Another set of older photos; these are from June 28, 2014. I worked as a volunteer photographer for ACE, which encouraged me to stop and ask people to take their picture “for ACE”. Included in those photos are Joel Hodgsen (of Mystery Science Theater 3000), and professional body builder Lou Ferrigno, who played the Hulk in the 1980s. Both of them graciously allowed me to snap a photo without having to wait in line or pay a fee. Please do not use these photos without permission. Click on any photo to see it full size.
Archive for the ‘marriage’ Category
Posted by O'Maolchaithaigh on November 25, 2014
Posted by O'Maolchaithaigh on January 25, 2012
Posted by O'Maolchaithaigh on September 10, 2011
Haven’t had many dreams that I remember in some time. Maybe it’s because I sleep poorly. At any rate, my ex-wife was in my dream this morning. I hadn’t seen her in four years until just recently, when I spotted her dancing at a Salsa event one night. That was something we always did, mostly every week for fourteen years, so it upset me to see her dancing, knowing we could never dance again. She was on my mind for weeks after that, almost all the time. Spending time recently with my siblings and cousins, and laughing with them, broke the spell, and I hadn’t thought about her as much.
Suddenly, I’m dreaming about her this morning. In my dream, I run into her at a party at a friend’s house in the mountains. She asks me to go home with her, so we are driving up this steep mountain road to her place, somewhere deeper up in the mountains. She was always a drinker, so she has concocted a way to drink while driving. She is wearing one of those camelback water bags that hikers use, except that it is filled with wine. She attempts to take a drink from the tube but is having a hard time getting it to stay in her mouth. She is driving, and I realize she is drunk when she swerves across the road into the opposite lane of traffic. It is very late at night, so there is no other traffic, but there is some light snow on the highway, left over from an earlier storm. I am not concerned, as she has slowed way down, aware she is in the other lane. When she gets the wine tube in her mouth and takes a long swallow, she attempts to move back into the right lane when we see headlights behind us. So, she stops the car, on the left side of the road on the shoulder. When the car passes, I look at her, realizing that she never used to drive when drunk. It was always my job to drive her home. I am wondering why I am not driving. I am wondering why I am with her at all, except I know I am still sexually attracted to her. Jokingly, I tell her that drinking WHILE driving will make them throw the book at her. She tells me to get out. It is cold, the wind is blowing powdery snow around the highway. I can’t believe she is serious. I tell her I was only joking. I want, after all, to go home with her.
All this thinking wakes me up: wrong part of the brain for dreaming, I guess.
I am left wondering why I would have a dream like that! Of course, the car ride could have been a metaphor for our marriage, but I don’t know why I would invent such an elaborate story. Perhaps I am correct, and it was a metaphor.
In a car = in the marriage
Worried about car ride = worried about marriage
Not in control of the car = not in control of marriage
Unwilling to get out of car = unwilling to get out of marriage
Warning her in car = telling her I was unhappy, wanted counseling
Cold, snow, mountain = there be monsters outside marriage
Pissed her off; she says get out = pissed her off; she said I had to go
I guess I never resolved that whole thing. I need to let go; thought I had.
Posted by O'Maolchaithaigh on March 2, 2011
She said to me that I was lazy, that was why I was with her, that I was too lazy to look for love. She implied that was why I loved her. I think she felt she wasn’t good enough for anyone to fall in love with. She also said that I didn’t love her, I loved everyone. She was a hard person to love. She would not tell me she loved me, and, it’s likely she didn’t. She was never affectionate; she never touched me on her own. She was rarely passionate. I could touch her, but not too much, usually only after sex, and then we could cuddle together for a short while. If it was sex on the rare night, she would turn away quickly to her own spot on the far side of the bed. If it was a weekend morning, then she would get up shortly after sex, so the cuddling was short. She slept late on weekends, and told me never, ever, to wake her. I woke early on weekend mornings, and I waited for her to wake for hours sometimes. Over the years, she began to sleep late, wake up suddenly and jump out of bed before I could touch her.
Sometimes she would let me put my arms around her while she worked in the kitchen, but she wouldn’t stop what she was doing. Usually she’d move away or brush me off. She seemed to like it sometimes, but never for long. If I persisted, she said all I wanted was sex.
