“She never became a cheerleader, never joined the Glee Club, never did a damn thing but study her ass off. She graduated top of the class, skipped the graduation ceremony, and went straight to college. After high school I didn’t really hear anything from her until she moved here to Orlando. She’d been here for a year or so before someone back home told her I had moved down here also.
“But most importantly . . . Well, you’re her first since her husband. It just blows me away that of all people she makes you her first.”
“Thanks a lot,” I said. I couldn’t help but laugh, though. After hearing this story I totally agreed with him. It was ridiculous that she’d chosen me.
“Be careful with her, mi amigo.”
“Why?” I asked.
Sidebottom reclined in the chair and took a swig from his beer. “I hate to say this because I do love her like a sister. But she’s a little fucked up, Smith. What you say about her attacking you the way she did surprises me, because she’s never been loose in a sexual sense. That swinger stuff I alluded to was pure voyeurism. But, whatever the case, since her husband died she’s just been . . . different. I can’t explain it. Again, I wonder: why you?”
“Don’t worry,” I said, trying to sound reassuring. “I’ll never make her do anything she doesn’t want to do. I’ll always treat her with respect. You know that.”
He nodded and smiled a little. “I know, buddy. I know. But just the same, be careful with her. She really is still angry with the world. She hasn’t forgiven that cowardly fuck for calling it quits on life. She really did love him.”
Then my cell phone ringtone for Caitlin played. I tossed the phone to the other side of the couch.
Sidebottom said, “So it really is over with you and Cathleen?” He actually did know her name. It was just his way of expressing his opinion that she should be persona non grata in my life.
“I think I’m going to change my phone number,” I said. “I really don’t want to talk to her again. Fuck it.”
The cell phone then played another tune. This time it was the ringtone I had just assigned to Samantha: Ravel’s Bolero.
“Smith,” she said, not even bothering to say hello. “I’ve been invited to a dinner party on Friday night over in Isleworth. I have to RSVP by tomorrow morning. Do you want to be my date?”
Like she really had to ask.
“Sure,” I said. “It’ll give me an excuse to go get a haircut.”
“Well, what are you doing right now?”
“Talking to Sidebottom,” I answered. “He’s boring the absolute shit out of me, too.” I threw a couch pillow at Sidebottom and smiled at him.
“Okay,” she said. “Have you eaten yet?”
“Nope.”
“Then come on over. I’ll fix you something. No sense in either one of us being alone tonight.”
As I assented to her invitation, the thought of Caitlin didn’t cross my mind. Nor would it for days to come. . . .
11
WHILE SEATED AT A table at the public library, I seriously considered returning home so I could apply an icepack to my balls. It was Wednesday afternoon. I had spent the past four nights at Samantha’s house, each of those nights wilder and more over the top than the previous one. I had been Samantha’s breakfast, lunch, dinner, and her late night snack. Though throughout my life I’d done everything but kneel and pray for a woman like that, I now realized I’d gotten more than I’d bargained for. Be careful what you wish for, right? I couldn’t help but feel that I’d made a deal with the devil.
There was, however, one apparent benefit from that deal: physically, I felt pretty damn good. I had slept quite well every night in Samantha’s bed. I figured our wild romps may have been the healthy antidote to my insomnia. I wanted to test that theory by going twenty-four hours without seeing her. But her will was strong and her allure powerful. Since coming home this morning, though, I had resisted the urge—and Samantha’s passionate requests—to return to her place. To avoid becoming completely addicted to her, I had to slow things down a bit.
I kept looking around for the redheaded librarian, but she was nowhere to be seen. I didn’t know her name, so I couldn’t really go to the counter and say, “Where’s the sexy redheaded librarian with the killer bod?” Maybe Wednesday was her day off, or maybe she was at—
But then, there she was, walking through the entrance with a warm smile on her face, greeting everyone as she strolled in. The glow she emanated was vibrant and colorful: happy colors like yellow, green, blue, and gold. As she took her place behind the counter she just kept on smiling, both to the library’s patrons and to her fellow employees. As I watched her conduct herself I could have sworn I was hearing a song by The White Stripes: “We’re Going to be Friends.” When Mr. Jack White wrote that simple ditty, he must have been inspired by someone a lot like this lovely young lady.
A few minutes later she glanced up and spotted me. She smiled and held up her forefinger, mouthing, “Just one second.” She said something to the woman next to her, and then she briskly walked from behind the counter and approached my table.
“Hey you,” she said spritely.
Damn. The fireworks went off again. Her luminous smile was the very essence of sweetness and innocence, absent any hint of the stark world-weariness that tainted Samantha’s smile. There wasn’t a single dark storm cloud hovering above the earth’s atmosphere that could have withstood her radiance.
“Hello,” I said. But the word didn’t come out too well because my mouth was suddenly dry.
“Did you finish Atlas Shrugged?” she asked. She pulled out a chair from across the table and took a seat.
She wore a yellow sundress. Though there was no display of cleavage for me to marvel at today, her breasts still made a delicious contour against the flexible cotton fabric. And, at least from the knees down, she had really great legs. I was nearly breathless. I felt close to fainting. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. When I opened my eyes she was still smiling at me, as if she didn’t think what I’d just done was the least bit weird.
