Like before, it was short and sweet. It said, "What's up?" with a few decorative smiling faces and flowery hearts that seemed strangely out of place.
"That's creative," he said.
I hit the reply, and said, "Hold on," to Robby.
I held my fingers over the keyboard, not sure what to write. Every word. Every thought. Every moment had to be carefully crafted, considering where we were and where we wanted to be. It had to be deliberate and working toward the goal, but respectful of the boundaries, and the realities. The Closing of the Deal should be started before the first word is spoken. It should be deliberate and sequential. I had to plan and know my goal, know my target, know my audience. I had to apply what I was learning in school to something I needed in my own life. Make it relevant.
While I was thinking, Robby dove in there without warning, typed, "Let's fuck" and hit SEND.
He rolled over, howling, dying with laughter, while I pounded on him.
I was so cross with him, I couldn't see straight. I picked up a baseball bat, and pointed it at his face, and told him to sit on my bed. “OVER THERE,” I said. He was still laughing, but he did as I told. I quickly typed a new reply with a big bold subject line "DISREGARD LAST EMAIL!!!!!!!!!!" Then in the subject, I tried to explain, "I am so sorry. My friend Robby is here, and he was pulling a prank. I did NOT send that. I am SO sorry. I am embarrassed, and hope you are well." I hit send.
A minute later, a reply was in my inbox. "He sounds fun. Can't wait to meet him. Come out with us Friday night? Both of you?"
I was stunned. Not just because she had replied immediately, and didn't hate me, and had invited us both out; but also because I wondered if she sat in her bedroom all day writing and reading emails and social statuses on the web. But then I remembered she actually had a SMART phone, so she could check and send emails from anywhere. As for laughing off Robby's prank, I had to remember some of her friend's and their personalities. She had to have a powder full of patience to hang with that crowd.
"Cool. Send me the details," I said. "Looking forward to it." I shut down the laptop before Robby could cause any more trouble, then I faced him, pointed to the bat again, and said, "You are so damned lucky to be off the hook. This time. But we are all going out Friday, and that includes you, and you'd better be on your best behavior!"
He grinned broadly, "SO she DOES want to fuck!"
"I fixed that little mess. Told her you did it as a prank, and she said you sound fun."
"Oh, yeah," he said. "I sound fun all right. Fuck me, baby. Right here, right now; in Way’s itty bitty bald-nut boy bed.”
“She is off limits to you! D’y’ hear?” I warned him.
“Thought you weren’t pursuing Little Miss Boyfriend?”
I pointed the bat again. “NO!”
Robby held up his hands. “I’m jus’ messing wi’ ya. We’re BRO’s man. Y’know I wouldn’t go there.”
“NO!” I repeated.
“Pussy!” He bust out laughing, then winked. “You really like this one." Then he paused thoughtfully. “Not sure what she sees in a poor-ass dirtbag like you, though, if she has all that money and rich shit.”
“I hear that,” I agreed, lowering the bat with a sigh.
He was right. There was something about her. A complicated world of contradictions. I had no idea what someone like her could see in a guy like me, but I couldn't fight the feeling that something was there. There was something magical between us. Something that evoked profound words in my head like Destiny, True Love, and Soul Mate.
I was a mess.
[ Meeting Robby / Ho Shoes ]
Introducing Robby to the gang on Friday night was even more colorful than my own introduction. We found a casual sports bar with low lighting and not too many people to start the night; got some drinks, appetizers, and let everyone get over the shock of meeting Robby.
When he heard Amane's name, Robby muttered, "Mahna-Mahna???" quoting the character of the same name from The Muppets Show fame.
When Amane tried to correct him, he hummed the short musical accompaniment that went with the wrong name he had given. “Do DOOOO de doo do.”
She said her name again, and he interrupted with the little melody once more. “De DOO de do.”
I asked him, "Why are you always such a prick?"
"... is what it is," he said drily, and spit.
“Hey! Knock it off! We’re indoors!” I shouted.
Then Robby met Mags.
