Debonair Dyke

by Roxy Harte

  “I can’t explain it. There’s just a lot of unfinished business here, more than a month or two will work out.”

  “So six months?” Shade asks and I can hear the panic in his voice. “I’ll figure it out, dude. Maybe get a stand-in roommate to help out with the rent.”

  “Or just replace me.” I take a picture of the garage sign and text it to him.

  There’s a long silence before the heavy sigh that signals his resolution. “Damn, Dan. I’ll get your stuff to you. I can’t believe this. Your whole life is here. Everything you love. Are you absolutely sure about this?”

  “Not at all, but I’m sure of one thing. I need closure. And if I don’t get it, the baggage around my neck is going to suffocate me.”

  * * * * *

  Facing my Dapper Dan blog, I’m not sure what I’m going to say. Going On An Extended Hiatus comes to mind, but I’ve spent years building this site up to the capital venture it’s become. I can’t throw everything away in a moment, Shade was right about that. I need to be smart. Think things through. Poised to type, I start.

  Run, Run Fast

  Is it purely a masculine response to run and hide when the going gets emotionally tough? I can hypothesize all day about gender specifics, gender emotion, gender responses, but those insights are from my perspective, that being third-gender. I am not purely female. I am not purely male. So when I look at the broader picture and don’t respond like a girl because I don’t sit and cry, can I say I am responding like a man? When I get angry and run, does that reinforce that I am somehow male trapped wrongly in a feminine form?

  Does crying and running prove my theory that I am third-gendered? Or will any female or male, when pushed to an extreme limit, exhibit simultaneous characteristics?

  If today’s post seems a little more schizophrenic than most, it’s because today I am more split in two halves than I have ever felt. Maybe because I’ve recently left the grounding force that is NYC. Maybe it’s because I’m swimming in haunted waters.

  Either way, I wanted to leave this note on my page, not a final post by any means, but as a landmark to discern the exact moment I decided to stand against my demons.

  Chapter Four

  The Virgin

  The end is near. I can feel it. The one car brought in for service needed an emergency belt replacement. I didn’t have it. The super auto part store near the freeway did. He doesn’t need to know where the actual part came from, right? Anyway, the car was fixed, the customer was happy, and I made twenty bucks over the cost of parts.

  I’m really not sure how my dad has kept from filing for bankruptcy and I don’t know what I’m going to do next.

  I know what’s been keeping me busy. Cleaning.

  I never thought of myself as a neat freak in the city, and a pizza delivery box was welcome to sit on the edge of the bed or center of the floor for days, weeks, until I got tired enough of walking around it that I finally threw it out, but here? This garage provides a whole new definition to the word dirty. Filth doesn’t even cover it. I think the last time the bays were swept was probably when I swept them.

  Sweeping, mopping, scrubbing, dusting, rearranging, organizing, that’s my day, and at the end of the day I think I’ve made progress, but then the next morning I face the disaster of this place again.

  After a week, I can finally see progress. The tools aren’t gleaming, and the place still needs a coat of paint, but I can look out at the bays with some pride. So why am I regretting my early resolution to stay?

  It just seems so hopeless. I can’t keep this place running without customers…

  I won’t think about that, I’ll just keep striving forward, and today I face the customer lobby and check-out counter. I may need to buy a new mop…

  Ducked down, straightening the shelves under the cash register, I don’t see anyone come in, and since the door is propped open to let in a breeze and hopefully pull the chemical fumes of cleaning supplies out, I don’t hear a bell.

  “You’re Danni, the new mechanic, right?”

  Startled, I jerk and straighten.

  She laughs. “Didn’t mean to scare you, precious.”

  Precious?

  “I’m Janice.” She extends her hand over the counter between us, which I don’t readily except. “I run the yoga school next door. Since we’re neighbors and all, I thought I’d come over and say hello. It seemed to me you might be a little shy since I haven’t heard a peep from you all week.”

  Was I supposed to go over and introduce myself? Have I somehow committed a great small-town faux-pas without even realizing? I suddenly realize I’m staring like an owl and shake her hand. “Guilty. I am Danni O’Brian.”

