The Rubber Vagina Club (cont.)
 

I looked her over. She was a blond-pretty, but in a dull, pedestrian sort of way. She wore a black semiformal top and tight skirt, dark pantyhose, her face caked in too much powder. A good-looking girl to men who wore their t-shirts tucked into their comfortably belted jeans, but not my type. Still, I was a man with a rubber vagina in his closet.

"It takes forever to get a drink around here, doesn't it?" she said to me, sliding onto the stool next to mine. She was right.

"It's taking forever right now," I agreed.

"I read something interesting today," she said.

"Oh yeah?" I said.

"Yeah. They figured out why women are attracted to men. And it's not because of the way they look either."

Her flirtatious glance made me forget all about the contents of my closet.

"Oh no?" I ordered a drink and gulped it down like my grandfather used to do with cans of Busch Beer in the cement backyard of his one bedroom home in Alhambra.

"No," she said. "No." It's because of the way you smell. And if you don't smell right? Zippo. No nooky."

"So. Some scientists proved that you can't smell like shit and expect to get a lady?" I asked.

"No. That wasn't it at all. You gotta smell a little bit like the girl's father. Too much like her father and you're out. Not enough like her father and you haven't got a chance. No matter what you say. Or look like. Or how big your thing is!" she laughed. "You?" she said. "You smell just a little bit like mine, I think. I'm Jennifer by the way."

Jennifer was my angel. Jennifer was my savior. I could feel the confidence well up inside me as she touched my knee lightly with her fingers even though I knew there was something wrong inside of her head.

Jennifer got drunk, or more so than she already was. She was like a pull-string talking doll spewing out nonsensical phrases. She turned to me and said she wanted to dance. When I declined, she danced by herself, whirling-dervish style, knocking into tables where stunned and horrified customers sat frozen, forks to mouth. I wondered what was wrong with her.

A hooker, I thought to myself. She must be. Several times she whispered in my ear that she wanted me to take her somewhere else. She came back to me after her dancing episode, and I saw it in her eyes. A lunatic's eyes that vibrated and twitched in their sockets.

"Never let the money get to your head, Charlie," she said breathless as she grabbed my arm. "I let the money get to my head. Don't let that happen to you."

I didn't know what to make of that. She went on to say that she was recently separated from her billionaire husband from San Francisco and that she, and her two-year-old child, were temporarily living in the South Bay.

The child, the billionaire, her manic antics all combined to make me uneasy. I needed to get away. When she was dancing again, I sneaked outside for a smoke, thinking I would give her the slip.

She found me. She giggled and whispered in my ear so quietly that I had to feel the words to hear them:

"If you drive me home, I'll suck your dick," she said.

She stood up and fell backwards on the sidewalk. Spilling from her wallet next to her was a two-inch thick stack of $100 bills. I scooped up the money and stuck it back in her wallet and helped her up. I didn't let the money get to my head.

"I'm going to call you a cab," I said.

"I don't need a cab," she declared, "I have a Mercedes."

In the garage I found her next to a sky blue Mercedes sedan, frantically ripping through her purse.

"I can't find my keys. I've lost my keys. If they find out, they're going to take my baby." I took her purse and found her keys at the bottom. The garage attendant looked at her with a crooked smile, half-scared and half-amused. He zipped up his red jacket and turned away.

"I'll take you home. I'll drive. Get in."

We took off on to Wilshire Blvd. I didn't know if I was doing it to be kind or if I was just doing it for the pussy. I thought of Lila. I thought of stroking her cheek with my fingers, lying side by side in bed.

"When we get home, I'll give you five hundred dollars and I'll suck your dick." She smiled at me.

"Where is home exactly?"

"Palos Verdes." Jennifer pulled me across the seat and said, "Kiss me."

Her mouth was on mine quickly, a brief but warm exchange of lips and booze-soaked breath. The light turned green and we sped south on La Ciennega.

On The 405 heading south to Hawthorne Blvd., Jennifer would lean out the window, let loose jubilant screams and then sink back in her seat going silent. She awoke again when a pretty song came on over the radio. It was Bonnie Raitt singing with her sweet and powerful voice. Overcome by a mood of compassion, I squeezed her right shoulder as though I were someone who knew how to nurture another human being.

I felt the guilty, uncompromising sensation of an erection.

When the song ended, Jennifer went right back to being crazy. Her cell phone, which had been ringing all night, bleated another urgent chime. I think it was the theme to Darth Vader.

"Don't you want to get your phone?"

"It's just my fucking husband. Fuck him. I don't want it." Jennifer turned to me, "You have no idea who he is, do you? You're in so deep. If you knew who he was, you'd know how deep you were in."

I thought about asking who he was, and then realized I didn't want to know. We exited The 405 and drove the long stretch of Hawthorne Blvd. to Palos Verdes as Jennifer exposed her breasts to men in the car next to us.

She directed me to her house by waving her index finger at an entire block of homes. After a process of elimination, her clicker guided me into the garage of a two-story house with picture perfect views of the bright southern end of Los Angeles. We went inside and I hid Jennifer's keys in a box on the kitchen table. She turned on a big screen TV in the living room and walked down a hallway.

"I have to check on my baby" she said.

Had the baby been sleeping here the entire time? By itself? Would it still be alive? There was a re-run of The Jeffersons on TV. George Jefferson danced wildly on the back of his eccentric British neighbor. Jennifer came back out, pointed at the TV and yelled "Who the fuck is that?"

I looked. It was Weezy Jefferson, George's wife.

She put her arms around me and tried to kiss me. I let her. I could faintly smell vomit on her breath and resisted the urge to pull away and run to the sink.

Jennifer looked down at her legs.

"Oh shit," she mused, "there's a run in my stocking."

She flopped down on the thick white shag and stripped off her stockings. Her skirt hiked up and I saw that she wasn't wearing underwear. Was it real or rubber? Who could tell?

She became very serious and said, "I haven't had a man in three months. I'm so... horny. Will you fuck me? I want you to fuck me."

I wanted to fall upon her, take her because she was mine for the asking, even as I was repulsed by her. Then a sound rattled through the house. Someone was beating on the front door.

I was in deep. Maybe I should have asked who her husband was after all. Some rich Silicon Valley billionaire? She's 26; he's 34. He buys her cars and jewels and worries about her tendency to drink until she blacks out. Who the hell was afraid of a computer tycoon? I went to camp for basic programming when I was 13. There was nothing to fear from these people.

I sucked in my gut and boldly walked around the corner, balls first. The sight was shocking. I had expected a confrontation of a different nature than the bewildered elderly couple that was staring at the disturbing, bloodshot stranger in their foyer next to their daughter-who's skirt was pulled up around her bare hips.

I shook the mother's hand and introduced myself. I took her to the kitchen and, with the wink of a conspirator, showed her where I had hidden the car keys.

The mother was silent. The father still stood at the threshold, frozen in confusion. After a few minutes of explanation met with uncomfortable, quiet stares, I suddenly announced, "It's late. I should be going."

As I passed her father, I paused and smelled him. Underneath a thick fog of Aqua Velva, I detected the faint smell of limes and old milk. I turned around to see Jennifer waving at me and smiling as though she would see me tomorrow. I bent my head downward and sniffed at my shoulder. I didn't know what I smelled like. It would be a long walk.