“Are you feeling drunk?” I say. I prefer not to have sex with someone who’s drunk, especially a younger girl.
“A little. But I only drank because I had to get the nerve to say it to you, and now I’ve said it.” She burps. “I’m sorry,” she says.
“Oh, no, that’s a huge turn-on, actually,” I say, and she fake-laughs. “I like confident girls like you,” I say.
I take her face in my hands and kiss her on the forehead. Then I lead her upstairs to the master bedroom, which has its own balcony overlooking the dinky man-made waterfall, which makes Dolores squeal. “You’re so lucky!” She runs to the balcony and takes off her shirt.
“Princess.” I gently pull her away from the balcony, turn her around to have a look at her breasts. They are larger and shapelier than I thought they would be. She’ll do well with prospective sexual partners if she chooses to showcase this feature. Some men are really into breasts; they will even put breasts above a good-looking face or intellect. There’s no way I could ever tell her this without sounding terribly insensitive, but I wish I could. It’s useful information.
“You have the most beautiful breasts,” I say, hoping she’ll stick that in her memory vault and use it in the future, whenever she doubts there’s something about her that could be interesting to look at. That’s all I can do.
I take the rest of her clothes off and push her gently onto the bed. I take in the very soft body, the trimmed dark bush, the dark moles on her belly. “You are so beautiful, so beautiful,” I tell her.
“Am not,” she says softly, and I say, “Be quiet, Princess.”
She reaches out and touches my chest with excited hands. She pushes my hand away when I try to touch her back. “No,” she snaps. I know that her boldness is partly due to drunkenness, and I enjoy it even though I prefer to be in control. I let her fingers reach my nipples to tweak them. Then she nervously reaches for my dick. I kneel over her. I lock my eyes with hers. I encourage her gently: “That’s good, that’s perfect.”
Her grip is weak, but it does the job relatively well. Well enough to make me ask her to stop at one point. I kiss her down her wobbly stomach, rut with my nose between the hot, wet folds of her pussy. Eventually, I start fucking her. Her eyes are on me, searching and reaching out to mine. She is quiet.
I turn her over. I reach down underneath her to stroke her as I slowly go at her. I stroke her for a long time and eventually this makes her come – she squeals and whines. She is noisy, finally, after almost-silent intercourse.
I pull out and slip off the condom and flip her onto her back again and spray all over her belly.
When I open my eyes, she’s looking at me, smiling. She says she loves – me or it, I can’t hear clearly. I lie down beside her, pull her close and say, “Mmm.” Her head smells of coconut; I fall asleep with my nose buried in her hair.
9
THE HOURS I SPEND WITH DOLORES ARE SIMILAR TO WHAT it was like with $isi. They look nothing alike, but when I look at Dolores, it’s like $isi is superimposed over her, and I have to keep doing mental double takes. Maybe it’s something in their gestures. Or maybe the way they both eat sloppily. Or the constant chatter – first childhood crush, first pet, first serious injury, how much textbooks cost, coming back here for Spring Break, how gross ham is but how delicious bacon is, what she thinks of – These are the sorts of inane tidbits $isi has offered before, just as frantically, to cover her nervousness over being with me.
Dolores and I part for a few hours, then we have another dinner – takeout Thai, which I think is disgusting but which she loves.
Later, we fuck again. She stays overnight. In the morning we eat grapefruit for breakfast and a smoothie made out of banana, strawberry, avocado and apple juice not from concentrate. Dolores is silent in a loud, tragic way, and I’m silent, too, because I’m reading a newspaper.
After breakfast, she asks if I will drive her to the bus station in the afternoon. She is leaving today. I will never see her again. I like the thought of literally driving her away from me. I wish it was this easy with $isi, or I wish there was a way to surgically correct $isi’s brain so that whatever it is about me that got stuck in there could be removed like a tumour. I’d pay for the surgery. Everyone would benefit.
Dolores says, “I know you said not to get upset, but I can’t help it? This was really –”
I hold her head against my chest and stroke her hair. Whatever she’s saying, I can’t make out a thing.
