JSDuke.com

Liar

by JSDuke

And you believe her. Of course you do. She seems so earnest, so guileless, how could you not? She's this sweet little thing with a pageboy haircut of thick brown chocolate and eyes like a pair of English toffees. You just want to put her in your mouth and suck on her all day. Her hands are quick and articulate, striking images onto the air as she tells her story. It's fantastic, sure, but she tells it with such breathy confidence, such evocative detail, that you can see it all happening in your mind as she speaks.

Anyway, this is a first date and you never tell a girl she's full of shit until you've gotten some off her. Especially when she's so smoking hot. She has her ways, and you have yours. Then she looks you straight in the eyes and says, "and then he just gives me the car! Just like that! Brand new Mercedes. Five hundred miles. Gratis."

"No way," you say, but not in the way that says you don't believe her--because of course you do--but in the way that says, "You're so lucky. I envy you." This is what she expects after all.

"Parked right outside. I'll show you after dinner."

Dinner, yes, the Great American First Date. Authentic Cuban food on South First with the infamously potent margaritas. Later, coffee and poetry readings. Or beer and poetry if you're very lucky. That was her idea, not yours. Poetry readings are just way too fucking high school for your taste. But it's the first date and she's calling the shots. Your job is to give her what she asks for in a way that lets her believe it was all your idea to begin with.

But for now you're having dinner. You're charming. You're witty and clever and hip. You're attentive and polite and, occasionally, you're naughty. You're such a good listener and she's so thrilled to finally meet someone who "really gets her". Yes, this is going to be easy. You devil. You rogue.

She does show you the Mercedes and you're surprised. Not because you didn't believe her fantastic story about the doped up movie star, but because it looks exactly the way you pictured it. Baby blue and chrome, white leather interior, even the fuzzy pink rabbit's foot dangling from the rearview.

"That's mine," she says, and pokes the foot with a finger. "Looks much better in a Mercedes don'tcha think?"

"It does look jaunty hanging there." You reach up a hand to touch it, but she slaps you away.

"Don't," she scolds. "That's bad luck."

So you apologize for your ignorance with fake watery eyes and blame it on your man-ness, which makes her laugh. Then she drives you to the poetry venue. The next couple of hours will be painful, but you watch her ass as she slides from the car and you don your courage like an ennui-proof poncho. This is going to be poetry hell. This is going to be angst-riddled mid-thirties teenagers trying to "out-deep" each other. This is going to be group therapy with a two-drink minimum.

This is going to be so worth it.

You find a little table in a wad of little tables crammed together in the too-small bar and order a pair of Negro Modelos. She takes hers with lime and so do you and hey, that's another thing you have in common. How 'bout that? It's noisier and livelier than you expected, and steamy hot from the press of bodies all around. It's too loud for normal conversation, so you touch her leg beneath the table when you want to get her attention so you can talk into her ear. You take a deep breath of her hair when you do this, being just obvious enough that you're sure she notices. After the third time, you leave your hand on her leg, stroking her thigh through the stonewashed denim as you order another round of beers.

The poetry slam--that's what they're calling it--isn't as bad as you'd expected. Oh sure, there are the sad-clown emos with their rhymes about ravens and shadows and tears-of-blood, but some of the others are pretty good. Some of them are even clever and funny. This makes you suspicious so you nurse that last beer for the rest of the night.

You're doing okay with your beer buzz and a handful of leg, and she's enrapt in the poetry, her eyes like hungry little toffees now. She hangs on every word, mesmerized by the awkward young poet's attempts to blend humor and heart into a deeply personal tale of heartbreak and personal discovery. That's how the poet would doubtless describe her metered tale. You describe it as a self-indulgent embellishment of the day her misogynistic boyfriend finally dumped her, forcing her into the desperate arms of that just-a-friend who (wait for it) was her true soul-mate all along. And they all barf happily vomit after.

But hey, you've got a handful of leg.

And afterwards you get a lot more. Your patience and charm are rewarded with open-mouth kisses, and license to let your hands roam where they will. Not bad for a first date, and it's getting better. She drives you home. Her home. Yes, this is going to be so worth it. You scoundrel. You rascal. You silver-tongue devil.

