Kiss & Tell Page 2

  The time machine didn’t stamp.

  “What the fuck?” Willy said.

  She shoved the card in again. It still didn’t stamp.

  She looked at the card. It looked okay. She stuck the card back in and hit the time-stamp machine with her open palm. This time the machine stamped her card. And stamped her card. And stamped her card. It wouldn’t stop stamping her card.

  Willy grabbed the end of her card and tried to pull it out of the machine. The card ripped in half.

  “Damn it! What the fuck is wrong with you!” Willy yelled at the machine. She slapped it repeatedly until finally it spit out her mangled time card. She crammed her card back in the employee time slot and went to the back room to begin her workday.

  The lights were off.

  That was weird. The lights were never off during work hours. “What’s going on?” She whispered to herself. Then it hit her. It was her birthday and her boss and co-workers were planning to surprise her. As soon as she flipped on the lights they would jump out from behind the machines with a cake, wearing those stupid pointy hats, and blowing those god-awful curled-up horns.

  Willy hated surprises. “I know what you all are up to. You can’t surprise me.”

  She found the light switch to the right of the doorway and flipped it on.

  Nobody jumped out at her. No cake, no horns, no surprises. The room was empty.

  “What the hell?” Willy retraced her steps down the hallway and stopped before her boss’s office door. She knocked. No answer. She slowly opened the door, turned on the light and looked around the small office. “Anybody here?”

  That was when she heard the sound of crying. Sniffling. “Marie?”

  Marie was Willy’s boss. She owned Nothing But the Tooth. Willy followed the sound of snuffling to behind the small metal desk. That was where she found Marie. She was sitting on the floor with her knees to her chest, crying into her hands.

  “What happened? Were we robbed? Do you want me to call the police?” Willy asked.

  Marie shook her head. “We’re out of business.”

  “Huh?”

  Marie waved a tear-stained piece of paper at Willy. Willy scanned the legal document and it only took about three seconds for her to realize that they were being evicted for non-payment of rent.

  “How long have you not paid rent?” Willy asked.

  “Sixteen months,” Marie said. “It’s the economy. It seems that getting your teeth fixed is a luxury now. People can’t even afford groceries, how are they going to get a crown? They’re just getting the teeth pulled instead.”

  Willy sat down beside her boss. They didn’t speak. Marie pulled a bottle of bourbon out of a drawer, unscrewed the cap and took a long swallow. She offered the bottle to Willy, “Drink up.”

  Willy sighed. “Why the hell not?” She took a big drink, grimaced and took another. Marie went back to her crying. Willy sipped from the bottle and wondered how much money that homeless guy pulled in on an annual basis.

  The G-Spot

  Allistair was 1/10th owner of the women’s bi-monthly magazine The G-Spot. She was the sole reporter, Op Ed writer, and columnist. She was the Allie of the nationally syndicated and celebrated column “Ask Allie.” Allie was known for giving sage advice to the broken and lonely hearts, peppered with household tips and recipes.

  The G-Spot was housed on the top floor of Rhonda’s downtown Seattle apartment. Rhonda was rich. Excessively so. She was so rich that she didn’t even know how much money she had. She was so rich that she didn’t even have a last name. She didn’t need one. If you went anywhere in the elite circles of Seattle and mentioned the name Rhonda, everyone knew who you were talking about.

  Rhonda wore turbans and caftans. She was seventy years old, bald and white, but she dressed like African royalty. She wore dozens of pottery bracelets on her arms and was fond of big gestures. She sounded like a one-woman percussion band when she gesticulated.

  Rhonda was straight. She was the worst kind of straight. She was straight and hated men. That made her very cranky.

  Allistair hated Rhonda. Well, hate might be too strong of a word. Allistair felt pressured and bullied by Rhonda. Rhonda owned the other 9/10ths of The G-Spot and used this as leverage to do what she wanted with the paper. And if there was one thing Allistair hated, it was being told what to do.

