A Wicked Choice

by Calinda B

  “Get there early so we can fine tune the way we want to organize the evening. Be prepared,” she stressed, giving me a squinty-eyed, intimidating gaze.

  As I forced the door open, I noticed Sue and Kate were still in the same spot. They looked up; saw my dark expression, and both spluttered. “Guess you met Mr. Dallas. You two will make a fine duo. So sorry we can’t be there to help you. You know how it is when something comes up that you just can’t avoid.” They were laughing so hard, tears were streaming down their faces.

  Now I knew what their hilarity was all about – Mr. Dallas. My face reddened, and I quickened my steps. Once outside, I took a calming breath of the fragrant summer air. The high clouds in the blue sky were expansive and comforting. The sun touched me with a warm caress. I sighed.

  The thought of working with Mr. Dallas was repulsive to me. Jill was frightening enough to be around, but this guy was an indecent nightmare. I jogged to my car in an attempt to ease my tight gut. As I turned the corner, I saw a friend of mine, Michael Ziegler. Michael was good looking, in his early 30s. He wore faded jeans and a denim shirt covered with dirt from a day’s work as a carpenter. He was leaning forwards, shaking sawdust from his hair.

  “Hi, Michael!”

  Kicking his work boots against the truck tires to dislodge the mud from the soles, he answered, “Hi, Chér. How’s it going?” He leaned into the back of his pickup and tossed his tool bag into the cargo container. Taking a key ring out of his pocket, he sorted through the keys until he found the right one. With a click he locked the bin.

  “Oh, kinda crappy... I have to work at the Northwest fundraiser in a couple of weeks, and I have to work with this horrid man.” I wrinkled my nose in disgust.

  “That sucks,” he commiserated, stuffing the keys back in his pocket. “Maybe I can help you forget your troubles. Why don’t you join me for a beer? No sense drinking alone.”

  I wasn’t expected home for a while. “Sure, that would be great. I’ll follow you in my V-dub.”

  He climbed in his monstrous Ford F350 pickup truck and powered up the engine. With a wave, he peeled out onto the street. I jumped in my Beetle, turned the key in the ignition, and gunned the motor to try to catch up with him.

  I had known Michael for many years, since I was 20. He was a confidant at times, a great pal to hang out with at others. I had never been attracted to him, although he seemed to want to play that way with me. Truth be told, though, he felt that way about most women. He loved the ladies, and the ladies loved him. That was for sure. I just plain liked him. He had dark curly hair, velvety butterfly-wing blue eyes, and long eyelashes. His work in construction kept his 6’ body tan, lean, and muscular. With an ever-easy smile and a merry disposition, it was hard to be in a sour mood around Michael.

  Michael pulled into a bar down the street called Jingo’s High and Mighty. His side door opened and he climbed out, striding towards me. “Come on, girl, let’s have us some brews.” He threw his arm around my shoulders and pulled me inside.

  Jingo’s was a hip brew pub, serving some of the best suds around. It had high windows all around the perimeter, a darkened room off to the back with TVs blaring, a cherry wood bar lining the back wall, and a cozy room full of tables with comfortable chairs. We sidled up to one of the tables and settled into our seats.

  A saucy looking woman with a long black braid, wearing a white shirt and black pants, waltzed over, ready to take our order. She had a beauty mark by her lip and chewed gum with loud smacking sounds.

  “What’ll it be?” she inquired, looking at Michael with ‘I Want You’ eyes.

  “A couple of El Jefe Weizens,” Michael replied, not sparing her even a glance. “That okay with you, Chér?” he added as an afterthought.

  “Fine.” I gave him a timid smile.

  We settled back in our plush chairs, ready to relax.

  “So what’ve you been up to, Michael?”

  He smiled that ever ready smile of his. His deep dimples accented his smile like a couple of outward facing parentheses.

  “Ah, working, working out. You know the drill.”

  “I KNOW you Michael. If all you were doing was working, you’d be a very unhappy boy.”

  He laughed. “You got that right. Oh, you know, been seeing a couple of girls, mixing things up a bit.”

  “Only a couple?” I teased.

