Outtakes Of A Walking Mistake (15 page)

“Don’t touch me!”

“Fine, if you want to sit on the floor, sit on the floor.” He grabs a wad of paper towels. “Here, wrap this around your toe.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Offering the paper towels, he scratches my head. In his mind, this will erase everything. “Your mom called me at work. She wants....”

Balling up the paper towels, I hurl them at the fridge. “Don’t change the subject!” Then pulling my knees up to my chin, I cry into my hands. Why do we have to fight like this? I’m 16 and I kissed a boy, big deal! Dad should be happy I’m not giving out free blowjobs to increase my number of Facebook friends. I know kids who do it. Good lord!

“Your mom wants to buy you dinner, that’s all,” dad says. “You don’t have to get so upset.”

“I’m not going.”

“You’re going, bud. She’s only in town for a few days. When the circus leaves, she’s going with it.”

“Fine! I’ll go! Just leave me alone.”

Dad does the opposite. He talks his way through the tension between us. First, he tells me I should be happy, that mom arranged for me to receive a free ticket to see her perform, that she’s recently been nominated for some award called the Silver Clown at the Circus Festival de Monte Carlo. Then he launches into some nonsense about how she’s doing some fantastic psychic work on the side. “She’s real proud of it,” he says.

Me, I’m not responding. My aura is a black blanket and if mom were to read my palm right now, she’d be astonished to know just how low I could go.

This is my truth.

Mom, she sees the future.

Me, I can’t look beyond the past.

I wish I could.

I can’t sleep. Dad took a crap on my good time and I still stink from it. Therefore, in the aftermath of our fight, loneliness keeps me awake; funny, it’s never affected my sleep before. Who knows? Maybe we don’t know true loneliness until we encounter the right person. Maybe the right person is Billy. This is what I tell myself as the wicked stench of defeat haunts me. Racing thoughts unsettle my brain, bringing to mind things like mom doesn’t deserve dad, dad doesn’t deserve me, and I don’t deserve Billy. Still, this isn’t going to stop me from trying to make Billy mine.

Here, now, my eyes struggle to guide me to sleep. Sleep can’t erase life though, and it can’t erase the fact that mom is here and dad is forcing me to join her for dinner.

I can’t eat. I won’t eat. I’ll go on strike, I tell myself.

I’ll be skinny as Kim Dexter. Crazy glue me. Staple gun me. Just make sure food never gets in. Just make sure mom never gets in.

Eric however, he’s getting in. At least that’s his plan. Hoping to seek refuge from the heavy rain, he’s tapping at my window. So I raise the blinds and view a lightning bolt divide the black night behind his beanpole body. Soaked and trampled by the rain, he tells me that his mom is giving him shit. The world is giving him shit. Me, I’m turned on by the way his wet tee clings to his chest, revealing a patch of wonderful fur underneath. But should I allow Eric into my personal realm? Sure, I kissed him last night. But this is a whole new scenario. He has yet to know I sleep with a stuffed black cat. He has yet to discover I slumber in Victoria’s Secret briefs.

“But my dad,” I say.

“Please,” Eric pleads. My wannabe military man, he looks drop-dead sexy with his buzzed head and silver dog tags hanging from his neck. There’s no way I can tell him no.

I open the window. “Fine, but you’re cleaning up any mud you track on the carpet, and keep your voice down.”

“No problem,” he says, falling through the opening. Then crashing to the carpet, he urges me to check out whatever he’s brought with him in a plastic grocery bag.

Salinger. Steinbeck. Burroughs. All the masters are stored in that bag, he tells me. Then he removes his wet tee. “Books like these force me to write. I brought them for you to read. You’ll love them. These guys have sex through their words.”

“How poetic,” I mumble. “Now, put them away and get in bed. And be quiet. My dad is going to hear you.”

Without hesitation, Eric removes his jeans and baggy white boxers.

Well, if this is part of the reader incentive program, I’m destined to be a bookworm, I think. I dare not say it though. I don’t want to give him the wrong idea. So I pretend Eric standing there with his thick mushroom penis is nothing too stimulating, even though it is.

Technically, this is my first glimpse of a real-life penis other than my own. Talk about feeling feverish. Suddenly I’m a human volcano erupting with impure thoughts and desires. Mount Tyler, that’s what you can call me. My penis is climbing, morphing into a rock-hard mountain of skin and my balls are hotter than magma. The temperature only escalates when Eric gets under the blanket. To control myself, I roll away from him, praying he’ll take the hint. No use. First, he kisses the back of my neck. Then tickling my elbow, he tells me he wants to be inside me. His warm breath smells of chips, cigarettes, and beer. “Are you a screamer?” he asks. I have no time to answer. My cell phone rings, and for a moment I’m safe and thankful to have Jenny.

