True Colors

All Me

by Chris from Surviving Myself

“Well that doesn’t surprise me.”

The words fell out of John’s mouth just like that. No hint of emotion, just a statement, kind of like when someone is talking to their Mom and has zoned out halfway through the conversation, so everything they say sounds exactly the same. — “Yeah Mom” and “I don’t know. Yesterday?”

A monotone reaction. That’s what John had to the notion that I had just purchased three snacks for myself, rather than one Big Snack for the group of us, like my girlfriend, my friend and his girlfriend had done. He had no real reaction because John is a good friend of mine, and anyone who knows me knows that I am myself all the time, and myself = someone who generally cares only about me.

I find life easier this way.

When Dave (my friend), Ari (my girlfriend), John, Sarah (his girlfriend) and I decided to go upstate to visit Lake George and stay in a cabin and drink a lot and maybe play Frisbee until our hands hurt, I knew that we’d be arriving there late in the evening. I thought about this as we took our rented car out of the city and zoomed up the long, boring highways that lead to the secluded lake.

Thoughts were twisting in my brain while everyone else in the car talked amongst themselves and made fun of me for making a mix cd with Peter Gabriel on it. John in particular was not fond of my selection.

“This makes me not like you,” he said.

I was Unphased, of course, because I was thinking about My Hunger and My Needs.

As the night went on and we got closer to the cabin, we decided it was a good time to get food, since Lake George would have nothing open when we got there.

We found a gas station that didn’t look too much like a haven for redneck ax murderers and pulled over. As we all climbed out of the car, I was already envisioning my snacks.

I could smell them.

I could taste them.

I could hear them. “Come eat me Chris. No, no one else wants us, we are here all for you. You are hungry, so eat, my dear Chris! Eat like the king you are!”

I think this last Food Talking Moment happened as everyone else discussed what would be The Best Thing For The Group.

So as they all browsed and selected big bags of chips and things that everyone would be sure to enjoy, I selected a small bag of Harvest Cheddar Sun Chips (AKA crack), a king size Twix and a little pack of Ritz Bits with peanut butter.

Heaven.

I was feeling Proud Of Myself. I had selected a fine group of snacks that would please me in many ways – the Sun Chips would be nice and salty, the Twix would be pleasantly sweet and the Ritz Bits would soak up all the Bud Lights that I intended to consume while yelling at people for cheating at Scattergories. Of course they’ll say that I was cheating, but that is not the point. I was ready for the night - that is the point.

It was when I was standing in a glow of Snack Success that I noticed everyone had already paid for their snacks and was waiting on me to do the same.

I made my way to the register, briefly considered purchasing a local newspaper based solely on the fact the headline read, “Boy Gets Too Close To Bison,” decided against it (which I now regret), and paid for my food.

My friends had already made their way to the car, so I ran to catch up with them. As soon as I caught up, John glanced over and asked me what I bought.

This was my time to shine!

I smiled proudly. I acted like I forgot, like I hadn’t hatched a brilliant plan to satisfy all my needs, and looked in the bag and relayed my booty to all.

I pulled out the Ritz Bits and said, “Oh, let’s see. These little babies!” Then extracted the Twix, with a “And oh snap!” and finally yanked the Sun Chips out for all to see by proclaiming, “Yeah, I gots me some Sun Chips bitches!”

By this time we had arrived at the car and I noticed that everyone was looking at me with a slightly surprised expression.

Of course I assumed this was because they were marveling at my Food Finds.

But that was not the case.

Ari spoke first.

“But what did you buy for the group?”

Sarah chimed in next with, “You bought stuff just for you? No one else???”

Then, after a brief moment of silence, Dave.

“Dude, we all bought food that everyone would like and you went in there and just bought a bunch of shit for yourself. What the fuck?”

I decided it was time for Defense, so I replied, “Well, yeah! I mean, I like Sun Chips, so I bought them. You guys can have some too!” This, somehow, did not convince them that I was looking out for anyone other than myself.

Then came the “Well that doesn’t surprise me” from John.

I looked at him. He shook his head. I shrugged my shoulders.

We all climbed back into the car in a strained silence, and I tried one more time, “But really, who wants a Ritz Bits? Anyone? I’m offering you some right now!”

But it was too late.

