Objectify Me: A Fireworks Novella (The Fireworks Novellas) (4 page)

“Please don’t fire me, Jack.”

Jack reaches over his desk and pulls a Kleenex from a box. He hands it to me and waits while I dab my eyes, leaving two imprints of my lashes on the white tissue. “I’m not going to fire you. But this Texan and his buddies are in town for a week, and I expect them to come here almost every night.”

“So?”

“So, he thinks he saw what he saw. If you’re here, it’s just going to raise problems.”

“So, what, I’m like
suspended
?” Fucking high school all over again. High school in high-class underwear. “I can’t take a week off, Jack. I barely make ends meet as it is.”

“I’m sorry, kid. These oil industry fuckers spend like crazy in here. I’ve got to put them first.” He takes me by the shoulders, which I hate. But what can I do? Shove him away? Truth is, if he wanted to bend me over his desk right now, I’d probably have to do it. Lucky for me, Jack prefers boys. “Take your tips and dance bills for tonight. It’s been busy. Don’t worry about my cut this time. I’ll see you next Friday.”

I ball up the smudgy tissue and throw it on his desk. “Fine.” And my mind screams ‘fuck you, you degenerate exploitative bottom feeder’. But all I actually say is, “Friday.”

I practically run through the club back to the bar to get my money and my kimono. Claire and Louise try to talk to me as I rush past them, but I just plow through the blue curtain and down the hall to the dressing room. I don’t even bother changing. I pull my jeans over the frilly garter skirt and a tank top and black cardigan on top of that. Then I cram my money into my tote bag and let myself out the back door into the crap-covered alley behind the club. Stopping there in the dark, I indulge in a little self-pity. I figure I’ve earned it.

I was having a good night. Not just with tips but with actually having a conversation with someone for once. Someone who wasn’t a creepy customer or my addled old dad. I know it’s pretty sad that a few minutes talking with a nice guy altered my mood so much, but I guess that’s my life. I wish I
had
finished Levi off now. He certainly needed it. And God knows I love to be needed. I just kind of wish I’d gotten his phone number or something. Or maybe asked to connect with him on Instagram like a normal person. Maybe he was my chance to be a normal person, yet he walked out the door without even looking at me. I touch my lips where the scratchiness of his beard left a little sting.

My phone clock reads just before ten PM. And my mind tells me in all sincerity that the quickest and safest way to walk from here to my house is go through the crowded French Quarter along Bourbon Street.

As if that won’t take me right past the LaFleur Guesthouse.

Chapter Five – Levi

I make it back to the guesthouse by focusing on the space two feet in front of me and pretty much ignoring everything else. I have to dodge the tail end of a small parade and somehow end up with about ten strings of beads around my neck, but apart from that, I arrive unscathed. Unscathed, sobering up, and as horny as ever. Problem is, the space two feet in front of me contained drunk girls’ bare tits on at least three occasions. I was also shown a tattooed ass that I think belonged to a guy, and a moose knuckle in gold lame shorts that I know did. And a bunch of guys propositioned me. It was just the bare tits that made me horny, though. That and thinking about that girl at Objections. Is it weird that she smelled like my sister, and somehow that was hot? Is it weird I’m obsessing about putting my tongue in her belly button?

“Good evening, Mr. Borovski,” the doorman says, looking up from his little desk under the stairs. “I wasn’t expecting to see you until later. Just come back to freshen up?”

Freshen up. If that’s what they’re calling jerking off in the shower these days. “I think I’m going to turn in, actually. My friends will be back late, though.”

“Very good, sir,” he says as I trudge up the ornate stairs. He must think I’m the biggest party-pooper in America.

When I get to the room, the first thing I do is brush my teeth until my gums ache. I contemplate having a shower, but in the end, I just sit on the bed, kicking off my shoes and falling backwards to stare at the ceiling. The strings of beads pool around my neck. I know what’s happening to me. It’s a long- dormant volcano beginning to rumble and steam. I switched off the part of me that put tongues in belly buttons when I started chasing after Rachel Blum. And somehow tonight, that got switched back on, possibly when Charlotte shook her tits in my face. I guess it’s about time.

