With a careen that no one was ready for – sparks flying, stars shooting, planets flinging out of orbit – I flicked the mascara applicator through my lashes, hitting my upper eyelid. Pulling away from the mirror, disoriented, I catalogued the damage caused by my spastic use of the mascara wand, meditating on James Dean. Maybe too hard. I eyed my weapon, You were supposed to be used for good.
I haven’t worn makeup since high school, especially not when the Ches Del is my destination, but I’m playing this barbie doll cashier in a little game of psychological competency. This blonde, petite type gal that shamelessly admitted to screwing 87 guys without batting a perfectly manicured lash (in front of her grandmother no less) is the type that incurs a childish glee from getting reactions out of people. One of those girls with mean blue eyes that you’d beg her to make you cry with. Of course, I want her to straddle me with a machete between her orthodontic teeth, after freshly closing a sweaty shackle about the last of my carpals and tarsals, but I can never let her know how much I want her to suffocate me with her pussy. God, I hope she has a landing strip.
Anyhow, blondie paid me no mind our first night working together, while I prayed an atheist’s horny prayer to see her whip those black rimmed glasses from her apathetic visage, ponytail lashing & all. The second she caught onto my muff catching though, the spirit of friendliness suddenly inhabited her. Giving me little waves, with just the fingers wiggling, Audrey Hepburn style over a horsey grin; bumping those compact hips on me while we both saddled up to our fifth cup of coffee.
I knew exactly what she was up to, of course. And it was no surprise that her attempts at shaking me escalated by the week, in response to my sustained (painfully, painfully sustained) torpor towards each and every flick of that kitten’s tongue. I played it cooler than Jimmy Dean in the presence of a 35mm. But in the dead hours of hot august nights, known for skating by about as fast as a snail dragging an elephant by the tusks through a desert of sand, a war of the psyches was all we had for entertainment. By week three, the V-necks were so low cut, I could see the tiny blonde hairs, where every other woman’s cleavage would be, glinting under the fluorescents and evening sun. Knowing the gamble in exposing her less than ample bust, should I be a tits girl, she bustled up to me iPhone in hand, shoving her padded cups against my shoulder showing me a gif of a slim woman’s chest inflating into a rack that would put any oversexualized female Marvel superhero to shame – – the kind of dame you can buy from Russia via sketchy internet transaction through bitcoin. Following this presentation was a forced sigh, “See, I’m savin up fer one them boob jobs”; sputter of sorority girl laughter as she slumps her bare arm against mine. It’s not that huge of a letdown from the toddler tits it was replacing on my shoulder. Still. I enjoyed small tits just the same as meaty ones. It was the nipples that drove me crazy.
I liked ’em bristly as rose buds. None of this I revealed to her, of course. Tightening my grip on the iPhone, I muttered a distracted “hmm?”. The arrow hit its mark and she snatched the receptacle away from my snickering grin, sashaying out of the kitchen as best she could with a similarly threadbare ass. I imagined the tiny Mickey Mouse ears of that ass floating above my vision in the preferred doubled down, face-to-genitals coital embrace. Obviously she was as straight as Lou Reed before deviant sexuality became marketable, but again. What else were we going to fill a dead Thursday night with?
Carrie was clever enough to catch onto my dark sense of humor and wisely chose to drop the previous ‘look-how-cute-I-am’ gambit, donning a sarcastic attitude in its stead, rife with all the freakiest anecdotes from her childhood. We bonded on a few topics — enough for me to see that her wit stopped at manipulation tactics and hardly passed into the realm of existential dread that I was now learned in the act of floating upon.
The plus side to toying with a Ches Del woman that’s trying to wrap your zig-zagged form around her very vertical finger is that southern-type girlies, because of their backwoods socialization, escalate their flirtatious game up to the sexual level relatively quickly compared to the Sylvia Plath types I knew from school. So when her pride became wounded by my feigned fixation on the the Hooter’s poster girl, she amped up the arsenal, returning to the kitchen hastily to scoop at the soup de jour – a not-so distant cousin to gravy at good ole Ches Del – and casually mention she was an ass girl, anyways — “You know. If I was into that,” she smirked and bounced that booty back through the swinging doors.