He looked her up and down, while she did the same to him. I was glad they didn’t start groping each other the way she had with me. Robby stopped while staring at her feet of all things. He cracked a grin, then said to me, "Man, she is totally a 7."
That did it. The Story of ‘Ho Shoes’ was about to be revealed.
Mags overheard. Indignant, she shrieked, "Oh? I'm not a 10?"
I explained, "He means your Ho Shoe." Robby had helped me compile that project and come up with descriptions for the shoes people wore, and how it reflected who they were - in our unprofessional and unscientific way.
"YOU - are calling me a Ho???" Mags was mad, and everyone else had that dumb look on their face like they had no idea what we were talking about.
I tried to offer a quick explanation. "We started it for fun, just me and Robby, but then I ended doing it up proper-like for a freshman school project, a couple years ago."
Robby chewed on some tobacco in his cheek, nodding his head. “Covens, bitch. Sexy ass witches.”
I shook my head and waved my hands. “No, no, no.” All eyes were on me. “Covers,” I explained. “Everybody has a cover, a mask. And while we all mold our true self to fit the crowd, whether with family, work, or friends, I got this idea that maybe something sneaked through. And that was when it hit me. Shoes. The feet. That was where we continued to express our true self, regardless of what bullshit cover our personality and clothes projected to the world.”
Chris nodded solemnly, like a bearded-bobble-head. “Shoes are the window of the Soul.”
Amane corrected him. “That’s Eyes.”
I pointed at Chris. “No. He’s right. That was my point.”
Robby was getting antsy and needed to let his foul mouth run wild a bit, so he jumped in grabbing his crotch. “And it’s all about sex, baby. The Ho Shoe is really about who you are sexually.”
I smiled and nodded this time, so everyone would know that Robby wasn’t bullshitting.
Robby pointed at everyone’s feet, one by one. "Everyone wears come-fuck-me pumps. They just choose the shoe that says what they want and how they want it. For instance, I like Jack Boots. Confident. I like to be in control; assertive. I know what I am doing and I am going to make damn sure you take it hard and right, so we both get our money’s worth. When I am done with you, you will feel as if a jackhammer had broken and paved your darlin’ wet pussy, and you will crawl back on your hands and knees, beggin’ for more, yo."
Robby tried to see who would lock eyes with him while giving his speech.
Amane was mortified and stared at her own shoes, frozen like a statue. Mags acted bored, fumbling with her phone, not intimidated or interested; not giving him the benefit of stroking his ego. Bo seemed intrigued and amused, but nervously smiled at me instead of Robby. I liked that.
Only Chris stared back, unblinking, with a weird grin, muttering, “Slippery wet Alpine Newt. My God, yes.”
I could see that Robby was so disturbed by Chris’s strange reaction that he cleared his throat and said, “Way can take it from here.”
When Chris did not seem to make sense, no one was willing to ask him what he meant. We were afraid he would tell us.
Amane, still trying to be correct from her prior shutdown, asked me, “So really, eyes are the windows to the soul, but the shoe is the window to your sexual identity.”
I clapped my hands. “Bingo! Give that girl a prize.”
Robby yapped, “I’ve got a prize for her.”
Amane cooly countered, �
�I’ve heard about your prizes, and I don’t crawl.”
Robby grinned and stuck out his tongue, “Then you’re not doing it right, sweetheart.”
Bo tried to mediate the gang and get everyone back in order. “Alright, let’s let that go for the moment. Waylon? Was there something more to this?”
“Yes.” I wanted to be concise, but this project really was a pet passion of mine. I pointed to Mags’ shoes. "What Robby was saying, originally, was that your shoes are a dead-ringer for Ho Shoe #7."
Mags slid up to my side and let the honey drip from those big dark eyes. “Sugar bee,” she cooed, “Y’ gonna tell me what this all means, or leave me to guess?”
At that moment, it occurred to me how strangely little attention she had showed to Robby, with all his sexual theatrics.
I looked her in the eye, and she held my gaze.