I had pretty wild sex with my ex. I fucked her over the table in the dark kitchen of a youth hostel in Hungary for god’s sake. Hungary! How many people can say they’ve done that? But I went from sixty to zero so fast, I think maybe something got broken. And it’s clear I need to do something about fixing it. There are a ton of wild girls in New Orleans tonight. Charlotte was right – if I can’t hook up in New Orleans on Mardi Gras, then I might as well just become a priest.

My heart starts to pump in my chest. Could I really do this? It’s been years since I hooked up with someone I just met. I started dating my ex just after high school, but I was pretty easy before then. You’re only a teenager once, right? And my parents encouraged me, believe it not. They’re west coast radicals all into “healthy intimacy” and “judgment-free zone” discussions on safe sex and “proto-love”. Mom put condoms in my Christmas stocking (see that’s about how Jewish we are) from when I was sixteen (it was a year too late, but whatever).

“Dammit!” I say to the ceiling. I realize I don’t have any condoms. Mom gave me some when I was packing for this trip, but like an oppositional asshole, I left them behind. She texted me three times about it before I even got on the plane.

All is not lost. I’m sure Omar and Buck brought bulk packs of condoms. And even on a good night, they wouldn’t need more than…what…six? Accounting for breakage and droppage and general misfortunes? The rest of their condoms must be in here somewhere.

I start with Omar’s case. Why would anyone need so many pairs of boxers for a weekend? And three kinds of designer body spray? It’s a bit excessive. But in the back of the suitcase, I hit pay dirt. A twelve-pack of condoms with three left. Three will be enough for me. I don’t plan on any breakage or droppage. I pocket them and don’t bother with Buck’s duffel bag at all.

Okay. Condoms. Check. I undo a few buttons on my shirt and try out one of Omar’s body sprays. Then I leave the buttons undone. Walking on the wild side, that’s me. I have condoms, a bit of cash, and a semi-hard cock. Slipping on my shoes, I do a phone and wallet check and head out the door, clicking the lock behind me.

I can hear the party going on out on Bourbon Street. Music, people are dancing, I’m feeling pretty sober now, so I might go down the block and get a frozen cocktail just to lube myself up again, and defer the headache that I’m sure is lining up from those Hurricanes. Hangover cure – don’t sober up. That’s the spirit.

“Changed your mind?” the doorman says. He looks pretty smug about it too. I guess working in a place like this he knows how to read his clientele.

“Yeah. I guess I got my second wind. Thought I’d go and see what kind of trouble I can get into. Any tips?”

He closes his account book, looking at me with a thoughtful frown. “For you? Good looking, clean-cut boy? I think you should go outside and ask the first pretty, single girl you see if you can kiss her.”

I laugh, expecting him to laugh along with me.

He just opens his book and picks up a pencil. What is he counting anyway? Souls?

“You’re serious?” I ask. “Won’t that get me punched?”

“Nah, boss. You
ask
first. That’s the whole point.” Then he waves his pencil at me as if to say ‘That’s all the wisdom you get tonight, my young apprentice. Away with you.’

I take the hint and push the heavy glass door open thinking, what have I got to lose? I
am
going to ask the first pretty, single girl I see if I can kiss her. If I come home with a black eye, I’ll get Casanova here to refund my money.

When I step out into the cool night air, I close my eyes, take a deep breath, smelling stale spilled beer, cigar smoke, and a hint of patchouli.

Patchouli?

When I open my eyes, Charlotte is standing there. The prettiest girl in New Orleans.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” I say. “A random girl on Bourbon Street.”

She takes a coy sip of her frozen drink and smiles up at me.

“You know, I’ve always wanted to say this: You look different with your clothes on.”

She laughs. “Different how? Better? Worse?”

“Just different. More relaxed.”

“You look more relaxed, too. Did you get laid on the way back here?”

I look back down Bourbon Street at the neon lights of bars and restaurants, the streamers and glitter everywhere. And the beautiful people – beautiful women, beautiful men. Everything looks beautiful suddenly.

“I had a few offers,” I say. “But I declined them. And what about you? Have you had a Mardi Gras kiss yet?”

She shakes her head.

“Where’s your boyfriend tonight? Or your girlfriend?” Smooth. Hitting her with a practiced line made current with a little twenty-first century open-mindedness.

“I don’t have a boyfriend. And we know you just got dumped. So…”

“That works out kind of well, doesn’t it? I was thinking of getting one of those frozen cocktails. Want to come with me?”

