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Plaster of Paris; chapter five, part two

Watching Mrs. Jenson, I feel another surge of anger.  Not at the would-be murderer this time, but at her.  She loves Paris, I have no doubt, but she can’t see past her narrow vision to embrace the beautiful, complicated man that he is.  The whole time Paris and I’ve been friends, I’ve never heard Mrs. Jenson say anything positive about or to Paris.  Instead, she stands to the side with her mouth pursed, looking at him with disapproval.  Paris feels her disappointment keenly, but hasn’t gotten bitter over it as many would have.  However, he does have issues with his dead father, which reminds me that I have to tell him the story his mother told me about shutting out Mr. Frantz after adopting Paris.  It might help explain why Mr. Frantz was the way he was.

Thinking about Mr. Frantz and Mrs. Jenson leads me to think about relationship in general.  How we as humans pretty much fuck them up on a regular basis.  I know more bad relationship than good ones, and even strong ones such as my parents’ marriage are marred by details best left unknown—such as each of their affairs.  My strongest adult relationship ended badly when she walked out on me because she ‘couldn’t stand one more day’ of being around me.  She said she’d scream if she had to listen to my idiotic ramblings any longer.  That’s how she phrased it.  I was still in love with her, and needless to say, I was crushed.  Paris, for as good as he is about making people fall in love with him, isn’t so great with relationships himself.  He gets bored easily and dumps with impunity.  He’s had more than one stalker in his time.  Brett, the love of his life who died from AIDS, is the exception, and now Lyle.  Except they had a huge fight which led to Paris running into the street and being hit.  Again, I can’t stop the thought that Lyle might have had something to do with the hit-and-run from creeping into my mind.

I sit up straight as something which had previously slipped my mind comes rushing back.  The blond that Lyle’s friend, Marisol, Melody, or whatever her name is, saw smooching Paris at Muddy Waters.  Tall, good body, pretty.  I don’t remember if Lyle said the last, but I’m sure she’s pretty.  Paris doesn’t hang out with anyone not attractive, even as a friend.  It’s one of his weaknesses; he has an eye for the aesthetics.  He’s had one or two anomalies in his past, but for the most part, he likes attractive people.  I’m not sure the blond means anything, but it’s an oddity in Paris’s life.  From the way Lyle described her, she’s not someone I recognize.  Like a great many big men, Paris prefers small women.  I wonder if there’s any way I can find out who the mystery girl is.  The other reason I doubt she’s a lover of his is because of her age.  Paris won’t date anyone under twenty-one, even though he likes them young—Lyle notwithstanding.  He says if he can’t drink with them, he won’t sleep with them.

There is nothing to do but wait.  I would give anything to trade places with Paris, but that’s simply not an option.  I close my eyes, intending to rest for a minute.  I used to be able to pull all-nighters when I was in college, but not any more.  The effects of the past sixteen hours or so have caught up to me.  I fall into a deep sleep.  I dream of Paris screaming my name from deep beneath the ocean.  I am on the surface, desperately trying to decipher what he’s saying.  I can barely make out his form, and there’s an amorphous blond figure next to him whose hair is twined around Paris’s neck.  His face is slowly turning blue as she chokes off his airway.  Ursula suddenly appears, wresting Paris away from the apparition.  She pulls him up—and away from me.  I call out his name, but he slips further away.

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Don’t Rayne On My Parade; chapter five, part two

“Uh, Rayne?  Get to the point?”  Vashti breaks into my recitation with impatience.  “I do not need to know about every person who is wanting you.  I do not have such time.”  She is smiling impishly, daring me to defend myself.  I ignore her and fast-forward.

“Hey there, beautiful.”  A harem girl wearing a purple outfit slinked up to me, her veil covering all but her gorgeous green eyes.  Her body was not covered nearly as much.  She was wearing a royal-purple halter top that exposed her milky skin above and below it.  She was wearing sheer pants that ballooned at the calves before tapering off.  She had a fake diamond pasted in her belly button.  She had silver bangles up and down her arms as well as anklets on each ankle.

“Hi,” I stuttered before remembering that I was Wonder Woman and had nothing to fear from this woman.  “You better be a good girl, or I’ll have to lasso you.”

“You actually said that to her?”  Vashti asks, wrinkling her nose.  “I cannot believe that you are not smoother than that.”

“She took me off-guard!”  I protest.  “Can I tell this story, please?”  Vashti motions with her hand for me to continue…

“Come with me.”  The harem girl entwined her scarf around my neck and pulled me outside.  As soon as we hit the backyard porch, she pushed me against the wall and started kissing me through her veil.  There was something unbelievably hot about having that filmy piece of material blocking her lips from mine.  I was so into the kiss, I didn’t see the person looming over us until the harem girl was wrenched away from me.