“Hello?” I whisper, grabbing the phone. I hear heavy breathing but no reply. “Jenny? What’s the matter?”

“Bub,” Jenny responds. She lets out a muffled cry. Then following five seconds of silence, she disconnects.

“Who was that?” Eric asks, as I hang up.

“Don’t worry. Go to bed,” I tell him. I think about Jenny and the fight we had earlier when Eric rolls me toward him and forces me to stare into his dark brown eyes. I’m not ready to take the plunge, I admit to myself. The fantasy of having Eric violate me is much more pleasurable than reality. Masturbating won’t give me an STD.

Shooting me machine-gun kisses, Eric uses his index finger to trace my left nipple as I close my eyes and pretend to snore. “Dude, come on. You can’t be tired. I just got here,” he says.

The truth is I am tired. I’m tired of being a wimp, and I’m tired of being a virgin. Here I remain — the perfect untouched fruit in this fruitless town, and I’m on the verge of prematurely spreading my seed in my cotton panties. It’s sad, really. Eric doesn’t have to touch me; he could sneeze and I’d climax. Still, I can’t go further with this. I’m not sure why. Maybe I want to retain my purity for Billy even though he’s probably not ready for it. Or maybe I’d rather not hear dad snoring in the next room when I’m about to come.

“Come on,” Eric urges. Thrusting his groin against me, his dark bushy pubes tickle my belly button. “You’re not sleeping. You know you can’t avoid me.”

“Eric…” I say, opening my eyes.

“Yeah?”

“I can avoid the devil in hell. Now quit poking me with your pitchfork.”

“Daaaamn,” he laughs. “Why so frigid?” Funny, I think. For a guy that doesn’t want to be labeled as gay, he sure knows how to play the part.

“Will you stop?” I pinch his stomach.

“Yeah dude, that’s it. Pinch a little lower.”

“Stop!” I giggle.

Then I freak out because I realize there is also a ‘go’ in my tone.

I can’t help it though! His breath, hot and heavy, is steaming my face, and the way he groans makes my blood boil in all the right places. With my heart in my stomach, I figure, why not feel around a little? I don’t have to go all the way but I can meet him in the middle.

As my fingers make contact with his hot flesh, I feel like maybe this is why fingers were created in the first place. To wrap, grasp, and connect with another person. My instinct tells me to play Tug of War, to pull his thick rope like I did in elementary school during tournaments on Field Day. If I tug hard enough, I’ll win him over. But do I want to? I can’t tell. I feel like I could tug his silky smooth skin forever, except the more I tug, the louder he moans. “Ah, yeah, that’s it,” he says. The tip of his penis feels swollen enough to explode. “Keep going!”

“Lower your voice,” I urge him. “My dad will hear.”

“I just want....” he begins. Taking his hand to the back of my head, he presses me toward his crotch. “Kiss it.”

“Um, no,” I say, suddenly feeling pressured. It’s one thing to stroke it but another to smoke it. I mean, I want to but I’m not ready. Who can say why? Maybe we’re going too fast. Maybe it needs to be special. Or maybe I don’t want to be forced.

“Please,” Eric whispers, applying weight to my head. “I want….”

“Yeah, you want this and you want that,” I say, rolling over. “Well, I want to sleep.”

“You didn’t want to sleep last night. What’s with you?” he snaps.

With my head spinning faster than the fan blades above, I tell Eric that I met someone, a new boyfriend, and we’re the hottest new couple in town.

“Forget that. What’s his name?” he asks, challenging me.

“Billy Greske.”

Turning on his back, Eric rips the rain-soaked blanket off the bed and tosses it to the floor. Banging his head on the pillow, he says something about needing a smoke. I’m not sure if this reaction is about me having a boyfriend or the fact he’s not getting laid. I ask him, but he won’t tell me. Grunting, he rolls the other way and coils his long, pasty body into the fetal position. I check out the tiny ant trail of hair running up his doughy butt, and I can’t help but want to reach out and stroke him. Call me a pervert. Call me a pig. Just call me. Ring me on the phone and distract me. Second thoughts, I’m having major second thoughts. Someone! Anyone! Remind me why second thoughts are so convincing. Acidic to the brain, they belittle me, telling me that I’m destined to be alone. Penis teases finish last. This is what rings in my ears as I mutter goodnight to Eric. This haunts my dreams, causing my tired body, though out of gas, to run on overdrive. This coupled with Eric’s final words. “You’re lucky,” he says, minutes after I close my eyes. “You’re lucky your daddy’s home.”

