Michael’s smile broadened – the corners of his lips turned up as he said, “Babe, I’m stoned too, but that makes no sense at all, and I’m sure it wouldn’t make sense if I was straight. Puking on the sidewalk doesn’t mean you’ve failed or that you’re a permanent stoner or drunk, it just means you puked. What were you drinking?”
“Southern Comfort” I replied, “Why?”
His hands had moved from my shoulders, and were now cupped on each side of my face, his brown eyes narrowed, searching my own for answers. “I thought you gave that up?” he asked, wiping away tears from my cheeks with his work hardened thumbs.
“I did,” I murmured, bringing my own emotions more under control again.
“And tell me again why you gave up Southern Comfort?” he said, in a tone of voice that told me that he already knew the answer.
“So I wouldn’t die of a heroin overdose like Janis Joplin,” I replied.
We’d had this conversation before – he’d laughed at my logic then, and he laughed at it again now. With a big smile on those perfect lips, wiping away my final tears, he pulled me up off the hood of the Mustang, gave me a simple hug and said, “Don’t worry, you’ll never do heroin, at least not if you stick with me. Let’s go back to the apartment now.”
Chapter Two
The Morning After
I tried to move, but couldn’t. Every fiber of my body hurt – my head felt like someone had swung an ax and split it wide open; my mouth was dry as cotton and tasted nasty. My eyes refused to focus, and the sunlight coming through the bedroom window was way too bright. I had put up rather heavy drapes made of rough cotton homespun fabric – in deep blood red, my favorite color – to make sure I never had to see the sun on mornings like this. But obviously, it doesn’t work if you don’t freaking close them! I thought.
I squinted at the large, rectangular clock radio on the night stand beside me – the digital readout showed 11:42 am. “Oh God – what the hell…” I moaned, as my arm reached over to find Michael’s naked body lying asleep beside me. Strange: he was naked, but I wasn’t – my boots and jeans and vest were off, but my panties, shirt and daisy patterned socks were still in place. My shirt – damn – what is that smell? Had some drunk from The Canteen slobbered on me while I was serving him a drink last night?… No, no, that isn’t it, and why the fuck does my head… Oh shit! It was me… Some of the events of last night were coming back… I was the one who puked!
“Michael, wake up,” I murmured. No response. “Michael, wake up,” I said again with a little more force, as I managed to gather enough saliva in my mouth to actually form words. He started to stir beside me. “Tell me I didn’t puke on the sidewalk last night… and what day is it?” I asked.
He raised one arm and rubbed his hand over his face, making sure he kept his eyes closed. “You did… and it’s… ahhh, Saturday, I think,” he replied as he rolled towards me, and gathered me into his arms. He pulled me close, wiggling, squirming and adjusting until my head was snuggled on his left shoulder, our legs wrapped around each other pretzel fashion, my thigh resting against his half-hard morning cock. He placed a soft kiss on my forehead and sighed, “Go back to sleep, it’s early.”
“Oh God… my head hurts, and it’s not early, it’s past noon, well almost,” I said starting to enjoy the warmth and comfort of his shoulder under my pounding head – this was my favorite position. “Wait… Oh shit, if it’s Saturday then I have to get up… Oh shit, shit, shit – is it the 16th? I’m supposed to meet Bernie in two hours… Christ I have to get up!”
I attempted to scramble out of bed, only to be knocked back by the piercing pain in my head.
“Is that today, are you sure?” Michael groaned, trying to pull me back towards him.
“Yeah shit, it’s October 16th. I haven’t seen him in months – I don’t want to be late. We’re supposed to meet downtown at that little pastry and coffee joint off North Michigan at 2 pm – I have to get up now… Oh Christ, I wish that sun would go away, the light is killing my eyes.” I struggled to sit up again – this time moving in a slow, deliberate fashion, feeling my way to the window with my eyes shut, and drew the heavy drapes closed. That made that damn sun disappear, and filled the room with a muted, yet still brilliant, burning shade of red that both soothed my head, and created a sensual atmosphere.
