Being disrespectful to women is something Doc and I won’t stand for,” he responded, as he took a drink of his beer.

  “Well, that was nice. And it was hot. You still want my number?” she asked.

  “Well, hell yes. We gotta go on that ride, remember?”

  Heather pulled a pen from her apron. As she pulled out the pen, she grabbed Teddy’s wrist, and turned his hand over, palm up. She scribbled her number on the palm of his hand and drew a heart around it. As she was writing, the six gentlemen placed money on the table under a beer mug, and left.

  “Thank you for saying I was pretty, for asking me to go on a ride, and for talking to those guys. You’re sweet. Text me. I have to run inside, I have tables in there too. You guys alright?” she asked.

  “We’re good, bring us the tab when you come back out,” I said.

  “I’m staying,” Teddy said.

  “Heather, I’m leaving and Teddy’s staying.” Turning her direction, I continued, “It was a pleasure meeting you.”

  “Pleasure meeting you, Erik,” she said as she walked through the door into the bar.

  “You staying?” I asked Teddy.

  “Yeah, I’m gonna stay here and talk to her for a bit, holler at me later,” Teddy said as he stood.

  We embraced in what had become a typical biker hug, patting each other on the back.

  “Love ya, brother,” he said.

  “Love you too, Teddy.”

  Walking out to my bike, I wondered about Teddy and Heather; how and if that might work out. Although Kelli had mentioned Heather several times, and suggested that we all get together, we had never done so. I wondered if there was a reason for that.

  I got my phone out of my pocket, and sent Kelli a text.

  Baby Girl: I’m headed home. Text me when you get a minute. Met Heather today at Twin Peaks.

  If there was a reason for her not having Heather meet me, this would give her time to think about it.

  I placed the phone back into my pocket and got on my bike. It felt different riding it without Kelli.

  Lonely.

  KELLI. Since I was a little girl, I have kept souvenirs as some form of proof or confirmation of things that have happened in my life that I felt were unbelievable at the time. I always wanted proof that the event itself had happened. It was a way for me later to look at a material object as a reminder of the event that I associated with the object itself.

  When I was about six, we went to California to the ocean on vacation. I picked up shells from the beach, and made sure that the ones that I had chosen to keep were the most perfect ones that I could find. When we got home, I placed the shells in a box, and kept the box in the closet in my bedroom. Whenever I thought about the ocean, and our trip, I would wonder if it really happened. The more time that had passed since the trip, the more difficult I found it to believe. I would sit and try to remember the scenery, where we went, and what we had done.

  As soon as I pulled the box from my closet, and removed the shells, I remembered each shell, and where I had obtained it. I remembered picking each one up, and how I had decided which ones, of all of the shells, to keep.

  This same pattern of obtaining some form of souvenir from a memorable event continued throughout my life. Boys in middle school would give me a note telling me they liked me, and if I wanted to remember it, I would keep the note, and place it in my box. If I got a birthday card from my father on a birthday that I wanted to remember, I would place the card in the box. Over the years, the box ended up with of some form of souvenir from almost each year of my life.

  Today, I still have that box, and I still add objects to it as time passes, and unbelievable events happen in my life. If the event is one that is unbelievable, and I want it to be memorable, I save an object I would associate with the event. Something that would jog my memory many years in the future. This box of souvenirs allows me to look back at my life with vivid memories. Memories that will remain undeniable. Memories that cannot be questioned by me or anyone else. Memories with proof.

  As we grow older we change. Our lives change. Patterns of living, what we deem to be important, and sometimes our beliefs even change. I imagine, with me, this collecting of souvenirs from my life will never change. When something is or seems to be too good to be true, I want proof of the fact that it ever existed.

  As a child, I made up memories of my mother. My mother left when I was one year old. I had no memories of my mother, because I had no mother. I was raised by my father, and my mother, to me, never existed.

  Yet.

  When I was in early grades in school, kindergarten, first grade – roughly that age, I made up memories in my head of things that had happened when I was younger. Memories that included my mother. My mother that never existed. I told myself the stories long enough, and repeated them in my mind enough, that I began to believe them.

  I believe the collecting of souvenirs was a way for me to know that the memory was real. That this memory was not like my memories of my mother, fabricated false hope. We, as people, are no more than a mentally advanced animal. Naturally we take whatever steps we have to that will support our survival. Feeling loved is a large part of what we, as humans, need to survive.

  We yearn to be loved. The perfect love. Women dream of being swept off of our feet by the knight in shining armor - off to a castle in the distance - to live a life happily ever after. We wait, and we make decisions, and we live with the decisions we make. Sometimes those decisions prove to be good ones, and sometimes they prove to be poor ones. Inevitably, decisions that we make when we are young, regarding relationships, prove to be bad decisions.

  No one meets the person that they are going to marry when they are 14 years old. Yet, when we are 14, we are certain that the boy we fell in love with in school is the person that we are incapable of living a life without. We are in a relationship with that person until we are 15, and we break up. Our heart is broken, and three months later, we have another boyfriend. One that we cannot live without. One that is perfect. The one.