They knew me. They knew the true me. Someone who does not particularly enjoy Thinking About Others, and someone who was going to have to painfully part with at least one Twix bar before the night was over.

True Colors

Father’s Day

by

The Underblawg

Mimi thought our dad was pretty good. He wasn’t home much, but Mom said that was because he was an important man, and people everywhere wanted to know what he thought about things. “He misses you when he’s away,” she told us. “That’s why he always brings you presents.” One time, he brought us bright green T-shirts with drawings of dancing toucans on the front. “They’re from Caracas,” he said.

One Saturday, Mimi skipped into my bedroom. “Daddy’s here today,” she said smiling.

“I know.”

“Daddy loves me better than you because he calls me ‘Sweetie.’”

“I’m a boy. You’re not supposed to call boys ‘Sweetie.’”

“Mamma calls you Sweetie.”

“That’s because she’s a girl.”

“You’re stupid,” she said, and ran out. I followed.

She ran to the living room door and stopped. He sat in the rocking chair, watching sports in his pajamas.

She took my hand, turned around, and pulled me down the hall. Mom was still asleep, her stomach rising and falling in gentle waves.

“Mamma,” she whispered.

Mamma didn’t move.

Mimi reached forward and, using her thumb, lifted an eyelid. The eye quivered for an instant, then stopped and fixed its gaze on her. “What is it? What’s the matter?” she mumbled.

“I want to be with Daddy today,” Mimi said softly.

Mom rolled to the side, the smell of sleep billowing about her. “What do you mean?”

“What’s Daddy doing today?”

“I don’t think that he’s doing anything exciting, Honey,” she said. “He’s tired.”

“Will he take me to the park?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?”

“I don’t want to. I’m scared.”

Mom collapsed onto her back and let out a long sigh. Then she propped herself up. “Ok,” she said, reaching for her robe. “I’ll go and see.”

When she came back, she sat beside us and stroked Mimi’s hair. “Your father doesn’t really want to do too much today, Honey, but he does have to go and pay the cable bill. You can go with him if you want.”

“Okay.”

I went back to my room while Mom helped Mimi into the purple dress with the white flowers. When she was ready, Mimi pulled me back to the living room. He was still in his pajamas. “I’m ready Daddy,” she said.

He turned away from the screen and looked at her as though he had been startled. “Mamma said that we can go with you to pay the bill.”

“Oh. Okay.” A loud cheer burst from the television. “Let’s just watch a little of the game first.”

We went to the love seat and sat down in a sunbeam. I tried to watch the T.V., but soon got bored. Mimi sat next to me with her eyes closed and I knew that she was occupying herself with the game we played when we had to behave, which was to watch the blaze of red and yellow streaks across the orange background of our eyelids. I closed my eyes too. When Dad came back from getting dressed, he tapped me on the shoulder. “You guys ready?” he asked.

The sun glared off the BMW. I got in the front, while he lifted Mimi into the car seat behind me. He strapped her in and shut the door, leaving us alone, squashed by the heat. The leather seared the backs of my legs.

He started the engine, rolled down his window, and turned on the radio. Through the static, a man was talking loudly about Potamkin Chevrolet.

As we turned onto the side road that ran next to the park, Mimi gasped. The green field on our side of the car undulated with the unsteady gaits of turkey vultures. Huge, black, birds with pink, leathery heads, their wings outstretched like dark, feathery phantoms.

“Daddy!” she squealed. “Look! Look at the birds!”

“Yes,” he said. “Very nice.”

“Stop Daddy! Stop! I want to see them!”

“I have to mail this, Sweetie,” he proclaimed over the blare of the radio. “We’ll see it on the way back.”

She twisted in the seat, craning her neck to get a better view. The macabre flock disappeared around a corner.

When we got to the place, he leaned out and dropped an envelope into a mailbox.

“Well, hey there!”

It was Mr. Fisher.

Dad thrust his palm out the open window and Mr. Fisher grabbed it, his gold bracelet gleaming furiously in the sun. Dad reached over and silenced the radio.

“How ya been?”

“Great. Busy, but I’ve been meaning to have you over. I’ve just bought a compact disc player. Amazing sound.”

“I’ve heard that,” said Mr. Fisher with interest. “Works with lasers doesn’t it? Amazing. I’d love to give it a listen some time.”

“Absolutely. Some weekend when I’m in town you should come over. We’ll have some beers and watch a game.”

