GIRL 93
ISRAELI AIR FORCE GIRL
PART 2
(Continued)
The point here is that all the pre-date prep work for Girl 93 was done solely by my traitorous penis, Tyrannosaurus Rex. I had no memory of it. And that disturbed me. For one reason, it had never happened before. Always it was I who hit on the girl or received the hits. I was the one who either set the early relationship on course or wobbled it badly. If Rex were there, it was him leaning over my shoulder giving advice that I frankly ignored most of the time. After all, what the hell did Rex know about matters of the heart?
Not this time. From the initial flirtation to the ending of my pre-date shower and dressing ritual, it was all Rex. I was absent. I remember walking out of my townhouse surprised that I had the wrong car keys in my hands. The SUV, an old black Toyota 4Runner, was parked ten steps outside my front door. The keys in my hand had a polished stainless steel tag that read "SALEEN."
It was August, but suddenly the summer melted away and it was April again, and I sort of "came to" at my computer and stared at the Ebay screen. I had just bought a fingernail polish red Saleen Mustang, an aftermarket bastardization of the Mustang GT, with a Hurst 5 speed, a tricked-out engine and exhaust, and gigantic 21 inch bright chrome racing rims at all four corners. The crazy boy-racer go-kart had four hundred horsepower of fuel-injected fury and cost more than a shiny new Corvette. Now what the fuck was I doing staring at an Ebay "congratulations for buying this car" screen?
It had been Rex, buying a sexy penis-mobile for himself. Making the enormous payments was only one of the problems this car presented, though that would soon become a bigger issue. It was that this sleek, exotic barely-legal street racer was in my parking lot and the ex-wives, both furious with me for a laundry list of ex-wife bitches, now had hard evidence that I was more affluent than I told them. How could I explain this? Tell them that Rex had bought it? Both exes hated Rex, and I think the trauma of that is what led to him becoming a separate personality.
I walked up to the red Saleen. It was hard not to smile at it. It was gorgeous and sexual, with a raw, blistering confidence. This car said in block capital letters, SUCK MY COCK, BITCH. And since I'd had it, women did. Perhaps not on the first date, but by date two, there were wet lips wrapped around the grinning face of Tyrannosaurus Rex in that glove leather bucket seat.
Still, I was furious at Rex for this disaster, both financially and socially. It was hardly the car a 47-and-a-half year old drove. Why couldn't you get a Porsche like every other mid-life crisis guy, I asked him one day. He smiled and tossed off this answer: "This is what I would have bought if I'd ended up attached to that pro football player God promised me. But no, I get an impoverished, starving writer/artist geek who should have been given that tiny weeny that never worked." Somewhere, there is a pro linebacker who has been compensating all his life for his shortcomings in the penis department. The car had been for sale since I had taken delivery, but who in his right mind would want a hopped up Mustang for an amount of money that you could buy two Mustangs for? Rex didn't give a shit about money, I realized. He only wanted eight things - female mouth, pussy, asshole, left breast, right breast, left hand, right hand and face, the places where he loved to paint his sperm murals in heavy, rich, creamy cum.
I looked around me, then down at myself. I was dressed in a black sport jacket, jeans, Timberline boots similar to what Rex and the supreme being favored, dug up from a closet somewhere, and a black Polo shirt with a black T-shirt underneath. It was like waking from a dream. I knew I was supposed to drive the Saleen to a first date, but other than a dim memory of talking to Rex about Girl 93 before, I couldn't remember her.
As soon as I climbed in and fired up the V-8, the rumbling exhaust seemed to summon the spirit of Tyrannosaurus Rex to the shotgun seat. He was clipping the end off a Cohiba cigar with a solid gold cutter, then lighting it with another gold accoutrement of his cigar-smoking lifestyle.
Shouldn't you not do that in the car? What if someone wants to buy it, I asked.
The usual Rex grin. "That'll make it much more difficult to sell my baby, now, won't it?"
Asshole, I said.
"No, asshole is my next door neighbor," Rex replied. The joke was getting worn.
Where to, I asked.
"Brew Pub," his deep voice said as he puffed the cigar to full power.
I threw the Saleen in gear and laid a patch leaving the parking lot. Goddamned drive train was simply too powerful to keep the tires on the pavement. This car could burn rubber in fourth fucking gear.