“Action!” Mr. Dolby sings, peering into the lens of his video camera. Me, I’m all goose bumps and heart pumps because this is where the yet-to-be titled student film comes to life. In the small, white lavatory adjacent to the green room, here’s where I take my mark, making my way to the urinal.

Standing at the sink, Billy faces the mirror, sweating in his purple and gold soccer uniform. Washing his face, he’s super sexy, playing for the camera, as assistant director Kim pouts while leaning in the corner, reading some girlie mag that smells worse than the toilet.

It’s a shame about Kim, really. But, then again, some faces were never meant to grace the silver screen, I suppose.

Lucky for me, mine has always been destined for glory.

Here I go, sauntering toward the urinal with my trusty water bottle in hand. Inside, I imagine applause from fans as I stall with the most dramatic of dramatic pauses, finding my center before delivering my first line. “Sure is hot out today. Taking a break?”

Turning off the tap, Billy turns to speak but goes blank. His green eyes, they struggle to focus. He gets a disoriented look, like he’s prepping for a sneeze. To help, I improvise.

Picture the water bottle in my mouth. Now picture me picturing the water bottle as Billy’s tongue. Come on Billy. It’s just one line. Say it.

“What, what are you...” he stumbles.

“Cut!” Mr. Dolby shouts. Disgusted, Billy curses to himself. “It’s only one line,’ Mr. Dolby says. “What’s the problem?”

“It’s the camera,” Billy says. Twisting the end of his shirt into a rope, he squeezes it like a stress ball. “I’m not used to film. I’m used to being on stage.”

“Oh, don’t worry. Pretend Kim is your audience,” I chime in. “She has the ‘faceless body in the crowd’ look. Make her your focus.”

Looking up from her magazine, Kim narrows her eyes. “Mr. Dolby, did you hear that?” she asks, clutching her pearl necklace. Her short black dress is no more than a shirt with a belt dividing it in half.

Fanning his face, Mr. Dolby does not appear interested or amused. As Kim flicks me the bird, Billy asks if he can do another take.

“What other option do I have?” Mr. Dolby asks, growing irritated. In time, the irritation becomes more severe. When his cell phone rings all serenity is lost. “Yes dear,” he sighs on the phone. “Yes, I’ve rethought the scenes, and yes, I understand your stance. Darling, can you hold?” On the verge of what could be a nervous breakdown, Mr. Dolby holds too – his breath, that is.

Right now, he’s finding his happy place.

Right now, he’s mentally stitching a dress for a lucky lady in his horde of porcelain dolls.

“Kim, be a dove,” he says. “Take Tyler into the green room and touch up his make-up.”

“But I’m not the make-up person,” Kim replies.

“Tsk Tsk,” he says. “Now go!”

“Nuts,” Kim mumbles, leading me out. Then slamming her clipboard on the shag carpet in the green room, she pushes me aside in search of the make-up kit. “Where is it?” she says, feeling below two fuzzy blue pillows on the velvet couch. “This isn’t my job. I hate when his wife calls. He turns into such a bitch.” Finding solace on an old, wood rocking chair by the soda machine, I avoid the flying debris. “Well, are you going to help?” Kim asks, throwing a script at me.

Hell no! I’m the talent. That’s what I want to say, but before I open my mouth, Jenny breezes though the door, wearing a tie dye tee and cargo pants. Since when did Jenny start covering up? And why is she dressed like a hippie?

“Are we still fighting?” I ask, standing up. I haven’t seen Jenny all day so I assume so. Maybe I’m wrong.

Dashing toward me, Jenny unexpectedly crashes into my arms. Her blonde hair is everywhere, and I smell raw sex on her clothes. At least, this is what I think sex smells like — Taco Bell and armpit rolled into one. The icky smell and touchy-feely combo tells me something is wrong. When I inquire, she replies with accelerated speed.

“You’re right. I’m a monster. I’m a disgusting monster.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I just don’t want to fight,” she says, with her head buried in my chest. “Can we do something? I can’t go home, and I don’t want Greg to see me this way. I need a shower. I reek.”

“Why haven’t you showered?”

“I’ll tell you later.” She loses hold of me. “Can we go somewhere?”

“We’re filming,” I reply.

“Oh,” she says, and I hear a turn in her voice. Like the speed of light, it’s just as fast. It’s just as blinding. “You don’t have time for me. I’m just a distraction to you. You’d rather spend time with Kim. No, I get it!”

Still searching for the make-up kit, Kim pauses to dispel any false rumors. “I’m here to build my resume, not to hang with pathetic fags,” she informs Jenny. “I only hang with real fags. Like my hairdresser, Raoul.”

“Well, maybe I should get a Raoul too,” Jenny returns. “Then I might have someone to hang with, and I wouldn’t have to beg my best friend to give me one second of his valuable time!”