***
Later on, I pick her up after lunch at her friend’s parents’ house, somewhere on the outskirts of the beach village where the families with kids live. In contrast to what you see around my beach house, the street here is quiet, full of trimmed bushes and little gardens; no passed-out half-dressed teenagers on porches.
The house where Dolores is staying is a bungalow with a smaller, equally ugly building attached to it that bears a nameplate reading Teenagers’ House.There’s a sign in front of the bungalow with a big SOLD on it.
Dolores and her friends come out of the Teenagers’ House with bags as soon as I pull into the driveway.
Dolores runs up and throws her arms around my neck. She tries to slip her tongue into my mouth, but I cut her off, even though I understand that she’s doing this partly for show.
Her eyes widen.
I quickly kiss her on the cheek to not make a scene.
The girls load into the car. Dolores sits in the front. The pretty blond, Kelly, and the brunette with glasses sit in the back.
“Cool ride,” Kelly says.
She’s right. It is a cool ride. Only a year ago I drove a little Acura that I had to part with because it made me look like I was afraid to grow up. Like I was a bro. A knapsack-filled-with-condoms-in-the-backseat kind of bro. I sold the car to Jason and he immediately reclined the front seat “so the chick has no choice but to lie down when you drive her,” he said. He planned to have a lot of sex in that car with chicks he’d meet online. They could smell it; it would increase his chances if a girl got in his car and it smelled like it’d been fucked in, he told me. It was one of his PUA wisdoms.
I don’t own cars to fuck in them. I drive my cars. So I bought the Infiniti G37 Cabrio. To drive it. A black convertible, butterscotch leather interior. Three-twenty-five horsepower V6. Six-speed, manual shift. I could have gone for the seven-speed automatic transmission with paddle shifters, but women like to see you shift gears. It’s the crudest association, your hands on that stick, handling it.
The car came with a seven-piece Bose stereo system with twelve-inch woofers in the rear. It is roomy enough to transport three women comfortably. It is a cool ride; Kelly is absolutely right.
Dolores starts fiddling with the stereo as soon as we get on the road. “Can I play them the song? The one Yumiko is singing. It’s so good.”
She means my Japanese-American band, Charlie, and the song I hope will be in the soundtrack in a movie about a teenager who stalks another teenager. The song is something that the band hasn’t tried before. It’s almost entirely electronic: catchy kick drums, Auto-Tuned vocals and two drops – the first gentle and the second one faster, filthier and deeper. The lyrics are partly Japanese.
Dolores doesn’t wait for me to answer – such are the entitlements of a girlfriend – and the song boom-bah-booms out of the speaker, filling the car with its sexy, velvet intro: Anata o aishitai, demo anata wa itte shimatta. Anata ga inakute sugoku sabishii. Ikanai de hoshii. Soba ni ite hoshii. Mou ichido anata o aisasete kudasai.
I think of Yumiko, the girl who came into the studio to sing this part, a big-eyed anime character. She seemed flat-chested like a boy, but maybe it was the tight corset top she was wearing. During the break, I heard two sound guys talk about the long white socks she wore – one of the guys groaned that the socks were “obscene.” He said he wanted to take her home and – he didn’t finish. His friend told him to shut up. They were young guys, possibly still trying to figure out their sexuality.
The socks’ boyfriend was waiting for her at the hotel, or so she said when I invited her for a drink after the recording.
“No problem,” I said, and shook her hand.
Later, it turned out her breasts were indeed tiny; deliciously tiny, a dollop of cream topped with pink nipple. Straight black pubic hair. The socks stayed on as requested.
“Yumiko? She usually plays bass, doesn’t she?” says the brunette.
“She pretends to play bass,” I say.
“What do you mean?”
“They’re all singers, actually,” I say. “It was just an idea to market them this way, as a band.”
“So it’s a lie?” Dolores says, so loudly I would actually call it shouting.