She never came to me for sex. Sometimes she allowed it; that was my impression. I liked sex, sure; never seemed to get enough. I liked sex with her, even though it was so one-sided. During the four years we dated before marriage and for a few years after that, we’d often had sex multiple times in an evening. One morning, I remarked to her in surprise that we’d had sex five times since the night before, and she was shocked; she didn’t remember the middle-of-the-night sex at all. That puzzled me for years. It was rare for her to orgasm, and she said she didn’t mind. She once told me that she had orgasms in her sleep. She thought that was the only time she had them. I knew better. She would orgasm during sex, sure enough, but only after a night of drinking. She had to be really drunk, and her body arched, and shuddered, and sounds came from deep within her chest. Afterward, she passed out. It was years before I found out that she just didn’t remember such things. I always thought it odd that she said she never had orgasms, no matter what I did, when I’d heard her moan softly and felt her breath quicken. And she breathed hard and fast and I kept going as long as I could, and her excitement excited me and I’d go crazy with lust for her. I never wanted to stop when she seemed to actually be enjoying it. I never knew if I pleased her, or if I disappointed, because she never said anything. After years of marriage, she would often just signal that that was enough, and I should stop.
I finally put it all together. It happened one time that we were out of town, staying at a motel in Santa Fe. We ate dinner and drank a lot. We drank way too much, and the increase in altitude made the drinks work faster, and we headed off to bed. It was not often, away from home, that she’d agree to sex, but this night was different, and we both got our clothes off quickly. She said that she had to use the bathroom. I don’t know when she came back. I woke up shortly afterward to find her nude, and asleep. It was a hard night for me in both meanings. I was aroused by her nude body always. She was out cold. I once heard a neighbor tell how he often had sex with his wife when she was passed out drunk. He loved for her to get drunk. That wasn’t me, however. I couldn’t see having sex without mutual desire, or at least acquiescence. I snuggled up to her, but I couldn’t fall asleep. I was aroused, probably because it had been awhile, and also she was nude in bed, which didn’t happen anymore. She always slept in a heavy nightshirt and socks. In the summer she’d wear something lighter, but always there were the socks. When I could snuggle with her, I’d get my hands inside her night clothes to feel her warm body, but often not until she was asleep. She always said she was too hot. She insisted on sleeping under a thick comforter all year long. She said it made her feel good, but she would throw it off several times a night.
Once, on a cold night, I awoke shivering and found neither of us covered. I pulled the comforter up over both of us, which woke her up. She asked me why I’d covered her. I told her it was cold; I thought she’d want to be covered. She yelled at me, angrily, to never cover her or uncover her. She thought I had been uncovering her at night.
On this particular night in Santa Fe I couldn’t sleep. It was a combination of the excessive alcohol and my desire for her. I tried falling asleep, but I couldn’t. I felt her soft belly and cupped my hands around her breasts. My rock-hard penis was nestled against her ass, and it wouldn’t settle down. I felt the curve of her hips and her soft thighs. I caressed her arms. I dared to rest my hand on her mound. She never woke. I was restless and excited. I wanted her so bad. Towards morning I was exhausted. It had been a long night. I dozed off only after light came in the crack between the heavy curtains, but not for long. I woke and dozed, woke and dozed, always with a hard on. Finally she was awake. I snuggled up against her, touched her, kissed her, and she pushed me off, gently this time. I persisted, however, and she said, “We already had sex.” I was incredulous. “What! We didn’t.” I told her she was wrong, that I would know. She insisted. She said that since she was naked, she knew we’d had sex. I struggled for words. It was impossible. There was no stickiness, no wet spot on the bed, no smells, and besides, sex is not something I have ever forgotten. She insisted we must have, but, after a quick trip to the bathroom, she came back to bed and agreed. It was too late for me. I was dead tired, and hung over. My penis was not very stiff, and I couldn’t keep it erect for more than a minute. I had to just give up. She said nothing. We got up and went to breakfast.
