Magnolia Blossoms (8 page)

“A touch,” I answer softly while recalling the memory.

Honey snaps her fingers to draw me back to reality. “You need to give me more than that. A touch? What kind of a touch? Who did the touchin’?”

“The reason my face and nose were redone is because I had an accident. I was picked up by an ambulance crew, and when one of the medics touched me, I felt something new. Something that made me take notice, even in the midst of dealing with excruciating pain.”

“How’d he act around you?”

“He was nice,
and
he talked to me! That’s something most don’t bother to do.”

“How you know he ain’t interested? Maybe that was his way of feeling you out?”

“No. No way. This guy is like model gorgeous, and besides, he’s got a beautiful girlfriend, a physician’s assistant named Dahlia. He brought me to the urgent care clinic where she works, and they practically made out in the exam room once she finished fixing me up.”

“Is that the time you hurt your face?”

“No, this was a different time.”

“Hmmmm. Well, I’m not going back on the street tonight. You just as well crash here if you’d like. It ain’t much, but it’s mostly clean. The bedroom’s usually for clients. I sleep on the sofa, but I suppose I can make an exception for tonight and let you have the couch.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I don’t want to put you out.”

“You want to go wandering around out there at this time of night?”

“Not really,” I answer truthfully.

“Smart. It’s no trouble. Plus, if you stay, we can start your makeover tomorrow. I wonder what we can use to get those shitty drawn-on eyebrows off of your face? We’ll try rubbing alcohol first, and if that don’t work, baby oil. Now where’d I put the baby oil?” she asks, picking up bottle after bottle of massage oil, lube, and novelty products to scan the labels. I’m instantly intimidated by her vast collection.

“Honey, I’ve answered a lot of questions about me, what about you? How long have you been a hooker?”

“Too long, sugar. Too fuckin long,” she says, still scanning the bottles. She finally finds what she was looking for, smiling as she turns to show it to me. “Got it.” She can tell from the look on my face that I want to know more. She pulls another cigarette from the pouch and places it between her lips. “Since I was seventeen,” she says, smoke billowing from her mouth.

“Seventeen? So young?”

“Well, when all your family except for your ninety year old great-grandma splits, you don’t really get left with a lotta options once she kicks the bucket. Seventeen—too old for foster care, too young to support yourself any legal way. I got her house, but with that I also got property taxes, utility bills, maintenance costs, and a buttload of other responsibilities teenagers don’t give a shit about. I sold the house and had a pretty chunk of change in my bank account. Vultures came out of the woodwork, all eager to help me spend the money, but none willing to stick around once it was gone. By the end of that year, I was broke, had no place to live, and no friends to go to for help. My last couppla dollars was spent rentin’ a room at a rundown motel on the outskirts of town. One night, I went to get a coke from the machine, and while I’m out there, this man offers me money for sex. It was enough to pay for another week’s rent, plus I had a little extra for food. I kept doin’ it after that, never givin’ it a second thought. It is what it is—a job. How I make a living. How I survive.”

“Did you ever think about giving it up?” I ask.

She stares off in the distance, takes a slow pull from her cigarette, and then glances back my way. “Every single day; just not in the cards.”

I slowly allow the sadness of her life story to fully absorb. “I’m sorry.”

“Nothin’ for you to be sorry about. I told ya because ya asked, not because I wanted your sympathy. I done alright for myself. It might not look that way so much right now, but back in the eighties and nineties, I was one of them high-priced Hyde street girls.” She walks over to a shelf in the far corner of the room and brings back a framed picture. In it is a beautiful woman who can easily grace the cover of any magazine. Her golden blonde hair is twisted into a sophisticated updo, her lips are stained ruby red to match her satiny cocktail dress, and her hazel eyes sparkle with the slightest hint of mischief. She is an alluring woman whom I’d give anything to look like. Sporting a huge, drunken grin, a man sloppily wearing his tuxedo has her pulled close to him as he raises a bottle of some sort of clear alcohol to the photographer. I study the picture a little longer and realize that I recognize the man from the big screen.

“Is that…”

“Yep,” Honey says with a smile. “His reputation is well deserved.”

“Who is that with him?” I ask.

“And, that’s the downside of this line of work. It robs you of your youth, your soul, your desire to strive for better. Once you been to the top, there’s no way in hell you’re gonna get back up there again. Too many younger ones with tight asses and perky tits willing to claw their way into the top spot, and let’s just say that the tumble down is far from pleasant and really hard to adjust to. That woman in the picture, it’s me,” Honey says with a sigh.

The longer I look, the more I’m able to recognize certain features. It sure as hell was Honey, but the years have been far from kind to her. Unsure of what to say, I slowly hand the picture back to her.

“Hey, enough with the look. I still got that dress in my closet. Wanna try it on? You got a pretty rockin’ bod going there. How’d you get that, by the way? You looked like a stick figure in that before pic you showed me.”

