What goes around

LOVE BITES

 

He loves me. He loves me not. I consider the possibilities, unsure of my thoughts. It hasn't been easy stopping Jimmy from whispering in my ear. It tickles and sends strange sensations all thru my body. I almost have the nerve to talk to my mom about it, about him. Almost!  My memory of years ago when I had just turned thirteen is as clear now as then, five years back.

 

Mom called me into our den to have 'a serious' talk with me, not to me. My pop sat right beside her, much more reticent than she. I could not believe the things she told me about guys and girls and what might happen. I probably said, 'No way,' or 'Impossible', or 'No boy will ever do that to me,' a dozen times. Pop shook his head and looked squarely at me and would utter too often, 'He sure will if you let him. Don't!' The result was that I obeyed and am still, at eighteen, with pride rather than regrets, totally inexperienced–except for a few meaningless kisses after a movie. My classmates jabber, tell about their most intimate encounters, to anyone who wants to listen. I don't. They laugh at me, call me 'a silly prude.' Let them laugh. I won't catch a disease or have an unwanted child.

 

Already close to twenty I think that maybe I already have a disease, a different kind. My mouth turns down most of the time. My skin is sort of ashen. My eyes don't smile. When I am trying to fall asleep, for no reason at all that I can comprehend, I cry dry tears. I have a very small appetite and am losing weight. Most likely others see what I see but not a soul asks what is wrong–except my Mom. She doesn't bother to ask, believes she knows.

 

'Lois,' my real name is Louise but Mom, when she gets very serious, calls me Lois. 'Lois, don't dare so 'no', don't even speak. 'You need company, man and woman  companionship. I can see the signs and help you cure yourself, if you'll listen to me for once.' Crawling from my lips come the words, 'Leave me alone, Mom.' From her pocket she pulls out an antiquated list of my 'friends' and orders me to contact at least three today–'not tomorrow–Today! I remember Florence, she loves karioke and so does Jeanette. You call them or I will.' That Mom of mine means it. I promise I'll call them in the evening, and keep my promise.

 

Hesitantly I dial Florence first, hear the surprise and delight in her voice. We chat, recall high school, looking for jobs. She has had a few serious relationships but is free now, loves karioke and brags to me how she once won the $50 prize at Atman's for the best presentation.  'Sure, let's go this Saturday. If you still live on Baker St., I'll pick you up at eight.' 'Flo, do you ever get in touch with Jeanette? Is she still single?' I ask. I get the dirt that she lived with Chris but they are no longer a thing. 'Do you have her phone number? I'd love her to go with us.' Flo makes the call and we are set for Saturday.

 

I could feel them, see them, look me over, wonder if I'm dying. Questions, questions, catch-up time and I explain somewhat that I have just about become a hermitess, haven't met a guy I'd look at once, much less twice, don't need groping hands on me, under my clothes, sliding down zippers, mine and theirs. I don't feel embarrassed but shock is on their faces. Jeanette makes an ugly 'tsk tsk' noise and recovers at once.

 

Florence  pulls me from my uncomfortable folding chair while Jeanette gets behind me and shoves me into the want-to-perform line.  I struggle, call out,  'I can't sing. I cant' sing.' Some mustachioed creep thrusts a song sheet in my hand. 'Which one do you want to do, Girl?' he croaks. My old 'new' friends tell him we will do a trio, 'Comeona My House' an oldie but I do remember it. I am trapped. The creep tries to touch my ass. I'm just about ready to leave alone but get some courage together from somewhere.

 

We three girls sing with hand motions, get almost no applause, win nothing, except an invitation to join the three male singers who had followed us and lost too. They manage, with what looked to me to be a tip for the waiter, to seat us at another table, in a darker area. Waiting on the table are six bottles of beer. The labels are cold and damp. Mike, the guy on my right, tells me to drink up. Florence nudges me, motions for me to follow suit. I hate the taste but the coolness calms me. There is laughter, singing, a few couples manage to find a speck of dancing room. The noise abates, I think. Unbidden, I know my shoulders are moving in time with the music. Mike hands me another bottle of beer. I take it and roll the coolness down my cheeks before I take another swallow.

 

The evening seems brighter, the noise less, our group warmer, friendlier and I feel something rare for me, comfortable, really at ease. Mike whispers in my ear, wants to see me again. I try to say 'great' but can't do it. His face, even in the dim light, is downcast. He asks me, 'What do you think I will do if we go out together, bite you?'
The conversation is idiotic. 'Yes, maybe.' 'No, I don't bite but I like to be close to my ladies.' 'Yeah? How close?' As close as they let me.'

 

Florence somehow has heard at least part of this foolishness. She leans over to me and tells me he is really a good guy...'And I know...he doesn't bite.'

 

I finish my second bottle of beer, feel like maybe dancing, stand next to Mike and let him see me wiggle, inviting a dance.

 

He accepts.