Chapter Twenty-Five

- Arise! Complications -

Dating the regular way, that is to say not just picking up fans or waitresses after a show, was a new and nerve-racking experience. For being a previously married man, I didn’t know shit about dealing with women. Perhaps that’s why my status was previously married.

This thing with New Girl was a minefield and I was terrified of moving in any direction too fast. I didn’t want to blow her off, but I was nowhere near ready to jump into the deep with anybody.

All those thoughts about her being my salvation scared the crap out of me. So what if she could fix me? If I couldn’t fix myself, where would I be if things didn’t work out with her? I could end up right back where I started or worse. But why was I projecting all these what-ifs and maybes on a relationship that consisted of three dates over a couple weeks? At least I recognized that this mess of ideas was the work of a mind still on shaky ground.

Regardless of any future with New Girl, real or imagined, I needed to be sure that any feelings that germinated in me were about her, not a reaction to my life. It was starting to look like other girls might be interested. It was entirely possible I could generate the same feelings about any number of girls. But how could I know without empirical evidence? Testing myself seemed (and I stress seemed) the smart choice.

Way back when, I noted that Complications and I are now old friends. We had met a few times before, but this is where we really got acquainted. I invited Complications into my life and some very bad things happened.

•••

My bark is worse than my bite, but my bite is pretty good.

•••

The past two weeks had definitely affected me. Despite my uncertainties, self-confidence was making a comeback -- a slow trickle of a comeback, but a comeback nonetheless. The next time I checked myself in the mirror, I saw something different.

“Back from Cincinnati, are we?” I said with a measure of pride. Right down alongside Wiener, something that had gone AWOL for ages: the Balls.

I got the distinct impression that others had picked up on the new me. When Ex Ass invited me for a night on the town with the Fantastic Four, I knew something was up. The Four had always been cordial in the office, but in the real world they traveled in vastly different social circles. In the past if I’d set my sights on one or more of them, the response would have been a polite but firm no, in the company of some lame excuse.

What changed? Did something change for them after my party, or was it a response to the change in me? I figured the best way to find out was to make nonspecific plans with them for that Friday. There were more important things to worry about anyway, like where was I going to go with these four hot chicks? Anywhere I damn please, that’s where. When they picked me up, three of the four were wearing little black dresses. I cursed them silently and squeezed between Ex Ass and D-Girl in the back seat. They suggested a trendy dance club that wouldn’t really be happening till after eleven, so in return I suggested we go to Party Central for a little pre-club substance abuse. Their response was startlingly eager.

•••

The newly returned Balls brought back with them a long forgotten skill they had taken along on their vacation: my unlikely talent to convince groups of girls to do things with me they would normally not do one-on-one that stemmed from the way I speak to women in general. Most of my male friends are amazed at the things I can get away saying without getting my face slapped. But it’s not what I say -- it’s how I say it. I’m just very matter of fact. I don’t say anything with a wink in my eye or in quotation marks to punctuate the shock value of what I just said.

“Don’t take the first one in the mouth,” I warned one girl I’d just met who was taking my best friend home from a bar. “He hasn’t had a date in a while and might blow your head off.” Anyone judging her intent expression might have assumed I’d been giving her directions to the beach. It’s equal parts not waiting around for their reaction and a heartfelt delivery that disarms them.

When dealing with groups, it’s important to deeply and sincerely believe what you’re saying. If you believe it, so will they. To wit:

With the Fantastic Four sufficiently high, the conversation turned, as do all conversations with stoned girls, to dating and sex.

“Just give me a great kisser,” gushed D-Girl, “That’s all I want -- a guy who really knows how to kiss.” All the other girls oohed and ahhed in agreement.

“Better stay away from me,” I said, “‘cause I’m lousy.” The gauntlet went down.

“You are not,” D-Girl laughed and slurred while playfully punching my shoulder.

“Ow!” I faked injury and massaged my arm. “Nice right. But seriously,” I insisted, “I’m terrible.” The trick is to know exactly when they’re intoxicated enough to fall for it.

If I have only one other talent, it’s to kiss a girl so she feels like I’m taking something from her that I’ve desperately wanted my entire life -- not inflicting on her something she doesn’t want like some ham-lipped, prickly-bearded stud wannabe.

