by Mary Monroe
Freddie lived in a huge condo, across the Golden Gate Bridge, in Sausalito. He had a live-in cook/housekeeper and a driver, but he sent them off somewhere whenever he entertained women. Like so many men, including that goat I’d married, Freddie thought that all it took to make a woman feel good in bed was a big dick. Well, I had news for him. While the men with the most meat between their legs were running around thinking that they were God’s gift to women, the men with the ladyfingers peeping from between their thighs were the ones really keeping us happy. Believing that they were at a disadvantage because of their size, they tried much harder to please.
Freddie was an easy trick once we got him drunk. However, he was a major pain in the ass. He had a face like a mole and weighed more than five hundred pounds, but he still tried to move like a man half his size. And as disgusting as he was, I liked that fat-ass Freddie. He was more than just a trick to me. He was a really nice, fun guy, despite his miserable appearance. He was one of the few tricks I knew who made me feel petite. He was the one who nicknamed me Baby Love, the name I used with my ad in The Spectator.
Tonight was no different than any other night with Freddie. The four of us on his king-size bed was a sight. Our four naked bodies—Lula and Rosalee perfect and dark brown; me, light brown and crisscrossed with purple stretch marks; and Freddie, ghostly white and covered in knotty red splotches, like an obscene patchwork quilt. We looked like something that belonged in a Stephen King movie.
Fat Freddie liked to kiss. Since he paid extra for that, I always volunteered to perform that ghoulish task. He didn’t mind me keeping my lips closed and my teeth clamped together. I refused to kiss a trick who wanted to stick his tongue in my mouth.
Rosalee and Lula did most of the other work on his vile body. They massaged him all over, commenting on his soft white flesh, and how magnificent his long, fat dick was. Fat Freddie shuddered, squeezed his eyes shut, and squealed like a pig. It took every ounce of my strength to keep from laughing.
After the deed was done, the three of us helped haul Freddie away from his king-size bed. Puffing like we’d been pulling a mule, we escorted him to his living room. We had drinks, slid a dirty movie into the DVD player, and listened to him yip yap about everything from his health problems to all the money he had inherited from his deceased parents.
“You birds sure know how to earn your way. I’ll have Clyde set up another little party later in the month for me and the lot of you,” Freddie told us, tickling the thick flesh under my arm as I hugged his huge neck. To my everlasting horror, he hauled off and kissed me again. I had to close my eyes and hold my breath. His breath was as foul as horse shit, and his lips felt like rubber. I found it so hard to believe that this man had been married three times, to his first wife for twenty years. It was one thing to get paid to make love with a man as wretched as Freddie McFarland. But I could not imagine getting busy with him for free. I wondered how his wives had managed to do it.
But then again, what did I know? It hurt to know that my own husband had often said some of the same things about me that I thought about Freddie. “Girl, I have to get drunk to get into your stuff anymore…All that lard-smellin’ blubber on your ass makes my nature weak,” Joe had told me right after the last time we made love. His words had burned like acid. If I’d known his true feelings about my appearance, I would not have seduced him that night. He left me the very next day.
Lula and Rosalee did most of the talking to Freddie, hardly letting me get a word in edgewise. And those two bitches thought they knew everything, telling lame jokes that kept Freddie guffawing. They were too stupid to realize that Freddie was laughing at them, not with them. With their southern accents, half of the time I couldn’t understand them. The word man came out sounding like main. And only countrified women like them would call a man’s dick a pecker. Or was it poker they said? I didn’t know, and I didn’t care, as long as I got paid.
I glanced at my watch. “Let’s watch the movie,” I suggested, hoping they would all take the hint and just shut up.
“You girls want another drink?” Freddie asked in his hoarse voice. His stiff reddish-blond hair made his head look like a porcupine. My cherry-red lipstick was all over his lips, neck, chest, and face.
I answered for us all. “I’ll go make them,” I chirped, rushing to the kitchen off to the side of the huge living room.
