Tuesday, August 5, 2008

Whatever Lola Wants...

Days are becoming determined by sun, sun, rain, or weekends.

I am supposedly working again. Monday through Friday from 9am(ish) to 5pm(ish). I have stopped riding the bus and have an excellent Swiss Olympic from the 1980's. My fire survivor. It took a few days, but now it seems as if she is an extension of my legs. I cannot hop curbs yet, but I can maneuver through potholes and angles. I have a bike route to work that is about 20-25 minutes depending on traffic and my own speed. I have a basket, for groceries tucked tightly into a spare work bag that starts in the morning rolled up in another cross-chest bag, along with my girl shoes. I have not yet learned the fine art of European girl biking - with skirt and heels. I'm too American and my Puritan modesty keeps interferring, making me think I'm showing too much thigh (I am), showing too much bootie (possible). I certainly do not feel comfortable biking in even the flat ballet shoes and thus, you'll find me in a nice print skirt and top, with my Converse low-tops. I observe street lights and walk my bike on pedestrian paths. I'm anal about it, and I'm becoming more anal as I get older. Growing into my own, growing into parts of my father and mother, which I did not imagine 10 years ago. I quickly see my mother's face in the mirror when I turn my head. And I see my fears come out with my father's words. It's truly incredible the imprint they make physically and mentally.

But we aren't here to talk about the fine art of 2-legged transport, now are we?

I am healthy and trying to remember that I am and thank the stars for it. When we're healthy we forget how nice it can be, but when we are sick it is easy to remember the days of carefree health. Suffering is so easily forgotten sometimes. Humanity would not continue if women recalled the pains of childbirth. Copulation would not occur if we recalled heartache. Laying in the sun would not happen if we remembered the pain of sunburn. Travel would not happen if we remembered homesickness, food poisoning, or alienation. We are incredibly forgetful for all the right reasons.

Thus, the infection was treatable. The homeopathic prescriptions helped but did not cure. My American body is made of metal now and only responds to antibiotics, not gentle treatments. I went back to the doctor, waited the common wait of public health care (an hour and half) to be squeezed in. He unethically commented on the previous patients, a couple, who wanted to have a baby. And then he phoned the lab, put them on speaker-phone for me to hear, too. Again, the Group B Streptococcus. Usually it's only a problem for pregnant women passing it to their babies in childbirth. But it is an infection - from mixing the holes (again!). I sent an email to a doctor friend of mine to figure out why it's ocurring more in me in the past couple of years than before. He has not had the interest to reply. But the doctor here gave me a prescription for antibiotics, after a dismayed look and me pushing him for it. I am too tough now for gentle cures. But, I am healed. And thankful.

Thursday, 24 July, I came home from work and planned to see the Economist (the Spaniard/Swiss guy) that night. The flatmate wasn't back from her trip to France yet and I was still feeding and cleaning after the cat. (SMS to her unresponded: "what kind of litter and where do I buy the wet cat food?" I guessed in the end and I don't think he was too impressed with my 'hunting skills.') Five minutes before I was supposed to meet him I got small signs of my period. Huzzah! And he SMS'd back to me that he would not mind and was happy for me. (Every month I worry.) I met him down at the plaza for my whiskey and cigarette. He was in a suit and I melted. He had a bottle of Red Label whiskey and I laughed. He was only a suit and a bottle of whiskey and cop sunglasses. [Flickr pics available - ask via email if you don't yet have access.]

We walked to his place, passing an odd sight of a broken vacuum at an eau potable (water fountain). He showed me his motorcycle and I commented that it had spider webs. Hadn't ridden it in days. We went upstairs and, again, I took photos out of the window at the sunset. And, more daring, took photos of his apartment.

Again I was tempted to the coke and drank too much whiskey and he put on a porn. He confessed his flavors from girl orgies to transsexual gangbangs. He likes to gently spank and use a dildo on my cunnie. He tried to butt fuck me but it wasn't pliable for him. We fucked for hours and he came on my belly. And, again, I ran out before 2am.