Michael was arranging the pillows under his head, his dark hair spilling over the edge trying to entice me to come back to bed, lifting the yellow and white striped sheet just a bit, exposing more of his well-muscled physique. I knew what that inviting smile on his lips meant; especially when he combined it with those sexy squinted eyes – a look of longing I found almost impossible to resist.
“You’re in no shape to talk to Bernie today… Why don’t you cancel and come back to bed?” he purred. As a scowl crossed my face, he said, “Okay, you don’t have to cancel – I’ll just help you ahhh… wake up.” His eyes glinting and seductive in the red tinged light, “I’ll drive you down there so you don’t have to wait for the bus or look for parking for your car – that will save time and well… it’s still warm in here.”
“Hmm,” I said, tempted. “Can you make my head stop hurting?”
“Well I don’t know if I can make it stop hurting, but I can definitely take your mind off it for a while,” he replied, his smile broadening. He had me convinced, and he knew it. With that, he watched me remove my shirt, socks and panties and I filled with an instant calmness as he pulled me back beside him.
“It is still warm in here,” I murmured as he rolled on top of me, propping himself up on his elbows, massaging and kissing my forehead.
“Does that help?” he asked.
Closing my eyes, my body melted under him. “Yes, a little,” I said.
“Just a little?” he questioned.
“Ah-huh, I need more…” My voice faded – his soft lips stirring over my cheeks and onto my neck.
Michael and I had a lot of differences. We came from different backgrounds, and had different visions of what life had to offer. He was almost three years older than me, but had no education past high school. He grew up on the south side of Chicago in a working class family with two brothers, one sister, a father that had disappeared several years ago, and a semi-alcoholic mother who had constant problems paying her bills – the electric bill in particular. I grew up in a middle class family in Weymouth, Massachusetts, a suburb of Boston, was an only child, and my parents – even though they argued incessantly – were still together, and though money was far from abundant, the electricity had never been turned off. And they were determined, above all else, that I would get a college education so I could have a better life.
I met Michael in late June about two weeks after I turned 20, at The Canteen, the sleazy bar I started working at when my life turned upside down. He was a friend of one of the bartenders. It was one of those irresistible, overwhelming attractions based on lust – not that I needed much of an attraction to spend the night with some guy at that point – but I was drawn to Michael, like a moth to a flame. The first time he entered the bar I felt his presence. As surreptitiously as possible I watched him, studied his movements, and was aroused by his air of confidence and the way his lips curled at the corners when he smiled at me; they were very sensuous lips. I could feel him peering at me as I served drinks, following me with his eyes even when he was speaking to someone else. It was as if some external force was drawing us together. When we were introduced and I heard the deep, perfect fullness of his voice, I felt a pang of shyness overtake me (something that hadn’t happened in a long time). I could feel my heart pound in my chest as I prayed that he’d be attracted to me too. He was.
He looked Italian, but he wasn’t, he was pure Polish – Nowak was his last name, everyone called him Mike, except me – and he was exactly the physical type that made me melt. He wasn’t all that tall, but tall enough, about six feet with strong, broad shoulders, and a beautiful, well-formed body with firm, carved muscles
defining his chest and his strong arms and legs. I loved playing with the sprinkling of dark hair that covered his upper chest. It wasn’t a body builder’s type of muscle – I knew for a fact that he never went to a gym; it was the kind of muscle that comes from doing manual labor every day. And he had beautiful hands – large palms with exquisite fingers, the callouses only adding to their character. There was a scar, about five inches long, under his ribs on the left side (from some teenage ‘stupidity’ as he termed it). Those strong arms now pressed me against him. He was handsome, but not at all like the all-American, perfectly featured, male models that plastered the pages of every trashy magazine I read – no, Michael had a more classic face; long, straight nose with a wide forehead, high cheek bones, with the faintest hint of a clef in his chin and skin that always had a touch of tan. His full, soft lips balanced his dark mustache, and he had the most beautiful whiskey brown eyes I could ever remember seeing – his eyes were the color of Southern Comfort, framed by long, dark lashes. Lashes so long I was envious. He wore his thick, dark brown hair long, cut midway down his neck.