  “That was last night. I tell you what, girl, I sure have fun doing the nasty.” He looked up towards the corner as if seeing a movie of last night’s revelry.

  “Fun, huh?” was my quick retort. “What’s so fun about it?” Can’t say that I had ever said having sex was FUN. To me, it was an act that I tried really, really hard to enjoy. Every once in a while I got it right, other times I faked it. Fun was the last thing I ever felt about coupling with another.

  “Are you serious, Chér? Sex is the supreme act between two people, three people, or a whole bunch of people! It’s natural. It’s wonderful. And it feels GOOD! Damn, it feels good,” he proselytized. “How can it NOT be fun?”

  “I dunno, to me, it’s kinda hard.”

  “It’s supposed to be hard, at least the man is,” he chortled, pleased at his own joke. “I can show you sometime. Feeling is believing...”

  “Thanks, Michael, but I’ll pass. I get what you mean.” I blushed and looked away.

  The waitress edged over, dropped a couple of coasters on the table and placed a cold brew on each one. She gave Michael an appreciative glance. Michael kept his attention directed my way. The waitress gave up and stalked away.

  We reached for our beers and took a long swallow. “Yum, that’s one of my favorites.” I licked my lips, savoring the delicious liquid as it cooled my throat. A delicious feeling of warmth spread through me, as the hops got busy in their job of mild intoxication.

  “Mine, too,” agreed Michael, wiping the back of his hand across his generous, kissable lips. “Back to our last topic,” he continued. “If you ever want me to tap that,” he looked at my crotch. “I’m just sayin’…I’ll show you just how fun it can be.” He viewed me intently, eyes mischievous with delight.

  “Michael…” I rolled my eyes in mock aversion. I seriously wanted to move the conversation in a new direction. This one was making me squirm and turn every shade of red.

  An hour of light-hearted conversation later we each emerged from Jingo’s, a light buzz in our brains.

  “You cool to drive, Chér?”

  “I’m cool. I think I’ll scoot around the block to clear my head.”

  He reached over and gave my cheek a friendly kiss. “Be safe, Chér. But not too safe,” he added, winking. With that, he hopped into his beast of a truck and zoomed away.

  As I wandered, I thought about what he had said. Sex was fun? Sex was a lot of things, but not fun. I really wanted it to be fun. I wanted it to be something other than what it was to me, and what it was I could not say. I had always felt tortured…conflicted…drawn and repulsed…turned on, turned off. I was all mixed up. I loved to kiss, but when it veered below the belt, I was baffled and confused…averse and wanting all in the same breath. How had this happened? Was it my upbringing?

  I remember Mother Clarice dropping pamphlets from the doctor’s office on the coffee table when I was about 15. She told me to read them if I wanted to know anything about the birds and bees. I glanced at them but they always made me feel embarrassed. They were so clinical: full of diagrams and illustrations. They made having sexual relations like visiting the doctor – something cold and impersonal to get through with and out the door. As to my father’s input, Frank and his cronies would, at times, lit with drink, whistle at me and howl when I sauntered through the house in my swimming suit. I would hug my towel around me and hurry through the kitchen where they sat, setting my sights on the pool in the backyard. I suppose they thought that was a good way to show me that I was pretty or something. It made me feel foul and violated, though.

  When I became sexually active, it was SO not fun:
first, Wesley…then a string of forgotten faces. I’d dress in crop tops, ripped jeans, skin tight t-shirts – whatever got me attention. Mother Clarice would raise her head up from her mixed drink, tell me I looked like a slut and order me to change before venturing out the door. Frank would try to silence her, saying, “Let the girl be, Clarice. She’s gotta have a little fun.” He’d turn and wink at me. I never returned the wink. Instead, I’d sprint back to the bedroom, grab a sloppy sweatshirt and re-emerge, well-covered. They’d never check to see what was underneath my sweatshirt - the same costume as before.