I shrug my shoulders. “Stress eating, I think. Oh, and when my jaw was wired shut, all I could have was liquids for a couple of weeks. I might have gone a little crazy with the pizza and fast food once I was able to eat solid foods again.”

“Well, looks like it did ya some good. You filled out in all the right places near as I can tell. Go ahead, take your clothes off and let me see what you have to work with.”

My throat feels like it’s closing up. “What? I don’t think…”

Honey gives me a confused look. “You’ve never changed clothes in front of another woman before? Come on? Gym class? Locker room? Dressing room?”

I frantically shake my head from side to side. “Big Daddy petitioned for me to be exempt from gym class, and all my clothes are mail order.”

“Seriously?” Honey asks. I nod. “Have you ever been naked around anyone else?”

“Not since I was a baby. I almost got naked for Sunny’s art class, but stuff kinda happened before I got my robe off.”

“Who’s Sunny?”

“My mother. She teaches art lessons in the nude.”

“But you shy away from nudity? Seems like you’d be more open to it.”

“Sunny’s body is bought and paid for. She’s got a lot to show off.”

“What’s so bad about your body? You look pretty good to me, and I should know.”

“Really? You don’t think that men will find this repulsive?” I ask, flicking my hand through the air along the length of my body.

“Take off the turtleneck. A little helpful hint—no one wears that shit anymore. Don’t ever wear one again. And that skirt… We need to do some wardrobe updating ASAP.”

I slowly pull the turtleneck over my head, and before I get it halfway up, I hear, “Whoa! Okay, I just got a glimpse of your pits. Sugar, I mean this in the nicest way possible, but I want you to march your ass into that bathroom, find the pack of razors that are in the second drawer to the left, and use every last one of ‘em if you hafta getting rid of that forest under your arms and up and down your legs. Go on. Go. There’s a robe on the back of the door that you can put on once you’re less bushy.”

I should probably be offended, but I’m not. Finally, for the first time in my life, someone is taking the time to show me girly things, and I’m beginning to get excited it. Obviously, Honey sees something in me that others don’t. To her, I’m not a lost cause. I can’t help but grin as I shut the door to the tiny bathroom.

The problem with not shaving on a regular basis is that lack of experience is painful. My underarms are smooth, my legs bare, and my lady part nicely trimmed thanks to a pair of scissors found in the drawer with the razors. Unfortunately, there is a nick or cut every inch or so in each place the razor touched, and the cuts won’t stop bleeding. I feel woozy quite a few times, but thankfully, I don’t pass out. Grabbing a roll of toilet tissue, I begin to wrap myself like a mummy. Around and around each leg I roll, and the tissue starts to look like a candy cane. With two giant wads under each armpit, I’m pretty sure I’ve done all I can to contain the bloodshed.

I can’t sit or the tissue around my legs will come loose. My only option is to stand in sort of a sumo wrestler-ish semi-squat while I wait for the bleeding to stop.

“Sugar, you sure have been in there…” Without so much as a knock, Honey pops her head in the door. I turn to her, doe in the headlights look plastered upon my face. “I don’t hardly ever get left speechless. You nearly did it. What the fuck are you doing? Are you trying to take a shit on my floor? And what’s with the toilet paper leggings? Did you seriously cut yourself that bad?”

I pluck the two wads from under my armpits and toss them into the trash. After, I nervously yank the tissue from the top of my thigh and begin to unravel it as quickly as possible from around my leg. “Yes, I cut myself that badly. May I please have some privacy?” I snap.

“You really wear these?” she asks holding out the bra and panty set that I had placed on the edge of the sink. I reach out to snatch them from her, but she dangles them just out of my reach. “My grandma didn’t even wear bras this boring, and this…this gives new meaning to granny panties. There’s a small country out there missin’ its flag.”

I angrily fist my hands on my hips. “Are you done?”

“No,” she says snidely. “I was gonna tell you that you got nice tits. They shouldn’t be imprisoned in that white straightjacket ya call a bra. Let’s see if we can put ‘em in something that shows them off. Oh, and nice job on the trim down below. I’m still introducing you to the waxer, though.”

“You really think my boobs are okay?” I ask, turning so I could see them in the mirror.

“Sure. What do you think is wrong with them?”

“I have a wall of boobs at my apartment. I know it sounds strange, but I find boobs I like and I cut them out of magazines or print pictures of them so I can pick my favorite when I get brave enough to have the surgery to get them.”

“I’ve heard of people doing that, but they usually don’t hang ‘em on their wall as far as I know. Usually, they just keep ‘em in a binder or something.”