“Yes,” I finally answered, “I did finish this book.” I handed it to her. “It’s a very good book, actually. I hadn’t expected to like it, especially after hearing the media recently blast Ayn Rand as being nothing more than a whacko conservative ideologue.” She leaned forward on her elbows and rested her chin on her palms. It was like she was hanging on my every word, genuinely interested in what I had to say. “My only gripe with the book, however . . .” I stopped. I didn’t want to spoil the ending for her. Besides, my mouth was bone dry. I reached into my pocket for a pack of breath mints.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “It won’t ruin it for me if you give me your opinion. What is your criticism of the book?”
“It’s flavored with lemon and pomegranate,” I said as I held up the package of mints. “Not the book—just these mints. You want one?”
We spent the next twenty minutes talking about nothing but literature. She had just finished reading The Brothers Karamazov, and she recommended I pick it up on my way out. She asked me about other good books I had read. I told her I thought she might enjoy Catch-22, if she liked dark humor.
“I’ll be reading that book soon,” she said joyfully—yes, joyfully. “Oh my God. We like a lot of the same type stuff. The only thing is, you read a lot faster than I do. I’m just now getting near the middle of Slaughterhouse Five. I’ll give it to you when I’m done with it.”
I told her I was afraid she’d get in trouble because we’d been talking for so long. She waved her hand dismissively and said not to worry. So I spent the next few minutes peppering her with questions about herself.
Her name was Glory Nolan. She was thirty-three, a few years older than I had presumed. She told me she had lived in Orlando for five years and that she didn’t like it much because the town was a soulless tourist trap with no real culture. Like me, what she enjoyed most about Orlando was the weather. Before moving to Orlando she’d gr
own up in Dallas, Texas, her place of birth. While I had been to Dallas before on business, I’d never had a chance to spend much time doing anything there aside from working. I told her I wanted to hear all about it sometime, especially with regard to the city’s music scene.
Then she asked: “Do I have to call you Smith? I know your first name—I looked it up when you walked out of here last time. I hope that doesn’t make you mad.”
“I’ll tell you sometime why I don’t go by my first name,” I said. “I promise.”
“Okay,” she said. “I think it’s silly of you because you have a really cool and uncommon name. You should readopt it and make it your own. You are, after all, a unique man.”
I smiled and thanked her for the compliment. My heart was thrashing inside of my chest, and I could feel sweat beginning to pool in my armpits. I was afraid that raging floods of perspiration would soon cascade down my sides.
“You told me you were a speed reader,” she said. “Did you speed-read Atlas Shrugged?”
“That’s right,” I answered. “If I’d taken my time with Atlas, I’d have been on Social Security by the time I returned it here. That John Galt fellow can flat out talk up a storm. He’s worse than my buddy Sidebottom.”
She laughed and told me I was funny. Then she said, “I don’t like the idea of speed reading. When reading a good book I want to take my time and enjoy it. You know what my dad used to say to me?”
“What did he say?”
Glory giggled and stood from the table. Within a flash she whooshed her way into the chair next to mine. With a mischievous smile she leaned into me and whispered in my ear: “Like wine, cheese, and sex, you have to take your time with fine literature. Slow and easy, he’d say, and enjoy and savor every bit of it.”
I damn near popped a woody. God help me, I thought. Oh, how I want to be with this woman. I will forsake all others right now just to be with her. I don’t care. I’ll give up everything.
She leaned back and playfully sighed. “Real soon you’ll be going by your first name. I think it’s disrespectful to address a man by his last name only. Just wait and see. One day, you’ll be glad you met me.”
I already am, I thought, though I was afraid to say it. Being next to her made me forget about everything in the cold and cruel world that I desperately wanted away from. Glory Nolan was the total package. I just knew it without any doubt. She now owned my heart.
“You want to know something funny?” she said. “Your friend—Walter Sidebottom—had his library privileges suspended.”
“Why?” I asked.
Glory chuckled, then said, “Walter has a terrible habit of marking up library books with a pen. He makes note of comma splices, verb confusion, fragmented sentences, run-on sentences, idiomatic anachronisms, trite phrases, or anything else he can think of. He even makes editorial comments, like if he thinks a character shouldn’t have acted a certain way or have performed a certain act. He’s so cute. I really, really feel bad for him.”
“Well, Wally’s a literary snob if there ever was one,” I remarked. My voice had returned to full strength, but just barely. “How many books has he defaced?”
“About fifty,” she answered. “He can’t regain his check-out privileges until he has made restitution. Honestly, I think they’re being a little too hard on him. They want about two grand from him. Unfortunately, he mostly marked up hard covers. I’m working on getting the financial penalty reduced, if he promises to reform his behavior.”
Glory then stood and smiled. “It’s so good to see you again,” she said. “I think we’ll be really great friends. Maybe we could go to lunch sometime?” It was half question and half statement. In light of my current entanglements, I didn’t know how to answer.