I took my time mixing a pitcher of strong margaritas. Being alone gave me time to do some thinking. I had had a lot on my mind lately and most of it involved my daughter, Juliet. The girl was driving me crazy. She was not doing well in school, she couldn’t get along with her brothers, and she went out of her way to torture me. “Mama, you are getting so fat. You got gray hairs. Mama, you smell like lard.” Every one of her complaints stabbed at me like a knife. I actually felt the pain. It was all in my mind, but pain was pain.
The only adult Juliet seemed to respect was Helen, my retarded babysitter. They got along like best friends. The only times that Juliet was tolerable, was when Helen was present.
But Helen had been acting strange lately. A few times I’d caught her eavesdropping on my telephone conversations. And just yesterday, I’d come home to find my house smelling like cigars.
“Helen, was somebody in this house?” I’d asked, sniffing and rubbing my nose. It was past midnight. Helen was curled up on my living room sofa under one of my best goose-down comforters. This was where she usually slept when she spent the night. I loomed over the couch, still in my trick clothes and the long trench coat that I often wore on my dates.
“Huh? Huh?” Helen blinked stupidly, her lips moving like one of those talking dummies. She shrugged and gave me a blank stare.
I had only known a few retarded people in my life, so I didn’t know that much about their habits and behavior. But Helen was docile and pleasant, and my kids were crazy about her. Especially my daughter, Juliet, who was the most difficult child I had ever known since…since myself.
“Who was smoking in here?” I asked, trying to hold back my anger. The last thing I wanted to do was scare this girl off. I needed her more than she needed me.
Helen sat up, rubbing her eyes, yawning, and stretching. “I was, Miss Rocky.”
“Cigars?” I asked, watching her carefully. I was too concerned about the cigar odor to ask her about the empty beer cans lined up on the floor in front of the couch. I already knew that Helen often helped herself to my alcohol. “You smoke cigars?”
Helen stretched and yawned some more and gave me another blank stare. “Uh-huh.” She looked around the room with a sheepish grin on her face.
“Girl, you know I don’t allow smoking in my house!” I boomed.
Helen stood up from the couch so fast, the comforter slid to the floor. The cigar smoke was one thing, and that was bad enough. But I was surprised as hell to see that the girl was naked, too. Looking at her for about half a minute, I realized I was jealous. It was hard to believe that I’d once been as lean and firm as Helen. Without giving it much thought, I sucked in my gut, but the flab around my middle had a life of its own. I shook my head to compose myself.
Like me, Helen was a rough sleeper. Her eyes were puffy. Her arms had scratches from her clawing herself in her sleep. Joe used to tell me that when I got up in the morning I looked like I’d been in a fight. Helen looked like she’d been in a fight. This was the first time I’d seen her look like this and she had slept at my house dozens of times.
Helen shot me a sharp, stunned look. “But what about the times your friends smoke weed in here?” she asked, blinking hard. It was then that I noticed that her eyes were also slightly bloodshot. The same way mine looked after a rough date, something that my daughter had mentioned on more than one occasion.
“Now, look. What I do in my own house is my business. You don’t live here. What would your mama say if she found out you were over here smoking?”
“My mama smokes,” Helen answered. “My daddy smokes, too. My big brother David smokes.”
“Well, just don’t do it again. At least not in my house. If you bring cigarettes over here, or cigars, you go out on that porch to smoke. Do you hear me, girl?”
“Uh-huh,” she said, nodding hard.
“And another thing—when did you start sleeping naked?”
Helen had a difficult time responding. Her eyes rolled back in her head, she bit her bottom lip, then she looked me in the eye. “Tonight,” she said in a meek voice. She then stared at the floor.
I dismissed Helen with a wave of my hand. She returned to the couch and pulled the comforter up over her head. I let her sleep until almost noon the next day, wondering what all my kids could have done for her to be so tired.
After Helen left my house later that Saturday afternoon, I noticed a man’s comb in my bathroom on the sink. It had blond hair in it.