D-Girl called my bluff, leaned over, and mashed her lips onto mine. The Balls were up to the task. Immediately, I grabbed her hair low and tight on her head to pull her face away from mine and slow her down a bit. She whimpered a mild protest and bit my lip, but I would only let her mouth graze mine. Every time she tried to press harder or get more from me, I’d back off just enough to frustrate and entice her. Sucker.

It was a delicate piece of timing, but just before she crossed the border from Not Enough into Had Enough, I released my grip on her hair and allowed my arm to drop to the small of her back. As she relaxed, I drew her into me firmly but left her upper body free to resist if she wanted. Using language you can only understand when your lips and tongue are intertwined with another’s, I Shanghaied her to a deceitful place where she was the only girl in the world and the only truth she knew was that I had to have her so bad it hurt.

When she finally gave in to my lead, our rhythms dovetailed perfectly in a graceful ballet of the mouth. She surrendered to the dance and transformed by degrees from impassive skeptic to impassioned believer. Just as I felt her hand glide up around my neck, I stopped.

“See,” I said blandly, releasing my hold on her back, “I suck.” She opened her eyes. The others howled in delight.

“That,” she got out between breaths, “did not suck.” Her chest heaved mildy and she pushed Beach Bunny over to me. “Try it,” she ordered, “and tell me what you think.”

We obliged. I did pretty much the same thing for Beach Bunny, but made some adjustments to personalize the experience for her. She was a very ambitious kisser, even if a little on the wet side. While she explored her ambition, I copped a feel of the side of her breast. In context, it seemed the right thing to do. She agreed and leaned into my touch.

Releasing Beach Bunny, I turned to Paralegal, raised my eyebrows and said, “Next?” She looked at the first two, who nodded their heads in approval, as if to say, “You’ve got to try this,” like I was a yummy morsel being passed around a cocktail party. I really liked the image that put in my mind. Paralegal and I took sips of our drinks and wiped our mouths like two prizefighters waiting for the bell, which was not a bad analogy for what followed. I had to work harder to break down her defenses. She was outwardly severe, but remarkably soft at her core. Getting to that core required more persistence than finesse, like an Alaskan oilrig churning away relentlessly through frozen surface layers in search of the warm pool of crude beneath. The girls all whooped it up as the habitually cool Paralegal melted ever so slightly under my custody.

“Saving best for last?” Ex Ass asked coyly. Indeed I was. I completely changed my technique with her. It was all about tenderness. Rather than holding her backside firmly, I used a feather-light touch, sending goose bumps along her spine. My razor stubble was never allowed to scratch the tender skin surrounding her lips. The tentative approach hinted that I might be harboring a feeling or two for her, and those feelings might scare me a little. I was shameless. She didn’t get the dog and pony show the others got, but she knew that what she did get, the others didn’t. It was all hers and it set her apart from everyone else.

That was a fun ten minutes. But I wasn’t seriously testing anything yet. This was just an informal poll.

“I need a drink,” I said, standing. “Anybody need anything while I’m up?”

“I need to pee,” Ex Ass said. I helped her to her feet. A half hour later, D-Girl yelled from the living room, “What are you two doing in there?” Ex Ass wiped her lipstick off my face.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” she giggled and slid down off the kitchen counter.

“We were just talking,” Ex Ass said. D-Girl was not fooled.

“Uh-huh,” was all she said.

We never quite made it to the club. The girls continued to get high with the Party Central roommates till everyone passed out. I had abstained from most of the party favors and ended up walking the four miles home, arriving with the sunrise. The recovery of my girl-hoodwinking talent made me smile, but still I wondered why I was suddenly on the Fantastic Four’s A-List. I’m not big on organized religion and I’m not exactly sure what goes on out there in the universe, but this was giving me pause to think. First New Girl and now the Fantastic Four? Did a fax go out advising women I was now acceptable? If so, I wasn’t copied.

Was that the extent of my new standing? Perhaps not. My phone rang off the hook the next day: Some belated birthday greetings, New Girl just to say “hey,” and the Film Student who popped in and out of my life as the mood struck her.

“Long time, no speak,” I said after hearing her voice. “What’s up?”

“I’ve been thinking about you,” Film Student said.

“Masturbating again?” Good one. I’ll use that again. And again. And again.

