Baby Girl Page 2

  Maybe that’s just what I wanted to hear her say.

  Yes, sir.

  KELLI. “Boys are stupid, it’s that easy,” I said, trying to make Heather feel better.

  “Well, he acted like he wanted to be my boyfriend, he was such a douche. I hope I never see him again. What an asshole.”

  “Just get drunk, Heather, you’ll feel better when you forget about him. Getting drunk will loosen you up,” I waved my arm so the waiter could see that we needed a drink.

  “Do you like my hair,” Heather asked, flipping up her hair with her hand.

  “Trim?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I had that Asian chick at Planet Hair do it,” she responded, spinning around in her chair on the floor.

  “Yeah it looks great. Your hair always looks healthy,” I said, lying.

  Heathers hair was a disaster. Her hair was naturally brunette. She spent way too much time and effort to make it the perfect blonde. Her hair was always a different shade of blonde, varying from platinum to dirty, but always some form of blonde. She may change it twice a month or once a month, but she was never satisfied. Her hair was an extension of her life. Like most girls, when she was unhappy with life, she changed her hair. And her hair was always changing.

  “I like it, it’s perfect,” she said as she stopped her chair from spinning, and focused on me again.

  Heather had been my best friend all through high school. She was tall for a girl at 6’-1”, and played volleyball in school. She was blonde, attractive, and had huge boobs. She had the boobs since we were 14, and they were like a form of magnet to guys. Most guys just wanted to have sex with her because of her boobs. No one ever seemed to want to take the time to get to know her.

  When I went away to college, she decided to stay home and go to the local University, but she never attended. She ended up working as a waitress at Hooter’s, and now was working at a new Hooter’s type restaurant called Twin Peaks. We never hung out there, because all of the guys are perverts that go there. We usually went to Old Town, and hung out at the Pump House, and that’s where we were today.

  “What can I get you girls?”

  “Bud Lime.”

  “Vodka and water, with a splash of cranberry.”

  “What?” the waiter asked, with one eyebrow raised at me.

  “Vodka and water. Then, put a splash of cranberry juice in it for color and flavor,” I responded.

  “Want to see a menu?”

  “No, we’re just going to drink.”

  A few weeks ago, Heather had met a guy in a bar downtown, had sex, and now he wouldn’t text her back. This was a typical douchebag move from a typical douchebag. Boys between the ages of twenty and twenty-six or seven seemed to all be douchebags, and all after one thing, sex. There was never any commitment on their part, short of committing to shove their cock inside of the first girl that agreed to let them. Men, on the other hand, acted differently.

  “He’s not worth it,” I said, trying to ease her grief.

  “That’s fucking hilarious, Kelli. How many times have you told me that same thing?”

  I laughed out loud as I was sipping my drink. When I did, I started coughing. The coughing caused a chain of reactions, including the resurfacing of my half-swallowed drink. The vodka came out my nose, and onto my top and pants.

  “Shit, you bitch, look what you did,” I said, pointing to my top, laughing again.

  “That vodka burns coming out my nose. Damn. Okay, I am going to run and dab this off, do not fuck anyone while I am gone.”

  “Fine, no fucking…”

  The walk to the bathroom was just like every other time I walked through a bar to the bathroom. Every table I walked by that had a male sitting at it would end up with a remark, someone pointing, or a whistle. Boys, once again acting like boys. Sometimes, depending on the mood that I was in, it could be flattering. Most of the time, however, it was annoying. I suppose that I differ from most young women in that I am comfortable with who I am, and I know that I am attractive. This made the random compliments seem more irritating to me than to my friends. Most of my friends liked to receive them, and they were flattered by them. I wanted someone to notice me, want me, or feel a desire to know me based on who I was inside, and not what I appeared to be on the surface.