As if reciting from a well-rehearsed school presentation (which largely I was), I told her, "Ho Shoe #7 holds nothing back. It's an all-or-nothing shoe. It is confident and influential. It is domineering, and sexually in control; not submissive. Beneath all of that, though, there is a subtle disconnect. The true self is hidden away. There is a public face and a private face. This is the key difference from Ho Shoe #7, yours, and Ho Shoe #13, which happens to be Robby’s. His does not have that deeper hidden side. What Robby left out of HIS description is, in his case, it’s all about him. End of story."
“Fuck you,” he laughed.
Everyone waited with baited breath for Mags reaction.
"Not bad, W2," she said. "I think I was right about you. You see things too. What’s yours?"
“Yeah,” Bo chimed in, not wanting Mags to monopolize me. “What’s your Ho Shoe, Waylon? What kind of sex do you like?” She was being flirty again. At least that’s how I interpreted it.
"Alright,” I chuckled. “Mine is the classic #17," I shared proudly. "White high-top sneakers with the laces removed. A little bit conservative and traditional, but not afraid of being a jock. Don’t like to be tied down by conformity and rigid rules. A casual party air, the kind of person who can kick back and roll with the best of them.” I paused, shifting to the more entertaining aspect of the Ho Shoe. “From a sexual point of view, my shoes say I am fixin’ to roll, willing to try whatever comes my way. Within reason. But nothin’ too extreme. I like to have fun. Mutual fun." I added that last bit as a dig to Robby. He scowled and flipped me the bird.
Of course, after that, everyone was into the idea and wanted to know what Ho Shoe they were.
“Ok, Ok,” I laughed. “I can’t remember them all off the top of my head. But back when I did my school project, I registered a site and loaded it on the web. I haven’t looked at in ages. Maybe we can check it out later.”
Chris suggested that someone with the best smart phone should bring it up right then and there. Of course, techno-nerd that he was, he was already pulling his own cutting-edge phablet from his pocket, to show it off. That thing was so big, it barely fit in his little hands.
Everyone gathered round, admiring his phone, and waiting for my website.
When the main page loaded, an old traffic counter showed that my number of hits were through the roof! Everyone was impressed. Ho Shoes were a hit, and I didn’t even know it. I tucked that information away for later. Then we started comparing the shoes people were wearing in our crowd, and reading the actual slightly embarrassing things Robby and I had written about those shoes, turning it into a big ice-breaking, drinking-type game.
Amazingly enough, no one disagreed with their description.
Bo was spontaneous and fun, willing to be a little kinky with the right partner.
Chris was asexual with equal needs for distance and connection; not overly concerned with who or what that connection was. His shoes were comfortable, quiet, forgettable, and devoid of any sincere identity. Robby joked that this also meant he might have been a sociopathic serial killer. Chris grinned. He liked that alter-ego.
Amane was insecure about her appearances, but not unwilling to change. Sex was unlikely because too many walls would need to be hurdled.
When it came to Ryan, Robby had some fun with him. He took a long look at the shoes before the page loaded and said, “Oh yeah, I remember those. You’re a 66. That means you’re a “little dick pecker-head prick-brain.”
Ryan went red in the face from anger and embarrassment, and I almost thought he was going to throw a punch at Robby until Chris shouted, “No, no. Here it is! Extremely conservative and overly concerned with comfort and appearances.”
Robby pointed his big finger in Ryan’s face and grinned. “Gotcha!”
Chris held up a finger. “I’m not done.” He continued, “Traditional and boring in bed.”
Mouths dropped.
Ryan could only muster, “Well, that’s not true.” He looked at Bo. Everyone’s eyes followed.
He wanted Bo to defend him, but she stammered, “I’m sorry. I don’t talk about my sex life in public.”
Silence followed.
“Thanks,” he whispered to her, fuming with sarcasm, holding back his frustration.
The silence was painful until Mags opened her purse. “Shots on me!”
We all cheered. We needed an excuse to get beyond the awkwardness. The party was on.
[ Bowling ]
After we were adequately lit, we decided to go bowling. Robby had pushed for that because he was a small-town champ.
