[3:AM Kisses 10.0] Dirty Kisses

by Addison Moore

  “No!” I pluck it off, burning the hell out of my fingers in the process. “Geez.” Now that I’ve ridded myself of fingerprints, I can get on that bank heist I’ve been meaning to get to. God knows if it doesn’t involve losing the hair below my eyebrows, I’m in like sin.

  I make another feeble attempt to dip that ridiculous stick into the melter, and the pot almost tips for good this time.

  “Dammit.” I unplug the stupid device and bring that melted bowl of hell right to my lap where it belongs. I’ll just pour the wax on before the entire thing turns to stone. God knows I need to get this over with so I can get some shut-eye before midnight. It’s sort of a Cinderella moment, if Cinderella were about to become a sushi girl and have the royal court dine on deep-sea creatures off her naked flesh before midnight, lest her godmother, the stripper, unwittingly has Cindy’s pumpkin impounded.

  “Okay, God—here we go.” I tip the small jar over my pink panther, or in this case dark coarse curly panther, and watch as the slow thick stream of molten lava makes its way down. “Ooh!” It’s warm, very, very warm, but not unbearable. Ha! It sort of does feel like a spa treatment. They’re forever doing wild things to you at the spa, like rubbing mud all over your body and playing toss the lava rocks onto your back. This is totally up-that-insane-feel-good-alley. “Oh, yes!” I groan a little too loud without meaning to.

  “Still good?” Jet’s deep, well meaning voice calls to me from the living room, and there’s something about having my legs parted, the warm sensation dripping down to my sweet spot that makes me yearn to have him near.

  “Still good!” Just a few more hours and I’ll get to surprise him with my newly shorn nether regions. I might be staunch on the fact there will be a Jet Madden moratorium in my very near future, but tonight there are a few pressing needs he should tend to.

  The wax begins to thicken, so I dump the pot upside down, making sure to cover every square inch of this shag rug I’ve successfully hidden from the free world.

  “Ooh, ooh, ooh! Ahh, ahh, ahh!” It comes out as sing-song and cheery as possible in the event my superhero roomie feels the need to burst onto the scene.

  Why did I wait so long to do this? God, I’m nothing but wall-to-wall carpeting down south. It’s a wonder Jet hasn’t lost his way in the molasses forest and demanded I mind the landscaping before he suffocated to death.

  I pull the box my way and turn it upside down, fully expecting a tiny little cotton rag to burp on out, but there’s nothing.

  “Wait a minute…” I do a frantic search of the area, and the only thing I come up with is that stupid phone book they sold me. I quickly riffle through it. Included in this package: one tongue depressor, one cube of wax.

  Ironic. They forgot to list their procedural policy for all things pubic. Wait a minute. A sweeping panic fills me as the wax turns opaque.

  What do you mean it doesn’t come with a ridiculous little rag? I paid two fucking ninety-nine for this damn thing!

  “Oh God! Oh God!” Quick! I need to use the towel. Wait—that won’t do. It’s too damn big.

  I reach over and snatch my panties from off the toilet. It takes less than ten seconds for me to realize I’ve successfully fused a pair of pink lace undies to myself. In a flurry, I snap my makeup bag off the counter, and the contents rain down over me, landing an eye shadow applicator, a spongy wedge, my favorite pink lip-gloss, and a pair of tweezers all in the gooey pit amassed at the base of my legs.

  “Oh hell.” I give an exasperated cry at the chaotic collection adhering to my body. “Okay, don’t panic.” My chest heaves because it’s pretty damn clear there’s no other alternative at the moment.

  I’ll just grab on to the panties and mimic the motion I remember from Scarlett’s visit to the beauty salon. I massage the pink lace onto the wax and riiiip!

  “HOLYHELLMOTHERFUCKER!”

  The door rattles and cracks before it bursts open, sending a piñata of trash to the four corners of the room, along with the scale which has morphed into a flying missile.

  “Shit!” Jet pants, wild-eyed, trying to take in the carnage all at once, but I’m in too much agonizing pain to care. “What the hell is going on?” He roars so loud his voice reverberates through my chest.