  As I scanned my memories, I could not find the source…the reason I was so confused. I knew at times I was angry about the whole sex thing….sometimes sad…mostly numb. Being intimate with Cam could be fun…sort of. When he was really tender, and I was able to stop thinking, stop trying so hard, at those times I could feel some fulfillment in it. If I was honest with myself, though, I couldn’t really call it fun. When Cam and I had fun, it was on the wall at the rock climbing gym, racing our bikes down the street, or going out for pizza and drinking a couple of beers. Clearly, I was quite lost inside when it came to sex.

  I continued my aimless wandering for quite some time. Gradually my thoughts turned in other directions. Remember when I said I was too busy to think of the dark haired guy? I was only fooling myself. When I wasn’t busy, he’d slip in like a silky piece of cloth over bare skin. I’d quickly quash the thoughts when they arose, but arise they did. I felt the strange tingle between my legs and up my spine as my thoughts turned in his direction. Oh dear, this had to stop. Then, I looked up to see a lustrous black BMW with tinted windows all around ease slowly past me. Didn’t I see that car a few minutes ago? Maybe the owner was lost, trying to find an address. When I looked directly at the front window of the car, it sped away. That was odd. I watched it, perplexed, as it zoomed downed the street.

  “Are you really that dumb?” a voice called out to me.

  Where did that come from? I turned around in a circle, but couldn’t see anyone or anything, other than the street, shops, homes, sidewalks, and flowerbeds. I peered through the lush ferns and fuchsias in someone’s yard, in the direction that I thought the voice had come from.

  “Yes, I’m talking to you, dear.” There it was again. The voice sounded like…yes, it sounded like the voice of that old woman who had come to my class. Great. Now, I was hearing things. Without another thought, I ran to my car, locked the doors, and drove home chock full of paranoia.

  Chapter 6

  Cameron Delaney Tyson sat at his worn brown desk at the Seattle High Road Recovery building. High Road Recovery provided treatment for substance abuse and DUI/DWI offenders, as well as various programs for women and men. Cam facilitated groups of abusive men, night after night. Court-ordered to participate, most of the men were manipulative and full of grandiosity, spending their time figuring out how to work the system, rather than change. Cam hated that. He often perceived himself to be a babysitter for grown men with the minds of childish bullies.

  His office had flickering fluorescent lights overhead which drove him mad with their insistent flicker and hum. He’d asked to get it fixed on several occasions to no avail. Sometimes he wanted to take a hammer to it and be done with it. The walls were cluttered with posters about HIV, teenage pregnancy, and the escalating drug use in the greater Seattle area. A couple of miserable teens peered out at him from the poster, needles and pills at their side. In another, a beautiful young woman with bright smiling eyes was framed in a picture next to a snapshot of her current self: an old-looking, washed up 26-year-old woman with missing teeth who was hooked on meth. It was a sad poster.

  He was dressed in a pair of light brown cargo pants, a green plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a pair of Keen’s hiking shoes. His desk was, as usual, cluttered with papers, articles he had brought in, and books. If anyone tried to straighten up his desk, he got pissed, way pissed. He knew where everything was in this landslide. He leaned back in his chair, a squeaky, clunky wooden chair from another era, and stretched. Man, what a long day. He looked up at the old circular school clock that hung on the wall. It was nearly 8:30 pm. He should finish up and head for home. Chérie would probably be there when he got home.

  Chérie... he rubbed his hands over his jaw, lined with a day’s stubble, and thought of her. How he cared about her. He remembered the day he first saw her at U-Dub. She was virtually bouncing along, golden reddish lights shimmering from her short, glossy hair. Her slender body was vibrating with energy. Damn, he loved that body…all taut muscles and smooth, sensuous skin. And her face – it was fine boned with golden Lynx-like eyes that made his heart melt. He was hooked right from the start. At first glance, he wanted to wrap her in his arms and kiss her long and thoroughly. He had wanted to claim her, like some territorial beast. You, Jane... Me, Tarzan. Where the fuck did THAT come from? Jesus Christ, he got hard just thinking about her. And SO fucking sweet. She was probably the sweetest woman he had ever met. But goddamn it all to hell, he wished she’d stick up for herself. She let people run all over her, use her. He couldn’t stand that.