  Survival.

  When a woman gets pregnant, she commits to be in a relationship. Generally, women find someone to marry when they are completed with college. Or high school. When the time has come that she looks around her and sees that things are stable or still in her life. From what I have seen, this has nothing to do with stability in a relationship, but a perceived stability in her life. The still, stale, stable life causes her to look around for stability in a relationship, and she attaches herself to the first person that comes along and makes her feel as if she is being loved.

  And, in time, she learns. She isn’t being loved. She wasn’t being loved. She was being used. Used for sex. Used for sex by a man that also settled. He settled for a woman that provided him with what he wanted at that particular point in time in his life. In time, he too will look around him and wonder.

  What am I doing here? Is this where I belong?

  And whether he leaves physically or he leaves mentally, he will leave. I have seen it happen to friends, family, and school mates. Men stray, they wander, they cheat. Mentally, emotionally, or physically, it will happen. And, in time, it will progress from whatever it is into a physical separation of some sort.

  My girlfriend’s husbands or boyfriends have lunch with other women. They text other women. They will meet another woman for a coffee or a drink after work, and call it business. They develop a relatio
nship, of some sort, with another woman. In time, because of the repetitive exposure, the woman becomes interested in the man. And, because she is in a relationship not at all unlike the relationship that the man is in, she begins to believe that the guy she is having lunch with loves her. He feels for her. And those feelings are different, he actually loves her.

  And she agrees.

  And they cheat. Because a man is after a new sexual adventure, and the woman is seeking the perfect love.

  They are trying to survive.

  They divorce.

  And now, they are in a relationship. A relationship destined to lose. Because it wasn’t meant to be. It was two people doing what they had done before. Settling. A man settling for a new sexual adventure, and a woman settling for what she believed to be love. I believe that those two components are what most relationships start out with. A man on a new sexual adventure, and a woman believing she is in love. What makes the relationship work, or what makes it last, is when two people settle. When they throw their respective hands in the air and say, I am done. I am done looking. I am done trying to find something new. I am done making changes.

  I am willing to settle.

  Settling equals love.

  I don’t believe in love. Not between people that aren’t family. I believe that my father loves me. I believe that his mother and father loved him. But I do not believe that there are many people in this world that are actually in love. I believe that most people on this earth that are together have settled. Settled for something that is other than what is the most likely thing to make them as happy as they can be.

  Erik makes me as happy as I have ever been. The things that he says, the way he touches me, how he treats me, and how I feel when I am full of his cock. I cannot imagine, for the life of me, another man having the ability to make me happier than Erik. The trick, regarding keeping Erik, or anyone like Erik, is continuing to give him a new sexual adventure every time he turns around.

  Sex is the most important part of any relationship. It is the portion of a relationship that drives us. When the sex goes to hell, the relationship goes to hell. When a woman stops having sex with a man, there’s something wrong. There’s no longer affection. There’s no longer attraction. Bu something is definitely wrong.

  When a man stops having sex with a woman, there’s something wrong. He’s either having sex with someone else or he’s getting ready to. There’s no longer an attraction, or he’s become sexually bored. Bread and butter sex is just that.

  Bread and butter.

  If we were able to survive on bread and butter, and I suppose to some extent we are, how many of us would be content with a bread and butter diet. Living a life that was otherwise perfect, with bread and butter as the only available food. Breakfast - bread and butter. Lunch - bread and butter. Dinner – bread and butter. Next day – bread and butter. Next year? Bread and fucking butter.

  Or.

  The same life that was otherwise perfect. Breakfast - yogurt, grapefruit and oatmeal. Lunch - turkey sandwich, Greek salad, and an orange. Dinner - grilled chicken, rice pilaf, and grilled vegetables. Next day – Bacon, eggs, Chinese stir fry, steak, sushi…

  Which life would we choose?

  Diversity. Diversity satisfies our ever changing minds. It allows us to become satisfied. To become content that we are receiving what it is that we want, or need – without life becoming stale, stagnant, and repetitive. It keeps life adventurous. The not knowing. Just like when we were children.

  I wonder what’s for dinner?

  When we were in school. What’s for lunch?

  Being in a relationship and knowing what’s for sex is a recipe for disaster.

  Diversity.

  I had always obtained my diversity by being diverse with my partners. I ran from man to man to man, never getting attached to any one man - knowing that eventually, I would be bored with any one man that I settled for. Knowing this allowed me to be honest with myself, and as a result, I was never in an actual relationship. The sexual diversity came from having a different sexual partner at every turn in my life.

  There is no such thing as love. There is sex, affection, and satisfaction. With those things comes pleasure.

  Erik provides me with those things. All of them.

  ERIK. “So, Heather was nice. I found her to be a genuinely good person, from what little we talked,” I said, hoping to get Kelli to talk a little about Heather.