Bo had never bowled tenpin before. Even though her home state of Connecticut was mostly tenpin, she had only bowled candlepin. The difference was that northern candlepin bowling had small balls with no holes, and you got three throws per turn instead of two. The pins were smaller too. And shaped like candles instead of the traditional duckbill shape.
"Small balls and no holes," Robby paraphrased her game with a demeaning grin. "Yankee style."
I shook my head. “You are actin’ one sandwich shy of a picnic right now. Have some respect.”
Amane had never bowled at all, but she insisted on matching up against Robby.
Chris said he wasn't bad, and to our surprise, he was right. Uncoordinated geek-boy had his normal skills after all, despite the bizarre display of chicken-flapping tosses.
Mags opted to sit out the game. "I'm not dressed for it."
We wanted her to play, but we all had to agree: she was not dressed for bowling. Something was going to tear or fall off, and while that would make for some interesting stories, we didn't want the night to go down that way. Well, maybe Robby did, but the rest of us didn’t.
Ryan tried to follow her lead and said he would sit this one out too. He offered to keep score.
Robby scowled at him. "Dumbass, it's automatic scoring," He laughed.
Ryan tried not to show it, but Robby had gotten under his skin. He was still angry because Robby had joked that his Ho Shoe was #66 which meant he was “a little dick pecker-head prick-brain.”
So he decided to join the game, hoping that his other sports skills - such as soccer, cricket, and tennis - would give him an edge against the small town champ. It didn't, and Robby was in his glory, calling him out, and joking, and swearing.
Mags sat alone in the back playing with her phone. Men from other alleys strutted to her side like arrogant cockroaches. "Hey, baby," they would say. "Want to play with MY balls." Each line was less original than the last. She would evaluate them individually, and then dismiss them with her characteristic attitude. "Tell me again why you're talking to me? Maybe you didn't get the memo, but your LEAGUE is over yonder."
The big surprise of the night was Amane. She went last, watching us carefully. Before her very first throw, she turned and asked, "You just throw the ball down the lane and try to knock over all the pins?"
"Yep." In concept, it wasn't a very complicated game.
Ryan cupped his hand over Bo's at the little white scoring table (that wasn’t used for scoring anymore.) They sat in the two adjacent chairs.
I watched, hoping
no one was watching me.
Bo removed her hand from under his, reaching for her coke. She said, “I’m need a swig.”
I thought that was odd, since she wasn't left-handed. Why didn't she use her right hand for the coke? Were Bo and Ryan not as solid as everyone seemed to pretend? The sigh at the barbeque? Not defending his bedroom skills at the sports bar? Me? Or was I just thinking too much and drawing wishful false conclusions? I was bad like that.
Amane stared at the target and nodded, sharpening her eyes. She repeated the basic concept. "Throw the ball. Knock over the pins. That doesn't sound so hard." The first few throws were off in the gutter, and we all laughed and teased her. But once she was used to the weight of the ball, and the feel as it released from her fingers, she started to hit with surprising accuracy. By the third string, she was winning, beating even Robby.
He was beside himself, sputtering angry like a pissed nest of hornets, accusing her of being a pro on-the-sly.
Amane calmly repeated, enraging Robby, "No. it’s just a basic game. You aim for that point near the center, which makes them all fall."
Robby kept shouting, "Beginner's luck, beginner's luck!" the tobacco spit drooling out of the corner of his mouth. He marched over to the scoring table, grabbed a pencil and wrote a big “66” in front of Ryan, taking some delight irritating the Brit even more.
I heard Bo whisper to Amane. "Play him again. Let him win."
"No."
Bo gritted her teeth. "Do it."
Amane was adamant. "I won't."
The two of them were snarling in tense whispers. Robby was too far away to hear, luckily.
"This is his game. Don't show him up."
"It's not his game, if I can beat him."
"He actually cares about this. You don't."
"What makes you think I don't care? Why should I pretend not to be my best? What does that prove? Is that how you keep Ryan happy? Lie to him?"
Shocked by the remark and exasperated, Bo gave up, "You're as bad as he is."
That made Amane sit bolt upright. She didn’t want to lose on purpose, but she did not want to be compared to him.
Under The Covers Page 8