Behind me, Mimi was getting fidgety. It was hot. The sweat on the backs of my legs was causing them to stick to the seat uncomfortably. The sharp edges of the seat, where the leather had cracked, felt like daggers.

“Sounds good. I’ll bring the beer. How about that first half? Sutton should have had that catch in the end zone. Kosar puts it just where it needs to be, but his receivers don’t seal the deal. Why the hell can’t Johnson recruit any receivers? It’s like they all have fish in their arms.”

I leaned my head against the window and closed my eyes. I watched the red and yellow sparkles.

“I’m not worried. Nobody looks as good as the ‘Canes this year, and it’s only going to get better. They say this kid Testaverde’s got some kind of arm.”

“Well, he’d better. Johnson’s not gonna screw around. He knows we’ll boot his ass if he doesn’t produce.”

I opened my eyes when the car started to move. Dad turned the radio back on. The folks at Braman Honda must be crazy to offer these kinds of deals.

We turned down the park road but, when we got to the field, the birds were gone. Where before there had been an entire herd of vultures parading about, now there was just an empty space peppered with dandelions.

Mimi started to cry. Dad looked at her in the rear view mirror. “What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”

“They’re gone,” she sobbed. “The birds. Those big birds are all gone!”

“What birds, Sweetie?” he asked.

Summer Love’s Event

Check out a few videos we shot at the June 19th event. We have fancier, professional video coming from the fabulous Brian Belefant, but here’s all the Flip Camera’s memory could hold. Videos of all the storytellers coming soon. We’ll announce them when it’s out. Enjoy!

At the intermission, we asked an audience member to come up and tell a story completely spontaneously. How Jordi managed to make us all laugh and then cry in six minutes is remarkable. Proves that we all have amazing stories.

Kiala Kazebee, Portland blogger and film critic goes to the zoo.

Actor and writer, Eric Reid tells the story about being thirteen at the movie theater with a GIRL.

More videos and a podcast coming soon!

Check out Back Fence PDX’s Twitter feed — @backfencepdx.

Summer Love!

What a great event last night! The crowd was fabulous and the storytellers were funny and a few made us cry. The swimsuits and the models were delicious. Check back in a few hours for a few videos from the evening.

Summer Love is Here!

Tonight’s the night for Back Fence PDX at Tour de Crepes. All the info is just to the right of this post. We are so excited. Picking up the stage at 3, sound guy, Brian, gets there at 6, as do our SWIMSUIT MODELS.

Did I mention we’re having SWIMSUIT MODELS?

Storytellers get there around 7 for Xanax and vodka wine and beer.

And then you. You arrive at 7:30. Or a few minutes before if you want a crepe or a libation.

The evening will be warm and we’ll open up the barn doors to take advantage of the Summer night air.

Join us!

Summer Love is Almost Here

It’s almost here! Thursday, June 19th. 7:30pm. Tour de Crepes. The info is right next to this post.

Invite your friends!

Summer Love Featuring Teresa Difalco

BY TERESA DIFALCO

My summers peaked in 1984 and I might have, too, because everything happened to me that year. It was iconic, like Haight-Ashbury in the Summer of Love. My best friends were Beth and Gina and the three of us were spoiled with leisure, bored like heiresses, channeling Jacy Barrow from The Last Picture Show only not small-town, Texas, but Oregon and the small town’s name was La Grande – “The Big” (how ironic). It was a middle of nowhere town, three hours from an airport, but still the only place in the world if you were there and had just turned 16.

We got our licenses that summer and all had cars. We had our braces off plus, finally, tits. We got our first taste of power over boys. Our parents worked so our days were unchecked and we had time coming out of the walls.

We had insane metabolisms. We ate everything whenever we wanted and still wore way-short shorts and tiny tank tops because we could. We had tans. We had the world by its so-called balls; we didn’t know it, though, we were just living. We feigned ennui.

We had our first jobs, too, so we had money. I worked at Kentucky Fried Chicken, it was my first W-4, my first interview. I wore a ruffly Gunne Sax skirt and brought a handful of resumes that emphasized both my high GPA (3.9) and typing skills (60wpm) and Connie, the manager, hired me on the spot. I worked the front register, mostly, and made biscuits.