What was astonishing to me though was that we had developed a connection that somehow went beyond our mutual physical infatuation. The first time we left The Canteen together, about a week after meeting, for what I assumed would be yet another one night stand; we stayed with each other for almost 48 hours. Stoned on some very potent hashish, screwing on the mattress on the floor of his studio apartment over his garage, eating pepperoni pizza with extra cheese, sleeping, taking showers, listening to music – he played the guitar – fucking some more, ordering take-out Chinese food, exploring each other’s bodies in minute detail, and staying wasted; we also started talking. I still can’t remember exactly what we talked about, but by the time he took me home, he knew more about me than I had told anyone in a very long time, and I knew some of his secrets as well. So when he showed up, smiling, at the bar again the next night I wasn’t surprised – I was delighted. Right away he made sure all the regulars knew we had been together the last few days – almost like staking his claim. Although we didn’t have any defined commitment to each other, there was something going on from the very beginning. We were very different people who somehow needed each other. From the time we met, I had no problem brushing off other advances and being ‘his’, at least for the time being.
The one place where Michael and I had no difference was in bed – he was tuned into every square inch of my body and could play me as well as… no, better – much better – than he could play his old Gibson guitar, and that was what he was doing now. He was an incredibly generous lover. He lifted himself onto one elbow, cupped my breast in his hand and circled my rising nipple with the thumb that had last night dried my tears. He nibbled the base of my neck in a way he knew would send shivers through my capillaries, and drive me insane. My back arched in an instinctual response to his touch, and my hips pressed against him feeling that he was more than ready. My hands glided down his back enjoying the soft curve of his muscles and as I reached his firm round butt, he pushed naturally inside me.
“Oh God,” he whispered gazing down at me. “I’ve died and gone to heaven.”
“Hmm, smart-ass” I laughed. “That’s good, as long as you take me with you.”
Chapter Three
Bernie
Bernie and I met at the Water Tower Café, a little, hole-in-the-wall, coffee, pastry and sandwich shop that had been operating on E. Superior Street since the 1920’s. Everyone who was anyone in the city knew the place. At this time of day on a Saturday, it was bustling with customers, but Bernie had managed to secure a small wooden table in the back corner, and gave me a big smile as I walked in to meet him. It was good to see him again. I had been a little apprehensive about meeting; I hadn’t seen Bernie Epstein since I split from my husband, Stephen, last spring. Stephen and I had only been married about six months when everything fell apart. I had packed a few things to go stay with my girlfriend, Mary Beth, for a few days, telling Stephen that he needed to make up his mind, stop lying, stop hanging out with those people and make some time for our marriage. Bernie had lived in the apartment across the hall from Stephen and me – he was always more Stephen’s friend than mine, as he’d made clear at the time, but he had called wanting to meet, and now that I saw his familiar smile, I was glad I had agreed.
Bernie was a tall, rather thin guy with a big nose, dull brown hair, cut short compared to most of the men I knew, and a warm smile, and as usual, he was very easy to talk to, the kind of person my father always referred to as a ‘glad-hander’. We spent the first half hour or so catching up on what was new in each of our lives. I heard about his recent graduation from Northwestern University Law School, studying for the Bar exam, who he was currently dating, and the latest gossip about the obnoxious neighbors who lived upstairs at the apartment building on W. Touhy Avenue – both of us avoiding any mention of Stephen. As much as I was enjoying the conversation, sipping my cup of coffee from the heavy white ceramic mug –and relishing the scents of freshly baked pastry that whiffed through the shop, I was becoming anxious to find out the real reason he had wanted to meet.
Whether he was also growing bored with the small talk or read the expression on my glass face, Bernie sighed, took a long sip of his coffee and looking up at me over the rim of his cup said, “Stephen… Well, I ahhh, I don’t know how to say this, but I thought you should know that he… ahhh…” and his eyes dropped back down into his mug.
