GIRL 17
COMBAT STEWARDESS GIRL
Her name was Krystal. Her profile’s tag line was, “Fly Me.” And in the
paragraph description of her and whom she wanted to date was the line,
“So, Mister, what do you really want? Coffee, tea or me?”
After our email exchange and phone conversations, I pulled up at her
gigantic Brick Township beach house. I stood at the front entrance and
marveled at the majesty of the house.
She opened the door and smiled. No doubt about it, she was pretty, and
had a killer smile. We had a glass of wine on the back porch. I’m not
sure where this went so wrong, but I suspect I was intimidated by the
location of meeting her. It was as if she were protecting herself,
hiding behind this million dollar juggernaut of a house.
By the third glass of wine she confessed to me what she was into. She
wanted to hit. You want to what? Hit, she said. She said she thought
that if she were allowed to slap a man, it would give her a badly
needed sense of power that would make her feel more sexual.
I sat there with my mouth open for a half-second. I thought about how many times in my life had I put a sexual request out there to a special woman, only to be either accommodated with white knuckles and a bad attitude, or simply turned down. Apparently, now it was my turn to be asked to accommodate a sexual request. I could hardly criticize my old girlfriends for their crinkled noses at my sexual idiosyncrasies if I did the same thing they had.
I looked Combat Stewardess Girl in the eye. “Okay,” I said. “I’d love that.”
Her eyes widened. “Really?”
“I can’t say I’ve tried it before,” I said. “But let me have it.”
I put down the wine glass, and immediately her stinging slap spun my head around.
For the next two hours she would hit me, in various states of dress and undress, inside, outside, upside down. When the hitting finally ended, she took me to her bedroom and undressed me. While I lay on the bed naked, a huge hardon there tempting her, she turned away from me and disappeared into her walk-in closet and started modeling her clothes for me. One outfit after another. Different accessories. This purse. That purse. These shoes. Those shoes.
I’d arrived at seven in the evening. The last time I remember looking at the clock, it was three in the morning. I faded out, her hands never having touched me.
At six my eyes opened. I donned my clothes in stealth and made it all the way to the driveway before she caught up to me.
Wait, where are you going, she asked.
Home, I said.
“But, you didn’t fuck me yet,” she said, a catch in her voice.
No, I said, I didn’t.
I climbed into the truck and backed out of the driveway and headed home.
This time, there was no debriefing with my traitorous penis, Tyrannosaurus Rex, nor any sarcastic comments from my supreme being pal. Evidently, my mistakes were obvious.
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