The Last Time I Was Me. Cathy Lamb

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СКАЧАТЬ glance went sliding to Becky. “Someday. Like, you know, to me.”

      I swear I could see a hint of a blush. He flicked his braids over his shoulders, cleared his throat. “I also don’t hit when there are any children around. Children cry when they see that type of shit and man, they get their feelings hurt so easily and they get scared. Can’t do that. I got nieces and nephews and they love their Uncle Soman.” He scratched his chin and looked contemplative. “But I don’t seem to have a problem with sluggin’ men when they piss me off. My fists get like this.” He showed us his clenched fists. “And I go boom, boom, boom, and they’re down. Down and mushed.”

      I could relate again. Only I preferred using peanut oil.

      “That’s why I’m here. I got a sluggin’ problem.”

      Soman sat next to Drake Windham. Drake was a white guy around the age of forty. He wore an expensive suit and a tie. He was about six feet tall and looked slimy in the way that men look when they are dishonest and value money above all else and think women are toys and believe that the more gals they sleep with the longer their dick gets. I am sure that there are women out there who would say Drake was gorgeous with his slicked-back black hair and his not-quite shaven jaw and big lips and big shoulders, but all I saw was this-gonorrhea.

      His face looked like a lemon to me. A lemon who didn’t like lemons. He had a snotty, snobby expression as though he thought he was a simply sensational, stylish, and super-fabulous slice of mankind (pretty good alliteration, although not perfect). When he held my hand he did the ole BWBL (Boob-Waist-Butt Look) with his limpid eyes half closed, as though he was trying to be sexy wexy.

      He had smirked at me when we first met, his hand limp and wet and reminding me of a used condom. I refrained from saying that.

      He leaned close and whispered, his breath smelling like dead garlic mixed with manure: “Looks like we’re the only normal ones here, sweetheart. Goddammit, getta load of this lot of losers. We’ve got jungle men and a drug addict and a counselor who is so New Wave I want to hand her some drugs and leave, goddammit. What a joke. Drink afterward?”

      I removed my hand from his wet condom. “Unlikely,” I said.

      First he looked shocked, his eyebrows bursting toward his slick hairline. “Married?” He glanced down at my hand.

      Sheesh. Men always think this. If you won’t go out with them the only possible reason is that you are married. “No.”

      “Ah, got it.” He winked at me, did the BWBL again. “Dating a married man? Don’t worry, honey, your secret’s safe with me.”

      Now, how he jumped to that sick conclusion was beyond me, so don’t ask.

      “I like married women the best.” He rolled his tongue around in his left cheek like a human weasel. “They don’t want anyone to know what’s going on, they don’t press you for commitment, and all they want is to have sex and go home to their kids and vans.”

      This puzzled me. Married women wanted to have sex with Mr. Gonorrhea? “This puzzles me. Do you actually mean to tell me that there are married women out there who wish to have sexual intercourse with you?” (No need to be crass here.)

      I heard a gurgle of shock erupt from his throat.

      “Do they come back after the first time?”

      He gurgled again, composed himself and winked at me. BWBL. “Smart-ass. I like that in a woman.”

      “Fab!” I said, not smiling. “So fab!”

      “I like feisty women. I like when women pretend they’re not interested when they are. And I like the chase. God, I like the chase. Women love it when I’m chasin’.”

      “Women chase you?” I leaned forward, conspiratorially. “Really?”

      “Shit, yes, I’ve got women after me.” But he flushed red, the color creeping from his creepy neck to his creepy hairline.

      “So, to be clear. When you say women are ‘after you,’ you mean in the sense that they want to have sexual intercourse with you? They do this willingly?”

      He flushed redder, but he was royally pissed off, too. “Yeah, they do, I already said that. What’s wrong with you? You can’t hear or something? I got a ton of hot women after me for that.”

      “You’re flushing redder,” I said. “Is redder a word, do you think?”

      “Hey, whatever your name is, I’ve forgotten it already. I made more money in a week than anybody else here does in a year so get off my case.”

      Now, how he jumped to this conclusion was beyond me, so don’t ask.

      “You’re kidding me!” I rearranged my facial features so I would look appropriately awed. “You have actually viewed all of our tax returns? Is that legal? Well, rats! It’s that Internet again. So much information! I’ll have to tell everyone here that you’re the richest so we can be impressed together!”

      “Hell, all I’m saying is I’m looking around here and I know I’ve got more money than anyone and I’m stuck with this bunch of lower rung losers.”

      I opened my eyes real wide. “So you’re making a ton of money, more than anybody else here, more than us losers. So much you can probably buy a bunch of women. A harem.” I snapped my fingers together three times. “In fact, is that why those women are after you? I bet that’s it!” I put my hands on my hips and cocked my head at him, as if the mystery had been solved. “Hookers should not count as ‘hot women after you.’ That’s stretching things a bit, don’t you think?”

      “No…” He was totally flustered. “I mean, yes, I mean, no! I got money-”

      “Yes, I’ve heard that. You have money to buy women.” I gave him a BWBL, although he had no boobs.

      “I don’t have to buy my women-” He was a’flustered.

      “Poor hookers,” I whispered sadly. “Poor hookers.”

      “I don’t buy hookers!” This he shouted in frustration. Everyone in the loft stared at him and there was quite a silence.

      “Well, that’s jolly good to hear!” I announced. “Women should never be bought!”

      “Shove off, Jeanne.” He glared at me, all red, all fidgety.

      “Shove off?” I tilted my head at him. “I don’t think I can ‘shove off.’ I assaulted my boyfriend and my attorney says I have to be here so it makes me look repentant in court. What did you do?”

      “This,” Emmaline announced as she floated toward us, arms outstretched, white silk outfit floating behind her, “this is Drake Windham. He’s in anger management class because he has a history of beating up women.”

      I stared at him, pretending to be aghast. “Do you beat up the poor hookers before or after you pay them to have sexual intercourse? Or do you beat up all the wives with the minivans who are panting after you?”

      Soman had to step in between us at that point and a little shoving and pushing went on as Drake said bad words to me. When Drake said to Soman, “Hey, Jungle СКАЧАТЬ