Glory’s eyes were really something special to behold. I never wanted to see even the slightest trace of sadness in them. I never wanted to be the cause of any pain in her life. Not ever. So in that split second I decided she deserved a man better than me. Just like that, and all bets were off. So much for forsaking all others.
“Lunch sounds good,” I said. Though from there I regretfully had to hedge a bit: “But my life is so busy right now. Maybe I can come back and we can talk again. You know, about literature and stuff.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?” Glory asked. Her smile slowly faded. There was a look of anticipation on her face that said: I hope you say no.
I was deeply ashamed of myself, because all I could think about was having sex with Samantha. For now, I could be nothing more to Glory Nolan than a friend. After all, it was because of Samantha that I was being well fed and receiving proper sleep. She was the tonic I needed right now. If I started dating Glory I’d be doing something improper, something that wouldn’t be fair to Glory or to Samantha. I had cast my lot with the beautiful but damaged Dr. Fleming. Until that bond was broken, I couldn’t be with anyone else.
So I was obligated to say the absolute worst thing you can ever say to a beautiful and wonderful woman who wants to keep you company.
“Yes,” I finally answered, “I do have a girlfriend.” I didn’t add any qualifying statements to it. I just left it at that.
“No matter,” Glory said as her smile returned. “We can still be friends. You can come in here any time you want, and then I’ll take a thirty minute break to talk to you. Will you at least give me that? It would mean a lot to me, as selfish as it sounds.”
“Yes,” I said, “I would really like that.”
And then I changed my mind about avoiding Samantha tonight. After I left the library, I bee-lined it straight to her place.
12
“OUR SEXUAL BEING IS God's greatest gift to us.”
No, that wasn’t Sidebottom yapping. It was instead Samantha, dispensing her own brand of philosophical bullshit as we lay in bed following a three-hour lovemaking session that had been entirely confined to her bedroom. Tonight we had steered clear of previously covered territory, which had included the staircase, the billiards table, the back porch, the Jacuzzi, the pool, the surfaces of major kitchen appliances (both horizontal and vertical), all tabletops, the hoods of three cars in the garage, et cetera.
Samantha, however, would never have characterized it as “lovemaking.”
“What we’re doing is fucking,” she would say. “It is what it is. It’s a damned good time between two people who really enjoy having sex with one another.” However she viewed it, I did appreciate the softer, more loving and tender touch she was treating me to tonight. She normally preferred her sex rough, extremely rough, no matter what. I expressed my gratefulness for the change of pace, and asked if I could expect more of this in the future.
“I’m just giving your body a little break tonight,” she said. “It’s only because I’m tired, though. Baby, I’m telling you, I am getting so burned out with everything. It’s beginning to take a real toll on me.”
Oh brother. Here we go again.
Samantha’s nonstop burnout rants were ringing in my ear with one sour note in particular: her stated wish to find a wealthy man who would rescue her from her living hell. The past three years of raising Devin on her own, combined with working full time for longer than that, had her longing for the role of a rich housewife. On top of that she desired to travel the world, go to every continent, visit every civilized nation, climb every mountain, and sail every sea, adventures I couldn’t foresee myself being able to finance for quite some time.
If Samantha believed that openly plotting the seduction and conning of a rich old fart was engendering any of my loyalty, she was mistaken. I had just decided that this relationship—or whatever it was—wasn’t going to last very long with her talking like that. If it was just about money with her, then something was becoming painfully clear to me: I had become Samantha Fleming’s fuck buddy. I didn’t want that for myself. I really didn’t. Not for too long, anyway.
She thankfully changed the subject.
“Tell me about this woman you just broke up with,
” Samantha said. “What was her big hang-up about sex? You’re great in the sack, baby. No, don’t laugh—you really are. When you first told me about her frigidity, I figured you were a minuteman or something. I thought maybe you were uncaring and clumsy in bed.”
I schooled her on Caitlin’s horse shit “quality over quantity” theory.
“Oh my! Such a terrible thing to say,” Samantha said. She rolled over on top of me and laughed hysterically. She then straddled me until I quickly regained an erection. Samantha kissed me passionately, darting her tongue deep into my mouth. This time the sex was a quickie, only lasting fifteen minutes. It was so fast and furious that after I came I thought she was going to fly off my lap and crash into the ceiling.
After Samantha climaxed she fell to my side. She caught her breath and declared: “No erection should ever go wasted. Your old girlfriend is full of shit, baby. Don’t ever let anyone say something idiotic like that to you. Not ever. You did right by dumping her.”
I didn’t need the validation, but I loved Samantha’s latest mantra: No erection should ever go wasted.
But Dr. Fleming wasn’t done philosophizing.
“Let me tell you something,” she said. “Sexual timidity is the hallmark of today’s modern American woman. American women are boring, and they only like dull and boring American men. In fact, they simply adore the hamburger eating man. The circumstances under which a hamburger eating man displays any kind of emotion are rather limited. When his team scores a touchdown it elicits orgasmic joy from him; when he rips a fart in the company of his hamburger eating buddies it is cause for celebratory high-fives; or better yet, when they all gather round and tap open a keg of Rocky Mountain piss water, they exult together as one to the gods up above to express their gratefulness.
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