Gina worked at Taco Time and Taco Time was where the action was. If you were under 20 and breaking up or hooking up in the summer you did it at Taco Time. It sat at one end of the cruise loop so the parking lot was full of drama. And also the manager was young and pretty and fought with her boyfriend, but also screwed him a lot and told us everything, so there was that.

The minimum wage was $3.35 and at 40 hours, give or take, I had $100 after taxes each week. We had our first checking accounts at Pioneer Bank, and our own checks and we wrote them out like crazy. We were loaded.

Our shifts never started before 4, which gave us all day to drink wine coolers and tan. We slept in late, figured out who was driving, found someone to buy. We only drank California Coolers – peach if they had it — we were snobs. They came in 2-liter bottles like soda and were 99 cents each and we got big cups of ice at Oak Street Mobil to pour them in. Oak Street because Eric Slater worked there and that was the summer I loved Eric (unrequited). And also because they made scary little foods that we ate with abandon. Their specialty was something called “finger steaks,” which tasted like battered grease balls and salt and came with a tangy pink sauce. We took our fizzy wine and bad food to Riverside Park, spread big blankets out on the grass and soaked up the sun with our teenage buzz, and the days felt like weeks.

Oh yeah. It was good.

Beth didn’t have a “real” job like us but instead small chores her parents had her do for money – feed the dogs, clean the hot tub, vacuum. Her parents were never home but we lied and said they were and stayed over all the time.

Gina and I got off work late, sometimes midnight, but everyone had late curfews or else parents out of town, so at midnight I changed from brown polyester into practically nothing and we cruised. Cruising meant we drove back and forth on Adams Avenue, from Taco Time to Safeway, over and over, seeing who was in whose car, hanging out windows and sun roofs, etc.

Getting alcohol was never a problem, just a line item – an errand, like running to the bank. Usually Gina could find someone at work to buy, but sometimes we stood outside of Albertson’s – it was outrageously bold. We lurked by the doors, and when someone looked cool enough we asked them, “Hey, will you buy for us?” We must have had uncanny intuition because they always did; no one ever turned us down, not once. And one night my friend Scott and I drove to the Cimarron apartments and just knocked on a door. The guy who answered got in my car, we drove to the store, he bought us a half case of Bud Light cans and we drove him back home. We gave him a twenty, he gave us the change. Now, of course, I’d know to tip.

We played Night Ranger every single day, over and over again: Sister Christian, Four in the Morning, Sentimental Street. We felt tragic. We hadn’t had our hearts broken yet but we fantasized it. We listened to “Purple Rain” too, and Journey, and imagined all the different boys who’d do it, break our hearts. I’d like to say I had my first sex that summer, but I didn’t. I had first inklings, though.

And then it ended, of course, just like that. Eric left Oak Street for college, Beth drifted away, and my first big love happened that fall. Kelly. Shiny black pickup, cute smile.

That was fall, though. Falls are whole different stories.

Summer Love: Featuring Recovering Straight Girl

BY RECOVERING STRAIGHT GIRL

The summer of 1970—I traveled with my mother visiting the homes of assorted relatives—spending a little time here and a little time there. Some people do this while on holiday, for pleasure or perhaps adventure, but we had little choice. In some ways we were homeless—like two tramps making their way around the country carrying with us what little we had.

In the summer of 1970—I was a toddler—and my mother was 21-years-old.

My father—he was serving a Tour of Duty in Vietnam.

Three summers earlier, my father and his friends decided to take a car for a “joy ride”. A joy ride is a nice way of saying that he committed Grand Theft Auto. When he appeared before the judge he was given a choice—either go to jail or join the military.

The following summer, my parents, newly married and living on an Air Force Base decided to have a baby. After all, my father would be deployed overseas and his future was uncertain—not to mention that it only cost $20.00 to have a baby at the military hospital. We were a family, that first summer of my life, but soon after he was gone to fight in a war that he didn’t believe in, and my mother and I were alone.

I remember that summer not from my own recollection, but from the memories of photographs and stories that have been told to me through the last nearly four decades. I imagine what that summer must have been like for my mother and me—the tumultuous era, the devastating uncertainty, and the comfort and support of the family who loved us.

My mother’s warm and loving smile; her blond hair, not exactly the platinum bouffanty-bob that it was in photos where her belly was big with me and not exactly the long stringy hippy-hair she sported when I was a bit older. She, like so many people, was changing and becoming someone other than she used to be in a world that no longer resembled what she once knew—not exactly a metamorphosis but something pushed into change and rebellion by forces that no one could see.

