The Fourteenth Post

I stood in the noonday heat, sweating and getting a farmer's tan, as she rifled through my old junk—a 25 disc CD-changer, and old TV/VCR combo, my books. I was stoned and drinking Laotian beer, my head buzzing, and I felt like a reptile; an iguana baking in the sun.

She was friendly. Attractive. In high end running pants and a tank, and sweating lightly from a brisk walk or slow jog. She told me later she was 43.

"What's good?" she asked.

"This box here? Probably all my favorites of the bunch. This is the box I hate to sell." It was harmless yard sale bullshit—I don't sell the books I love. But there were one or two compelling titles in there.

"What do you recommend?"

Through the haze, I started to get the feeling she wasn't interested in books—nobody gives a fuck how good a book is when they're 3 for a buck. So, feeling her out, I pulled out a trade paperback.

"This one."

"Why?"

"It takes place in post-war Germany. It's about a 15 year old boy, meets an older woman. They become lovers, but she disappears. Years later, he's a law student, and meets her again: as a defendant on trial for Nazi war crimes."

"Wow. That sounds good."

And then, she asked a question that threw me...

"Do you have any dirty stuff?"

A beat. Then...

"Yes—"

"—I'm really just kidding—"

"—I actually do—"

"—oh really?"

"Really."

"Great, because I've been working a lot. My husband thinks I've been neglecting him."

"Uh huh. Wait here."

A box of porn—Asian interracial, creampie honeys, 4 hours of cum shots—all held in escrow for a friend who needed someone to stash them because his fiancée was moving in, sat on my dining table. We'd both forgotten about it until I decided to clear out my garage. When I told him about it, he didn't even remember the box and didn't want it back.

I carried it out and laid it down. She opened it.

"Oh! Ooh! Which are the good ones?"

I laughed.

"I'll sell you the whole box for 10 bucks. Then you can watch them all and pick your own favorites."

"Deal."

She gave me $13 for the porn and some CDs and the books. I put everything in the box and carried it to her car up the street and put them in her back seat.

"So I might have to drop by and see if I catch you on your sidewalk again."

"Go ahead."

"Do you have an email address or number or something?"

"Yeah you got a pen in the car?"

"Here's my card. Call me or write me soon."

I took it, a real estate agent's business card with a head shot. She looked good. Toni.

I put the card in my pocket. My pockets were getting damp from my sweat. I watched her turn and adjust the stuff in her back seat and wanted to run my hand up her thigh and against her cunt to feel her mound through that thin material.

She straightened up and looked at me. It was hard to read her eyes behind her wide shades.

"Maybe you'll come over, we'll watch these or something."

"I'll call you this week."

My curls were sticking to my neck. And forehead and temples. My tongue felt thick. It was the heat. And the kush. And the Laotian piss. She was staring at my face and I realized with my lips slightly parted, skin damp and breathing a little hard, what I might have looked like.

She got in the car and left. She told me where her house was before she started her engine—she lived 3 whole blocks away.

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Thank you, Viviane, for featuring my last post in Friday's
Sex Blog Roundup at Fleshbot. Happily, trackbacks are working for me this time, but who needs them when I have Anna Smash looking out for me? She kindly informed me about this before I was aware.

Also, I'd love to get to know you more, Viviane—is having a Livejournal the only way to do this?

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Addendum: I can't believe I misspelled Viviane's name, twice (it isn't the first time I've used it and I've spelled it right before). Viviane, you were gracious enough not to mention this, which only completes my shame. I am such a stickler for this and am red in the face. I'm terribly sorry and must make this up to you if I can.