But, after that, I knew why she thought she never had orgasms, why she thought we didn’t have sex when we had, and why she thought we’d had sex when we hadn’t. She blacked out. She is one of those drunks who doesn’t remember what she did the night before. All those times we had sex after Thursday night dancing and drinking – she didn’t remember it. I think she remembered mostly the morning sex, the quick rushed sex because we both had to go to work. Years of long Thursday nights, and lots of sex that she would never remember. Orgasms she would never remember. My efforts to please her for nothing. I enjoyed the sex, but it was only a chore for her, something one does for someone else’s benefit. Did it mean she loved me? I guess I’ll never know. She never said. It’s been four years since I’ve seen her. I wrote her, without a reply. I sent her a book with a note in it, asking if we could get together to talk, see if we had misunderstood each other, if there was anything to say; she said no. I called her when her daughter had to travel to Texas for surgery, offered my help, offered to drive, share a motel room, or buy her a plane ticket. She said she’d think about it, that her sister might fly in from LA and go with her, but she never called me back. I called her and she said her son was taking her, and she didn’t want me there. My step-daughter said not to come, that it would just upset her mom more than she was already.
She lives alone now, as do I. She told her daughter once that she had never been alone before. She’d gone from home to marriage, and even after her first divorce, she’d had the kids with her. Now she is alone. She has her alcohol, and her phone and her sisters and friends to call long distance. Her son calls her nearly every day or she calls him. But, she doesn’t need anyone. She thinks she has always been this way, because she doesn’t remember when I held her hand, when I cuddled her, when I touched her and fucked her, and loved her, and only her, for all I was worth. She just doesn’t remember when someone really loved her, and when she thinks of me at all, she knows I didn’t love her, because I just love everyone.
Posted by O'Maolchaithaigh on September 29, 2010
When I was a very young man
I asked my father to please tell me
Will I get lucky Will I get laid
Here’s what he said to me
Que sera, sera
Whatever will be, will be
The future’s not ours to see
Que sera, sera
What will be, will be
When I grew up and fell in love
I asked each lover what lies ahead
Will there be love and sex every day
Here’s what my lovers said
Que sera, sera
What will be will be
The future’s not ours to see
Que sera, sera
What will be, will be
When I was just an old man
I asked my shrink what should I try
Could I fall in love again or fucking give up
This was his wise reply
Que sera, sera
Whatever will be, will be
The future’s not ours to see
Que sera, sera
What will be, will be
What will be, will be
Que sera, sera.
Posted by O'Maolchaithaigh on February 11, 2010
I remember tasting
in your navel
ran my tongue
between your legs
into your sex
your red almond
Posted by O'Maolchaithaigh on January 15, 2010
A new year. It was a new year. It was the first new year whose coming I had not celebrated. I had not anticipated such a new year.
After a fourteen-year marriage, I was alone. The house I’d lived in, worked on and renovated was lost to me. She had that. I would keep my future pension. That was all.
I was uneasy in my new place. Winter-bare trees stared in my windows. I stared at the rented walls, the rented high ceiling, the rented hard brick floor. It didn’t feel like home. It was the nicest place I could find. It had all I needed, a small kitchen space, a nice bathroom, two bedrooms and a fireplace in the living room. I had my books, my old vinyl, my 16-year old TV. Still, I felt like a visitor, as though this was a hotel room far from home. It seemed cavernous, empty and cold.
After almost four months there, I decided I was going to have a Christmas tree, but I had no ornaments. eBay to the rescue! Over the next two months I found and purchased dozens of old glass ornaments. I’d remembered the thin glass ornaments my parents had decorated the tree with every year, many of them German, family heirlooms. Online, I found indents, and double indents, and triple indents! There were multicolored ones, all fragile, large and small, and round ones, tear shapes, bell shapes and cello shapes.
I had walked down the street to the neighborhood tree lot. They brought in-state trees down from Mora every year. I carried my tree home, as though I had walked into the forest and chopped it down myself.
Once decorated, the tree stood there silently all through Christmas. As the new year arrived, I’d grown to accept it as part of my house. The place seemed more like a home. On New Year’s day, I built a fire and kept it going all day, for just me and my tree.
Posted by O'Maolchaithaigh on March 6, 2009
The moon, low to the horizon and huge, has a reddish tint to it tonight. I tried to take a picture when I got home, but it was behind the trees already.
I watched it heading west on my way home at 3 a.m Friday morning, in the western hemisphere, North America. It was not full, but the light it reflected on a clear night was spectacular.