  “I think I’ve scalped myself!” I pant, carefully looking down, totally expecting to find a raw bloody mess, but—I’m still completely intact, sponges, cosmetics, panties, and all. “What the hell? It didn’t move! Oh my God!” I shout so loud my throat rubs raw.

  “What did you do?”

  “I sealed myself shut!” My body starts in on an involuntary tremor. “My God, I’ll eventually have to urinate, and where the hell will it go?” A guttural sob works its way up my throat until I’m boo-hooing like a six-year-old who accidently glued her vagina shut, because, well—hello.

  “Shit. Come here.” Jet scoops me into his arms and lands me onto his mattress before I can protest or scream—God knows I can’t run. “I’ll be right back.” He winces down at the pink ponytail my girl parts are sporting before ditching out of the room.

  Great. I really am the Pink Panther now. Tail and all. Not to mention a drug store-worthy goody bag of items I’ll never use again.

  Jet comes back in with a clean towel, which he promptly lays over my chest.

  “We’ll save the girls for later.” He gives a little wink.

  “Presumptuous, are we?”

  “I’m a realist, hon.” He gives my thigh a light tap, and his bicep jumps. “Open your knees. Let’s have a look.”

  I assume the butterfly position once again and allow him to peer at the caked and clotted mass where my vagina once stood proud.

  “Opening a department store?”

  “You’re not funny.”

  “I’m not kidding. What is this? Are purses suddenly overrated?”

  “The only thing overrated here is your sense of humor. I happen to have a simple waxing mishap. I dropped a few things onto my lap, and now, well, they’re sort of a part of me, and I’d like to lose that part as soon as I can.”

  “I see.” Jet gives a depleted smile as he inspects the madness. He holds up a tiny pair of stainless scissors and snips through the air. “This should only take a few minutes.”

  “Oh, right.” I bite down hard over my bottom lip, trying somehow to transcend the humiliation. “You don’t have to do that. I’m sure I can do it myself—or I can call Scarlett.” There’s one phone call she’ll never forget.

  “I do this all the time.” My knees collapse over his hand without meaning to.

  “You do this all the time?” I don’t know whether to laugh or to cry. Jet Madden is a well-rounded ladies’ man who has not only singlehandedly “fed” half the kitties at WB, but, apparently, he’s aided in a few waxing debacles to boot.

  “Not this.” He pries my knees apart and kneels in front of me. “This position.”

  “Now that I believe.”

  He glances up and sheds a dirty grin that has my stomach doing a backflip and my modesty begging for relief. This isn’t exactly something that will go down as a sexy encounter.

  Before I can truly protest, Jet goes to work with the meticulous precision of a surgeon and frees my panties, lip-gloss, sponges, et al., while regaling me with stories of piercings that make my skin crawl. Who knew the clitoris was such a popular place to land a needle?

  “I can take it from here.” I glance down at what once was a happy, fluffy prairie of unadulterated desire that has been replaced with what looks like a defunct beehive.

  I wrap myself in a towel, not sure why I bothered, and head for the bathroom once again. Three and a half hours later I finally emerge sans the sticky mass or nary a whisker from the eyebrows down.

  Why do I get the feeling Caila has just railroaded me down another crooked path that I’ll forever wish to forget?

  Okay, the first thing anybody who wishes to part ways with their pubes should know is ouch, and the second is ooh! It turns out that pubic hair ha
s a very valuable function after all, which is to keep your body in check from demanding to have orgasms each time you sit, stand, walk, bend, or pull up your panties. This is total feel-good nonsense. I’m already chaffing in delicate places, and it’s been less than twenty-four hours since Jet Madden sheared my hedges—dear God, I can’t even think about it.

  I’m just about to run into Hallowed Grounds for a quick cup of coffee before heading home to get ready for my Geisha Grill debut when my phone buzzes.

  A text from Mom. Just received a note from the school about parents’ weekend. I’m afraid your father and I aren’t available. I’m sure you’re quite embarrassed by how everything has played out. Just come home. There’s a job somewhere for you at the plant. Haven’t you done enough damage?