“I might have known the minute I took my eyes off you, you’d be out here making it with another girl.”  A behemoth of a woman, dressed in a tux, threw the harem girl aside and turned to me.  There was murder in her eyes, and I was poised for flight because there was no way in hell I was fighting this true Amazon.

“Look, man, I didn’t know.”  I began backing way.  I did not want any part of this.  “I didn’t know she was your girl or I’d never have kissed her.”  I wasn’t sure that’s true, but figured I’d better say something to stop the crazy look the butch woman was throwing my way.

“I’m not her girl,” the harem girl said viciously.  “She just wishes it were so.”  The butch turned to the harem girl and backhanded her across the mouth.  I was frozen in my tracks, unsure what to do.  I wanted to protect the harem girl, but I also wanted to keep myself intact.  I moved toward the tuxedoed woman, but stopped as she turned back towards me.

“Don’t listen to the bitch,” she says, her tone suddenly calm.  “If you go near her again, I’ll rip your arm off and shove it down your throat.  Understand?”  It was the first time I’d been physically threatened, and I wasn’t quite able to take it seriously.  I mean, it’s the kind of thing done in movie, not in real life.  I understood that the woman was making a real threat, but I had to stifle an impulse to look around for the rolling camera.

“She is not my girlfriend!”  The harem girl screamed as she cringed away from both of us.  Right then, I decided even if she’s the most alluring person in the place, she was trouble.  I stayed away from her the rest of the night…

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Blogging My Murder; chapter five, part two

Chapter Five; Part Two

Speaking of Tessa, my phone rings her ring. I glance at my phone and remind myself that I need to block her number. I didn’t after I first caught her because I was in shock, and then inertia took its course. Her calls came less and less, and I hadn’t heard from her in the past four days—a record. I wait for her text to come through. It says, “Megan! I heard about Julianna! You poor, poor baby. You must be hurting so much. Call me!” I erase it, then another comes through. “Patricia is gone for the week. Call me.” I snort and erase that one as well. If she thought she could seduce me into a tryst after what she did to me, she didn’t know me at all. I toy with the idea of pretending to go along with her and then rejecting her just as we’re about to fuck, but I decide I’m going to be better than that. A third text, “I am so, so, so sorry I cheated on you, Megs. I miss you.” The use of her pet name for me brings tears to my eyes. I can’t help but remember the times we walked on Stone Arch Bridge, late at night, holding hands and laughing unrestrainedly. Teddy Bear, her black chow, trotted between us, his blue tongue lolling out of his mouth. He adored Tessa, liked me well enough, and tolerated Patricia. It makes me meanly glad that Teddy never truly warmed up to Patricia, despite her being his walker. “Megan, you need someone in your time of need.” I block Tessa’s number, suddenly tired of her pestering. Almost immediately, I get an email from her, so I block her there as well. Next, Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram. Blocked, blocked, blocked. I want her out of my life, and I never want to think about her again.

“Fuck that.” I turn over on the couch, thumping the cushions in anger. I hate thinking about Tessa because it messes up my brain. Any time I resolve to calm down, I get riled up again. I’ve tried slow, smooth breathing; I’ve tried meditation; I’ve tried imagining that I’m stabbing her with a sword. None of it makes me feel better, so I hope that the proverbial time will heal this particular wound. I pull a pillow over my head, and then I feel a cat ass sitting on it. A small one, so it’s Onyx. I reach up and remove her, setting her to the side of the pillow. Two minutes later, I feel the thump again. This time, she burrows her ass down firmly, as if that’ll stop me from removing her. I don’t mind her being so clingy, but not if it means a cat ass on my face. Even if my face is covered with a pillow. “Quit it, Onyx!” I say crossly, my voice muffled by pillow and ass. I move her again, this time turning on my side so she can’t repeat her trick again. She mews crossly at me before hopping up on the side of my ribs. She stiff-legs her way down my hip and settles on the side of my knee. That’s tolerable, so I allow it. Two minutes later, I feel a heavier body bumping against the small of my back. Jet in his usual spot, I presume. His warm, comforting bulk soothes some of my agitation, and I drift off to sleep.

Julianna’s mutilated body weaves in and out of my dream, showing gaps in her skin. A blood-drenched ribbon passes through the gaps, making a grotesque tapestry out of my friend’s body. There is some classical music playing in the background. Bach, Beethoven, Brahms. One of the Bs, though I’m not sure which one. It’s as soft and seductive as a siren’s song. Little bits of flesh crumble off her body as she floats, and there’s a rictus smile on her face. I’m in the dream as well, trying in vain to capture her with a large butterfly net. She keeps slipping through it, and I’m crying as I run.