  As I came around the corner to the bathroom, a man came out of the men’s bathroom. He was at least six foot tall, but appeared to be taller because of his build. His face had chiseled features, a strong chin, and a massive chest, especially compared to the size of his waist. He had a long torso, and reasonably long legs. Probably what a male would consider a perfect build. He wore a V-neck tee shirt, and jeans. His arms were covered in tattoos, and something about him drew me to him like a magnet. Staring at him, and attempting to walk into the bathroom, I ran face-first into the bathroom door. It sounded much worse than it felt. With my face in the doorway, I saw him turn and look as he passed. I quickly rushed in the bathroom so he couldn’t see my face. Embarrassed, I went to the sink to wash my cranberry stain.

  Walking back to my table, I was pleased that I was able to remove the stain from my top. Wearing a smile of satisfaction, I scanned the area for the man from the bathroom. I didn’t see him anywhere. This was a fairly open bar with no hidden seating areas. Disappointed, I sat across from Heather.

  “Ok, so get this. I was going into the bathroom, and a man was walking out of the men’s bathroom. He was so damned hot. He had on a black V-neck, jeans, and I don’t even know what else. Short hair, kind of blonde; but not really. Maybe it was brown. Brown-ish. He was covered in tattoos-all the way to his wrists. He was looking down at his belt when he came out, and didn’t notice me, which was good because I ran right into the door of the bathroom. I was so staring at him. And, the next thing I knew, whack, right into the door...”

  “Older guy?” Heather asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know, not older. Maybe thirty something,” I responded, in his defense.

  “Yeah, Kelli, older. Not twenty-one.”

  “Yeah, he was older than us, why? Did you see him?” I asked as I placed my purse on the table.

  “Yeah, I saw him. He went outside. I heard a motorcycle start, so I suppose he left.”

  “Do you know him?” I asked, starting to stand from my seat.

  “No. I don’t know him, I know of him. My dad knows him. He goes to my uncle’s shop to have his motorcycle worked on. My dad has talked about him before. He’s normally gone for the summer from what they say. He’s some weird doctor. He went to college, Medical school, graduated, and then his mom died. He bought a shitty motorcycle and travels around the country. He lives in a shitty house over by Bel Aire. I heard them talking about him just the other day.”

  “I want to fuck him. I want to fuck him until he can’t even think. He. Makes. Me. Wet. That guy just….Jesus, Heather did you see him?” I asked, now standing.

  “Girl, sit down. Sometimes I wonder about you. You just need to get a boyfriend. This jumping from guy to guy has got to stop. And he’s old. That’s kind of gross,” she finished her beer and raised her hand to the waiter as she set down the bottle.

  “If you fucked older guys, you’d understand. Boys will always treat you like shit, Heather. Men will treat you the way they treat you, but you almost always know what’s going to happen, they don’t make up ridiculous lies just to get in your pants. They will tell you from the beginning what they want. And you get to choose if it’s what you want or not,” I began to sit as I was finishing my sentence.

  “Girl, you crack me up,” Heather took a drink, and continued, “You talk like you’re educated, which you are. Good for you. But I always thought, and kinda hoped, that when you went to college, you’d quit cussing. You say fuck and cock and cum more than any man I have ever met, and you always shave. It’s because a man raised you, isn’t it?”

  I don’t know that I actually will ever know the real story, but I know what I was told. It may be what happened, it may not be. When
I was about one year old, my mother left. I was an only child, and was left to be raised by my father. My father, for my entire life, never remarried. He did have female friends, and always went on dates, but he never allowed another female to move into the house. He never really had a steady girlfriend either. When I was young, I hoped that he would one day find someone that I could call mother, but as I got older, I was appreciative of the fact that he never did.

  Some people told me that their parents had told them that he “paid” my mother to leave. That she had become a drunk when I was young and that he gave her money and asked her to leave and never return. Either way, she was gone.

  My father was attractive, wealthy, and owned the BMW dealership in town. He always had attractive women in his life, and I often wondered, especially now, why he never had a permanent woman in his life. I had begun to recently wonder if he still truly loved my mother after all these years. It was something that he never spoke of, and that I never tried to bring up. The few times when I was younger when I tried to ask questions, he would respond in short responses, and change the subject.