Later on, when all the staff were soaking up the superior AC of the diner car, she opportunely maneuvered through, tapping everybody’s ass to prove her point. Carpet bombing the lot of us (saving me for last, of course) she returned to the feigned innocence in being ‘the cute one’ rather than defaulting on her reserves of maniacal nympho, accompanied by underdeveloped love-lumps.
“Wow! You have a soft butt,” she cupped my cushion and let it fall, the weight of the fleshy muscle encased in the hammock of my posterior. “Yeah,” I allowed the rusty door creak of apathy leech into my tone. She giggled,
“I like a soft butt” the heat of her palm hovered just inches from my dancer’s curves. I’d have you know that my ass is a lightly generous slope, but firm as hell when I’m in full-on prowl. The taut cheeks of a jungle cat, hardly moving as I traverse a mattress on all fours toward my mate. Her eyebrows raised, two barely perceptible paintbrushes across her aryan brow, scanning my face greedily for a reaction. A flinch of libido, a flutter of frenzy, a flush of rushing hemoglobin, a flippant, flipped switch signaling hormones to rush.
Cucumbers weren’t as cool as me. I dug my hand into the middle pocket of my apron. Visually suggestive as a gesture, until it emerged with my phone. The text was from my boss, but the schoolgirl smile I emitted caused domino after domino to crash in the associative imperatives of her mind, eliciting just the response I was looking for.
“Who you talkin’ to?” Keeping my eyes on the illuminated screen, I chuckled before shutting it off and meeting hers with an “Oh, nobody — excuse me, I gotta table to check on.” She rolled those pristine marbles in her skull and huffed a sigh, sliding Hey Sailor red fingernails across the mauve linoleum countertop, back behind the register. I fully believed that with the right prodding, I could induce exasperation, thereby channeling our collective boredom into at least a sexually charged cigarette break. Manager Margret (Marge, Maggy, Mags, Magillicutty – anything but the name she liked to be called) insisted we take cigarette breaks one at a time, but just the thrill of breaking the rules could cement a chemical association in her brain of yours truly, and a comrade called Thrill. It took the right finesse to break a straight girl on a mission, and you couldn’t be too obvious or rush into the seduction. It required a stretched out period of torture (Phase I), constantly reading her signs to see if she’s still motivated, offering a little give when she retreats into forfeit, then meeting her renewed strength with a readied exodus of cold shoulder to any twitch of her silver skin. You can’t expose your agenda. Have to let her feel as though it’s a real triumph, finally cracking the chisel into your panties.
This week started Phase II of my covert seduction. Phase I, snubbing her relentlessly to throw her into a frenzy of frustration and confusion, fueled by self-doubt about just how sexy she actually was if she couldn’t get even an accelerated heart beat out of this lezbo, was already through — though would be revisited should I fuck up somewhere along the line. Shake up her nice hot bath with a burst of cold from the faucet. Now I had to move on to develop a subtly appealing aura around myself. Be her friend. Ask her advice. Put her in the position of authority that she’s so desperately teetering on, shakily convincing herself that she still holds it. Even doll up the sex appeal on my side — make her feel a rivalry that, upon sapphic success, gives her the status of having scored a hot girl as her first female fuck. That’s all a straight girl wants. What with the petty, aged women on staff, gossip is Grade A beef compared to reruns of Judge Judy and complaining about how the mashed potatoes have gone down hill. Carrie would like nothing more than to scrounge up a gem of drama for the old maids to harp about loudly in front of the kitchen staff – and you just know how those dishwashers talk – making her the star of the diner. Not that I didn’t mind playing the supporting role, ahem, ahem.
Even more than status, I could see a desperation in her words as she clucked about her boyfriend of three years to Marge – her grandmother, our haggard manager – complaining that she hadn’t received a proposal yet. A much needed spark would have to be injected into that relationship that had undoubtedly hit the much-known standstill of a deficit in interesting things to talk about. I’ve personally never gone past 6 months before I could predict what my partner would say next or how they would respond to something I said. Save for the possibility that he was as dull as she, I guessed he was still in it for the pussy. Which Carrie was certainly aware of. All fuck and no substance makes Carrie a shit-out-of-luck spinster. At least when her looks fade. (I give her 2 babies before life delivers that lumpy, yet sagging parcel of a gift).