“Quit it,” she laughed. “Hey, are you doing anything tonight?” To her that was just a politely rhetorical question, as I’d never had plans before. Since we last spoke I had learned to lie and say I did, no matter how lonely I was. Today, however, I actually had plans.

“Yeah,” I said, “I’m going to a thing with some friends.”

“Oh. Oh, well,” she said. “I thought I’d take a last minute chance and see if you wanted to get together.” Translation: Boyfriend ditched her and I was on her list of losers who never had dates and might be good for a free meal.

“Sorry,” I feigned regret, “how about Wednesday or Thursday?”

“That would be great,” she lied, “I’ll call you.”

“I look forward to it,” I said, knowing full well the only way my phone would ring is if no one else lower on the list came through.

My plans were in fact with the Fantastic Four and a loft party downtown. I was waiting in my driveway when Ex Ass pulled up.

“Where are the rest of the gals?” I asked, noting the empty seats in her car.

“They’re going to meet us there.” She smiled warmly and turned up the stereo.

The loft was loaded with single hot girls -- the same kind of hot girls that a scant few months ago got their jollies beating me to a pulp; all the better if it involved public humiliation. Shortly after we arrived, Ex Ass went to powder her nose, leaving me alone to forage for cocktails. One by one, like a box of kittens, the hot chicks checked out the new arrival with little to no reaction. Simply being allowed into one of these affairs got you that much. I was a curiosity, but it was still more fun inside the box.

The rest of the Fantastic Four spotted me and each gave me a friendly hello hug. Paralegal added a peck on the cheek, which piqued the Kittens’ interest. Why were those other kitties huddled around me? Did I have something that kitties like? When Ex Ass returned, she saw Paralegal’s cheek kiss, and raised her a squeeze of my hand. That started the Kittens thinking outside the box. One by one they made for the new saucer of milk. This was behavior I understood. Being in the company of the Fantastic Four raised my stock more than Best Friend and 3a ever did.

I didn’t really get a good look at Ex Ass earlier. She was quite halting in a paisley blouse that tied above her belly ring, a short purple skirt, and some chunky-sexy Mary Janes.

Through the night, several of the Kittens purred in my ears right in front of my friends, some brazenly clawing past them to get closer. A few brazen moves and two phone numbers later, Ex Ass grabbed me.

“Do you want to go to another party?” She shouted over the nondescript dance music blaring from some truly shitty speakers. I surveyed the room and pretended to be bored.

“Yeah,” I fibbed, “Let’s blow this pop stand!”

She drove us to an alleged party in Venice, but after searching for the address for forty-five minutes, we gave up the ghost and headed to my place for a glass of wine. I went into the kitchen to pour.

“Make yourself at home,” I told her.

“Do you mind if I take off my shoes?”

“I don’t know. Do your feet stink?”

“Define stink,” she said. A sense of humor - nice.

•••

This was as good a time as any for a stupid choice. Let’s see -- I’d just started seeing one girl from work -- bad enough; I’m not quite sure of me feelings toward her, so I decide to test them with another girl I kind of like, also from work -- getting worse; this girl works for one of the top officers of the company -- I think I get the prize.

•••

It started with body language: I’d put on some Billie Holiday. She curled up on my overstuffed couch, facing me. Every time she adjusted her legs, her skirt rode ever so slightly up her bare tan thighs. My eyes couldn’t help but be drawn down toward her hem, just in case. I am, if nothing else, a boy.

It moved forward over a lame joke: She laughed and squeezed my leg, then let her hand remain there. Wiener started sniffing around.

It got stupid because of a wine spill: She wiped the bit of wine I missed off my chin and ran her fingers across my lips.

“I really liked what you did with these last night,” she said softly.

“They’ve got a few other tricks left up their sleeve,” I replied, trying to magically make the insipid seductive. A line that stupid shouldn’t have worked, but it did. She pulled my face tight to hers. What low standards guys in L.A. set.

Even after necking in the kitchen at Party Central, the kiss had a lot of newness, but it also had a little of the sameness I remembered not feeling with New Girl. It felt a touch... anonymous. The anonymity was comforting in an unsettling way. I remember thinking that she had incredibly sweet breath.

Ex Ass pulled back.