He left for his "vacance" on Saturday for 3 weeks. The Europeans, see, have this almost obligatory, cultural vacation season of August. Everyone leaves their respective towns for the south or the north or wherever. He went to Spain to fish for calamaris or something.

And it's interesting, we want what we cannot have - always. The grass being always greener on our neighbor's wife's cunt. The longing of "over there" and not "here." The unattainable. The refused. The non-immediate. While the Butcher in Paris pines for me (for I have left for adventure and he has remained in his routine), I pine for the Economist (who has left for vacation and I have remained in my adventure). So, even though I had a great night with my Russian girl friend on Friday, I tried to SMS him before his departure to entice him with 2 hot girls (11 years age difference between us) and he slept in preparation for his own voyage. And, while I've been entertained since, it is still stuck in my mind this thinking of him. My pride is the only thing stopping me from sending him an email, which I know he can receive and is checking on the Spanish coast. But I do have pride and we are only playmates and nothing serious. So, I wait.

Meanwhile, yes, Russian girl friend and I went out and biked around and enjoyed our own time together. She knows my secrets. She might even guest-blog if she desires, just to have a private space to get her thoughts out and because I'd be flattered. Friday, she and I ended our night around the corner from Economist's apartment and my apartment, and she came up and crashed in the bed with me. No, nothing sexy, just nice sleep. Saturday we met up with her German friend and took the train to another city and biked for a while. When we wanted to jump in the lake, I was schooled by the German girl on how to change in public. They are so free with their nudity - who cares if the tits are seen or the underwear flashed. We changed under towels and around t-shirts and jumped in.

Saturday I got my period full on. Tuesday, I decided to stop by the bike shop. The end of the day is the busiest for anyone and he stays open until 7pm - which is later than most places, sadly. I wanted a headlight, backlight and to clean the bike a bit. He invited me to come back on Friday, on the national holiday, when I'd have off from work and, since I decided not to drive to Italy or go travelling and since Russian girl friend would be on her own hot travelling, I decided to do it. He and his apprentice, a young wiry tough squatter girl with muscles that would kick my ass, invited me. Even though they would be officially closed, I could come in. I sailed through work during the week with distractions.

One such distraction. Jesus fucking christ. I'm on AFF.com for kicks and because occassionally it yields some good connections for fucking (as does ALT.com). So, I got these emails from an older guy who bragged on and on about his status. Now, this city's purpose is for international organizations and banking. Basically that's it. It's great that I have a "Swiss bank account" but I have it with UBS, which is the most corrupt right now in recent history. (I was going to change it, but most banks won't accept new clients under thousands of $ and I don't have that much and I'm here temporarily so it makes things difficult.) There are hundred-thousand-dollar cars zooming around town and Muslim women in million dollar hijabs and suits that cost more than you could imagine and food that costs three times than the US and twice than Paris.

So, he was going on and on about his accomplishments and whatnot. I thanked him but told him I was not interested. But he offered the magic for me, stories that no one else would have. So, after persistant emails and wooing, I said fuck it, I'd wear what I had on at work and meet him for a drink on Wednesday night (30th), ie wearing my pink floral skirt and Converse. Our drinks and cheese plate cost more than 100$. He paid. It was boring. He was older than on his profile (said 47, was 53 or something), he claimed insecurity for talking so much, he told me from his childhood in private school to golf courses to car sales to major industry sales to the stars. He dropped famous names and had played golf with this guy and knew that guy and whatever. I was not impressed. Frankly, his stories of when he was a hippie and roadie in his 20's was more interesting to me. But yet, I was still curious. So, we made a date for Thursday night, since I'd have Friday as a holiday.

