Dealing Flesh (11 page)

CHAPTER 9

Vendetta

Charlie, the brown-haired hunk with the slanted eyes and nice build who works down the hall from my office, and whose come-ons I can no longer ignore, marks the first victim of my “I can make Toby jealous” campaign. I find it a plus that my ex has heard of him, remembering the signs of unease he showed the time I passed a comment about Charlie’s good looks while we still lived together.

Unhappily married, as handsome Charlie proclaims to be, he expresses huge interest in getting together with me after the end of my shift this evening. While we are having sex on the soft apricot-colored vinyl couch inside his spacious two-bedroom apartment, the pain of my recently acquired
war wounds
chokes me. I gloat as I shove Charlie’s face into my
secret grotto
.

Avengelia:
How do ya’ like me now, Toby dearest?

I lay numb like an ice cube, feeling only triumph while I impatiently wait for the right moment to break away from this humdrum experience.

Back in my own surroundings, I call a mutual friend who, I know, is going to gossip the juicy information right to Toby. Still frequenting the same hangouts, I am confident that any of my future love life developments are eventually going to find their way to the correct party.

Dedicated to improving Hot Shot’s “knockout” status, I spend forty minutes on the high intensity tanning bed at the
Oase
salon this evening. An extra heavyweight lifting session at the gym follows, and of course, I stretch the good old bank overdraft credit by purchasing several “Come Lust Me” outfits.

Avengelia:
Tobias will be seething once he grasps that he will never get a piece of ‘this’ again
.

~~~

Temperatures soar on this picture-perfect windy day at the “clothing optional” park around the
Hagenmühler Lake
. I work on my tan for the next four hours, turning up with a deep bronze color by the end of it.

Miss Vanity:
Sooo scrumptious.

I slip into the colorful flower-patterned shorts; then pull the black cotton top that barely covers my chest over my head. My feet stuck inside brown cowboy boots, I proudly strut across the large grassy field that is larded with nude patrons. I board my ride. Rush hour traffic propels me down the two-lane road an inch at a time.

Overly bored, I enter into an intense staring contest with the guy to the right of me. Hot Shot has me flip my hair back and forth while I pull the fellow deeper under my spell with each batting eye. A second later, he rear-ends the car in front of him, bringing his lane to a complete halt, while mine keeps going.

Hot Shot (gloating):
I love my mojo
.

Several hours later, looking and smelling like a starlet, I prowl through the small alleys of old town Stuttgart. A group of men passes me by. From the corner of my eye, I watch how their heads turn to follow my silhouette. Wooing whistles fill the air. I hear one of the guys shouting, “Man, did you see her amazing eyes?”

Miss Vanity (elated):
The hard work is paying off. I must be getting a lot closer to Goddess status
.

~~~

Having become a recognizable fixture in a bunch of prestigious clubs over the years, I take pride in my ability to slip by nearly any of the tough-faced doorkeepers these days, even knowing many of them by name.

Miss Vanity, Hot Shot, and Big Shot Mama are all smiles when the bouncers single me out of the crowd and make room to get me inside before anyone else does, as if I were some kind of celebrity.

Miss Vanity:
You paid your dues girl.

To my knowledge, what gets the portals to swing open easiest is to either be a hip and trendy knockout, a public figure, filthy rich, or a well-known regular. Sometimes though, it is simply “hit or miss.”

Inside the club tonight, the crowd has a particularly awesome vibe. A slave to good music, I trance out on the dance floor for two hours straight. I make my way over to the bar for a quick thirst quench.

Over to my right, I spot a tall black man with friendly brown eyes sitting in one of the lounge chairs that have tables in front of them. His mysterious energy and the funky, quite unusual New York-style gangster suit that he wears, draw me in at once.

Lustania (mumbling):
Gosh, he’s hot. I want, I want, I want.

He smiles, gesturing me to come closer. Unwilling or, shall I say, unable to refuse the offer, I join his side. He introduces himself as Geronimo. We talk for a while.

“You don’t know who I am, do you?”

“Should I?”

He mentions his public figure status in the United Kingdom. Wha…? Now, it clicks.

“Oops. I apologize.”

Scaredy Cat:
Damned, he’s an icon. How am I ever going to be enough for him
?

Hot Shot:
Don’t worry. I’ll make him fall for me.

Romy:
Well, the best of luck. If you ask me, he looks like a real piece of work…albeit I am highly tempted to give him my heart.

Lulled by his charm and intrigued by his game, I take him home. His sexual performance puts most of my previous entanglements to shame.

Lustania:
Credit to his incredible endowment.

Despite the load of fun though, the
Big O
still evades me.

“Mister Handsome” gets up around 8:00
Uhr
.

I chuckle when I see him take a seat on the floor in the middle of the room. He bends himself into a cross-legged position and begins to
meditate
, something I know nothing about or ever saw anyone do during my time on this earth.

Hot Shot:
He’s a weirdo.

Romy:
It’s fascinating.
He’s definitely a keeper.

The only problem is…he doesn’t care to be kept. On voicing my interest for serious companionship, he merely replies,

“My dear, I think you gotta take some time out at the pasture and see more of the world to find out who you are.”

Big Shot Mama:
He’s definitely out of his mind. Does he have a clue who I am or where I’ve been
?

Doubt Cloud:
I am nothing but a ‘plaything’ to him, damned.

Romy:
We make such a nice couple
.

Hot Shot:
Ah, forget him. I’ll find another guy in no time.

Geronimo and I meet two more times, but fairly soon after, the contact fades.