We visited my maternal grandparents in Chicago. My grandfather, a large and boisterous man who chain smoked Winston’s would do what he could to make his only grandchild laugh; instead he would scare the hell out of me with his attempts. My Nana’s yellow-owl cookie jar was filled with what my grandparents called “treatie-boos”—and when we left their air-conditioned Illinois apartment, I imagine my mother’s relief that she was no longer forced to live with her father’s alcoholism.

My paternal grandparents lived in Pittsburgh. My grandfather, a short bald Italian man with a huge nose, would lovingly care for me—his smile would light up his face and he smelled of the auto shop where he worked mixed with the scent of pipe tobacco. After raising three sons—I was a sweet reward for him, and every day he would make my breakfast, come home to see me at lunch, and feed me dinner at the bright orange linoleum and silver kitchen table promptly at five o’clock.

My Aunt Kathi crocheted a pink bunting two months before I was born. She was so certain that I was a little girl; she ignored warnings that her efforts may be in vain. Her husband, my Uncle Joe would steal me from my crib while I napped and hold me instead.

In Washington D.C. my radical feminist Aunt Carol and my Long-Haired Hippy Uncle Tom took my mother and me to march in an anti-war protest on the capitol. My uncle missed the draft by two numbers and hated the fact that my father was forced to be where he was. Evenings were filled with Bob Dylan’s voice and the scent of marijuana in the air. When I became ill with a high fever, my uncle calmly drove us to a nearby hospital in rush hour traffic. He never let his worry and panic show through his stoic hippie self.

The Summer of 1970—the strength of my mother’s love surrounding and protecting me from the pain that possibly lurked in the future. She wondered and waited for bad news while cherishing and sharing me with others who loved me just as much. Everywhere we went I was reminded who I was and it was a basis that carried me through to adulthood.

That summer, more than any other summer of my life—I learned about being loved.

Summer Love: Featuring Life and Times of Chantel

Heat Wave

by LIFE AND TIMES OF CHANTEL

August 2003 was a tragic month for France. A heat wave stifled the country. The temperature was in excess of 100 degrees. 100 degrees may be manageable in the US but in a country where air conditioning is a luxury, the very old and very young struggled and many lost their lives. I couldn’t predict the heatwave when I chose to vacation there after getting dumped by my boyfriend via email from England or Switzerland or somewhere. I never actually found out if he moved or if he stayed or he was dating. I just know that it wasn’t me anymore.

As hurt as I was, I still had a problem. He and I had planned a trip to Paris in the summer. As usual we would meet in an exotic location for an 8 day reunion often filled with furious and passionate love-making, more wine that any American should be allowed to drink and a lot of sight seeing. I, however, have a travel phobia.

I’ve had a travel phobia since I was a kid. I’m afraid to leave home for fear of never returning. We left many homes late at night with all of our belongings or all that we could hold packed tightly in a trunk to our next home or, no home at all. We repeated this like washing and rinsing until I was a teenager. I’m afraid that I’ll never go home again.

Then God created Xanax and Vodka.

I was determined to travel without the ex, Hervé. I was determined to travel on my own dime. Through snot and tears I booked a hotel and then a flight and waited nervously for my departure to arrive. I researched everything possible to acquaint myself with the city. I bought red shoes — Mary Janes — so that I wouldn’t look like an American while touring the most chic place on earth. I bought film for my camera, a purse that would carry everything, yet not come close to looking like a fanny pack or anything for that matter that would identify me as a stupid American tourist. I was far less concerned about getting lost, mugged or missing flights in another country. I was so much more concerned with looking stupid; this being one of the second rights to fashionista status. The first? Fashion before pain.

I met Pierric the night I arrived. I checked into my hotel. He was the clerk. He quickly asked about my status, was I staying alone, meeting friends, a lover perhaps? Unfortunately, I planned to sit in my street facing window and smoke cigarettes and drink myself into a stupor and acclimate to Paris time. I sat for a while; I watched the Tour de France revelers pass below my hotel window. After a while, I realized I was watching for Hervé. I watched for him in every man’s face, behind every windshield, in ever café window. I went downstairs and chatted with Pierric. I told him I would go for a walk and inquired if the hotel would close its doors at a certain hour. He told me he would be there all night waiting for me and recommended a local restaurant where I wouldn’t find any Americans butchering their food orders and complaining of cigarette smoke. I didn’t tell him I couldn’t read French very well, however I was sure I could read it well enough to order something edible.