She takes my arm and pulls me down Bourbon Street. “No more Hurricanes for you. That’s my advice. Have a margarita.”

We walk past the ancient Lafitte’s Blacksmith Pub where drunk tourists are singing
House of the Rising Sun
at top volume. The next block is kind of quieter – a little break in the crowd gives us some breathing space. I pull her to a stop in the middle of the road.

“Listen, this is weird. But you said I should kiss a random girl on Bourbon Street. And the doorman at the hotel said I needed to ask a pretty girl if I could kiss her. And then here you are, on Bourbon Street, randomly and prettily. That seems like more than a coincidence. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. So…can I kiss you?”

She grins. “Yes.”

Before she can change her mind or I can chicken out, I grab her by the waist and pull her forward. She tips her face up to me, and I kiss her. I’m sure I start out meaning for it to be just a friendly, fun kiss. You know, like that famous one of the sailor and the nurse? Something picturesque and polite that the New Orleans Tourist Commission could put on a postcard. But the moment our lips meet, fireworks start going off.

No, I mean really. A fireworks show starts down at the river and lights up the sky above the buildings on Bourbon Street. We both kind of laugh and find our mouths open against each other. And it just feels natural to dart my tongue into her mouth. She wraps her arms around my neck, sliding her fingers over my hair while I pull her body against mine. And I’m back to being hard as steel. Only this time it’s not so uncomfortable, even though I know I’m pressing into her pelvic bone.

The fireworks continue and I’m dimly aware that people are streaming past us hooting and whistling encouragement. “Give it to her, bro!” someone says. And someone else, “Get a room!” We ignore them. I’m wondering when Charlotte will pull away. I even loosen my hold on her waist, but she just grips my neck and caresses her tongue against mine. I’m sure as shit not going to put a stop to it. And she doesn’t show any signs of letting up, so now I’m wondering if we’re just going to stand here kissing until they demolish Bourbon Street around us and build a highway overpass like in that Dr. Seuss book.

She tastes like lime and sugar, and her mouth is warm and soft. My cock throbs as I think about what other parts of her might be warm and soft, too. Just when I think I might slide down on the ground with her legs wrapped around me, she pulls back. I sneak a look down at her cleavage which is moving up and down as she breathes heavily.

“So…what’s your hotel like?” She looks back over my shoulder to the hotel a block away.

“It’s nice. Pretty quiet. Quaint, I guess you’d say. It’s decorated with antiques and stuff.”

She looks up at me through her eyelashes, nodding, a twinkle in her eye. “And your room? That’s nice?”

“Yeah, good. It’s like a two-bedroom suite, because I came with two friends. So they let me have the bigger room because I organized the trip. There’s a balcony over Bourbon Street. It’s pretty cool.”

She nods some more, her mouth slowly breaking into a grin.

“Oh, God,” I say. “I really suck at this. You’re looking for an invitation, right?”

“Unless you feel strongly about another cocktail.”

“Hell, no.” I grab her hand and we practically run the block and a half back to the LaFleur. By the time we get there, we’re out of breath and laughing. And I can’t quite believe what’s happening. I’m glad I didn’t have another cocktail. This is the kind of situation that can go south in about a thousand different ways when too much alcohol is involved.

I sneak a little kiss as I dig the key out of my pocket.

The doorman looks up as we walk in. I wink at him and lead Charlotte to the staircase.

“Boy, you been gone
five
minutes!” he calls after us.

Charlotte trails her hand along the wooden bannister as we climb up to the second floor. “I’ve walked past this place about a thousand times, and I’ve always wanted to see inside.”

“Is it what you expected?”

“It’s clean,” she says pausing at the top of the stairs to look at a painting of a pirate. “I dunno. I think I expected these places to be like haunted houses or something. All old and dusty.”

I tug her across the landing to the door of our suite. “Not haunted at all. We even have WiFi.” I pause as I unlock and open the door, taking her hand. This whole situation is so crazy and surreal, I need to make sure I don’t epically screw it up. “I want you to know something,” I say. “I’m not one of those guys who thinks that just because a girl comes to your hotel room, it means she agrees to sex.”

Charlotte grins and touches the tip of her nose onto mine. “But I
do
agree to sex.” She grabs the front of my shirt and pulls me through the door, slamming it behind us.