I approached the diner door through the smokers nook. The vintage winged sunglasses made everything colossally dark, so I made like I was feeling for the banister in order to lean against it whilst draining the last few puffs from my cigarette, but really, my vision was so dimmed by the ridiculous shades that I needed a reliable footing before I’d finally follow through on the plan: saunter up the steps like a movie star that got lost on the backroads and was just stopping in for directions. I reflected on how that would probably be more of horror story lead up, considering the rednecky chauvinists that bulls-eyed your nipples through the chunky vests we had to wear. Should probably play this more thriller/rom-com, unless I want to sink the vibe.
It was truly tough to look appealing, or even curvy in the Ches Del uniform, but I arched my back, tilting my sharp jawline towards the ceiling as I puckered around a perfect line of smoke. Well, it was probably a perfect line — the specs. I could feel her cruel glare piercing through the window opposite me, which I had posed in front of, anticipating her usual perch at the adjacent register. Always a stickler for details, I looked anywhere but the window, staring instead above the glasses at some looming cobwebs that almost threatened my height. Goddamn, this place is a dump.
If I caught her eye through the glass, the jig was up. She’d know this was all a performance for her sake, so I crushed the cherry into the heel of my nonslip kitchen shoe in blissful ignorance of even the possibility that someone might be observing my display. Of course, with the lenses – which may as well have been made of volcanic glass they were so black – its not like eye contact was even possible, much less seeing through glass with the early evening glare washing across it. Tail feathers neatly tucked, I catwalked through the doors, cooly swinging the shades from my face, imperceptibly checking that they hadn’t screwed up the mascara in the mirror paneled corner as I clocked in. After catching that my makeup was intact and lingering because, after all, I did look breathtaking, my eyes skipped to the register behind me. First, in passing, to be sure Carrie hadn’t scrutinized me checking myself out; though quickly darting back as they’d caught a withered old crone where a youthful playboy bunny should have been. I did a 180 and gaped for a moment at the lack of Carrie in the diner, before quickly converting my dumbfounded gawk into a staggered stroll to the coffee percolator.
An R10 rested next to Carrie’s name on the schedule. So I hadn’t blinked for the past 3 minutes for this gook making my lashes hit the plastic lenses, and it was all for nothing. That’s fine. At least the sexist geriatrics will be inclined to snag that extra fiver when they go honey dipping for their Cialis at tip-time. Bright side to everything.
Two Tables. Three hours. I was skating through the so-called dinner rush with dimes clinking in my pockets & fifteen bucks to my name. You don’t have to be so passive-aggressive-like, Universe. Come out and tell me what I did wrong. Eyes going all out of focus, I let them dip into the ceiling fan that went round in the black scrying shine of my fourth coffee. My guts were garbage. Making the change clatter, my phone buzzed against my thigh. Closest thing to sex I’m gettin tonight.
I opened a text from unknown number. “Is this Katey lol” my heart jumped. I had given nobody else my phone number, save for Carrie.
Who are you to be asking questions, I thought as I typed out “Who wants to know” into the prehistoric brick of a cellular device. Two minutes scraped by before my eyes were greeted with her response. I didn’t read it right away, timing my response as to suggest that my heart wasn’t pumping adrenaline throughout my body. To ensure that I never seemed too excited to talk to a dalliance, I take their response time, double it and add half of the original value to the whole sum, before I even allow myself to read the text. “It’s Carrie. Got a question .” My excitement cashed its check.
“Mhmm” I typed frantically, as my mouth resounded the sentiment. I no longer minded how loud I was talking to the non-present person in the empty dining room. She texted back right away this time. “Uhm, mayb this a weird question . Do yu want to have a 3way with me n my boy ;)”
Though her response lacked the punctuation, that was certainly a question to make my night. Play it cool. Play it cool. James Dean. “Send pics and I’ll think about it”