It reminded me of the scenes on the red surface of Mars in the movie I had just watched. Watchmen. The only movie I’ve watched in a theater in over a year. The only movie I’ve ever gone to see the first showing of, and at midnight to boot. I read Watchman, the graphic novel, many years ago. Still have it lying around. Impressed me then, and the movie impressed me even more. Damn, that was a spectacular movie. Special effects aside, the graphic depiction of human nature qualifies it as literature, in my opinion, so it ought to be hailed as such. That was one movie that surely tapped into the words and made them even more visual than the two dimensions of the flat page. Of course, imagination has no bounds when reading, so the pictures, the colors, the artistic vision are not necessary, and so neither is the movie. Nevertheless, this is how we entertain ourselves, and ideas must be presented as entertainment. The story, the book, the movie: all are superbly murderous, bloody, violent, tragic, lusty, depraved and, yet, somehow more than that, and much more than entertainment.
Such a story. Is it a tragedy? It ends with horrible destruction, then hope, and finally, a theme that runs through the entire movie ends it: mankind sucks. We could do better, but we don’t. Even the noblest among us would sacrifice millions to save billions, and lie about it. And the lie provides the hope for humanity, and, in the movie’s ending, the lie is about to be exposed.
Of course, I had hoped to have seen the movie with Karen. She’d heard about the graphic novel, but it was out of print. She hadn’t tried to read it sooner because it was DC comics and, not Marvel. Growing up, of course, I knew about the superior writing in Marvel comics, the multifaceted characters, the gray areas of truth and right and wrong, and the real life, love and rejection, paying bills, death, and jobs and tiny human dramas on the sidelines of every larger action. The stuff that goes on even if you’re a superhero. Karen admires that about Marvel and doesn’t care for DC comics. I told her it was worth reading. By the time I found my copy, it has just been reprinted, and she had already bought a copy. She hadn’t read it last time we spoke of it, so I’m not sure what she thought. We have similar ideas about war and peace and science and fiction and religion. We’ve read many of the same books, seen many of the same movies, and admired the best of humanity in all of it. Unfortunately, the difference in our ages prevents us from seeing something like Watchmen together.
[aside: ran into Karen at the coffee cart later this very day. I had to have coffee to stay awake after getting maybe one hour of sleep after this movie. She smiled and forced a wave to me when she got in line. I was talking to someone, so I waited until she come over to sprinkle cinnamon on the whipped cream on top of her iced mocha. Told her I’d seen Watchmen, and she asked me about it. Told her how exciting it was, and the crowds there. Asked her, since it was Friday, after all, if we could meet for lunch later. She said she was having a working lunch. Said she had to go. The oddest thing of all was that I asked her if she had ever read the copy of Watchmen she had bought. She got real defensive; said she’d read it two years ago! But I know she bought it only recently, when the second printing came out, and I had even asked her if she’d read it, and she said no, that she hadn’t had time yet. Now, suddenly she read it two years ago? That doesn’t make sense. Something is very odd here.]
When I asked her if we could see Silver Surfer together – that’s when she let me know. She said, “That would be like a date!” with a look of horror or disgust on her face. “Inappropriate.” That’s the word she used many times. Inappropriate for me to ask her out, to want to meet her after work, see a movie, have a drink, give her flowers. Even leaving aside my romantic interest in her, she can not even think of me as friend outside of the workplace. I rarely see her anymore; we work in different buildings, for different departments, but, occasionally have lunch still.
As intriguing as Watchmen is, I still found part of me wishing I could watch it with Karen. I didn’t ask her. I know it’s beyond her to imagine going somewhere with me. She’d rather go to a play, like Monty Python’s Holy Grail, with her uncle than with me. I guess old men are OK if you’re related to them. It’s not even sad anymore to think about. It’s something I’ve had to accept, like my former wife telling me I had to move out, or she’d call the police, tell them her life was in danger. Very effective. Very legal. I could have challenged it later, but by then, I’d have been out, and why would I want to live with someone who’d done that to me? And Karen. How nice it would have been to tell her about all that, to have a friend I could talk to, who would listen. She wouldn’t listen – it was also inappropriate to speak of anything personal. I’m not really sure why. I could understand a woman not wanting to hear about my disintigrating marriage or the end, when it came. But, even later? Long after the divorce, she wanted to hear nothing of it. Of course, sometimes I think it was just because she didn’t want to encourage my inappropriate feelings for her.
But, life goes on. Sort of. In Watchmen, life goes on, but the underlying tensions are not gone. Even the deaths of so many millions can ultimately have been for nothing. I understand the characters in the story who speak of the pointlessness of it all, that we have exactly the society we wanted. We are violent and selfish and greedy and murderous. Perhaps we’ll never change. We cringe at horror, but do little to stop it. We even participate in our own little ways.