  “She is nice, that’s why we’re such good friends. You always talk like, well, listening to you talk is like reading a book. You’re so serious when you talk. Don’t get me wrong, I like it. I like it a lot, it’s a good quality,” Kelli responded.

  Not quite what I was after.

  “Bear said, excuse me, Teddy said that she was nice. I guess they’ve been out a few times. He hasn’t said a tremendous amount about it, but what little he did say, it sounds like they’re getting along well.”

  “Why did you call him Bear? Is that a nick-name?”

  “Yes. A club name. A nick-name. His name is Teddy. The name “Bear” was a nick-name for years. He is big, and looks like a teddy bear. A few years back, he accidentally knocked a bunch of bikes over at a bar, and he got a new nick-name, “Crash”. People that have known him for a long time, like me, sometimes call him Bear,” I explained as I folded the receipt from the coffee and placed it at the edge of the table.

  “Why do you all have nick-names?” she asked.

  “Well, most motorcycle clubs have nick-names for everyone. It’s easier that way. I suppose it started as a means of protecting people from anyone knowing their real names. If something happens and people are questioned, no one knows your name. There are guys that I have ridden with on and off for years that I still do not even know their real names,” I offered.

  “If something happens? So do you guys break the law?”

  I raised one eyebrow and looked at her, then took a slow exaggerated drink of my coffee, looking over the top of the cup at her as I did.

  “Okay, sorry I asked. Club business is club business. I remember,” she said smiling.

  So, Heather…” I said, once again opening the topic.

  “Well, Heather is nice. Just like we have talked before, she has been really unfortunate. She has spent her life looking for a guy to love her, and she’s willing to do whatever a guy wants, always hoping to get love in return. She is so eager to get it, she sleeps with about every guy she meets, thinking that he’s going to love her. He doesn’t, and she moves on to the next. Lather, rinse, repeat,” Kelli said, shaking her head.

  She looked great today. As she sat across the table from me I admired her. Late summer tan, straight black hair, and piercing blue eyes. She was wearing an orange summer dress, and this was the second time I had seen her in a dress. For the most part, the entire time I have known her, she has worn Chuck’s, shorts, and a tee-shirt. She looked quite beautiful in whatever she chose to wear, but today, in this dress, she looked exceptional.

  “Baby girl, you look fabulous today. This is the first time I have seen you in that dress, and I must say, I love it,” I said as I nodded at her.

  “Why thank you. That’s nice of you to say,” she responded, nodding back at me in mockery.

  “You’re adorable. It pleases me that you’ve become comfortable being yourself around me. Joking around and being yourself. When we first met, you were extremely reserved and quiet. You’re not necessarily a chatterbox now, but your more comfortable being you. I like that.”

  “Why thank you, again,” she said, nodding again.

  “Baby girl, who owns you,” I asked.

  “You do, Big Daddy,” she answered.

  A week or so ago, we rented a few movies, and watched them at her loft. One of the movies, Kick Ass, was a kind of cute teen superhero movie. One of the characters was a foul mouthed teen girl who called herself “Hit Girl”. Her Mentor was called “Big Daddy”. As we watched the movie, she began to call me Big Daddy, and so far, it had
stuck. She didn’t say it all the time, but jokingly, she used it often.

  During sex a few nights ago, she started screaming, “Fuck me Big Daddy. Fuck me Big Daddy” as we were having sex. We both erupted in laughter.

  “That’s right, baby girl,” I said, smiling.

  Can we talk? Like seriously?” Kelli asked quietly.

  “Sure, baby, what’s going on?”

  “Well, I mean seriously. I want to ask you some questions,” her hands were on either side of her face, her palms curved, and facing inward, making a little tunnel she was looking through.

  “Here? You want to talk here?” I asked.

  “Sure, there’s no one here, if you want,” she responded through the tunnel. Her body language indicated she was being an immature girl.

  “This is fine. Let’s hear what you have to say.”

  “Can I speak freely?” she asked through the tunnel.

  “Always, Kelli. You’ll never be criticized by me, ever,” I responded in a reassuring tone.

  “Okay. Uhhm. Well. What do you think is wrong with me? With us? What make us the freaks that we are?”

  “Well, first of all, we’re not freaks. I suppose you mean sexually?”

  “Yeah, sexually. Why am I different than most girls, sexually? Why does it make me happy to have you hold me down? How come I like you to choke me? Why does it make me wet when you call me baby girl? And why do I love calling you Daddy when you fuck me? It isn’t normal,” she asked the questions in a whisper-like tone, as if she was embarrassed.

  “Well, let me try to explain. First, we’re not freaks. We’re normal. It gets down to definition, kind of like your book, Broken People said, ‘define normal’. But we are normal, okay?”

  She nodded slowly.

  “Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung didn’t totally agree on all aspects of these theories, but they agreed on most of them. It gets down to upbringing. How we grew up. Neither of us grew up with a same sex parent in the home, so it makes our upbringing kind of one-sided, and difficult to pinpoint exactly what may have happened, but let me try.”