“Goddamn it!” I sit straight up, clutching the pillow to my heart. I have shifted sometime in my sleep, and Onyx and Jet are snuggled in a ball at my feet. I race to the bathroom, dry-heaving into the toilet. I keep gagging, even though nothing comes up. Onyx and Jet join me, meowing anxiously at my feet. Once I’m done, I crawl over to the counter and pull myself up with difficulty. I fill a glass with water and gulp down several mouthfuls of water. It starts roiling in my stomach, and I lean over the toilet again. The water comes back up, and my stomach hurts from all the retching. I flop down on the floor, not wanting to move. I close my eyes, thinking how easy it would be just to go to sleep and never wake up. I don’t want to live in a world without my Julianna, anyway, so why not just let it all go?

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Trip on This: Chapter Five (Part Two)

Chapter Five (Part Two)

“Where the fuck have you been?”  Mowgli scowls at me from outside Vandalia’s apartment.  “I’ve been waiting for you for a fucking half hour.  Time is money, chiquita, in case you haven’t heard.”

“Come on in,” I say, ushering Mowgli into Vandalia’s place.  “Want something to drink?”  I move to the kitchen and manage to find the tea kettle.

“Uh, hello?  Did you not practically order me over only to stand me the fuck up?”  Mowgli has his hand on his hip and his lower lip thrust out.  Oh great, he’s doing the pissy queen act which is really not pretty on so large a man.

“Get over it, Mowgli.  I had something I had to take care of.  I’ll try not to let it happen again.”  That’s the closest I get to apologizing, and Mowgli lets it drop.

“Tell me what you got, girl.”  Mowgli drops into a chair while I rummage for something to munch on.  Vandalia has a righteous stash of Doritos, Keeblers, M&Ms, and other assorted goodies guaranteed to give a dentist nightmares.  Not to mention a nutritionist.  As I tell Mowgli what I found out from Rock, I dump some snacks on the table while waiting for the water to boil.  “You trust this Rock?”  Mowgli asks me, his voice level.  “You sure he’s not hustling you?”  At my request, Mowgli has never been with me to The Savage which is a sore point between us.  He doesn’t understand my need to keep my job and the ritual I’ve created separate from him.

“Yeah, I’m sure.  He knows I’ll rip his balls off and stuff them down his throat if he’s shining me on.”  Like any guy, Mowgli instinctively crosses his legs at my words.  “Besides, he wants to fuck me again.  He knows that won’t happen if he lies to me.”

“I thought women weren’t supposed to use sex as a weapon any more in these post-modern feminist times,” Mowgli playfully scolds me.

“Nah, we’re just not supposed to admit it any more,” I reply, handing a cup of Earl Grey to Mowgli while sipping on black tea myself.  I bet the Earl Grey is just for Mowgli as it seems too tame for the likes of Vandalia.  “The PC thing is to say that we assertively bring up our complaint, then discuss it, then make a mutually-satisfying decision.”

“Uh huh.”  Mowgli shoots me a look that says he doesn’t believe me.  “And what’s playing on reality TV?”

“You don’t get none if I don’t get what I want,” I say simply.  “It’s not my fault that men are controlled by their dicks.”

“Girl, don’t I know it,” Mowgli says with a knowing grin.  “A blessing and a curse all rolled up in one.”  We share a brief snicker at the fallibility of men before I get serious.

“I want this motherfucker,” I say abruptly, slamming down my mug.  I slop tea on the table, but I’m too focused on the matter at hand to notice.  Mowgli grabs a rag from the sink and wipes up my mess.  “Nobody plays Trip Wire for a fool, but nobody.”  A little boy in first grade with chubby cheeks and an angelic smile campaigned to turn the entire class against me because I had slanty eyes—his words, not mine.  Once on the playground, he stuck his foot out as I was walking by, and I tumbled to the ground.  I can still remember him and his cronies snickering as my dress flew up over my head and showed my ruffled underwear to the world.  Two things happened that day—I beat that boy until the school monitor pulled me off him, and I informed my mother that I was never wearing a dress again.  The boy stayed away from me after that, but I was forced to concede on the dress thing when I was on the streets.

“Girlfriend, you really should leave this to the cops,” Mowgli begins, but stops when he sees the look on my face.  He knows when to press me and when to back the hell off, and I’m grateful that he usually follows his instincts.  “OK.  What’s your next plan of attack, and how can I help?”  He pours us each another cup of tea so we can do some serious thinking.

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