“No, not a lie. It just made more sense to go in that direction. They can play musical instruments. Just not really well. You don’t need to play them very well anyway. Especially bass.”
Kelly says, “Aren’t you worried we’re going to tell people?”
“And?”
“I don’t know. That the news will spread that it’s all a marketing ploy.”
“You don’t actually believe that there’s anything left out in the entertainment world that isn’t a marketing ploy, do you?”
Dolores says, “Yes, but –”
“There are some independent acts that get through, it’s true. But we snatch them up and that’s the end of that,” I say, and pretend-laugh to indicate that I’m joking but maybe not.
“This is why Amy Winehouse will die for sure,” says Kelly, darkly.
“Who gives a fuck?” says the brunette, and I look in the mirror again, and she meets my eyes without blinking. I smile in a friendly way, but the eyes remain unmoving, watchful.
“Everything okay?” I say.
Kelly says, “The song’s really great anyway. Dolores was going on about it, but we were, like, totally distracted.”
“We were asking her too many questions about what type of fuck you are,” the brunette says.
“Em!”
The brunette’s dark eyes in the mirror narrow slightly. Dolores told me that she and Em are best friends.
Em doesn’t seem to have any of Dolores’ and Kelly’s bubbliness; she looks like she is only capable of scowling. I know women in their thirties whose lips have a permanent downward skew from this kind of repeated muscle arrangement. You find out later, face to face on a pillow, they used to be Goths or drug addicts or runaways – or all three – in their younger years. Dissatisfaction takes its toll. I predict Em’s face will to go the downward route. Dolores had been unable to explain what she and Em have in common other than that they grew up together. Em berates her, tells her to exercise. Women are often friends with other women they hate. I don’t know why.
“Don’t mind her. Em’s just hormonal,” says Kelly. “And she’s breaking up with her boyfriend when she gets back, so –”
Em rolls her eyes. “Shut it, Kels.”
“Well, you are.”
“Why is that?” I say.
“Because he doesn’t deserve her?” Dolores’ voice is small.
“Did he cheat on you?” I don’t look in the mirror.
Kelly sighs, “No. He’s just –”
“He’s weak,” Em says, and I wonder what that means to her. But I’m not really interested in finding out; I’d prefer to be talking about Charlie’s potential hit song, so I gently bring us back to that topic, ask what they think again.
“I thought it was great. I’d buy it for sure. I love the singing in it too, but it’s different than their usual stuff. I can’t tell with Korean,” says Kelly.
“Japanese. Her name is Yumiko,” Dolores says in an offended tone.
“It doesn’t work for me,” Em says. I look in the mirror again but she’s looking down. Probably texting.
Dolores says nothing. She must be dealing with a lot of big feelings right now.
After everyone unloads and proceeds toward the bus station, the two other girls walk ahead of us, faster, to give me and Dolores some space. Dolores hands me a letter, which I’m sure contains fifteen different suggestions on how to contact her, as well as some declarations of love and devotion. It’s not the first letter like this I’ve received.
Dolores throws her arms around my neck. This time, I kiss her properly, with tongue. Then Em or Kelly pulls her away and they all get on the bus and I wave once and walk away, completely exhausted by it all.
***
In the letter, there’s some confusing poem about love – something about the river Kiang and meeting at Cho-fu-Sa.
There’s a Twitter handle, Facebook account, even a LinkedIn address carefully handwritten, which I appreciate more than anything – it’s impossible to find anyone under the age of twenty who is able to handwrite anymore.
For my part, I’ve given Dolores a printout with numbers and email addresses that are missing one crucial letter or have the number one instead of a seven and so on.
I know that it’s almost impossible to hide in the world anymore, and that young women like Dolores make online stalking their pastime, but it’s relatively hard to find me out there. Besides, even plain girls who meet princes get distracted – by math, by a boy with a guitar, by becoming passionate about saving pets, etcetera.
I make a nice memory, but my silence makes it quickly obvious that they were right about their instincts that it was too good to be true. And the fake numbers and so on prove it. There was no mistake.