  My heart sinks as I stare at my mother’s words. My parents aren’t exactly my biggest cheerleaders when it comes to this small-town girl earning her degree. Not only did they think school was a waste before, but I’m sure now they see it as another damning decision of mine. Not that any of my previous decisions have ever been so damning. And why is the fact I want to further my education such a mental hurdle for them? Both of their sons are attorneys. Why can’t their daughter be one, too? I wish they’d get their heads out of their 1950s mentality.

  I shoot a text right back. School is fine. No need to save me a job at the plant! Law school waits for me.

  She texts back a moment later. Law school can be tough to get into for a dancer like you. By the way, your father has doubled up on his anxiety medication. Please do find another means to support yourself. I’ll speak to your brothers and see if there’s anything we can do to help.

  I’m sickened. The thought of my father trying to control his anxiety with medication because of what I’ve done tears me to pieces. I’m sure when he saw those pictures, read about my budding career, he about vomited up his own heart.

  No need to pass the hat on my account. I promise I’ve found another job to see me through. I got this!

  “I so do not got this,” I whisper.

  “Don’t got what?”

  I spin around to find a smiling Scarlett and nearly choke her with a hearty embrace.

  “Everything’s gone to shit.”

  “Let’s get some coffee, and you can tell me all about it.” The wind picks up and blows her hair over her head like a flame, and we laugh as we make our way inside. Fall has hit Hollow Brook like a hammer, and we’ve traded short sleeves for down jackets.

  Scarlett and I put in our orders and collect our drinks.

  “You ready for the game this Friday?” I ask, leading us to the dismal back of the establishment. No use in ruining Scarlett’s reputation anymore than I already may have. I’m a social plague of my own making. Not even my own parents want anything to do with me—at least not on campus.

  “Are you kidding?” Her cheeks flush just thinking about her star quarterback boy toy. “I’m totally psyched. How are things going with you? How did the melter work out?” She wrinkles her nose because deep down she knows it was a very bad idea.

  “It sucked big ones.” I sink my face into my palms. “Actually, it did its job, but I managed to botch up the entire event and turn it into a quasi-triage situation like I do everything else. Jet had to bust the door down and ended up cutting me lose from about a thousand foreign objects I managed to adhere to myself. It was so humiliating I couldn’t look at him this morning.” Nor did I pay him my routine nightly visit. I’m sure he feels like he got the short end of the waxing stick. Certainly had I not scalded and attempted to scalp my fun zone, he would have been rewarded handsomely for doing seemingly nothing.

  I glance up to find Scarlett’s lips frozen in a silent open-mouthed scream.

  “You let him do what?”

  “Don’t judge. I was in a waxed pickle. It was scary as hell thinking I’d have to go to the ER. I had no faith in getting that sludge off me on my own. Not to mention the more frightened I became the more I needed to use the bathroom. Just knowing that the facilities were welded shut sent me into a tailspin. Besides, it was all sort of clinical for him. He went on and on about how he pierces girls’ privates for a living. He’s seen more labia than we will penises.”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  “We’re talking variety here.”

  Scarlett only has one penis in mind, but in this case semantics can be damning.

  “So, what’s on the board for tonight? Can we see a movie? Rex has a workout, and I’m itching to get out of Cutler for a few hours.”

  “No can do.” I duck a little. “I’ve got a new job—sort of.” I wince because I can feel the truth wanting to bubble up out of me. I can’t help it, though. Scarlett has been my go-to girl for just about everything this past year, and now that I’m out in the boonies with Jet, it feels a bit lonely—well, emotionally so. Jet and I don’t verbalize as much as we grunt.

  “Spill.” Her jade eyes sharpen over mine.

  So I do just that. I spill every strange deranged detail about my new employment opportunity and accidentally on purpose out Caila as my capitalistic organizer.

  Scarlett’s jaw rests soundly on the table. “God, she’s like your pimp.” Her eyes widen with the epiphany. “Hey! She’s the one who set you up with what’s his face!” She hisses it out so fast and acrid you’d think she just discovered a serial killer.

  Crap. I glance around. The last person I want listening in on this confessional of a conversation is Cassidy. I promised Caila I wouldn’t drag her into this.