  Allistair took the creaky elevator to the top floor of the building, traipsed down the dark hall, unlocked the office door, turned on the lights, plugged in her computer, printer, fax machine and fed the office cat, Tilda. This was Allistair’s favorite time of day. Rhonda didn’t roll in until noon so Allistair was free to work as she pleased, when she pleased and on what she pleased until then.

  Allistair stared expectantly at her computer screen as it booted up and her email messages loaded. She squealed with excitement when she opened her email program. Just as she was hoping, there was a letter from 0699 waiting for her.

  Allistair anxiously opened and read:

  Dear 0873,

  I simply cannot wait until tonight! I woke up this morning and my first thought was of you. Is it really possible that tonight we shall meet and I will finally have you in my arms? Is that too forward of me? I cannot think of anything but how you must feel, smell and taste. Oh my! I shall have to take a cold shower.

  I will be sitting at a window table of The Bourgeois Pig with a book in my hands awaiting my one true love.

  Love,

  0699

  Allistair sighed deeply. She loved her emails from 0699. How was it possible that her heart fluttered more by a single email than it ever had over a flesh and blood woman? Allistair adored how 0699 didn’t use contractions. And how she used the word shall instead of will. It showed how cultured and refined she was.

  Tilda jumped into her lap and mewed. Allistair scratched her behind the ears and Tilda turned on her purring engine. “I know, Tilda,” Allistair said. “I’d purr, too, if I could.”

  0699 was the love of Allistair’s life. Allistair knew that 0699 was her soul-mate and perfect partner. They had done exactly as Allistair had coached many women to do in her advice column: form a firm foundation of friendship before becoming physical. Allistair and 0699 had spent six months communicating only by email. They were a match made in heaven, and Allistair knew that tonight would be a mutual meshing of mind, soul and, yes, perhaps even flesh.

  After tonight, Allistair would no longer be single. She would finally be able to change her status on Facebook. She would no longer be the oldest living lesbian who had never overlapped from one relationship into the next. She couldn’t wait to bring 0699 to the next G-Spot potluck fundraiser and show her off. All those hoity-toity lesbians with their vegan casseroles, and the sugar free, gluten-free, no-animals-harmed-during-the-making-of-this-sexual-lubricant activists would be creaming their panties over 0699.

  Wow. Where had that hostility come from? Allistair laughed lightly. She must be horny. She always got a little aggressive in her thinking when she had too much sexually charged energy and nowhere to put it.

  After tonight she’d have somewhere to put it, though. “Isn’t that right, Tilda? I meet my soul-mate tonight. I might even have some hot sexy sex tonight.”

  Tilda purred louder.

  Allistair’s love vibes were rudely interrupted by the sound of Rhonda and her pottery bracelets. Allistair took a deep breath. It was only nine o’clock in the morning and Rhonda’s pre-noon appearance could mean only one thing: She had been awake all night writing.

  “There you are!” Rhonda exclaimed, barreling in the door. Her turban was askew on her bald head. “You’re late!”

  Allistair frowned. “I’m exactly on time.”

  Rhonda waved a sheaf of papers in Allistair’s face. “Hurry and type this up! I want it in this issue!” Rhonda exclaimed. Rhonda always exclaimed, she never simply said anything. Every word, every sentence she uttered sounded like there was an exclamation point after it.

  “What is it?
” Allistair asked.

  “It’s my seminal masterpiece!”

  “Oh?” Allistair said, feigning interest.

  “I stayed up all night writing it! It is entitled,” Rhonda waved her arms, “Vagina Is Not a Dirty Word! I explore the notion of self-love and coming to terms with our womanly flower as the center and strength of our femaleness!”

  “Wow,” Allistair said. “That is… news-worthy.”

  “You bet your sweet patootie!” Rhonda said. She thrust the papers at Allistair and with a theatrical swoon worthy of Sarah Bernhardt sank into a chair.

  “I’ll type this up right after I work on my…”

  “No! Type it up now!” Rhonda commanded. “You can write your little advice column after this is done!”

