“It’s too bad you feel that way, because Chris has a huge crush on me and asked if we could have a threesome at her place later tonight.”
“Seriously?”
“Again, I’m kidding. Only this time you didn’t seem as upset. You think I’d share you with another woman? Are you crazy?”
“At this point, I’m not sure what to think.”
“Good. That means I’ve got you right where I want you.”
“Where’s that?”
“Confused.”
“I’m definitely confused,” I say. “So, are we going to the bowling alley or not?”
“We are. At least, I am. I do need to visit Chris. But just for two minutes. And no, she’s not coming with us!”
Zander directed me to the bowling alley, had me pull around to the back of the building, park by the employee parking sign. She got out, knocked on the door, and a young lady opened it, waved at me, then let her in. I remained in the car as directed, and have been here about five minutes.
There are no cars out front, so either it’s a dying business, or they’re not open yet. Chris must have inherited a Ford 150 from her husband’s estate, because that’s the only other car here.
Another five minutes pass quietly, then Zander comes out and climbs in the car.
“Everything okay?” I say.
“Peachy.”
“Good. How do I get to the make-out spot?”
She laughs. “You mean the riverbank?”
“Yeah.”
“Keep going straight till I tell you to turn.”
I follow her directions.
Ten minutes later, we’re one of a dozen cars on the side of the levy, angled nose-down, toward the river.
“We’re not alone,” I say.
“In two hours there’ll be thirty cars and trucks here. People come from miles around.”
“To drink?” I say.
“Drink and fuck,” she says.
“I like it.”
She opens a jug of wine, tilts it to her mouth, swallows three times, then hands it to me and smiles.
“Now you drink some, so we’ll taste the same.”
I take three sips.
It’s rancid. Like someone started with a bad jug of wine and pissed in it to improve the flavor. But I’m careful not to wince. I don’t want to offend this young, good-looking girl while parked in a sacred place where people come from miles around to drink and fuck.
She takes another chug, then leans over, kisses me, and says, “How far does this seat recline?”
“I’m not cleanin’ this mess up by myself,” she says.
33
It’s a rental car, so I have no idea how far the driver’s seat reclines. Nor do I know which button makes it happen. So I start pressing buttons like crazy till I find the right one. When I do, I hold it down till the seat stops moving. By then it’s touching the back seat.
“Lie back and close your eyes,” she says.
“What are you planning?” I ask.
“You’ll see, soon enough.”
I know what you’re thinking.
But who cares? Just let it happen, okay?
“I’m not cleanin’ this mess up by myself,” she says.
34
Zander unbuckles my belt, pulls my pants down to my ankles.
“There goes your first line of defense,” she says. “Now all that’s between your body and my mouth is your underwear.”
“What if someone walks over to the car?” I say. “Or pulls up beside us?”
“That won’t happen.”
“Why not?”
“People around here carry guns. You sneak up on another car, you’re begging for bullets.”
“You’re sure?”
“Trust me. Now, where was I? Oh yeah, I remember!”
This seems too good to be true.
I’ll grant you that.
But remember, I hand-picked these women because they claimed to be sex-obsessed.
You might think Faith Hemphill was a bust, but she had a sexual plan for me that included introductions and an aphrodisiac. I declined her advances. True, Faith’s appearance was shabbier in person than online, and Zander’s exactly as she appeared online. But is it that big a stretch to believe Zander might find me attractive enough to offer a blow job so quickly?
I hear a sound, like she’s rummaging around in her handbag.
“Keep your eyes closed,” she says.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for a condom.”
“You won’t need that.”
“I won’t, huh?”
“I’m clean. Seriously.”
“You know how many times I’ve heard that?”
No. And I don’t want to. But now that the thought has been placed indelibly in my head, I can’t shake it. It’s like telling someone not to picture a banana, or a giraffe.
There’s no way around it.
Images and questions flood my brain. How many guys has she blown on the riverbank? Has she been treated for STDs? How many times? Sobering thought: oral sex is a pipeline for gonorrhea and herpes. Does Zander have herpes? Aids?
My eyes are still closed, and I’m trying my best to ignore the doubts in my mind, but I’m suddenly feeling a lot more room in my underwear than there was a moment ago.
Zander notices it too.
“What’s happened?” she says.
I open my eyes, lift my head slightly as she does what I wanted her to do seconds ago, except that now it’s humiliating.
She pulls my underwear down.
But instead of caressing my manhood, she stares at it.
And frowns.
I shake my head, trying to will myself larger. I close my eyes. Lie back. Try to think sexy thoughts.