  I get Caila’s need to protect her sister. It’s almost as fierce as Jet’s need to protect his—which I find totally adorable by the way.

  “Why are you smiling?”

  “I’m not smiling.” My fingers touch over my lips reflexively. “Besides, Caila is harmless.”

  “No, she’s not.” Scarlett shakes her head wildly as if she knows something I’m not privy to.

  “She totally is.” My life in these past few, aggressively hateful weeks flashes before my eyes, and a part of me concurs with Scarlett’s line of thinking. “Okay, so maybe she’s a little bit of a free thinker.”

  “More like an entrepreneurial thinker, and I don’t mean that in any good way. She’s the kind of girl who will do whatever it takes to get the job done. She’s determined to get Cassidy through school while supporting herself and her daughter. There’s a bit of dangerous desperation there. That’s not you. You don’t have to do anything to survive.”

  “My credit card debt begs to differ.”

  “Then get creative.” She slams her palm down on the table. “This whole sushi thing sounds fishy to me—pun intended. Come on, Daisy. Push yourself in the other direction. If Caila can dance herself out of a hole, you can think yourself out of one.”

  “Are you saying she’s less than we are because she doesn’t happen to hold a student ID in her possession?”

  “No, I’m saying she’s different than we are. Everything you see happening in her life is her life. She’s realized her dreams. She’s not determined to be the best damn female defense attorney North Carolina has ever seen.”

  I wince. “Totally not the kind of law I want to go into. I was thinking more entertainment or family law.”

  “I would have pegged you for something to do with Cyberspace law. Something to do with bullying since you’re living out everyone’s worst nightmare.” She leans in, and her hardened stance begins to soften. There’s something special about a moment when your best friend is willing to reach into your chest and rattle your heart around just to talk some sense into you. “Daisy, I am sick of watching the world bully you. I know you feel the same.”

  We finish up and end our coffee klatch the same way it began with a nice firm hug.

  The crisp fall air envelops me as I scoot off to get ready for my big moment as Geisha Grill’s sushi girl extraordinaire.

  Scarlett is right. I need to think my way out of this hole before I end up at the pinnacle of my nonexistent care
er covered in fish guts with nothing but a fig leaf to hide my shame.

  I head straight to Stilettos where Caila herself covers every last inch of my body with an entire palate of cosmetics. It turns out the fig leaf was indeed provided by Mother Nature. The hand-shaped blade is unbearably scratchy, although counterintuitive to incite an orgasm in me, and for that I’m forever grateful. I arrived at the Jepson Inn at six o’clock. It took nearly an hour for the Geisha Grill team—all men mind you, to find the perfect spot in the center of the convention hall to lay me prone and decorate my body with a myriad of sushi. That was the easy part. I’m to lie still for the duration of forty-five minutes to an hour when they’ll wheel me away on this gurney-like contraption as not to upset the illusion. What illusion that might be I haven’t a clue. Are there sushi girls in nature that I’m to emulate? Are the patrons of this fine establishment meant to believe that girls like me exist in some tropical oriental forest where both fig leaves and rolls of raw fish abound? I think not. More like no one wants to see my boobs flapping as two-hour old tuna trails down my legs while I scamper the hell out of Dodge.

  “No speaking to guests. Look straight at the ceiling no matter what. Okay, you’re on.” The man who’s spent the last forty minutes piling me with sushi adjusts my pasties. Words and actions that I never thought would cross my mind.

  “Hey, what’s this convention for anyway?” I’m sort of its main attraction. I may as well know the nature of the beast.

  “Actors and producers. Some Hollywood bigwigs who specialize in reality television are showing up. You know, all the junk that’s on TV these days.” He leaves without so much as a thumbs-up.

  Reality TV? I live for that junk. God, what if I get discovered? This is going to be totally exciting—other than the fact it’s going to be totally horrific watching people gawk at me while trying to decide between the crunchy salmon or the California roll.

  A mob of humanity presses in all at once, and while a small handful meander toward the traditional buffet, the majority head my way to ooh and ahh and load up on some serious sushi. It’s a dark cloud of business suits for the most part, decent looking men and a sprinkling of women all look on with morbid delight at the sight of my quasi-naked body.