  She isn’t beautiful, but she is a brunette, and she isn’t young enough that I’d automatically hit on her—not that she’s old—just older.

  I smile, hoping really hard to make a connection. I’m feeling isolated and desperate, as though I may never have sex again. It’s been nine days since I’ve had a naked woman under me. Maybe I’m a sex addict. I never really thought about it in New York. I just had sex with a lot of women. Now that I’m stuck in Kansas, sex is all I can think about—and the lack of sex. Hell, I’m in the middle of godforsaken nowhere. What if I never have sex again? Oh god.

  “Oh I know who you are, the prodigal child returned from the Big Apple.”

  I cringe at some of the rumors she may have heard.

  She catches her bottom lip between two incisors before admitting in a whisper, “I’ve read your Dapper Dan blog. I have for years.”

  “Ohh I see.”

  She leans closer. “It’s very erotic. Very detailed. Graphic, you know what I mean?”

  I chuckle, winking as I remind her, “I do write it.”

  She lifts her shoulders and drops her chin, giggling. She wants me. My day has just improved immensely. Her fantasy is all I needed to get the ball rolling if she is seriously interested.

  “Is everything you write true?”

  I bobble my head. “There might be some embellishment.”

  “Do you pack? Like it says in the blog. Every day? Like you have a fake penis in your pants right now?” Her whisper gets louder as she seems to get more exited.

  Now I’m worried. Does she just want the thrill of touching a fake dick?

  She leans over the counter, whispering, “I’m a strap-on virgin. What do you think about that, Danni?”

  I lose eye contact, probably because of the excessive amount of cleavage spilling out of her too-tight top. I can’t form a logical thought, let alone answer. I swallow hard. I’m not a breast girl, but god. I force myself not to lick my lips like a sex-deprived adolescent boy and eventually lose the battle and lick, my mouth so dry syllables refuse to form. I can’t stop looking at her breasts. Pale. Freckled. Round as grapefruits. I imagine taking all of that firm pale flesh into my hands and squeezing. They’d be soft. Lickable. Kissable. Her nipples suckable. I force myself to look into her eyes and clear my throat to make sure my words are intelligible. “A virgin?”

  “You know, silly.” Her hot breath fans out over my bare shoulder, making a tingle run up my arm before shooting down my spine like lightning. “I’ve never been with a girl. Never been fucked with a strapped-on cock. I want you to take my virginity.”

  I’m not cool, I don’t have a cool bone in my body, but I’ve always been a fairly good faker. I don’t have a chance of faking anything. I back away from her as though she killed my ficus, not asked me to have sex, not that she isn’t hot, nor would I deny the fairly explicit vision crashing through my brain of her dressed in blood-red PVC, ankles on my shoulders, my tongue teasing her… Oh god.

  I look around for people nearby. Paranoid someone is taping the whole thing for god knows what purpose. “Is this a joke? A prank?”

  The woman is fast, leaving the barstool and joining me on the other side of the counter reserved for employees only—even though the sign distinctly says No Customers Beyond This Point. Cornered and
trapped, I’m right where she wants me.

  She strokes my cheek. “I know, I’m acting like a whore right now, but I don’t know how else to do this, to convince you to have sex with me.”

  “You don’t have to try this hard. Really. I’m pretty easy.”

  Still faking the virgin card, I see. I don’t believe for a second this chick is a virgin. Maybe we’re supposed to be role-playing…in which case, she might have let me in on the game earlier.

  She draws her fingers around my jaw, a gentle caress that steals my breath. “I’m so horny, you know what I mean?”

  She lifts her mouth and I know she is going to kiss me. The moment shifts—like when a car going one-eighty suddenly loses control and you know the collision is coming and you hope to survive the impact—everything turning into fluid slow motion and you just can’t stop the inevitable no matter how badly you want to.

  Her lips touch mine and I kiss her back. She gasps and moans against my lips and I realize I’ve pushed my hands under the edge of her t-shirt to fill my palms with pounds of flesh.