I found a table for one in the crowded restaurant. I ordered a bottle of wine and an ashtray. The wait staff was confused — Americans don’t smoke or drink. This American was doing both and not talking in a loud affected accent to get my point across. It was simple. Show the pack of Marlboro’s for an ashtray and motion a big gulp glass size for wine and you get the whole bottle. The one part of French I did know was, Non Beaujolais. A moment later a menu appeared in unreadable French.

A menu in a language I did not understand, speak or read. I recognized Canard as duck, Poulet as chicken and easiest of easiest, Boeuf was beef. More importantly, I wanted to avoid ordering another unfortunate plate of Foie Gras. Hervé had tortured me endlessly with Foie Gras and oysters. I choked it down over and over again hoping to teach myself to like it or to minimally stomach it for Hervé’s sake. I drew the line at the month old stinky cheese and sardines. Foie Gras was almost palatable in comparison. On the menu were three types of duck as a first course. I had a one out of three chance of getting the correct starter. I had zero chance of getting it translated by the waiter.

I chose wrong.

I choked down the Foie Gras spread lovingly on toasted baguette slices and watched as the chef peered from the kitchen checking on my progress. I choked and nodded. I smiled the fakest smiles and was happy the French don’t believe in large portions. I knew that my stew and my desert would make up for the aftertaste of the foie gras and I could move on with my wine and my charade in again — this VERY PARISIAN restaurant. After dinner, I returned to my hotel struck up a conversation with Pierric who was waiting in the lobby for my report, which turned into the entire night in the hotel lobby drinking wine, until I was drunk and talking in our own very broken language.

I stumbled awake the next day a little hung over but energized and excited. Excited because I was in Paris and energized because I was in Paris. I had to brave the Paris streets, the Metro and the maps all by myself. Hervé wasn’t here to buy my tickets, translate signage and talk to strangers on the street. I laid the city map on the bed; I put on finger on my hotel location and one finger on the location of the first cemetery I wanted to visit. I identified the metro stops and the lines required to get between the two. I gently folded my map in my bag so that I could reference it at any time on my trip without pulling it out completely out of my bag and proving to everyone in Paris I was an actual tourist.

Downstairs I found Pierric smiling and waiting, unaffected by the two bottles of wine.

“Would you like to come outz wiz friends this day?” I corrected him. It wouldn’t be “this day” but “this night.” After our French/English lesson, I walked into the heat.

Everyone in Paris seems more beautiful, more fashionable and more educated than I do. In the hundred degree heat the only breeze was on a moving Metro car. I watched the Parisians very carefully and wondered about each of their daily lives. I imagined much more sophisticated interactions, more glamorous jobs and wondered if I could be one of them, maybe Hervé would have stayed with me. That was the first time I thought of Hervé on this trip. I took note of it and made a tick in my journal.

One thought, let it wash away.

I found an internet café to send my friends and family a note, an account of my journey so far. They understood already that I was in the Mecca for smoking and wine, so no need to account for my hang over. They knew that I was traveling on a broken heart and a slim wallet but they were only worried for my safety and my sanity. I sat down at the keyboard and began to type. As I typed things looked incorrect on the screen. I thought it was the heat but there were z’s where there were supposed to be s’s and stupid accent marks every where else causing my curse words to look incomplete and uncursed.

“I find it difficult to explain that a broken hearted 30 year old single mother of two teenage children was just asked out on what might be a date with a French artist masquerading as a hotel desk clerk. Tre’z Chit’z Noz? Fuc’ng Frenzh keyboard.”

Pierric arrived at the hotel at 7:30 and we left immediately after the required multiple cheek kissing as is customary among those about to be carnal with one another. His friend Daphne and Gaetan (which I could never pronounce correctly) took me to a standard French pub where standard French people hung out and drank pints and smoked cigarettes. This was not a scene out of Band of Outsiders; it was more of a scene from Ireland’s greatest pubs, Book 1. The night wore on and the French grew thick, my ears became more nimble, recognizing certain words. But after three pints and a joint in the darkness of an underground club I could only mutter De rien to Pierric in slurred French and cognac breath. All Pierric could do was push me down into an even darker corner and kiss me hard then harder while my head felt like it was going to explode from the pot and the music. I made out on the couch with a French artist masquerading as a hotel desk clerk.