“I can’t,” she declared.

“Then we won’t,” I said flatly. Sometimes The Balls’ most difficult job is to hold the Wiener back. Of course it’s all for show and a ploy to cause the mark to crave them all the more.

“But I want to,” she professed.

“Then we will,” I asserted. She pushed me on my back and climbed on top of me. We kissed for a while longer and she pulled up again.

“I have a boyfriend,” she whispered, a string of spit still linking our mouths. I licked my lips and said, “I understand.” She let out a huge sigh, rose up to straddle my hips and started grinding slowly to “Good Morning, Heartache.” Her blouse sort of came undone -- mostly because I sort of undid it. As she rocked, the blouse opened, revealing her breasts. She leaned over and pressed my face to her chest. The anonymity was wearing off.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” she maintained between moans. I pushed her up gently and said, “Then we should stop.” That was probably the only time in her life a man ever said that to her. That was probably the only time in my life I ever said that to a topless girl, but I had to play into this drama right. She slid down, pulled up my shirt and kissed my stomach. Wiener did a Triple Lutz.

“I want to, I really do.”

“I understand,” I said -- again. “But it’s okay if we don’t.” If she needed me to give her permission to be bad, she was shit out of luck. This was her stupid choice. I was too busy making my own. Telling her to stop equaled filling her up with Hi-Test and putting the pedal to the floor.

“What do you think?” She asked. “I trust your judgment.” I laughed out loud.

“Darlin’,” I said, “Never trust anything with a boner.” She looked down and said, “You poor thing. Does it hurt?”

“Only when used properly,” I said in all seriousness. She felt me up through my jeans, kissing her way down from my bellybutton.

“I can’t leave you like this,” was her verdict as she unzipped my fly. “Oh my,” she whispered just before she took me into her mouth.

•••

Legend has it the average (human) orgasm results in approximately ten cubic centimeters of ejaculate, which is where the band 10cc (“I’m Not In Love”) took their name.

•••

It ended 30cc’s later, give or take: We went three for three.

•••

“I guess we used it properly,” she groaned the next afternoon, “I’m sore everywhere.” I laughed out loud.

“It’s not funny,” she said.

“No,” I said, “of course it’s not. That was just kind of a crusty comment coming out of such a sweet girl.”

“Sweet? You think I’m sweet?”

“Yeah. I think you’re terribly sweet.”

“Is that what you were thinking when you shoved the pillow under my stomach last night -- how sweet I looked with my rear end propped up?”

“You’re pretty comfortable in your own skin, aren’t you?”

“Not really.”

“I still think you’re sweet,” I said as she put on a really expensive looking thong I didn’t remember removing. What a treat, watching her slip into her underwear while seated on the edge of my bed. A slight rise of each athletic cheek as she slid it over her hips, followed by a quick adjustment of the waistband, settling into a perfect inverted heart -- All in all, a delightfully simple, yet sexy maneuver. She gave my bare bottom a light slap.

“I think you’re sweet, too,” she said, and then added, “but we need to talk.”

“We do?” I wanted to turn over, but I thought she might think a morning erection meant I wasn’t listening.

“I really do have a boyfriend,” she sighed. My, what an effective way to soft boil a hard on.

“Yeah,” I sighed, “last night I said I believed you, but I think I didn’t want to believe you. Are you having problems?”

“Major,” she said, shaking her head.

“For obvious reasons,” I sighed, “I’m a little sensitive about this sort of thing. You really need to sort things out with your boyfriend before you do this.” Kind of hollow advice seeing as I’d already fucked her. “And I’m not saying that for his benefit. I don’t know him from Adam. But I like you and don’t want to see you hurting yourself. I mean -- do you want to think of yourself as the kind of person who does this?” Boy, was I on some high moral ground.

“No. I think last night shouldn’t have happened.”

“Probably not,” I said, “but can I ask you something?”

“Depends,” she hedged.

“Forget your boyfriend problems for a second. Why us -- you and me? Why now?” Maybe she had the answer I sought.

She looked away. She thought for a minute then returned to my eyes.

“I really don’t know,” she said, “It just seemed like... I don’t know.” She looked down. “Are you okay if this doesn’t happen again?”