We arrived at our parking space and together we walked toward Nassau Street, across from Princeton University, the famous locale of the Triumph Brewing Company. Sure, it had been a hangout of mine and Girl Zero's, but what the hell, it was too damned good to leave to her side of the ledger.
Tell me again about this date, I said.
Rex puffed the stogy as we stood out front. "Israeli Air Force Girl."
Wait, didn't you tell me something about her before? After Anal Third Base Girl when we were fleeing the scene of the crime?
He smiled. "Yeah. I showed you just a glimpse of her."
I didn't remember.
"Wait till you hear her voice."
Why?
He rolled his eyes so far back into his head there was nothing but white. "It's this impossible-to-describe part-European, part-South African, part Middle Eastern lilting speech. It's enough to make me trip, fall and spill the cum long before I'm ready. You think French accents and British accents are sexy? Wait till you hear Israeli Air Force girl. You'll lose it."
You like her, I said. It was a statement, not a question.
He clapped me on the shoulder. "Mikey, this is The Girl. Capital T. Capital G."
I took a deep breath. Okay, I said. Tell me more about her.
"Jet black hair. What's that phrase you're always ripping off from Hemingway?"
'Her hair was black as a raven's wing,' I quoted. I put it on the head of every love-interest female in my books and waited for an editor to say, um, how about not stealing the description straight from Hemingway this time, but so far, no one had caught me.
"Well, imagine that framing the face of Cleopatra. She has eyes so wide and so dark they will swallow your heart. Cheekbones so perfect she could be a covergirl for any of a hundred fashion magazines. A complexion so smooth and creamy and adorable, the ideal canvas for some of my cum artwork. The cutest, most elegantly shaped nose the supreme being has ever crafted - he knows you dig the nose." He smiled at his alliteration. "And thrown in as a bonus, a superb jawline and cock…sucking…lips." Rex's tongue shot out for just a moment, wetting his own lips.
Is she tall, I asked.
"No. A bit over five feet. She'll fit right here, just like Eve did in the crook of Adam's arm."
Is she fat?
"You'll like this. Her tits are so perfect they could be in a sculpture. You'll long to hold them, touch them, lick them, kiss them, suck them - "
Are they fake?
"No way, man. Real as I am."
I wondered if he were joking.
And what about her legs, her ass, her hips, her arms?
"All textbook perfect. She was a trainer for the Israeli fighter pilots. She spent years being an adventuress like her father, who dragged the family through the wilds of Africa as a bush pilot."
So she's still wild?
He shook his head. "She has a teenager. Full custody."
Jesus, this one was goddamned marriage bait. Maybe I could find a flaw.
So there's a divorce in her past?
My follow-up question brewed in my mind. Did she cheat on him or did she shut him down sexually, provoking him to cheat on her?
"No. Sister's kid. They live in Israeli Air Force Girl's house in a swanky neighborhood not far from here. Not sure what the deal is, but now Israeli Air Force Girl is a model citizen. She's got a career with her in the big chair. Finance type. Mover and shaker. You'll love her."
I frowned. How old is she?
Rex grinned an evil grin. "Thirty."
The color drained from my face. Thirty. You brought me here to meet a heart-breakingly beautiful thirty year old. Who has jet black hair, Cleopatra's perfect face, a gorgeous toned body, and a kick-ass career that supports her and her teenager. The panic must have shown in my voice.
"What's the matter?"
YOU FUCKING MORON! I screamed. A dozen people on the sidewalk of Nassau street suddenly turned and stared at me. I tapped my ear as if I wore a Bluetooth earpiece for a cell phone and started walking away. The crowd nodded as one - I was going off on a business associate on my cell phone, not screaming at an invisible apparition.
"What?" Rex asked, looking for the first time in a year like he'd been slapped. The last time I saw that look on his face, it was when he was mourning the loss of Girl 6, the lovely, sexual and immortal Alayna.
Does this bitch remind you of ANYONE we know, you fucking IDIOT? I couldn't help screaming, but I'd grabbed Rex by the sleeve and dragged him down the alley behind the Schwab building where his ridiculous red sled was parked.
"No," he said, confused. "N-n-no." When he was slapped, like he'd once been by the stuck-up bitches in high school, he stuttered.