Flood Gates

Over the course of the following months, I stagger across luscious green grass nearly everywhere I go. Keeping the flood gates open, I indulge in a little taste of Henry, a well-built black army man; Axel, a beautiful white print model; Frederick, another model; Roberto, an Italian one-night stand; Karl, a bodybuilder from the nightclub; Ralf, a white guy from the grocery store; Justin, a professional dancer from the Far East; George, a George Michael look-alike, and probably a few more that do not come to mind this moment.

On a few occasions, while I’m busy screwing one of my many lovers inside my apartment, other contenders ring the doorbell downstairs.

Pretender Babe:
Exulting.

Hot Shot:
Yap. It feels good to be in such demand.

Thankfully, the men never collide in the hallway on their mission to rendezvous with me.

~~~

Surrendering to the urge of wanting to become one of the cool and much adored nightclub barmaids, I resign from my job at the office and get hired as a cocktail waitress and barista at the lively
Ricochet Club
on the downtown strip. I can feel Blushetta shake in her boots as I walk in to report for my first shift tonight.

The hours drag on as I battle to outgrow amateur status. I get home at five this morning. Terribly fatigued, I am ready to quit. I do not know what moves me to show up again this evening but I do, as well as the following night, and several nights the coming week.

I’m on shift number twenty, admiring my improvement in mixing drinks. I now move with the ease of a pro, I might add, juggling fully loaded trays from patron to patron in five-inch spike heels without batting an eyelash.

With alcohol no longer appealing to me, I pick up a compulsive habit of smoking cigarettes. Miss Vanity claims it goes well with my new hipster status so I puff away whenever there is downtime, easily going through a pack of smokes per day.

Much to Hot Shot’s elation, a smorgasbord of hunky males from many different places flocks to my station tonight. Oliver is the first who makes me gasp for air. Better looking than the pirate version of
Johnny Depp
, he qualifies as an instant showstopper.

Having learned that men are drawn to you more if you play hard to get, I force myself to put on a stone face of complete and utter disinterest, looking in the opposite direction from where he stands. A few times, I catch myself trying to track his whereabouts, longing to know whom he is talking to.

Lustania:
I don’t care if it’s just for an hour. But I have to have that delicacy.

Miss Vanity frantically spurs me to sneak off into the restroom. A bit more lipstick here and a tad more perfume there, fluffing up the hairdo with my fingers, I take a quick last peep into the mirror to make sure my
derrière
looks perfect in the short purple sponge fabric skirt. Back at the bar, I move around like a busy bee, anything to distract myself from the irresistible pirate. I lose track of him, coming to accept that he must have left. My head shifts to the right. I feel jolted. There at the end of my counter he stands, signaling me to come by.

Doubt Cloud:
I must be dreaming?

Romy:
If they get any better looking, I think I’m gonna pass out.

My pulse rate shoots up now that I’m approaching the desirable cutie. I’m just glad it’s dark enough to hide Blushetta.

“Hi,” he says in a way that intoxicates me as I stand in front of him. “Can I get a screwdriver please?”

Romy: “
Wow, he’s even more handsome up close.”

“Certainly. Be right back,” I reply, throwing a triple Lutz inside.

We flirt heavily throughout the night, landing at my apartment after shift’s end. Sex happens, but it disappoints.

Miss Vanity:
Although I have no desire to renew his contract, I think I’ll keep him around for public appearances. You know, how much I enjoy seeing other women drool over something that belongs to me.

Big Bad Wolf Syndrome

On a quiet Tuesday evening, one of the slowest nights of the week, a rugged, masculine-to-the-core fellow takes a seat at my bar. I am instantly attracted to the dark, all-weather sailor type. In his presence, I feel like
Little Red Riding Hood
in front of the big bad wolf that has come to devour her—just not in the conventional kind of way, if ya’ catch my drift. During the conversation I find out that we both have a mutual acquaintance.

“What are you doing tomorrow? I’m asking because I’d like you to come to the lake with me,” says T.

“I’ll go anywhere with you,” is at the tip of my tongue, but I bite it. Regaining my composure, I tell him that I’m delighted to get together.

Lustania (growling):
Out of my way. Absolutely nothing is going to mess this one up
.

Lying in bed tonight, I can barely get an eye shut because Fantasia keeps dealing me pictures of T and I as we wear each other out in bed.

When morning comes, I call up our mutual acquaintance. My jaw drops when the person shares with me that I am about to go on a date with evidently one of the most influential pimps in Stuttgart.

Lustania:
Well, what do you know? Watch out because I long to tame that bad boy by giving it to him better than any woman ever has
.

Hot Shot:
If I can get him to fall for me, I’d earn the title of “Hottest babe on the planet.”

T and I meet at the proposed spot. My heart beats fast as he rolls up in the mysterious-looking, expensive, dark vehicle with tinted windows, you know, the kind Mafia bosses drive.

Big Shot Mama:
That’s bitching awesome.
Look at me. I am a ‘bad-assed’ chick with underground connections
.

I jump into his ride and we take off for the lake. Time flies while we are having fun in the sun. Soon, we are headed back to the city. T takes me to dinner at an Italian restaurant. While trying to concentrate on the food, I sense Lustania’s struggle with sitting still.

Lustania:
Oh, fuck dinner.
I’d rather be screwing his brains out now. Now, now, nooowww
.

We leave shortly after supper and arrive at my place within minutes. Once inside, we go at it as if a medal is to be won. The windows fog up as the loud animalistic show makes my make-believe climaxing appear so realistic that I almost convince myself of its legitimacy.

We arrange a couple more
tête-à-têtes
at my house this week. The more I see of T, the more Romy wants to seal the deal. I sure hope she wakes up to the reality that this man pimps women so that he can play the big shot. He probably sleeps with most, if not his entire stable of mares. If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it apparently is NOT a duck.

Lustania:
Who cares about what the situation is? I need this sex god right here…right now to do it to me just one more time
.