The Balls chimed in, “Tell her to shut up and get out. Tell her you were just using her to see if you really liked the other one.” I took the high road. Besides, there were two factors the Balls neglected: one, she could get me fired in a blink of her eye, and two, she was pretty amazing. No need to burn that bridge just yet.

“I might survive,” I sighed. She smiled. Then I asked seriously, “What about you? I mean, are we going to be okay, you know -- around the office?”

“Yeah,” she said, “We’ll be fine.” She looked a little -- I don’t know -- disappointed?

“Look,” I tried to reassure her, “this was wonderful -- kind of mind-blowing, actually. But I’m going through a lot of shit myself and my life is kind of complicated right now.”

“Tell me about it,” she said rhetorically. There were issues in her life she didn’t elaborate on. She leaned over and gave me one more lingering kiss.

“Complicated,” she sighed and rolled her eyes.

“Tell me something,” I said, “Do the four of you girls always go out together like that?”

“Uh-huh.”

“So, did you drive separately on purpose last night?”

She blushed. On one hand it made me feel pretty good about myself. On the other, I wished it had been my choice. I felt used, but in a good way.

“Do you want to take a shower?” I asked.

“No,” she said, “I really am sore.” I laughed again. Maybe she wasn’t so sweet.

“I wasn’t even thinking of that.”

“Oh,” is all she said without a trace of embarrassment. What a gal.

We drank coffee and she left about a half hour later. A scalding shower tended to some of my sore muscles. I spent the rest of the day wondering how badly pursuing Ex Ass and New Girl simultaneously would bite me in the ass. Speaking of which, there was some physical evidence of that nature I needed to deal with if I was going to learn to juggle.

•••

“Around the world, huh?” D-Girl teased when we were alone on the elevator Monday.

“She told you?” I shook my head in disbelief.

“Relax, we tell each other everything.” She grabbed my thigh that close to the package. “Keep me posted when the next ride leaves the station,” she said. “Maybe I’ll book a seat.”

Who writes your shit, I thought.

•••

There was no weirdness at the office with Ex Ass. We kept a friendly distance. I’m certain, though, that New Girl noticed all the Fantastic Four suddenly behaving more familiar toward me. I would attribute it us getting better acquainted at my birthday party if ever questioned. The subject was never raised.

Mid-week I put the phone numbers I gathered at the loft party to the test. The first Kitten blew me off, but the second, a sandy-haired Spinner (what was with me and blondes all of a sudden?) agreed to a cocktail at the Coronet Pub. The Coronet was a regular hangout for my coworkers, making it perhaps not the wisest choice, but it was a place I could meet the Spinner without giving up that I had no car. By keeping her in her own wheels, she was free to leave whenever she wanted, which turned out to be sooner rather than later.

There was no love connection. Trying to maintain a conversation with her was about as gratifying as trying to teach a cat to play checkers. I had to explain all my cultural references and she had none. Nice legs, shame about the brains, I thought. She made an excuse to bolt early. I didn’t protest, nor did I make any promise to call her again. I did, however, linger on for another beer. About twenty minutes of minding my own business at the bar had passed when I heard vaguely familiar female voice call my name. I spun around on my barstool and saw a curly headed waitress who worked at one of the clubs I used to play.

“Hey,” I smiled, “I haven’t seen you in forever. Where have you been?”

“I’m working across the street now,” Curly said, pointing to the all-nude joint. Nude clubs are not allowed to serve alcohol in California, so the employees at this one run across La Cienega to the Coronet on their break for a drink. “Come on over and I’ll buy you a diet Coke,” she said. I laughed.

“Got nothing else to do.”

She considerately left my name at the door. A ten-dollar cover on a Tuesday with no alcohol was steep for me. Once inside the club, I asked the hostess which table was in my friend’s section. She scrunched her brow.

“Any one you like,” she said. That made sense. It was a school night and the place was fairly dead. I heard Curly call my name from somewhere. I looked around, expecting to find her bringing me that diet Coke on a drink tray. What I saw was her -- flat on her back on the low stage, wearing faux pearls and a smile. There she was, grinding her hips in no particular relationship to the rhythm of the music playing. This was not what I was expecting, but what the hell. Below the waist, there was nothing curly about her at all. Her completely shaved and pierced batwings winked at me.

“You came,” she said happily.