  “I just like to cuss, it makes me feel good. I think, deep down inside, if I talk really dirty, I will get dirty results from a man. The older and dirtier, the better.”

  “Fucking old men is gross,” Heather said as she took a drink from her new bottle of Bud Lime.

  “Fucking men makes me have repeated orgasms. Fucking boys makes me angry. Boys always end up doing everything that they say they won’t ever do. Eventually, they all do it. I don’t want someone to appreciate me for who I am, I want someone to fuck my brains out, and that’s it.” I said, looking at the melted ice in my glass.

  You have always said that you wanted someone to appreciate you for who you are, not what you look like, what about that?” Heather asked dryly.

  “I did. But. But. But. There’s a difference. I want someone to appreciate me for who I am. For the person that I am, and the person that I am able to be; not for what I look like. But, I do not want them to appreciate me and want to marry me. I want them to appreciate me and fuck me. Fuck me because they appreciate me. Not appreciate me because they fucked me. If a man appreciates me for who I am, and then fucks me, he’s going to fuck me like he appreciates me. Get a boy to do that,” I responded as I finished my drink.

  “I just want someone to love me,” Heather said as she finished her beer.

  “Oh. My. God.” I said in a loud, exaggerated tone. People turned and looked our direction to see what happened.

  “Heather, seriously? Love? Love is something that is created by the Hallmark card company to sell shit on Valentine’s Day. Love isn’t real. Love is what people say to you so they can keep fucking you. So they can keep your interest. I don’t want lies; I want my ass slapped, my hair pulled, and treated like a little whore,” I held my glass up to the passing waiter as I finished speaking.

  “You’re a little closet whore. That’s freaking gross. I can’t believe you’re like that. It makes me puke just to think of it. I remember when we were in high school, and you figured out you had no gag reflex. That word passed quickly. Jesus, you were sucking everyone’s cock in our sophomore year.”

  “I love it,” I tilted my head back and stroked my throat with the palm of my hand. “Feeling a cock slide in and out of my throat makes me so wet. I love my eyes watering and acting like I am gagging, even if I am not gagging naturally. It’s so easy to own a guy. All you have to do is suck his cock really good, and he’s yours forever.”

  “Quit rubbing your throat, you tramp,” Heather said, laughing.

  As I sat at the table and waited for my drink, I began to feel the tingle. I was so wet from talking about sex. The thought of it just made me wet. The talking combined with the tattooed guy at the bathroom was more than I could take. I felt that I may have to text one of my old boyfriends and have them meet me in the parking lot. Generally speaking, if I was awake, I was thinking about sex or some form of sexual act. I often fantasized about men even when there were no men around. Boys, on the other hand, got me out of the mood quick. I started thinking about the douchebag that pointed at me when I went to the bathroom. I crossed my legs and started to speak.

  “So. Tattoo guy. Where does he live?”

  “I don’t know, Kelli. Bel Aire, I guess. In a shitty house. His mom died, and he lives in her house. I think she died the year you left for college. You’ve been at KU so long, you’ve missed him. He’s just some biker. He drives a nice car, though. One of your dad’s. My dad said that he filed a lawsuit against the insurance company or something, I don’t know.”

  “Well, I have always said, if you want something bad enough, you can make it happen. I am going to find him. I am going to find him, and I am going to have a summer of insane sex with him. And then, I am going to go to grad school,” I said, smiling.

  “Are you still serious about that? Running your dad’s dealership? That’s retarded,” Heather said, looking into the neck of her beer bottle.

  “Yes, I was accepted at Columbia, and have done everything to go in September,” I said as I finished my drink. “Let’s get out of here before they get busy.”

  The waiter quickly brought the tab. I reached into my purse and got my credit card from my wallet. As I was handing him my card, Heather spoke.

  “You don’t have to do that, Kelli, let me pay for mine. You never let me pay,” She said, waving a handful of bills in front of me.

  “I know I don’t have to, but I can, and I will. So, get over it, bitch,” I said, smiling.