“What’s happened? I thought he was still in Boston, have you heard from him? Is he alright?” I demanded, with what must have been a tone of alarm in my voice.
Glancing up and looking me in the eye he replied, “Oh, no, he’s okay, he’s back in Chicago now. I mean there hasn’t been any kind of accident or anything; I mean he’s fine, I saw him. It’s just that …” Bernie’s voice faded off as he looked around, and swirled the coffee in his mug a few more times, staring at the signed photographs of the café owner with various prominent or famous or infamous people who had ever patronized his establishment, and were now hanging on the walls.
I could see that his face and the rims of his ears were beginning to get a pinkish tinge to them – whatever he wanted to say was obviously causing him some embarrassment as he struggled to find the right words. My mind raced… I could’ve guessed what was coming, but I was in no mood to be magnanimous. I was still somewhat hungover and besides, this was his show: he wanted to talk to me - not the other way around. I had tried talking to Bernie before I moved out, but he had blown me off, saying that whatever was happening was none of his business. He was Stephen’s friend, and didn’t know anything anyhow. So now, instead of relieving his discomfort, I let him squirm a little until finally, not being able to stand the tension myself anymore I said, “Just tell me.”
After a prolonged silence that seemed to go on forever, he gathered his thoughts, and with determination looked up at me again. “I owe you an apology,” he began. “When you wanted to talk before, I… Well, I thought you wanted me to give you some kind of dirt… something you could use to get back at him for seeing Leigh, I mean. I could hear the two of you arguing all the time and you screaming – you know, through that wall where our apartments connected. Your voice, it, well it carries a lot more than Stephen’s, and I didn’t want to get in the middle.”
“Hmph… yeah, I know… it’s okay,” I replied again, my voice showing no trace of emotion. “But why are you here now?” I put down my coffee mug, narrowed my eyes just a little, and tried to maintain a blank look on my face. “Just tell me.”
“Stephen’s been lying to me too. Before you left, I knew, well I thought I knew that he was having an affair with Leigh, you know the woman he worked with?” He looked at me, his eyes questioning.
“Yes, I know her,” I acknowledged.
He continued as if he just needed to get it all out. “Well, it’s not that having an affair was okay – I didn’t approve when he told me, but I didn’t think it
was any of my business. Then when you went to stay with Mary Beth, before Stephen left for Boston, I found out that he wasn’t seeing her after all… but since he left Chicago by the end of that month, I figured I still shouldn’t say anything. After all, it wasn’t any of my business. But now that he’s back, well… I needed to tell you that he was seeing Joe and Donny and a bunch of other men…”
Bernie hesitated waiting for me to react to this revelation, but I could only nod. If I spoke at all, if I gave rein to my emotions in any way, the tears were going to start flowing, so all I did was nod, and look down at the walnut colored wood table.
Surprised, he continued, “You know? I mean I didn’t think – I thought you – I ahhh, well Leigh… I thought you thought she…” he continued stumbling, then found his courage again. “I wanted to see you because I thought you deserved to know that Stephen was really a homosex… I mean that he’d gone gay.”
I just sat there forcing myself to drink more coffee, hoping my throat would open enough so I could swallow and I’d be able to find my voice. I hadn’t realized that I was also holding my breath. After a long pause, I managed to say, “I know – at least I know now, I didn’t know then. I thought he was having an affair with her too – that’s what he wanted me to think, but yes, I know now about Joe, Donny and most of the others.”
Both of us just sat there looking at each other – getting that last sentence out without a tear was all I could manage. Bernie’s face showed a sense of relief, and the pinkish tinge had faded back to one of concern. He asked, “How did you find out?”
I tried to speak again, but the lump in my throat was now so large it felt like it was blocking my airways. All I could do was shake my head, and try to swallow again. At that, Bernie motioned to the waiter, paid for the coffee, and as he stood up said, “Let’s walk around for a bit, okay?”
Love's Illusions: A Novel Page 2