But Helen explained that later in the evening when she galloped back across my lawn, running in the front door without knocking. There was a major grin on her eager face. As soon as she got inside, I asked her about the comb.
“It’s one of my daddy’s old combs. I was using it to practice combing Juliet’s new Barbie doll’s hair,” Helen said in a steely voice.
“And what about all those beer cans I found on the floor last night?”
“What about ’em?”
“Didn’t I tell you not to drink when you come over here?”
Helen shook her head. “That ain’t what you said. You told me to stay out of your liquor cabinet. Well, I couldn’t find the key nohow, so I got the beers from the refrigerator. The liquor cabinet and the refrigerator are two different things.” She sniffed so hard her eyes watered.
My exasperation level was as high as it could get. “Your mama and daddy don’t want you drinking any alcohol over here.”
Helen shrugged. “Who is going to tell them I been drinking? You? I sure ain’t.”
I sighed and threw up my hands. “Look, from now on, when you babysit, I expect you to leave my house looking just the way you found it. Do I make myself clear? Don’t be leaving combs full of doll hair on my sink and do not drink any of my alcohol. Do not drink any alcohol, period. That means, don’t bring any over here from home or anywhere else. Is that clear?”
“Yes, ma’am, Miss Rocky.” Helen had a look on her face that could have meant anything. Her eyes were blank, and her mouth was hanging open. It was the same way my daughter, Juliet, looked when she was lying or just trying to be a smart-ass. I could never tell when Helen (or Juliet) was lying or just messing with me.
I had to keep reminding myself that Helen was more on Juliet’s level than she was on mine. But Helen’s childlike mind was trapped in the body of a woman.
And that was a dangerous combination.
“Girl, what’s takin’ you so long with them drinks?” Rosalee hollered from Freddie’s living room.
I cleared Helen out of my thoughts. “I’ll be right out,” I yelled. I had to take a big swallow of tequila before prancing out of Freddie’s kitchen with a tray of drinks to rejoin the activities on his couch.
Once Freddie was asleep, we dragged him to his bed, which was a difficult thing for us to do, considering his weight. We were all panting like dogs. It was such a chore, Rosalee and Lula had to rush back to the living room to have another drink. I stayed in the bedroom a little longer to go through Freddie’s wallet. I had decided that I deserved an extra hundred dollars. And I didn’t feel bad about “robbing” a trick. Especially one as rich as Freddie. It added a little fun to an otherwise unbearable game. And without some amusement and additional benefits, my job would have been just that much harder.
After I dropped Rosalee and Lula off, I rushed home, driving at breakneck speed because I’d been out longer than I had anticipated. Like I’d hoped, Helen and the kids were all watching music videos on BET.
They hardly paid any attention to me when I sprinted across my living room floor to my bathroom. I rinsed out my mouth and took a long bath with water so hot it felt like my skin was melting.
Other than the money, a bath was the best part of a date.
Chapter 19
HELEN DANIELS
I didn’t like it when Miss Rocky tripped out on me. She’d been doing that a lot lately. It made me nervous when she gave me strange looks and asked me a lot of nosy questions. It looked like I was going to have to keep both of my eyes on her—with her great big, fat self!
That woman was too nosy for her own good. Now I see why her husband left her for another woman. I couldn’t believe that she’d had the nerve to get in my face over a little cigar smoke and a few beers the other night. If I hadn’t been so groggy and buzzed from drinking that beer, I would have reminded her that she told me to my face that when I was in her house, I was welcome to make myself at home. And that’s just what I’d done. Shoot.
Now I’d have to tell that man Arthur he couldn’t smoke his cigars in Miss Rocky’s house no more on account of Miss Rocky didn’t like surprises.
I felt so much better after I had some time to think about stuff. In a way, I could understand why Miss Rocky didn’t like coming home and being surprised. Surprises could cause all kinds of problems.