  “Right,” Allistair said. But what she was thinking was, “That little column is in every paper in the United States and Canada. That little column is the reason people even buy The G-Spot.”

  Allistair straightened up the papers and began typing. Unknown to Rhonda this is what Allistair typed: The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy yellow dog. I hate Rhonda. Rhonda is a bitch. I have to stop typing this. She could see me. And then she would fire me. I need to smile and act happy. Smile. Remember your gratitudes. I hate Rhonda.”

  Reverse Cowboy

  Willy didn’t leave Nothing But the Tooth until three o’clock that afternoon. It took her that long to drink all of Marie’s bourbon. She was piss-eyed drunk when she fell through the front door and onto the sidewalk. She weaved over to the street sign and blinked at her bicycle.

  Correction. She blinked at the spot where her bicycle used to be.

  Willy’s brain synapses were so soggy with alcohol it took her ten seconds to realize her bike had been stolen. The only thing left was the chain and lock sitting in a puddle where her bike once was.

  Willy wasn’t surprised. Not at all. Of course it was stolen. That fit right in with the rest of her day.

  Willy stumbled down the sidewalk, dragging the chain behind her. Maybe the two-mile walk home would sober her up.

  ***

  An hour later, Willy was still drunk. And now her feet hurt. Men’s lace-up oxfords were not made for walking long distances. That reminded Willy of that old Nancy Sinatra tune “These Boots Were Made for Walking.” She hummed the tune all the way up the stairs – until she fell. She fell up the stairs. That was funny. Only she could fall up the stairs and not down the stairs.

  Willy fished around in her pocket until she found the door key. It took three attempts for her to get the key into the hole. She turned the key, pushed open the door and fell inside.

  She had to stop falling. This was getting to be a habit. Willy lay face down on the cool kitchen floor. The linoleum felt so good against her cheek. Maybe she would take a little nap. Just a wittle bitty nap-nap.

  She was almost asleep when she heard something. What was that? Was Afton home? “Afton?” Willy whispered hoarsely. “You here?”

  “Right here, baby,” Afton said. “Come and get it.”

  That was Afton all right. And it sounded like she was in the bedroom.

  “Take off your clothes,” Afton said.

  Willy grinned. Now this was a surprise she could get into. Afton was ready to celebrate Willy’s birthday naked-style.

  Willy levered to her feet and shook off her shoes. She raised one foot and rolled off her sock while hopping around the room. She unbuttoned her trousers.

  “Take everything off and do it to me,” Afton said.

  Willy didn’t need any more encouragement. “I’m almost there, baby,” Willy huffed. She squirmed out of her shirt and vest. She probably should have taken the vest off before the shirt, but too late for that now.

  “I want you to straddle me,” Afton cooed. “Ride me. Ride me like a nasty cowgirl.”

  “Okay, okay, okay, I will,” Willy panted. “Gimme a second.” Willy shucked off her sports bra and boxers. She shuffled to the bedroom and struck a pose in the doorway. With one hand behind her head and the other on her hip, she said, “Happy Birthday to me in my birthday suit.”

  Two people on the bed stopped moving.

  Willy stood up straight and rubbed her eyes, cartoon-style. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Some big-tittied, big-haired woman was straddling Afton in the reverse cowgirl position.

  “Who are you?” Willy asked the cowgirl.

  “Who are you?” the cowgirl asked back.

  “I asked first,” Willy said.

  “Awesome,” the cowgirl said. “Wanna join us?”

  Willy went ballistic. Roaring like an enraged bull, she charged the bed. Unfortunately, she had accidentally not taken her boxers all the way off and they were still around her ankles. Shackled by her own underwear, Willy tripped. She flew through the air, bounced off the end of the bed and torpedoed out the open window buck-ass naked.

  That was when Willy had her first piece of good luck. The downstairs neighbors had a trampoline directly under the window. Willy hit the trampoline with both feet and bounced back up into the air. As she sailed by the same window she had just cannon-balled out of, Willy caught sight of Afton and the cowgirl. They were still doing the dirty on the bed.