“Not yet,” I said, “but if you keep doing that...”

She giggled. I sat down and couldn’t take my eyes off her pussy to save my life. She motioned to the guy sitting next to me.

“That’s my boyfriend.”

I turned and shook his hand.

“How do you do.” He said with no discernable emotion.

“How do you do it?” I asked earnestly. He shrugged his shoulders and said, “Aw, you know.”

No, I didn’t know. I didn’t know at all. There was really nothing more for me to say to him, so I returned to his girlfriend’s vagina.

The absence of pubic hair lent an unobstructed view of... everything, actually. Gradually I shifted focus and started to view the thing through more clinical eyes.

She had a medium-sized Simple Lotus. The labia majora formed a single outward fold on each side, clearly revealing the labia minora and clitoris. The single outer fold no doubt made life easier for her piercing technician. This combination of single folds and outward divergence offers a clear view of the individual components, which usually appear to have a moist surface, regardless of barometric pressure. It doesn’t create a sense of mystery, but it does make for uncomplicated spelunking.

A close relative is the Complex Lotus, whose shape is formed by multiple folds of tissue on the outer vulva, not unlike a phylo pastry. The Complex Lotus is a little more challenging terrain, as the compound layers of flesh often conceal the clitoris and, in some extreme cases, the vaginal vestibule itself. Careful attention must be paid to the Complex Lotus, lest you find yourself licking an imaginary hot spot. Be warned: yeast is the Complex Lotus’s worst enemy.

The Complex Lotus is the polar opposite of Ex Ass’s Shrinking Violet (sometimes called the Shy Girl or the Magic Box). Characterized by clean lines and a sleek outer appearance, the Shrinking Violet’s labia majora tend to be on the smallish side, with an inward fold that conceals the vaginal entrance and clitoris. Those inner works remain tucked safely away until called upon, at which time the labia majora unfurl and the innards appear seemingly out of nowhere -- hence the Magic Box moniker. There is no one tried and true method for conjuring the outer doors open. Each Shrinking Violet responds to its own translation of “Open Sesame.” Physical stimulation, animal instinct, environment, financial reward, or any number of other devices can do the trick. It’s all up to its life support system.

And that’s just three. There’s also the Walnut, the Silk Fan, the White Winged Dove (picture that next time you listen to Stevie Nicks), the Scream (a.k.a. the Moping Pope), the Sticky Bun, the Alien, the Cowl, the Elephant Knee, or the I Can’t Believe It’s Not A Butterfly, to mention a handful. I could go on and on, and that doesn’t even consider those that defy easy description. The possible combinations of size, shape, and texture are endless. You probably thought they all looked alike, but trust me, they’re snowflakes. There are as many pussies are there are women. The only constant I’m aware of is a general correlation between overall body mass and the size of the outer vagina. Tiny girls tend to have tiny twats. Long slender women -- you get the picture. But isn’t that musical:

Long slender women with long slender snatches;

Flat abdomens I tease with my eyelashes;

Short curly hairs trimmed at each opening;

These are a few of my favorite things!

Curly misread my rapt gaze between her legs as a scary stalker stare, and started making stripper faces at me. I started absent-mindedly rocking to the music. We locked eyes for a moment, and then snapped out of it at simultaneously with a shudder.

“Sorry,” she said, catching herself, “force of habit.”

“No,” I said, “I’m sorry. You know I’d love to stay and stare at your hooch all night, but I’m having a hard time reconciling the pussy and the boyfriend, the boyfriend and the pussy.” The boyfriend nodded knowingly.

“I understand,” Curly said. I didn’t know exactly what to do, so I fished a five out of my pocket and pressed it into her hand. Tossing it on the stage would have been tawdry. She got up on her knees, leaned her nude body against me and kissed my cheek. She wore the same perfume as New Girl.

“Thanks,” she whispered, discreetly palming the five. Where she stashed it is anybody’s guess. That was the first time I’d ever been kissed by a naked woman in a nightclub while shaking her boyfriend’s hand. I hoped it wouldn’t be the last.

“Take it easy, man,” I said to the boyfriend. He gave me one of those multiple “right-on” handshakes that look so pathetic on white guys.