We met again and went for sushi. He ordered the wine and food. I'm not sure how much it totaled in the end, but the wine was 210chf which is basically the same in dollars. We didn't even finish our meals. I did laugh a bit and got some words in edgewise, but I was still not attracted and not interested. In fact, after dinner, we walked to the same park where we first met, and on the same bench, I tossed between go home and drink more, versus go to his place and fuck him. I went with mid-between. I'd go to his place to watch a movie, seeing as how he was not a girl killer (he brought a company brochure and business card and other telling information). We drove half-hour to his bachelor pad, to which his wife had been once. A garage, a wine storage (temperature set to so cold my tits froze) where he tried to find a 1975 bottle for my birth year and instead pulled out 2 bottles which I found cost between 200-400$ (depending), and an apartment with an empty terrace. He was a gentleman and didn't coerce me and I slept until my allergies to the feather blanket woke me up. I just couldn't summon the juju to fuck him. Not for money, not for power, not for anything.

He drove me home early on Friday and I waved good-bye from a somewhat fake address. I slept some and then ate and then slept some more as it rained.

My bike-fixing date was from 1-6pm and when it was slightly dry, I got up and biked over at 3pm. And then it started pouring on me. I still went. And was well received by Bike Man and his apprentice. I had thought he'd put the lights on and I'd clean the bike a bit, instead, I was taught how to take off the old light, wire the new one on and the back light. A delicious time spent using my hands, flirting, talking about the US and getting grease that still lives under my nails. At one point, I was sitting down on the stool in front of my bike and the apprentice had gone around the back of the building. "You don't mind if I sit on your lap," and he sat. "As long as you pretend I'm Santa," I said. His hands were on fast-forward, up under my shirt in the back and the front and down my waistband until she came around the corner again.

After 4 hours I had finished and they wrapped up shop. He had to do some "shopping" for the weekend (James, you know, pizzas) and left me upstairs in his apartment watching tv for the first time in about a year. He came back with "shopping" and we danced around each other until he wrapped his arm around me and pulled me close. The magic of the Lola mouth almost made him cum, but I knew I wouldn't let it happen. Three times slowing him down and spying at him through my slit eyes. Oh no you don't. And oh no he didn't. I got what I came for.

Drifting off to sleep though he couldn't keep the distance. He climbed on top of me and straddled my face. A fantasy of his. His pelvis is violent and my mouth gasped around his plunging.

I spent the night for 4 hours of sleep and left before he had to leave for the shop. Slept at home off and on and then went to the expensive, grass beach for 7chf (7$). By the end of my time there, I noticed there was a clear separation between me and the rest of the crowd. Not like I smelled, but like I was the only single female among the families and groups of boys and single men. It was strange. I watched some weird fat men in speedos and old men in speedos and Brazilian men in speedos playing volleyball. I burned. I biked home.

Sunday, Bike Man and I met up later in the day - after I'd received 6 emails from Rich Man wondering how I was, where I was. We went down to the river on the bank where one could smoke a spliff and not be bothered. Where the rivers came together and made fizzy pudding: one clear blue, the other mineral brown. He hadn't been swimming in years and hadn't been out of his apartment in as long. We went back to his apartment with my basket full of Asian food making ingredients. He cooked dinner and we fucked. He turned me over and spanked me, closing the windows slowly to shield the neighbors. I put my hands in my panties and fondled myself, then pulled his leg closer to mine and rubbed myself on him. Then, dragged his knee into my crotch and rubbed, as I laid on my belly and he on his side, my hand in my panties rubbing harder and pulling his knee closer. I've come with toes, I've come with fingers, I've come with barbie dolls in condoms. This was the first I'd come on a knee and he whispered wow. My eyes, dreamy and longing, slightly open, glancing at his. Hunger is what I thought, desire is what I felt.

There is still a work week. So, I made it home by midnight.