  “She farts in her sleep!” Willy yelled as she sailed past the window.

  She hit the trampoline and bounced back up. This time Willy yelled through the window, “She fakes orgasms!”

  She hit the trampoline again and flew by the window yelling, “She’s a registered Republican!”

  This time when she hit the trampoline she only bounced a little, then less, then none. Willy lay on her back, panting for air and feeling more than a little queasy.

  Afton leaned out the window and stared down at her. “I only fake orgasms with you,” she said.

  “Well, don’t I feel special,” Willy muttered.

  Afton slammed the window shut and Willy passed out.

  Ask Allie

  The following is an excerpt from the nationally syndicated column Ask Allie:

  Dear Allie,

  Is there such a thing as love at first sight? I think it’s all a load of crap designed to sell Hallmark cards and romance novels.

  Sincerely,

  Non-Believer

  Dear Non,

  You are not alone. Many people don’t believe in love, let alone love at first sight. Those people will never know the joy of sharing their hearts, minds, souls, and bodies with another human being.

  My advice to you is to open your heart. Let the love flow in. Quit being such a Grinch. It’s not too late to change.

  Did you know pickle juice stops muscle cramps? The next time you get a charley horse, drink a shot of pickle juice and the cramp will magically fade away.

  Sincerely,

  Allie

  The Bourgeois Pig

  Willy sat at a table by the window. She held the complete work of Charles Dickens in her hands. She had the book opened to page 273, and was pretending to read. How had her life boiled down to this? She grew up poor in rural Arkansas and had moved to Seattle to find her true destiny. Instead she was middle-aged and sitting in a downtown bistro with no money in her pocket, wearing somebody else’s clothes, and holding a stolen book in her hands.

  When Willy had woken up on the trampoline, no longer drunk and with the beginnings of a helluva hangover, she had darted back inside the building and tried to get inside her apartment. The door was locked and her keys were in her pants pocket. And her pants were on the other side of the locked door.

  She pounded on the door and hopped from foot to foot. Her worst nightmare had come true: she was naked and in public.

  “Afton! Open this door right now before I bust it down!”

  There was no answer.

  “I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow this door down!”

  Still no answer. Willy pounded until the door shook and her knuckles were red and raw. Old lady McGhee in 2B opened her own door, poked her scrawny neck out, took one look at Wil
ly’s bare ass and slammed her door shut.

  Willy sank to her knees and bit her lip to keep from crying. If she cried it would all be over. She would be admitting defeat and they would have to haul her away to jail. Or the crazy bin. If she started crying, she wouldn’t stop. She struggled back into a standing position because she didn’t want her bare butt touching the nasty hallway floor.

  Things couldn’t possibly get any worse than this. It wasn’t humanly possible. Was it?

  Willy fig-leafed her hands over her most private parts. She ran down the basement stairs and into the building’s laundry room.

  Aha! Her luck was changing! There was a load of clothes spinning in the dryer. She opened the dryer door, pulled out a shirt and pants and a pair of tidy whities.

  She put on the warm red and purple bowling shirt and gray chino pants. The clothes were much too big, but at least they were one step above being naked. She put the tidy whities back in the dyer to continue their drying cycle. No way was she going to wear some strange man’s underwear. Even she had her limits.

  She found a pair of flip-flops near the stairs so she put those on, too.

  Now with her nakedness covered, Willy walked out of the apartment building and flip-flopped down the street. She was on a mission. She would go back to Nothing But the Tooth and find Marie. And if Marie wasn’t there, she would break inside and stay there tonight.

  She was walking by The Book Nook when a book flew out of the store and hit her in the head.

  “Ow!” Willy spun and stared through the open doorway of the small bookstore. “Who threw that?”

  There was no answer.

  Willy rubbed the knot on her head and picked up the book. It was an exceptionally hefty-sized collection of the complete works of Charles Dickens. Holding up her pants with one hand and the Dickens like a weapon with the other, she crept to the doorway. She flattened her back against the outside wall just like how cops do on TV. She peeked around the corner and peered inside.