  When the waiter handed me my card back, I reached into my purse and got out my wallet. As I dropped my wallet back into my purse, I saw my little vibrator in the bottom of my purse. Staring at it I began to think about masturbating in the parking lot. I didn’t say anything to Heather, but I wondered. How many girls truly have this insatiable desire to have sex? A desire from deep within that can never really be satisfied, only put on hold. I looked at the vibrator, and mentally drifted away. Thoughts of the Bel Aire motorcycle guy began to fill my mind. As I started to wiggle in my chair, Heather brought me out of my comatose state of mind.

  “Are you ready?” she asked as she stood from her chair.

  “Yeah, let’s go,” I said, standing and placing my purse over my shoulder.

  As we walked outside, I could hear the music playing. The guy had an amazing voice. He was doing a Sublime cover.

  “Now that’s an older dude I would fuck,” Heather said, pointing to the lead singer.

  As we started to walk toward the platform, he looked up. He was wearing a ball cap, and had it pulled tight down over his eyes. Average height, and stalky, he was extremely attractive. A very manly presence, but he was kind of cute at the same time. He played the guitar as he sang, and he sang from his soul.

  “Oh, I’d fuck that guy until he begged me to stop,” I said.

  As we passed the stage to go to the parking lot, a gorgeous petite blonde who was standing beside the stage gave me the stink eye. I suspect she was either some groupie or his girlfriend.

  “And I’d make that little blonde bitch watch,” I said, laughing.

  As we exited the fenced portion of the patio, they finished the song. “Ladies and gentlemen, Timmy Jonas and the Whiskey Militia. Timmy Jonas…” someone said over the sound system.

  Timmy Jonas. I decided I would look him up on Facebook in my car before I left the parking lot.

  Right after I masturbated.

  KELLI. I couldn’t believe that he actually came into the dealership. I had not been home from college for two weeks, and I had seen him at the bar, and he came into the dealership. I acted like I had never seen him before when he came up to my desk, and he obviously believed me. I felt so different in his presence. So different. This was unsettling. I felt as if he told me to do something, I would do whatever he said. There was a certain comfort in being near him. I didn’t want him to leave when pulled away on his motorcycle. When he was gone, after h
e pulled away from the lot, I missed him. His smell, his presence, his little smirk that he wore oh-so-well. I desperately wanted him to be near me again. I wanted to feel his hands touch me.

  Driving home was taking forever. He said, as best I could remember, before your head hits your pillow tonight… What did that mean, exactly? Right now was before my head hit my pillow. Was I supposed to wait until I was about to fall asleep and text him in my almost sleepy state of mind? Maybe he wanted to convince me of things as I was groggy that he couldn’t convince me of otherwise.

  Who was I kidding? He could get me to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. I have never felt this immediate attraction, this anything toward someone before. Even though I never wanted to allow myself to become attached to someone, I had felt attracted to men before. I had never, however, felt anything remotely close to this. His breath on my ear, enunciate, Kelli. Erik with a “K’.

  I almost wet myself right there. Right there in the dealership. On the sales floor. Enunciate. His hot breath barely felt on my outer earlobe. It was enough to almost drop me to my knees. Did he know that? Was he aware of what he was doing? I bet he was well aware. Hell yes he was. Who else would come into a dealership and whisper such absolute nothingness into some random girl’s ear? The way he walked. The way I felt, as if in his presence, no one would be able to get by with anything without him just crushing them. Doctor or no doctor, I bet he knew how to fight. I bet he would fight for me. The thought of him filled me.

  As I sat at the light, waiting to turn left, I heard a motorcycle getting closer. I turned left. Nothing. I turned right. Nothing. Where was it coming from? I spun around and looked to the rear of the car in the blind spots. Finally, there it was. Shit, not Erik. What had he done to me? All we had done was walk outside. That’s it. A walk outside. We didn’t even really talk, we just stood there. He told me to text him. That was all. I was hanging on his every word. Hopeful that they were intended to mean as much as I wanted them to. Hopeful for having more with him than I had ever wanted with or from anyone else. Ever.