And Monday morning Rich Man was semi-threatening me with worry and obsession. I actually had quite a confusion. When he dropped me off at home Friday morning, with 2 bottles of nice wine and a nice meal in my tummy from the night before, he asked if I needed money. What a retarded question. Of course, I need money. Of course, I said no. We are prostitutes for so many things. But I discovered that I am not one to prostitute if the balls aren't there. (And I mean that in so many levels.) It did take a while to finalize my response to him. Every girl's sick dream entails a way to be taken care of while she works, volunteers, has babies, writes, runs a concrete-making factory, whatever. Every man wants the same. Someone to fund their desires. And here, I was offered the moment of a lifetime. A dream come true. An older man, married (if bored with it), a millionaire going to hang out at charity balls in Monaco, owning several speedy cars and planes, who could be generous ...... but only for the right price.

I know I am thousands of dollars in debt. I know I am spending money I don't have or own or might not even make. My future is indefinite. My future freaks the shit out of me. I do not want to be one of the millions of Americans living on credit. I hate the fact I don't have control over my own finances. I am not a slave to money and I don't want to take it for no good reason. I will not own a house. I will not buy a car. I am not able to save. These things freak me out daily. And I could have easily taken his money and his gifts and asked him to come back here. But for the life of me, I could not summon any interest. I could not find the way to close my eyes and open my legs. There was just too much .... too much.... too much .. anti. Anti-me. He was a nice guy who talked too much, but he was nice. And still, I couldn't, in the end.. after years of dreaming of this, after years of reading of it, after reading about literary geniuses selling themselves for such and such. I just couldn't imagine it. The vibrations between us, around us, within the whole situation, were just so weird and negative and false. My fucking god. I turned down what could have amounted to trips to Monaco, money in my pocket, relief.

I must be totally fucking nuts.

It's like a Choose Your Own Adventure tale. Do I rescind everything I said and ask him back and say I could only fuck him with certain copious amounts of alcohol or do I move on?

I've never had this offer. I've never had this curiosity. Granted, he was almost Stalker Style with his interest in me, which threw me off completely. But I could have curtailed that.

I must be blind.

And so, here we are. Today. Today the Russian girl friend and I biked to the Bike Shop man and she got to lay eyes on him and get a kickstand. I got to make eyes - at, in comparison, a poor man who is an independent man with his own money-making store. And got an almost kiss and felt my knees weak. And I got emails from the Butcher and my heart throbbed again.

It's funny where and how I feel these men. I have claimed to a few that I more sensitive than other women, and it's damn true. I can feel a cock pulling out of my lips. I can feel without touching. And I feel my heart flutter when I connect with the Butcher, like the first time I went to meet him - an odd feeling of cupid hitting me in the heart straight on. And I can feel butterflies in my belly when I think of the Bike Man. And I can feel my gut longing when I think of the Economist. And when I thought of the Rich Man, I felt detraction, retracting my body entirely. And I trust my body more than my mind, my evil needy mind which thinks so logically and is right so much of the time but so confused in other times. And when I met my current flatmate, I knew it was to be.

As she read my tarot cards last night... I saw it all. And when I read her cards, to her question, "Why are YOU here?" Why am I here for her or in her life or in this city? The cards came up as The Joker, traveling and moving on, with The Queen, controlling the flesh and the word, and The Devil, again and again in my readings, with dependence and freedom. And my the flatmate's conclusion, without me even mentioning it previously, was that I was here to ... write a book of stories.

3 comments:

Rune said...

And I think you just wrote Chapter 1, babydoll!! great stuff!

Monster said...

What makes you so brilliant... what makes you such a goddamn GIFT... is that you can articulate the results of your acute sensitivity.

Our heroine doesn't just engage us by using her superpowers for the extraordinary... with her, the extraordinary is always, the mundane becomes supernatural.

There is a part of me that is dormant until he sees things through your eyes - at his most virtuous, an anthropologist; at his most selfish, a voyeur. The world you show him is tense but content, buzzing but kinetically so. It's a beautifully gritty and exciting place.

You're owed more than I can repay you for describing what you see through that lens.

noman said...

These are wonderful stories - so descriptively written and with such insight that I see little pieces of myself in each man you describe. Of course I won't say what pieces. If you can't sell your tales to an erotic publisher, an anthropology press might be very interested.