On the walk back to the hotel, Pierric wore his required leather jacket in the evening heat which crept up into the high 80’s. He would sweat all the time I saw him. He would always wear a white t-shirt with vintage faded 501’s. He looked like he was in a French movie, all the time. I invited Pierric up to my room knowing that I was curious to know how he was in bed and even more curious to be touched and held and released from Hervé. Hervé and I could stay in bed for days and never once would I not be ready physically ready for him. He just had to look at me and I was wet and I was ready. I knew Pierric would be passionate from the kissing and the soreness I was already feeling on my face from his unshaven cheeks.

Pierric and I barely made it completely in my room onto the bed. Our kissing was fierce, wet and loud. The force which he kissed me was almost too much to bear. When he finally forced me onto the bed I knew that I was in for a much different experience than any before him. He liked to play rough, hard and fast. After our clothes were off, I discovered that Pierric who was no taller than 5′10 had a huge dick; enough to make me not worry as to whether or not I would have a good time. Before Pierric and I even started having sex my face was raw from the kissing and my breasts were bruised from the rough suckling. Sometime after we started thrusting against each other the twin beds that had been pushed together began to spread leaving us dangling. Pierric only grabbed me harder, he went faster and pushed me further and further into the head board. The problem with being a little drunk was that it was hard to come. The problem with being high is that it felt like it took forever. The pain from his grip was beginning to take over, I couldn’t hold my thighs steady against Pierric and finally when I thought I could go no longer, the beds finally gave way and Pierric and I hit the floor. Once I had Pierric’s undivided attention I asked him politely and in the sexiest, smokiest French possible, “plus lent mon bonbon.” Slower my sweet. That was the one and only time I have ever spoken perfect, relevant French. We were both covered and dripping in sweat giving Pierric less opportunities to get a good grip on me, which saved me from the continued beating and allowed us to finish having sex without further injury.

When I woke the next morning Pierric was on the single bed next to me waiting for me to wake. I was sore from my head to my thighs. My face was chaffed beyond recognition and my legs and arms were bruised in the shape of Pierric’s hands.

Pierric offered a little story about the events of his day — “this day.” He described how he recently purchased a flat and must meet the electrician because waiting for an electrician in France can take years of your life. He offered to meet me later at the hotel and requested that I leave messages at the front desk because his sister was staying with him and he did not want to cause her to “make a party” for his new American friend.

I let him leave and turned the story over in my head. I took my time in the bath rubbing lotion into my injuries and trying to fix the chaffed patch on my chin. That very patch would burn later that day in the one-hundred degree heat and eventually begin to look like a leprosy sore forming across the southern hemisphere of my face.

The sore on my face did not detour Pierric who dutifully showed up at seven to find me learning more French and using large quantities of Cover Girl to hide my open facial wound. He was not detoured from wearing his leather jacket with requisite uniform as we wandered the streets of the 11th Arrondisment and up and down the Canal St. Martin. Pierric inquired why I travel alone and I told him that I had children and no partner and I prefer to travel alone so I can do what I like which is hang out in cemeteries taking pictures of art. He laughed but his artistic tendencies identified with my own and we talked about art in the US and France for the remainder of our evening.

That very second was the first time I thought of Hervé all day but my skin ached for him and his French accent. I decided that I would be sleeping with Pierric for the remainder of my trip as long as he took my hints to slow down and not physically impale me with his cock.

I knew the sister at home was not his sister and this would not get him any dinner invitations or any art walks through cemeteries or Paris parks but I could use him to get through the night; like I used McDonalds earlier for a cheeseburger and orange soda to get me through another day alone during a heat wave in Paris.

Summer Love Featuring Ainsley Drew

BY AINSLEY DREW OF FACE PLANT, JERK ETHIC AND BITCHCRAFT

The fish market I worked at the summer when I was twenty-four was nestled between a bakery and a cheese shop, on a stretch of West Village blocks associated with Sex and the City and snotty NYU students. I hated my job and only derived pleasure from interacting with neighborhood locals and setting up the display every morning in the single floor-to-ceiling window that helped to raise the temperature and the stink inside the tiny shop to new heights.