I would certainly be spending some time with my diary that night. As the bus approached the stop near my neighborhood bar, I realized I needed another drink and popped in to see Really Hot Barmaid.

“Where have you been?” She squealed, looking like I was a long lost cousin she hadn’t seen since the mining accident. She climbed up on the counter and leaned over the bar to kiss me hello. That was new. A nipple peaked out from her under-buttoned blouse -- another first. Really Hot Barmaid was two years older than me, but looked barely twenty-one. She, too, wore the same perfume as New Girl and Curly. I guess it was popular that year.

“What are you drinking?”

“Just a beer,” I said.

“Pray, do a shot with me,” she implored.

“Ah, a little Shakespeare in the bar, M’lady?” I didn’t remember her being an actress.

“Just having fun,” she said and poured two large glasses of Jeagermeister. She slammed hers down and filled the glasses again.

“Slow night?” I inquired, surveying the empty room.

“Hang on,” she said, “I’ll close up.”

We finished the Jaegermeister and a couple more beers while getting caught up. She did the most damage on the Jaeger, which was returning the favor in kind to her sense of balance.

“Come on,” I said. “Give me your keys.”

“Wherearewegoing?” she almost got out as individual words.

“You’re going to crash at my place,” I told her. “I’ll drive.” She bobbed and weaved.

“Okay,” she got out just before a belch, “butI’mnotgonnafuckyou.” That certainly came out of left field.

“That’s okay,” I assured her. As if we needed it, she stuffed a bottle of something from behind the bar into her purse and stumbled me through the lock-up procedures. Somehow I managed to get the alarm set (I hope) and turned the key in the deadbolt with her hanging on my shoulder. She threw her free arm around my neck. The inertia sent her body slamming into mine.

“Imissedyou,” she slobbered, and then released her exceedingly slippery tongue into my mouth. I was unprepared for the attack and nearly choked. She withdrew the animal, letting it slither across my cheek to remind me I was alive only because it chose to let me live. “I’mstillnotgonnafuckyouthough.”

“I know,” I said.

She made entirely too much noise walking up the path to my front door. I tried to transfer her from the courtyard to my living room in as orderly a fashion as possible, but she was making a mockery of my hard work.

“Yerkewt,” she gushed, “butI’mnot...”

“Gonna fuck me,” I finished her sentence for her. “It’s all right.” What a lush.

I managed to get her into the apartment and deposit her onto the couch without breaking anything or waking the neighbors.

“I’ll be right back,” I said, catching my breath.

“Whereyewgoin’?” She whined as if I was abandoning her on the steps of a convent.

“I just have to take a leak,” I said and ducked into the john. My energy gone, I sat down to pee and rested my face in my hands. One flush and two washed hands later, I returned to the living room to find an empty couch.

“Hey,” I called softly, “where’d you go?” No reply. I checked the kitchen. She wasn’t there, but thank god her keys were still on the table. I stepped softly into the bedroom, where she had to be passed out, but there was no sign of her.

“Hi-ya!” She yelled as she jumped out of the closet and tackled me down to the bed. I laughed and let her pin me. She started tickling me and wrestled my pants open in about a second and a half -- extremely agile for a drunk. When my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw that her pants were already on the floor next to the rest of her clothes.

“What are you doing?” I said between tickles.

“I’mgonnafuckyou!”

Loudly.

•••

That was a week. My diary read like this:

Ex Ass -- Definite maybe, if only she’d dump her boyfriend. I wasn’t holding my breath.

Film Student -- Definitely no -- too flighty;

Spinner -- Too much empty real estate between the ears;

Really Hot Barmaid -- Too drunk;

New Girl was looking better all the time.

•••

I saw New Girl a couple times over the next week, but we didn’t sleep together. It was good to pull back and get to know each other. She was so easy to talk to, but slow to reveal much. That was fine by me. I was all about taking my time.

IMHO, I handled things pretty well. First: except for Ex Ass, I didn’t test any other coworkers, nor did I brag about anything to anyone; Second: I didn’t look to Fuck Buddies for comparison -- I shot for the real thing; and finally: I went outside my usual “type” in my research, hoping the variety would lend a better perspective. All in all, I was proud of the way I handled Complications.

I could pat myself on the back till the cows came home. Complications had yet to show me who was the boss -- but they would. Oh yes, they would.

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