  I pull away, breathing hard. “I’m not available for a relationship. I’m just in town to help out my parents.”

  “Who said anything about a relationship?” She takes my hand and leads me across the garage. My dad’s 1964 white Chevy Impala takes up the farthest bay, on permanent display since breaking down mid-’90s. She opens the screechy back door and my brain skids over blacktop.

  I brace for impact. “This isn’t a good idea.” Thank god she didn’t pick Lola.

  She lies down on the backseat and holds out her hand. “This is a wonderful idea.”

  Why am I balking? She looks amazing pressed back against the smooth cream-colored leather, flaming hair fanned out around her too-pale face. “How old are you?”

  “Old enough to be legal in all fifty states,” she laughs.

  Duh. I knew that. I guess what I really meant was how old are you? Not that I’d hold age against her. I’ve seduced my fair share of mature women.

  She grabs my crotch, pulling herself up by the bulge of my trapped synthetic balls. She slides her free hand over my waist, up my chest, but doesn’t linger over the soft, barely there mounds that on anyone else might be considered breasts. She wraps her arms around my neck with the expertise of a sixteenth-century courtesan, making me forget whatever excuse had been forming in my head.

  I lean forward and kiss her, letting her know with pure force and dominance that I am not the kind of girl who gets jerked around by my cock. She takes the rising storm in my mouth like a pro and eggs it on. God. Oh god. I’m not sure who’s jerking whom but someone is going to get hurt in this cramped backseat.

  She slides sideways, pushing her ass against the door to make room for me beside her. “Lie down.”

  I do, sliding my hand under her shirt to find the edge of her bra. I push it up and pull her forward and over me. I want to see her breasts up close. I want to lick them, taste them. I stroke her soft flesh, making circles around her perfect orbs, making her areolas pucker, making her nipples stand at attention. She moans when I roll her nipple between my thumb and forefinger. I pinch, earning a gasp, then pull, eliciting another moan. “Like that?”

  “God, do you have to ask?”

  “Not really.” I push her hair back from her face but she doesn’t seem to be into eye contact.

  “Relax, Danni, I’ll do everything.” She slides down my zipper and exposes my cock, then leads my hands to her waist as she fumbles with her own clothes, pushing up her short skirt and revealing that she dressed commando and ready for action.

  I play with the soft down between her legs. Her pubic hair is shaved down to a narrow strip and that’s okay. It gives me a focus other than jumping right on to her clit. She fidgets above my hand, nervous, and I like it that her breath is picking up. I slide my fingers between her legs, finding her slick.

  “Do you want to trade places?”

  She shakes her head. “Just trying to get up the nerve.”

  “You don’t have to do it fast. Or all at once. Just ease over it. Take in a little at a time.”

  “Just like a real guy?”

  I don’t roll my eyes or shove her away, even though both reactions would have been completely acceptable in my mind. She’s still a brunette and I’m still having sex. I answer through gritted my teeth, “Just like.”

  My answer seems to set her at ease and she lifts her hips over my cock. I feel her grasp it, leading the head in the right direction. She slides it back and forth before allowing it to ease into her vagina.

  I watch her face. I love to watch the expressions women make. Her eyes close and her mouth opens slightly as she lowers herself.

  “God, Danni.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “No,” she answers quickly. Repeating, “No. It’s perfect.”

  I know the second she’s settled tightly over me, completely filled.

  “This feels amazing.” She rocks a little but I hold her waist.

  “Just wait.”

  Her eyes widen as I pull her forward and push her back. She lets out a gasped sob.

  “Am I hurting you?”

  She shakes her head and meets my gaze. Her mouth hangs open, looking erotic and needy. I’d like to fill her mouth with my cock, but for now just watching her expression is enough.

  I drop my hands lower so that they rest on her thighs and use my thumbs to stroke her clit. She learns the rhythm easily and only moments later, she’s crying out.

  Our gazes never part.