And me? I go on for some reason. Inertia? I don’t know. I move along with work, with my union activities, with reading, and movies, and guitar, and hiking, and it’s not doing a whole lot for me. If it were doing something for someone else, perhaps I could accept that as my motivation. I’m just not really sure I care about anything anymore. I was happy enough being married to someone I loved, even if not every day was a good one. I could have gone on that way for a long time, maybe forever. When it fell apart, and, abruptly it was over, I found myself insanely in love with Karen. I felt so good, so alive, so ready to fall in love all over again. It was exhilarating to believe in love, to think I could actually have the “in love” feeling again. That would have given me a real reason to enjoy life and want to go on. The chances seem slim now. I feel a great sense of accelerated aging, of death coming soon, but I don’t fear death. I would like to be happy while I’m alive, but perhaps it’s just not possible anymore. I don’t even know what would make me truly happy. Karen. Well, there’s her, and my feelings for her. I’d certainly be happy being with her, but it cannot be. So, I seem to be rejecting all possibilities that come my way: the old girlfriend back in my life, the other former lover living close by, the union sister who tried to interest me in dating a friend of hers, or even herself – why am I so withdrawn, so quick to misunderstand, so quick to push people away?
Posted by O'Maolchaithaigh on February 11, 2009
Another Valentine’s Day. People make fun of the day, and criticize it as meaningless commercial promotion for the greeting card and candy companies. I’ve often found, however, that when I’m in a serious relationship, it is satisfying to do something nice for your lover on a day that is dedicated to love. Once I didn’t, by mistake, actually. I was one of those who felt that gifts or flowers as sentiment should come spontaneously and randomly, and I acted on that. However, I knew, without a doubt, that my lover at the time would want to be treated special, so I had a plan. Since I rode a bicycle every day to and from work, it was difficult to range very far in getting flowers, which is what I thought most appropriate at that time. And, of course, arranging to have them delivered never occurred to me. Every day, I passed a flower shop on the way home. I had never had a real girlfriend or lover to buy flowers for before, and had no idea how early one has to buy these things. However, the shop would certainly have had some kind of flowers left, even if they weren’t roses. So, I left work, and headed home, climbing the slope of “nine-mile” hill steadily. I reached the flower shop, and THEY WERE CLOSED! As in shut down and moved away. Crap. I couldn’t believe it. I knew of none other within miles, and I was expected at home anyway. I went home, and promptly told my love what had happened, and she said it was OK, and no big deal. DON”T EVER BELIEVE THAT. It is just not true. Later, after she’d left me for someone else, and we’d become friends again, years later, she told me that’s when she changed her mind about me. She was actually pretty upset. She met this guy coincidentally the next day, and she became interested in him.
Be that all as it may be, however, I’ve been with many women since then, and I never screwed up like that again, always giving flowers and treats, and not because I had to, but because I wanted to. So, I like Valentine’s Day. However, since that last divorce and my subsequent unrequited love infatuation and rejection, I don’t think much of this approaching day of love. It sucks, really. I added a note to myself on my appointments calendar for the 14th: Kill myself. Now, it’s unlikely I will. For one thing, I’ve gotten really interested in learning guitar, and I practice every day. I understand a little bit of the nomenclature, and I’m training my fingers, and making slow progress. It may take a long time, but I think I can do it. So, since I want to see how well I can do, I should stick around a bit longer.
Before this, I joined the Mountain Club, however. I went on four hikes, up and down hilly terrain, for lengths of 8 to ten miles, and enjoyed it. Loved the slowly increasing strength and stamina, but I haven’t been hiking since January 1. I used to go hiking on level ground about 4 miles every Sunday before going mountaineering, but I haven’t even done that. Now I’m focused on guitar. I wonder if I can keep my interest in that? Or will I lose the excitement that grips me now? If I do, will I decide there’s no further reason to keep on living? or will I find another item on my bucket list to throw myself into? I can’t predict, just can’t tell.