She's giving you what you want, but this first night is for her. She's way too hot to one-night, so you take your time and do for her because you want her coming to you for seconds. Nothing says "I love you" like five screaming orgasms. Was it five? You stopped paying attention after three. She's spent and exhausted before you get yours, and you hide your disappointment as you fake an orgasm in time with hers. You let your fevered brow rest upon her breast as you pretend to gasp for air. It's okay. Next time is all about you.

And, because you want her well and truly hooked, you stick around for pillow talk. Not that you mind having her finely carved leg draped across your waist, or the unnatural (but completely natural) fullness of her breasts pressing into your chest, it's just that there are more interesting things you could be doing now. But it is gratifying to listen to her whispering in your ear about how amazing you were.

And you were amazing. Truly amazing. You outdid yourself. You melted with her body like you belonged inside her, matching her hunger thrust for thrust. You were slow and gentle, and then you were forceful and a little rough, but then you were coy and teasing, too. And when you climaxed together at exactly the same time your semen filled her with that most intimate warmth, filling an emptiness she didn't even know was there.

And you believe her. Of course you do. It doesn't matter that you thought you were faking. Not anymore. She describes the scene so well, her pale little hands flashing vivid images through the steamy air above the bed. And it's the most exquisite deja vu experience of your life as you relive the encounter in your mind. It was wonderful, it was amazing, for you as much as for her. The best sex of your life, and you thank god you finally found someone who can satisfy you in ways you never knew you needed.

"But, we didn't use protection," you think to say, suddenly nervous, strangely hopeful.

"It's okay. I'm on the pill. I won't get pregnant."

Fears put to rest, you smile into her hair and drift arm-in-arm into peaceful slumber.

The next day it occurs to you that something is off about the whole experience, but you can't quite put your finger on it. You want to call her, you really do, but you restrain yourself. There's a two-day rule and the matter of control and dominance. Someone has to be on top and you're determined that it will be you. But despite yourself you are thrilled when she calls and asks if you want to double date with a couple she knows. "Of course," you say, all grins and giggles. You puppy dog. You cutie-pie. You hopeless romantic.

You hold her hand openly on the tabletop, fingers entwined. Her friend Gina is so glad that she finally found a nice guy, and asks how you met.

"Well," you start to respond, but she squeezes your hand and you let her tell it instead.

"We've been friends for a long time, you know. Just pals. But that day I had that fight with David and he broke my arm..." She lets go of your hand so she can tell the story her own special way. Her hands describe shimmering frescoes in the smoke and artificial light as she tells her friends how you took her to the hospital and held her hand in the waiting room for three hours before the doctor could see her. How she had cried on your shoulder as much from her broken heart as from her broken arm. She tells them how, afterwards in the parking lot, you consoled her and confessed the secret of your love for her.

And you're thinking, "hang on a second." This is all strangely familiar, but not because any of it is true. You've heard this story before, somewhere else. It's someone else's story and she's telling it as if it were hers. As if it were yours. But she's so very compelling, and as you listen to her voice you begin to remember how the emergency room smelled like urine and surgical alcohol and that dry electrical smell peculiar to vacuum cleaners. The way her hand trembled in yours as she rocked with the pain of her broken arm. How the doctor shook his head sympathetically and admonished her to "find a man who deserves you."

And how, in the parking lot afterwards, all those years of unrequited love compressed into a desperate coil of fear and hope as you confessed your love for her at last.

And how it had taken a broken arm for her to finally see that her true soul mate had been right there all along.

Beneath this flood of memories there is another, less distinct and fading away, dreamlike, as she finishes the story. A memory of an awkward young poet on a stage in a cramped little bar last night. But the memory is fading fast, and when she finishes her story that memory disappears forever.

You're embarrassed by the romantic history you share, and blush (in a very manly way you hope) as Gina and Tommy smile and shake their heads in wonder at the joy you've found. "We always hoped you two would get together," Gina says.

When dinner arrives you cut her steak for her since the cast she wears makes it too awkward. You grin sheepishly as her hand finds your leg beneath the table and gives it a squeeze. "I just know we'll be together forever," she says.

And you believe her.