Furthermore, after years of being “accidentally” found online and a few times in real life by wannabe rock stars, I have some firewalls in place. I have fake Facebook profiles. I have hired a student from Mexico to monitor my social media presence and insert content into places where I supposedly hang out. He links to interesting articles on Facebook that are never about politics, religion or sex. He comments on other people’s non-sexual, apolitical, non-religious posts – usually animals and babies and optical illusions. Simple pronouncements such as Excellent! I don’t mind the brevity – his English is limited; the brevity is perfect. Occasionally he posts about something serious, like the environment – everybody loves the environment – or healthy eating (but nothing controversial, like gluten). I send him the links to articles.
On my actual Facebook account, I only post pictures of the meals I make if I’m particularly proud of them. Barely any comments. Recently I’ve asked the student from Mexico to ask other students from Mexico for comments on these photos. It’s bizarre to me that nobody cares about beautifully prepared food.
I have no idea what memory Dolores will leave. For now, all I’ve got of her is the creamy belly and round back, the red marks from her tight clothes, the open-mouthed look, the curl on her neck when she pulled her hair into a ponytail. The smell of coconut and men’s deodorant. There’s also the windmill tongue and her shuffle-walk.
10
AFTER I SLEEP FOR TWELVE HOURS AND WAKE UP FEELING five years younger, I sit down with a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and devise a workout plan for the next few weeks. My workout chaos persists. It’s time to fix that.
I open a new document and start typing the number of reps and suggested successions that’ll let me get back on track. I consider calling my former personal trainer to ask him about high-interval training. I wonder if it could be an improvement on my cardio routine.
I quickly change my mind about calling him. It’s possible he’s not with his girlfriend anymore, but if he is, who knows what kinds of things have been confessed? There was only that one time. It was quick, efficient, exactly like a workout. It was in their apartment with extremely white walls, the gym-like smell of disinfectant in the air. It involved about forty push-ups on my part, and after I got dressed, I ran an impressive sprint worthy of high-interval training because my personal trainer, her boyfriend, was buzzing the intercom downstairs.
It was stupid of me. He was a very good personal trai
ner.
***
After I’m done typing out my workout plan, I move on to food. I check my Excel files for detailed menus worked out by the nutritionist I hired last year. Our relationship is the most perfect relationship in my life: he emails me the plans every quarter and I enter my credit card number.
There are at least four weeks of meals left. I phone my food-delivery guy and read him my new grocery list over the phone. He no longer snickers about the food items I ask for or tries to tell me about his life involving pickup trucks and blonds. Once he finally realized I don’t care, our relationship became almost perfect: me reading out the ingredients and amounts, and him not saying anything until I say, “That is all.”
I would love to be able to do this with Gloria one day: just announce whatever sexual fancy strikes me at the moment. As it is right now, I first, always, have to listen to stories about her PR firm, her sister’s family life or the benefits of using dry shampoo. Only after she vomits it all out, she might acknowledge my lips brushing against her neck, my hand pressing her hand against my hard-on.
I’m not being entirely fair. I enjoy Gloria’s company. And, as I mentioned, she’s great to take out in public. Plus, as far as girlfriends go, she’s close to perfect. I’ve never even seen her cry.
***
I stay at the beach house for the next three weeks. There’s nothing to do in Toronto, where I spend my winters. Gloria is away in Bali with her sister, and $isi is completing another short-term rehab stint.That’s fine. I can be anywhere, there’s no rush to leave and the weather is nice.
I work on the beach house, cleaning it throughout, making it ready for the next visitor. I’m renting the place to Jason when he comes back in September. I write out rules for him as soon as we make the arrangements. One of the rules is: No meth in the house. Or outside of the house. No meth ever.
Jason has tracked down his ex and he’s thinking of bringing her here. “She needs to be in a non-confrontational environment,” he says on the phone. He sounds pathetic. His words rush into one another as he tells me how he won’t tolerate any bullshit anymore and how much the ex has changed since the last time they were together. Things are going to work out.
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