  God, I love to watch a woman come—I pull her forward by her wrists and kiss her gently—but this party is over. “Think you can get your clothes back on? And I can go back to pretending like I’m working hard?”

  She nods, no disappointment on her face. I’m a little disappointed. I didn’t come. I feel a little used, but hey, that’s life in the big city—except I’m not in the city anymore.

  I leave her in the backseat to do just that, praying she’ll be true to her word and have no future expectations. Not that we couldn’t maybe work on it, and maybe improve on things, especially if we weren’t shoved in the backseat of a car…

  No. There’s the age difference to consider. And I’m really, seriously not looking for a relationship.

  “How’s business?”

  Oh god, she wants to make after-sex small talk now? “Slow.”

  She nods sympathetically. “This town is dead. You sure have your work cut out for you, but hey, you have a great start.”

  “A great start?” I’m confused.

  “The buzz. Everyone is talking about you. Especially since the sign thing. It looks great.”

  “It looks vandalized.”

  “And edgy,” she nods. “Like you. Straight out of New York City, you are bright and shiny and full of dreams and imagination. This town needs some alternative to liven things up.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m losing some of that shine after only one customer this week.”

  “Reminds me of my first week here. I didn’t think I was ever going to get the school off the ground.”

  “You have a lot of students now.”

  “’Cause of hard work and determination. You can’t just hide inside here. You gotta get out, be seen, talk to people, hand out business cards. Network.”

  I find myself nodding. I knew my first day here I needed business cards, I just haven’t ordered them yet.

  “You like old cars?” She runs her hand over Lola’s front panel.

  “You mean love?” I meet her gaze.

  She smiles. “This weekend, there are going to be two cruise-ins. Friday night at the ice cream shop on Route 409. Then over the weekend the fairgrounds will have a big draw for two separate events, classics and roadsters. Would be prime opportunity for a mechanic with the know-how of older engines to get the word out that he was specializing.”

  “You mean brand myself?” This I understand.

  She winks. “Now you’ve got the id
ea.”

  Yes I do. As soon as Janice is gone, I dig out a ladder and climb high enough to focus on the sign. Using my phone, I take a photo. I know, real professional. But it’ll do in a pinch and the weekend is only days away. I’ve got a great idea that hit me once I had the sign framed with the shop caught in the background. Something Janice said—about branding myself and the old car specialization combined with the antiquity of the building—burned an image in my mind.

  A few hours later, the guy behind the counter of the service-in-an-hour print shop is harder to convince it is a great idea. And I am losing patience.

  “Okay, here’s the thing, I know you can take this photo and put it on the left half of the business card, then put the name, location, phone on the right side, and on the back the business hours.”

  “We can. But not in an hour. Not even in-house. This is a send-out specialty job.”

  “You’re telling me you don’t have the talent? Or it’s cheaper to farm it out?”

  My question earns me an unfriendly look.

  “We have the talent. It will take longer than an hour and it’s going to be expensive.”

  “Right now, time is more important than money. How fast?”

  He shakes his head, pressing his lips together. “Four working days.”

  Nooo! “I need them forty-eight hours from this second.”

  “Not happening.”

  “Not even for a two-hundred-dollar tip to get the job done on time?”

  His Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. I can see the wheels turning behind his eyes, trying to figure out how to shuffle the jobs he’s already committed to.

  “I’ll see you in forty-eight hours.” He smiles.

  I smile. These are going to be the most expensive business cards ever.

  Chapter Five

  Trouble Comes Walking By

  There’s a woman who walks by the garage every morning and every evening, and though I see her, have come to expect her, I’ve never seen her. My heart stalls in my chest the moment she smiles at me. It’s been a long time since a woman has gained my full attention with just a smile. I decide she is absolutely adorable. And straight, I remind myself. That’s okay. I’ve been hit on by straight girls plenty of times, mainly women just looking for a little thrill, something new and different. Usually when I’m sidled up to the bar, nursing a whisky, where they rightly assume their cup size and a wink will get them into my bed. So I’m not above taking a straight girl to my bed—even knowing it might lead to heartbreak. Most love does, right?