If ever there were a time that warranted a face palm, this is it.
A binder? Why in the hell did I NOT consider that?
I struggle for a response, but it’s unnecessary because Honey is already in her bedroom fumbling through the drawers of her dresser. She tosses me a black lace bra and panty set that still has the tags attached. “Try those on. I just got ‘em yesterday.”

While I’m dressing, she opens her closet and exposes a plethora of mannequin heads topped with wigs of various hair styles and colors. “Let’s try ya as a red head,” she says, pulling a copper colored wig cut in a short bob from the mannequin farthest to the right. I slide it over my shorn scalp, adjust it a bit, and look in Honey’s direction. “Nope. It don’t look right. Take it off, and we’ll try blonde.”

She holds out a super long, curly number for me to wear. Once it’s in place, I turn to her for feedback. “The color is better, but the curls are too much. Humor me and put this one on.” She gives me a jet black wig, and once it’s in place, the silky, straight hair falls just below my shoulder blades. “Oh, dear God,” Honey says with an almost foreboding tone.

“It’s that bad?” I say reaching up to snatch the hair from my head.

“Stop!” Honey shouts. “Don’t move! Don’t even breathe.”

“What’s wrong?” I fearfully ask as my mind races through the possibilities. Honey dashes off into the bathroom and returns with a makeup bag. I feel her penciling in the area where my eyebrows once were, and after sliding a layer of lipstick across my lips, she tells me to rub them together.

“Mother fucker,” Honey mumbles under her breath.

“It’s hopeless. Just let me go back to my apartment where I can disappear…” Honey firmly grips my shoulders and spins me around to face the mirror. I barely recognize the reflection staring back at me. The dark hair makes my emerald green eyes pop with color, and the brows that Honey drew frame their wide, almond shape. Red makes my lips look plumper and fuller, creating a pouty effect. Convinced that Honey had somehow played a fast one on me, I slowly reach out to touch the glass.

“You’re a hottie. Who knew that
this
was under all that body hair and fonky clothes! Just call me the miracle worker,” Honey says with a chuckle. I do a slow spin, taking in every inch of the transformation. I actually look like some of the women I’d seen in the porn movies and magazines, and not the nasty ones, the pretty ones! I continue to stare at my reflection when Honey reaches up to remove the wig.

“What did you do that for?” I ask. The spell was broken. I was no longer an exotic beauty. Fantine is back, but in lacy lingerie.

“Cause no matter how beautiful and sexy you get, the fact remains that you’re inexperienced and in no way ready for the attention you’ll get. I gotta get you ready before lettin’ you loose in the world.”

“How do you do that?” I inquire.

“We stick to the plan. I’m gonna let you borrow some not so frumpy clothes, and we’re gonna take a ride to the west side of Merryland Heights.”

“I thought that Merryland Heights is where the crack whores hang out,” I say, repeating what Candi Jean from the adult shop had told me.

“That’s over on the east side, and how’d ya know about that?” Honey asks.

I give her a shrug. “I heard someone talking about it one day.”

“Hmmm. Well, my friend Dan Wan will probably be our best hope. Let’s go pay him a visit. I’ll drive,” she says tossing me a pair of blue jeans and a plain brown t-shirt. The jeans are too big, the shirt a little more snug than I normally wear, but Honey gives me no time to search for something that might fit better.

She locks the door of the dilapidated shotgun house and uses a shiny, silver key to unlock the passenger door of the mammoth 1974 Chrysler New Yorker parked in the drive. At one time, its color was likely gold, but from what I can see courtesy of the dim streetlight, the exterior seems to be primarily body filler and rust. Once we’re both seated on the tattered bench seat, Honey turns the key. After a brief hesitation, the car roars to life; thick heavy plumes of smoke barrel from the exhaust and pollute the clammy night air. Teeth jarring vibrations become worse when she puts the car into gear, but Honey doesn’t seem to mind. She mashes on the gas pedal, and after a slight hiccup, the car screeches from the driveway and noisily fumigates the neighborhood as we leave it behind.

There is no way I’m going to attempt to talk over the noise of the engine and randomly back-firing exhaust, so I’m silent all the way to Merryland Heights. Honey parks the tank near the curb and under a tree that grows in a vacant lot. My brain is still vibrating when she tells me to follow her.

She crosses the street and hangs a right into the first alleyway she approaches. Everything looks deserted upon our arrival, but the further we drift down the smelly, litter-filled alley that is actually just the rear of a line of restaurants and bars, more and more people become visible.

“Hey, who y’all lookin’ for?” a tall black man wearing red fishnets and a black leather bikini asks.

“Dan Wan,” Honey says never giving the guy a second look.

“He’s over there,” Mr. Leather Bikini says with a playful point in the right direction.

“Thanks, sugar,” Honey says with a wink.

“Anytime, honeybunch. Toodles.”

I’m still trying to soak up what I’d just seen when Honey lets out a mix between a squeal and a laugh. “Dan Wan! Long time no see, sugar.”