Posted by O'Maolchaithaigh on October 16, 2008
pussys are patient
women are not
men are impatient
mostly about sex
woman can take that
mostly they leave it
what women do want
is ‘our’ own house now
to spend ‘our’ money
to travel and dine
to eat and drink wine
to party and play
you don’t get a say
all for ‘us’ today
now and now and now
but sex tomorrow
I do prefer cats
but I love women
Posted by O'Maolchaithaigh on August 29, 2008
mom throws things
yells at Dad
Dad yells at Mom
Mom threw a glass at me
broken shard cut my leg.
Dad, angry knocked me
into walls or
my breath out
from across a table
leather strap too
didn’t faze me
when he falsely accused
and slapped me
one way and back the other
and back again and
his hand swung
and I snapped
knocked him down
and raised my foot
his head in
smash his brains
he caught my leg
in powerful arms
never hit me again.
35 years later
calls me a liar
coffee cups in our hands
I empty mine at her
she throws hers in my face
and I snap
What is wrong with you?
escapes my lips
between clenched teeth
and I slap one way
and the other and swing
my open hand
to slap again
with fingers only
but she backs away
and I sit in my chair
and smash a remote
against a wall
I am my father.
she calls the police
domestic violence, she says
I’m in a domestic violence situation
I listen from my chair
disbelief replaces anger.
the police come
while I clean up the coffee
she is not there
cops are suspicious
stained rag in my hand
no one else around
oh shit! I think
yes, of course, come in
search the house
she is not here
I don’t know where
I show them neighbors
where she might be
they find her
tell me I have to leave
counseling for me
anger management for me
She tells me to stay
unless it ever happens again
It never does, but
she keeps drinking
angry happy sad up and down
demanding and hard
belittling and mean.
I left all that as a boy
but, now, in love
I can’t leave her
my heart beats
in a hollow
year after year after year.
Posted by O'Maolchaithaigh on January 17, 2008
She thought she was totally cool. I found her irresistible. Her jet-black hair caught my attention, and hell, wild women always attract me. The red dress and the sensuous way she was poured into it riveted my attention on her. I introduced myself, sitting down on the empty stool to her left, and flexed the muscles under my tattoo. Roofing work gives me muscles and a nice tan. The booze was insidiously working its way to my brain. I said, “Did you see the sky turn scarlet at sunset?” The long slow pull she took of her whiskey put the diamond on her finger in front of my face, long enough for me to take notice. “That’s a good one,” she said with a wink, and the words poured out slowly, friendly, “Yeah, I suppose you can sit here.”
This could get ugly, I thought. That ring sent streaks of light flashing through my retinas and bouncing around my brain while she talked. She kept asking questions and watching my reactions. She bought me another pint of stout. I’d been thinking of leaving, just saying good-bye and walking away, but I couldn’t refuse. She asked me what I’d read lately, and I had to confess that all I’d read lately were the channel listings in TV Guide. I didn’t know if “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” was even a book. She rattled off the titles of half a dozen books: Tuesdays With Morrie, Sex and the City, The Bone Collector, The Perfect Storm, Night Train, before I recognized Killing Floor. I don’t know why, but I didn’t even try to fake it; I admitted I had bought it, but hadn’t read it. When would I have had time to read?
She asked me what I thought about putting a road through the petroglyphs. Did I think the Forest Service should log 600-year-old Ponderosa Pines in New Mexico? Did I think the new Governor had deliberately exceeded his authority in signing the Indian Gaming Compact? This is the hardest bar room mating ritual I’ve ever run across. I asked her if she’d ever watched Babylon-5 on TV, and she didn’t know what that was. I tried to explain the show. “Oh,” she said, “I don’t care for science fiction; it’s too predictable.”
Frankie, the bartender and a damn good tattoo artist, put a bowl of pretzels in front of us, and Carmen excused herself to go pee. I grabbed a fistful of pretzels, and watched her walk away, totally absorbed in her walk. There was confidence in the way she carried herself. Now’s my chance to leave, I thought, popping pretzels in my mouth. That diamond ring on her finger mortified me. I thought about jealous husbands and tall boyfriends. I thought about fists and guns, and quietly slipping out of back doors. Did I really want to do this again? I gave it all too much thought, because she was already coming back. I heard her boots clicking on the wooden floor, and turned to see her adjusting her red cowgirl hat, angling it slightly over one eye. She had the other eye on me. Well, what the hell, I thought, I’m a weak man. I went fishing for compliments. I asked her if she liked my tattoo. “Yeah, I like it,” she said, “It reminds me of the one my husband has on his butt.” Well, there it was, the code word, husband, for “You’re barking up the wrong tree; don’t bother me,” but she certainly seemed available. I didn’t ask about the husband – perhaps I should have. If she wasn’t going to talk about him, then why should I? I wanted to keep my cool, pretend I didn’t care about husbands. The truth was, I didn’t really care about the whole institution of marriage; there was nothing sacred about it to me. I didn’t know anyone, including my parents, who was still married.
