Last Call

Last call

I pulled away from the curb. I’m late, and I meant to be late. We’re playmates, she and I. His friends are too old for her so she buys my company and I let her. We escape into the booze and spend long afternoons and weekends talking about potential and wondering why I haven’t made it big by now; I’m so talented. I agree, I wonder why I can’t keep it together. I just want to be in control tonight. They’ll laugh it off. They’ve heard it before, many times.

She met me at the door with a drink. Who else squeezes fresh grapefruit juice for the vodka? One more drink in the limo, just a little wine at the concert. VIP parking, VIP seats. It’s the same thing, again and again. Everything is such a production.

And so boring. Even the guy I’m flirting with in front of me doesn't really interest me. I'm just doing to pass the time. He's Married. So what? It doesn’t matter. I can’t make the connection and it ends up being too much work. We’re too loud, too obnoxious. I am tired of getting escorted out of here every time – even box seat privileges only go so far. I give it up. Fine – Who needs the extra company? We take the limo back. Her husband will grill us some steaks for breakfast on the deck while we slouch on the lawn chairs and I try to focus in. Two drinks and a wine. Not enough for me to be losing it like this. I never stay. I always go home. I never stay. But tonight, I can’t drive. I’ll stay in the guest room, if I can find it. This house is too big for the two of them. Just money – they don’t even know what to do with it. Things aren’t clear and I can’t figure out why and I don’t remember the mattress. I fall asleep thinking about the picture on the night stand – her realtor at the beach house, her husband, her renter, all in the picture and she has been sleeping with them all.

The weeks at the beach with her are long, drunken interludes without the husband – just the realtor, after hours clubs, some navy men if we can find them. We are due back down there in a couple of days. We’ll have to find a driver, because we won’t be sober enough to drive ourselves, I know. It’s Wednesday – too late in the week to sober up before the weekend. I think I sleep or pass out. I’m not sure.

And then her husband is there in my bed, his cock up by my mouth, pushing in. She is there, telling him what to do, what I like – she’s not even right about what I like. I want to move away and I can’t move, can’t say anything. Bad dream vibe but she is real, right there, naked, directing the scene. She has my clothes off and I can feel her hands, hear her words coming at me from through the fog. He doesn’t want to be there and now she is getting mad. I can’t do anything; I just lay there while she tells him what to do. He’s an ugly man. I’ve always thought that. Even worse naked. Too old for her – not enough money to want that, I think. Why is she doing this? I want to leave, but I can’t make my arms and legs move. I can feel him leave the room and she is mad now – going after him. I can’t get off the bed. I must be dreaming, but she has him back in there with me. She wants him to fuck me; she is keeping his cock hard and directing him. I am trying to push them off of me and I feel her cool, plastic breast fill my hand. This isn’t what I wanted, who I wanted, how I wanted it. I can’t get past them; he is fucking me, she is fucking me. Who are these people anymore? I know he doesn’t want to be there but he is hard and doing what she wants. I can’t care, it’s not happening. These are my friends. Where did this come from? Where are my clothes? Finally they leave the room. She’s furious with him. I don’t understand how I got here. I can barely find my way into my clothes. I leave everything – shoes, purse, wallet. My keys are in the car but I don’t remember the drive home, just getting home. It’s early in the morning, but my neighbor’s lights are on. I don’t know her that well; she invaded my life a few months ago like a six foot tall redneck Mother Teresa on a mission about my drinking. She even pissed my cat off. Should I tell her? Can I tell her? What do I tell her? What just happened here?

I’m wearing white and I am covered in dirt and puke. Must have fallen, I guess. I don’t remember. I stand between our houses then I turn right and stumble down into my basement. I leave the clothes at the stairs and turn away, finding the darkest corner to fall into. I can die here, right here, and no one will be worse off. The last months have been a freefall of despair. This night is no better, no worse than any other. I am drunk. If I am not inviting it, I am deserving it, I think.

I am disgusted and humiliated. Tired. Sick. I stink – a profound self-loathing seeping out of my pores along with the alcohol. I don’t understand it. Did she drug me? Could she do that? Does she have it in her?

She had wanted me to sleep with her husband before. At the beach with the realtor, she wanted a diversion for her husband who was getting too suspicious. I didn’t tell her that he already knew. He had paid her receptionist off weeks ago and knew everything. The man had more money than God – if he wanted to know what she was up to, he could find out. I guess she figured if he was having an affair he’d keep quiet about hers. I had thought at the time the conversation was just the drunken afternoon ramblings we were prone to.

I can’t remember the whole night. I want to remember. I want to know my part in it. Did I invite it? I repel at the thought. Not him. Never him. And her – what was that? My head can’t grasp it. Can you be raped by a woman if you’re a woman?