  He’d been raised by one son-of-a-bitch father who slapped his mom around a lot. His father would constantly berate her and, when drunk, use his fists to drive home his angry points, whatever the hell they were. “You’re not doing this right, not doing that right.” Cam had hated it as a child, and he hated it still. At 17, he’d finally stood up for his mother, belted his father in the jaw, and got the hell out of there, moving in with his Grandma Guinevere. He had never looked back, never hit another person…he’d also never seen his mom again. He’d had enough of living with violence. That’s partly why he did these groups for men in recovery, if you could call it that. If he could make a difference in one man’s life, he felt he’d atone for his father’s failures.

  Tonight he had had the WORST suck-ass group. Those foul mouth lugs that he was supposed to be guiding on their way to non-violence were too much to take sometimes. He knew he wasn’t making a difference in anyone’s life in there. He got so tired of the stonewalling, the silence, and the refusal to take ownership of their behavior. It was just like being in his childhood home.

  But he had a couple more months to finish his internship. He was finishing up a degree in counseling, and this gig at High Road Recovery was an important one. The only thing was, now that he was nearly finished, he wished he’d taken a different road. What he really wanted to do was become one of those Outward Bound leaders…take kids out into the world and change their lives through physical adventures…something like that. He liked creating change in people. He also loved physical challenges, craved them, and was good at them. Like when he was rock climbing, his hands knew where to go, where to reach. When he touched the wall, his mind raced with the information his hands provided.

  Again, he thought of Chérie. He just loved stroking her tender skin, kneading her muscles, sore from all that exercise. Most of all he really enjoyed stroking her with parts of him that he would not share with anyone else…those parts that were stirring in his groin right fucking now.

  He wondered why it was so hard for her to let go with him sometimes. Couldn’t she feel how much he cherished her? Didn’t she believe she was truly adored? It was probably her lack of self-confidence and her inability to say NO to him, to anyone. She groveled and shrank from people. She thought everything was her fault and that she had to fix it or just suck it up and chew on it. Like last night: he was pissed when he had come home from group. He’d taken just about enough of last night’s collection of men. Those men were just buying time in the class. Since the only reason they were there was to avoid jail time, they’d show up and sit through week after week, with no change in their behavior. He was so sick of it, he was, well, let’s face it – when Chér came in, he was having a tantrum, pitching books on the floor and stomping about. He slammed a book on the table, right when she entered the room. He wasn’t proud of himself in that moment; he
was just letting off steam. But she probably thought he was mad at her. He threw a newspaper across the room, and she had scuffled over to clean up the mess.

  “Don’t do that. It’s my mess, not yours,” he had told her. He strode over and started picking up the pieces of newspaper, angrily crushing them into a wad. Then he’d apologized, like he always did. He could be such an ass. But then he’d become mad at her subservience. That was just the way his mom had been with his dad. Mom just took it, night after night. So then he and Chérie got in another argument, like they’d been doing lately. He wanted to do right by her, he really did. But he wanted her to act differently, assume her strength. She was too good to be run over by the world. She had this spark of something inside, he could feel it. And he wanted her to feel it too. He wanted her to be different. She just made him so mad sometimes. Man, he was starting to sound like the men in his groups. “She asked for it.” “I didn’t want to hit her.” Well, she, by god, was not going to feel anything but fear if he kept being a shithead. He knew he could do better than that. Fuck, he had better man up and act differently, or he and Chér were going to hit the skids. And he didn’t want that, not by a long shot.

  He got up with resolve, picked up his brown leather jacket, and strode out to his forest green 1998 Range Rover, prepared to be a better man when he got home.

  Chapter 7

  “You got some mail, from your mother.” That is what Cam first told me when I’d entered the door after hanging out with Michael.

  I looked over on the table where we sorted the day’s mail. Sure enough, there was one of Mother Clarice’s snail-mailed envelopes, stuffed full. When she was drunk (which was often) and the mood struck (which was also often), she had this habit of sending me odd bits of news clipped from the paper, pictures, and articles from magazines – anything that caught her fancy and carried the message of the day. I made my way over and picked it up, frowning. What stupid thing did she want me to know about today? I pitched the envelope into the junk drawer to be opened at a later date.