My mama hated surprises, too. I overheard her talking to somebody on the telephone one day about what a shock I’d been to her, when she found out she was pregnant with me. “I can’t believe that God was mean enough to give me another child at this time in my life; I wanted to die,” Mama had said. My mama wanted to die because of me…
After I heard what Mama said, I guess I wanted to die, too. That was one time I wished I’d never snooped around to listen in on somebody else’s conversation. I felt like that blind kitten my uncle Billy held down in a bucket of water and drowned. Because of what my mama said, I knew I should never have been born in the first place. Or, I should have been born a whole lot sooner, so I wouldn’t have been such a big, bad surprise. I knew one thing for sure, life would have been a whole lot better for everybody if stuff had happened that way.
Mama was in her late forties when I was born. Other than my brother, David, who was even older than Miss Rocky, my mama didn’t have any other kids. I don’t know why, but being born retarded meant that there were a lot of things I didn’t know or understand, no matter how hard I tried. For me, the hardest part of being retarded was being smart enough to know I was slow. People didn’t think I had feelings, but I did. Like normal people, all I wanted in life was to be happy.
Mama and Daddy were too old to spend much time fussing with me when I was a little girl. And with me being a “retard” like the kids in my neighborhood said I was, I was always getting myself into something that would upset the normal people in my life. Like getting pregnant when I was just twelve.
It wasn’t my fault, though. It was that boy from that big green house across the street from us. Donnie Reese was fourteen and always taking me to his bedroom so we could get naked and lay on his bed. That creep joined the army and got his butt shot up. Because of his injuries, according to Mama, Donnie’s brain was as “raggedy as a bowl of sauerkraut.” Maybe now he feels some of the same pain he caused me. As mean as he was to me, I still thought about him and me from time to time. Just the good times we’d had, though. He was my first boyfriend, and to every girl—even girls like me—the first boyfriend is the one you never forgot.
“Helen, don’t you want a real boyfriend?” Donnie asked me one of the days we were naked. We only did that when his mama and daddy and his sister and brother were out of the house. Donnie’s bedroom was nowhere near as cute as mine. I had dolls and white furniture and posters of movie stars. I even had a daybed by the window that I slept on some nights. Donnie’s room was a mess. He had baseballs, dirty clothes, apple cores, magazines, and other junk all over the place. And his bed was never made up.
“I thought you were already my boyfriend,” I told him, lying next to him on his bed. His long leg was rubbing on mine, and he was patting my titties.
“Well, boyfriend
s and girlfriends have to do a lot more than just get naked,” he explained. His long orange tongue slid across his lip as he climbed on top of me, spreading my legs with his. I just couldn’t get over how hard Donnie’s body was compared to mine. “Now this is goin’ to hurt a little bit…”
It did hurt and I tried to holler, but Donnie’s hand was covering my mouth. It was still hurting when he rolled off me a few minutes later.
“Is that it?” I asked, my face screwed up, and the insides of my thighs on fire.
“What?” Donnie was putting his pants back on and giving me a mean look. Then he ripped a page out of one of his magazines and wiped blood off the insides of my thighs. Cussing under his breath, he balled up that piece of paper and tossed it into a wastepaper basket on the floor next to his bed. But that wasn’t enough for him. He ripped out some more pages and covered the bloody one with them. Now you tell me that wasn’t crazy. “What did you say?” he asked, talking in a real gruff voice. He stood there with his hands in his pockets, looking at me like he didn’t like me no more.
“Did you cut me?” I asked, sliding my fingers along my thigh, frowning because he’d left a few drops of blood.
“You wanna know somethin’, Helen, you done gone from dumb to dumber,” he said, letting out a laugh.
“Are we boyfriend and girlfriend now? For real?”
Donnie nodded real hard, biting his bottom lip at the same time. “Uh-huh. Whatever!” He laughed, but I couldn’t figure out why. The hardest part of being retarded was not being able to make any sense out of normal people. It made my head spin when I tried. Some days I went to bed so dizzy, I couldn’t stand up straight. All from trying to be normal. After a while I just let myself be what I was: retarded. It was so much easier, and to tell you the truth it was a lot more fun than trying to be normal.