A short man pivots on his heel, and as soon as he sees her, he starts running in place. Leather Bikini had nothing on Dan Wan’s outfit. His dark hair is tipped light blonde and frozen upright in about a three inch faux hawk. He has streaks of sparkly iridescent glitter that extend from the corners of his eyes clear to his hair line. His pouty lips are painted robin’s egg blue, and a dark streak of contour powder makes his cheeks look permanently sucked in. He wears a blue feather-trimmed bolero jacket, white leather booty shorts, and white thigh high boots. “Awwww, honeylicious! I could just spread you all over my toast and eat—you—up! Yes, I could. What are you doing my way, and who’s this?” he asks, his tone suddenly dropping an octave. He eyes me curiously, and not in a very friendly way.

“This is Magnolia,” Honey answers, and before she can continue, he interrupts.

“What kind of name is Magnolia?” He clicks his tongue for emphasis.

“What kind of name is Dan Wan?” I snidely retort.

He snaps his head my way, angrily sucking on his teeth. “You ever heard of Don Juan?”

“Of course,” I answer.

“Well, Don Juan has nothing on Dan Wan, child. Tales of my loving have traveled the globe multiple times. I’ve been in the company of muscular men on the isles of Greece and charismatic businessmen in the Swiss Alps. I have left men speechless simply by entering the room, and I have rendered men unconscious with my insatiable sexual appetite. Can you say the same, baldie?”

“Dan Wan! Cut it out. She’s my friend,” Honey snaps. Dan quickly draws his hand to his lips.

“Are you… Oh, my. I thought you were trying to make a bold, yet very bad statement with that bald head of yours. I had no idea you were sick. Hundreds of apologies, dear. Keep up the good fight.”

“She’s not sick; she’s a klutz,” Honey says. “She burned her hair off by accident.”

“Oh,” Dan says mildly amused. “Well, I suppose I’ll hold off on any comments I may have brewing in this fabulous head of mine since everyone is so touchy tonight. What can I help you with?” His question is loaded with attitude.

“I need someone to pop her cherry. I want to start easy, though,” Honey answers.

“Ooooo. I need to think on that one.” He draws his finger to his chin and taps it lightly.

“I don’t want it to be him,” I whisper, but Dan overhears me.

“Oh, don’t you worry about that, cue ball. Dan Wan is strictly dickly. Just the thought of going,” he waggles his forefinger up and down, “…there.” He pretends to be overcome with nausea, and Honey gives him a swat across the shoulder.

“We get the point, princess. Quit being a bitch and answer the damned question.”

He rolls his eyes. “I hear there’s fresh meat working two blocks over and to the left. Word is that he’s pretty new to the game, so you could probably work something out with him at a decent price.”

“Now, was that so hard?” Honey asks.

“I know all about hard.
Rawr
!” he says, pawing at the air before giving his oversized package a conceited squeeze.

“Perv,” Honey says.

“I learned from the best, love bug. Good luck with your deflowering, Uncle Fester.”

Honey shoots him a disparaging look, but he laughs loudly while sashaying further down the alley. “I have a serious love-hate relationship with Dan Wan. His mom was one of my coworkers. She died young, so me and a few of the other girls did our best to look out for him while he grew up.”

“That’s quite a story. I’m not ready to lose my virginity tonight, Honey,” I anxiously reply.

Honey stops walking and lets out a hearty laugh. “You’re not gonna. You’re just gonna experience your first make out session, and that’s it. You’re far from ready for anything else. Baby steps, Maggie. Baby steps.”

“Oh,” I say, blowing out a sigh of relief. I quickly catch up to Honey, and together we stroll to the side street Dan Wan recommended. It’s pretty empty except for one man leaning against a telephone pole and another further down who appears to be dancing, or perhaps warding off a swarm of bees?

“Just my opinion, but I’d say go with telephone pole guy. He’s well dressed, looks pretty cute from here, and if what Dan says is true, you’ll be able to negotiate with him a little.” She slips a few bills into my hand. “Start with five dollars, but don’t go over ten. A quick make out session shouldn’t cost ya much.”

“You’re going to make me go down there by myself? I don’t know what to say!” I assert excitedly.

“Shhh. He’s looking this way. Keep your cool,” Honey says, giving him a quick wave. He smiles back, and my knees go wobbly. He’s not just cute; he’s gorgeous. His dark hair is slightly mussed, but in an incredibly sexy way. He’s wearing a button up shirt that accentuates his broad shoulders and tapers slightly at his waist. Dark jeans, a chunky gold pinky ring, and a confident grin complete his attire. “Oh, sugar, you’re gonna enjoy this one. That man right there is fine with a capital F. Here’s another ten. Pay it if he asks for it.”

She pushes me toward him, but I slink back. “I don’t know what to say,” I whisper.