Читать книгу Out of the Storm - M. Saverio Clemente - Страница 10

On the other side of town, Kitty and Mary were getting dolled up to go out. Saturday night was girls’ night. At least it had been for the past few weeks. Girls’ night, however, was oddly similar to most nights. Perhaps it gave cause to indulge in an extra mixed drink. But to an outside observer the difference was nearly imperceptible. The two friends went clubbing five or six times a week. Some nights they danced until dawn. Most nights, each found a man to take her home. The next morning, they would meet at a local diner to share stories and laughs.

The stories, they began to notice, had an odd sort of consistency to them. Gentleman X—who was not much of a gentleman—had bought her drink after drink and paid her compliment after compliment. Then, when she was sufficiently drunk, he hailed a cab and they left for her place. There, he admitted to having recognized her. He had seen her do it on screen. He had fantasized about her a hundred times. A thousand. And now, to have her here: in the flesh. It was almost more than he could bear. He knew—he knew!—that he would be the best lover she’d ever known. He was wild and passionate—grabbing her, pushing her against the wall, kissing her with all of his might. He tore off his clothes. Then hers. He grunted and growled and sang. He was lost and free. Wild and lost and free.

Then something happened. He began to think. His mind raced. Reason replaced instinct. He realized that he had no business being with a woman like this. He could never live up to the others. The others! How many others? How many had come before? All of them more experienced. All of them more knowledgeable. All more physically gifted. How could he compare? He couldn’t. Only a fool would think he could. He was making a fool of himself. At this very moment. He was making a fool of himself right now. Was she enjoying this? Was he? Was anyone even enjoying this? What if he touched her here? What if he kissed her there? No. No, she wasn’t enjoying it. Not at all. And neither was he.

Wait. Wait, what was that noise? That noise she just made? Was she moaning? Was she sighing? Was she laughing? She was laughing. She was laughing! She was laughing at him! Wait. She let out a moan. Yes, she let out a slight moan. He was sure of it. He heard it. But what was it? Was it pleasure? Was it passion? No. No, it was laughter. It was laughter at him! She was laughing at him. At this moment. Laughing. How could he compare? He couldn’t. How would he please her? He wouldn’t. What was he thinking? What was he doing? How should he act? What should he say? Who should he be?

No, he was doomed. Yes, doomed. He was doomed from the start. And in a matter of moments, he went from wild and lost and free to mechanical and awkward and doomed. He had lost himself in passion and found himself in shame. Try as he might, he fell flat. There was nothing to be done. He knew it was over. He had fallen.

“Don’t fret,” she told him sweetly. “It wasn’t your fault. You were doomed from the start.”

After getting dressed, she walked him to the door and, with a final patronizing kiss, sent him on his way.

This was how the story went. This was how each story went. Morning after morning, coffee after coffee, recap after recap. They were all the same. They were all always the same. The circumstances varied from time to time—what he said or how he said it. But in the end, they were all the same. All always the same. And after a while, these once entertaining failures lost their charm. They used to be the source of endless laughter. But the repetition had become so repetitive. It had become monotonous. It was a bore. So in order to break up the sameness, the girls devised a new approach. They decided to make a game of it. And they played for keeps.