I was furious. Goddamned Tyrannosaurus Rex had set me up. He'd taken over my personality completely to conceal this from me. Had I known any of this I would have wobbled this hard and aborted it before it began.
"Mikey, listen to me."
It was too late. I was already hurrying to the Saleen.
"Come on, we're almost late, we gotta get in there!"
I walked on, ignoring him, until he spun me around ten feet from the car. Before he could say a word I screamed at him.
Hair black as a raven's wing!
"Yeah," he said, sheepishly.
Cheekbones that could sell Oil of Fucking Olay!
"Well, yes."
Beautiful as Cleopatra!
I kept pounding the nails into the coffin of the date.
Creamy complexion!
Wide dark eyes that could swallow your heart!
Cocksucking lips!
A perfect set of perky little THIRTY FUCKING YEAR OLD tits!
A perfectly round, smooth ass! A heart-shaped pelvis! Adorable legs! Small feet! All that perfection in one, dark haired, thirty year old package! With an amazing accent to go with it all! Right?
Rex stared at the asphalt. I'd never seen him cry, but his eyes had swollen and he wiped at them so I wouldn't see moisture.
AM I RIGHT?
"Yes," he said sheepishly. "What's so wrong with all that?"
Oh fuck you, I said as I pointed the remote at the Saleen and unlocked the door. I turned away but he spun me to him again, his face a mask of agony.
"Please," he begged.
Behind him a second version of me walked up, but he was dressed in the brown leather jacket and Nike black wrap-around shades.
You, I said accusingly to the supreme being. YOU sanctioned this?
But the supreme being ignored me and just took Rex aside for a moment, then returned to the side of the driver's door.
"Rex's description reminds you of someone," the supreme being said.
I was more respectful to the Creator of the Universe than I'd been to Rex.
Yes. You know who.
"No," he said. "Tell me out loud."
Girl Zero, I said. Same age, same appearance. She's a Girl Zero clone.
"Don't call her that," he commanded. "She's one of my better creations. She has a name."
Sorry, I said. Her name is - I swallowed, realizing I could barely form the sounds with my mouth - Patricia.
"No. Say her name."
Puh. Puh. Patti. There. I said it.
The supreme being looked at me.
"The new woman isn't Patti," he said. "You can't run forever from thirty year old women with dark hair and dark eyes."
Oh come on. Every single detail Rex just described is HER. It's 1994 all over again. What is this, some kind of sick joke? Do either of you realize how much this hurts?
"She's your type," the supreme being said. "All your life you loved women with dark hair and dark eyes, who weren't too tall, with nice bodies."
No, that's not my type, I insisted. I like tall slender blondes with big breasts. Don't you remember, even on these very streets, from 1995 to 2003, every tall slender blonde who walked by us, nay, every blonde whether thin, fat, short or tall, made me break my neck staring at her. Girl Zero - I mean Patti - constantly hated me for it. She used to say, 'why don't you just leave me for a fucking blonde? Blondes are your type, not brunettes!' So why can you look me in the eye and admit I love blondes?
"It was I who loved the blondes with the big tits, the skinnier and taller, the better," Rex suddenly blurted. "YOU were the one who loved the brunettes."
I didn't understand. So why are we here? If I don't want to see her, and Rex's type is blonde, why don't we leave? We'll stand her Israeli ass up.
"Because, I changed Rex's type for you," the supreme being said. He was about eleven years late with that miracle, I though.
As if to confirm the claim, Rex nodded eagerly. "I want her, Mikey. I really want her."
Well, gentlemen, I said, making the toughest face I knew how, fuck you both. I'm not going in there.
In that tenth of a second I thought I'd gotten away with it, with telling the very creator of the universe, to shove it up his holy ass. In that moment I weighed every ounce of pain I felt at the loss of the woman I'd loved so much that I'd taken her to the altar and put a platinum, sapphire encrusted, diamond ring on her finger despite the horror of my first divorce, and the total was ugly, it amounted to the tonnage of a supertanker so overloaded that its gunwales skimmed the waves.
And then my consciousness winked out. One second I was reaching for the door handle of the Saleen in the fading sunlight of a Saturday afternoon in August, and in the next my hand was in the exact same position in front of me, but the outdoor light had faded to the sepia mellow glow of the front of the bar of the Brew Pub, and I was reaching out to take the hand of Girl 93, Israeli Air Force Girl.
(Continued)
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