However, I did remember the tall blond guy in the pickup, demanding to know if I was fucking his wife. I remembered the trucker waiting outside the bowling alley to avenge his dishonor. And I thought about the others, the guys who never knew that their wives or girlfriends fooled around, and with more than just me.
The band played a nice high energy electric country. I two-stepped with Carmen. We drank. We danced through two sets, and I asked her if she’d like to come home with me. “No,” she said, and, “I have to go,” she said, but, “Would you like to come to a party tomorrow night?” she said, finally. I told her I did, so she wrote down the party address on the back of a deposit slip from her checkbook. I stashed that paper with two addresses in my wallet, stuck it in between two twenties I knew I wouldn’t need until the next day, and walked her to her car. “Nice car!”, I said. It was a little green MG, low to the ground, dual carburetors, bucket seats. I was impressed. I kissed her before she got in. She wrapped her arms around me, and sucked my lip into her mouth. After just a few minutes of stuff like that, she poured herself into the seat. “I’ll see you tomorrow night,” she said, and the engine roared. She winked at me, and peeled out of the lot.
The party was rolling by the time I got there. I was late since I’d been at the bar all afternoon. The front door was open and I strolled in. Carmen saw me right away; she must have been watching the door. “Beer’s in the fridge,” she yelled at me, from the other side of the room. I didn’t know who her husband was, or where he was, so I just waved at her, and grabbed a Mickey’s wide-mouth off the shelf from behind the Jack Daniels. Hmm, cold Jack Daniels, I wonder whose that is? I didn’t have to wonder long, because Carmen was there before I could close the door. She grabbed that bottle and took a god-awful-long swig, and then sloshed some into a glass. She never said a word to me, just planted her lips, sticky with Jack Daniels, on mine. She tickled the base of my tongue and I forgot to breathe. My lips throbbed with waves of pleasure. My mind took a vacation. She squeezed her left arm under my right, and steered me somewhere. She pulled me into a room along the hallway from the kitchen, and closed the door. She snapped my buckle open, and yanked on my pants. I pulled away from her a moment to unbutton my shirt, and her dress was off – fell off of her like it was made to do that. Well, I won’t bore you with the details, but when it was over, I was higher than a Carlsbad bat at sundown. It was hard to get dressed after that, what with all the kissing each others lips and other parts, but we finally managed it, and as we kissed again, there was a knock on the door. Carmen turned the light out.
Man, oh, man, that wasn’t a good idea, I was thinking. “Carmen, are you in there?” I heard a man ask. Carmen didn’t say anything. “He knows you’re in here,” I said. She turned the light back on, and the door opened. Sure enough, it was another tall one, blond, Aryan looking, at least six-foot-three. At five-eight, I’m impressed by that. He looked at Carmen, looked at me, spun on his left heel, and walked away. Carmen went after him. I went back to the party.
I danced a snappy Reggae tune with a pretty woman whose boyfriend glowered at me the whole time, then headed back to the kitchen, looking for something to eat. I found Carmen there. “We’re leaving,” she said. “Are you going to be alright?” I asked, feeling guilty, but admiring the way her clothes caressed her body. “Oh, it’ll be OK,” she said, “We have to go home and talk,” and she hurried out of the kitchen. I found a half-eaten green-chile-chicken enchilada casserole in the fridge, and wolfed the rest of that down like I hadn’t eaten in days. Actually, I probably hadn’t. The next night, I went back to the bar. Frankie poured me a Guinness as soon as he saw me. “Well, what happened partner?” he asked, “You left all of a sudden last night. Did you shack up with that pretty little filly you were with?” “Yeah, I did,” I said. “Well, how’s come you’re here now? You can’t be tired of her already?” he asked, winking, as he wiped the bar around my glass. So I told him the whole story, and he asked what I was going to do now.
“You know, Frankie, I think I’m going to have you ink some clothes onto that Elvis tattoo.”
© 1997, 2010
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