It was July. I wore light cotton dresses along with huge rubber boots to keep my feet dry. I tried not to fall asleep in the office even though I was plagued with what can only be described as a rapid descent into insomnia following night after sleepless night in my newly empty bed, next to the space where my domestic partner had snored every night for the first half of my twenties. I hadn’t had sex more than three times in the last six months prior to our bust-up. At that age, at that point, with my newly-found freedom and my now notorious sex-drive, I was basically walking around with a water-balloon between my thighs. But I couldn’t recall how to so much as check out a girl, let alone start up a conversation that would lead to me going down on her. After giving her the heave-’ho all I had left was a bad stand-up routine about the “scales of justice” and no audience except cold slabs of marine life and four Nepalese employees who didn’t speak English. I stared out the window a lot. The heat made the eccentrics who populated the area around Washington Square Park roam the streets and move like interpretive dancers.

There was a little boy who had started smoking cigarettes regularly in front of my shop over the course of one week. He leered at me in a way that was half-adorable, half-creepy as I arranged the rainbow trout and soft shell crabs on a bed of ice in the window. I wondered why the Catholic school down the block would let their summer school students smoke, or why this boy didn’t seem to care, cocking his eyebrow as he’d swagger in front of the store, unbuttoning the top button of his short sleeve button down shirt, tapping his Camel Lights against his thigh. One day he sauntered inside and leaned over the counter, close enough that I could smell the Winterfresh gum on his cigarette breath.

“I’m Liz. I have lupus. I work down the block. You should hang out with me. Now.”

That night, after work, I had my first orgasm since the World Series of the previous year. On my back in my hallway, keys still stuck in the lock-barrel, sweat and the smell of dead fish rendering me the olfactory equivalent of a Renee Zellweger movie, I had this strange tomboy literally rip a skirt off of me. Liz, who was not so much a schoolboy as a female version of every guy I wanted but couldn’t have during puberty, gave my the best oral sex of my life up until that point. It was pretty awesome. It finally made me sleep; Liz sprawled out next to me, sweating until half of the bed was soaked, one of the symptoms of her disease. She didn’t snore.

That joke about a lesbian second date involving a U-Haul is only funny because it is true. Ten days later Liz, three days worth of her clothes, her ashtray, and a carton of unfinished cottage cheese were still taking up residence in my studio apartment. Her wardrobe mingled in my laundry, she insisted on putting half-finished bottles of beer in my fridge, and the feeling of wet bed sheets — either made damp by my fluids or hers — was starting to get to me. I needed my space and I needed it now. After four years of hearing someone breathe, blink, and chew I wanted a little, just a little, time to myself. And I was starting to think that the Prednisone she took for her lupus was making her crazy. I wouldn’t let her smoke pot in my house and was grounds enough for a three-hour long tantrum. She’d start crying at a bar and run out into the warm, thick New York air sobbing, grab me by the shoulders to spout some inane and melodramatic dialog that made a Lifetime made-for-TV movie seem like an episode of Nova.

All I wanted was conventional dating with a lot of naked Twister. Liz, however, wanted a typical dyke union where you rush into things unknowingly, drop the “l” bomb way too fast, and then inevitably crash and burn in an ugly pile of Kleenex, Ani DiFranco albums, and Tofutti Cutie wrappers. And the guilt of breaking the heart of someone with a chronic condition seemed like grounds for a soap opera.

When I gently approached her as she reclined on the couch, hand behind her belt-buckle, and asked if maybe, maybe, tonight would be the night she’d retreat back to her five-person share in Hell’s Kitchen, she leapt up, grabbed my face between her hands and hollered, “Babe, what we have is for real!” Her hand was up my skirt before I could even locate a grocery bag in which to put her stuff.

I wanted so badly to believe that the sex could at least last until autumn, that my tolerance for someone so unstable, so entirely batshit insane, would endure. But no. I caught her smoking a joint in my apartment (with my doorman) on a late Friday afternoon after being dispatched from the fish market following another failure of our air conditioning system. I threw her out, used her office’s proximity as motivation to quit my job, and went on to become a vegan.

I learned that a New York summer, fish, and serious unions in your early twenties, all usually fade into something that reeks.