Rilaly's Blog
Simple Truths

Words: 3,932

Rating: R. Adult situations.  Some may consider the situations inappropriate for those under 17.  Some may consider the language inappropriate for those under 17.

Debbie

She constantly looked at me with wounded, puppy dog eyes.  She acted as if my words were being passed to her from Mount Olympus.  She got a little frazzled when I spoke to her.  She attempted to be more entertaining than she was when it was her turn to speak.  She gave me the reactions she thought she should be receiving.  When she told a joke, she laughed uproariously.  She was so busy dictating reactions, she could barely make it through stories.  “You’re bored,” she would say too quickly when I wouldn’t react to her stories with immediate and acute interest.  She kept asking me what I got on the tests being handed back to us.  I wouldn’t tell her, she wouldn’t tell me, and we did so happily.  I got the idea that she thought I was more than I was, and I liked that.

The girl who say to my right in this college English class was very sophisticated.  She dressed like she was interviewing for an office job every day.  She knew how to apply makeup, and she used a lot of it everyday.  When she spoke, her English was careful and manicured, and when she looked at you you got a little nervous.  Rhonda was her name.

When I told my friend Otis about Rhonda, and how I was flirting with her, and she was coming around to it, and I was getting excited, he responded: “You ain’t ready!”  This was Otis’ catchphrase.  He said this at the end of every conversation and every story I told him.  It was funny, but he may have overused it.  “You ain’t ready!”  This may have been one of the few times when Otis nailed it.

Rhonda was the older sister of a guy who was dating my ex-girlfriend, so I had an in with her, and I worked it.  I worked it well too, if I may say so myself.  I started with the initial intros that I had picked up along the way, and then I introduced the link as if I weren’t sure, and then I evolved that conversation to other things.  She began smiling when she greeted me at the beginning of the day, and she laughed at the things I said at the end.

Rhonda made it quite clear that this would not be as easy as I thought it would be.  I mentioned that she laughed at the things I said, but that laughter was tempered and polite.  She didn’t go overboard and betray her intentions or desires to date me.  I would have to do a lot more work if I wanted this to happen.  The link and the laughter were to be an appetizer for this girl.  If I wanted steak, I would have to put in a lot more elbow grease.

She didn’t know that my insecurities had already rotted away most of insides.

Debbie began sitting to the left of me.  I don’t know where she was sitting previous to that, or if she was sitting there the whole time.  Whatever the case was, she made her intentions known quite quickly.  When I told a joke, she nearly doubled over with exaggerated laughter.

Debbie was almost the exact opposite of Rhonda.  Rhonda’s face was sculpted.  She had a razor sharp chin line; every hair on her head was manicured and slightly curled; her teeth had the whitened look before there were teeth whiteners lining every aisle of the department store; and her legs were clean, shiny, tanned and long.  Debbie wore sweatshirts inside out, she had obvious highlights in her hair that appeared to be done with an at-home kit, and she was a little tubby.  She wasn’t fat, but she appeared to be the typical young girl who wouldn’t do anything to shape the waistline that God gave her.

As I said, Debbie was a nervous wreck around me.  Rhonda was a cool customer.  She had given me the hints of interest, but that has never been enough for me.  I need a woman to have dollar signs in her eyes when she sees me.  The coy thing has never worked for me.  I’d much rather see a girl wear a sandwich board telling me how great she thinks I am.  This is not born of laziness or conceit but insecurity.  I’ve paid the price for this malaise more times than I care to discuss on this matter.

Turning right would’ve been challenging and time-consuming, and if I had turned right the risk may not have produced a reward.  As I said, Rhonda was attractive, well-mannered and she could afford to be choosy.  Turning left was much easier and more rewarding.  On the rare occasion when I stared straight ahead, Debbie appeared to be slightly damaged by it.  To Rhonda, it was just another day.  I would love to say that I turned left in an impulsive manner, but I didn’t.  It was a well thought out emotional move procured for reward.

“I’ve always wanted to be a singer,” Debbie informed me.  I had no idea this was her point of entry.  I expressed more than a casual interest, as I always have when someone expresses an interest in doing something artistic.  “I think you’d like my singing,” she added.

“Sure,” I said.  I lacked the foresight then, and now, to recognize it when someone is coming onto me.  When I was a young one, I believed that just about every woman I saw was attracted to me.  When I got older, I didn’t think any of them were.  Neither is/was probably the case.

Debbie was attracted to me, and she made no bones about it.  On the next day of class, she invited me over to her place to listen to her sing.  As we drove over to her place, she made a sign of the cross and gasped: “Bless him baby Jesus.”

“What was that?” I asked looking around.

She appeared hesitant.  “I said bless him baby Jesus.”

“For what?” I asked.

“There was a dead squirrel on the road back there.”  I saw it, but I didn’t pay it too much mind at the time.

“You said bless him baby Jesus to a dead squirrel?” I asked with incredulousness.

“I didn’t say it to the squirrel,” she said with consternation.  “I said it to the baby Jesus, so that he’ll…take the squirrel into His arms.”

I figured I should’ve exited the car right then and there.  While it was moving, I should’ve just opened the door and flung myself to the concrete.

There are odd people in our society.  There are people who are so caught up in their own thing that they’ve neglected to consider how their idiosyncrasies may appear to others.  Some may be weirded out by such people, but these people fascinate me.  If I’m at a table of four people, and one of those people are a little off in some manner, I’ll usually focus most of my attention on them.  I want to get them to react to stuff.  I want to learn how they came about.  Who are these people, and are they a natural creation due to slight chemical imbalances, or are they made?  Do certain people influence them in such a manner that they become who they are, or are they so confined in their thought process that they don’t see it as off anymore.

We were at her dining room table.  The place was well fashioned, clean and very normal looking.  She appeared embarrassed, rattled and out of sorts.  She didn’t care for my eye.  I asked her about the trinkets, the furniture, and the overall layout.

“How many people live here?” I asked searching for conversation topics.  “What does your Dad do for a living?  What were you hoping to accomplish with this particular arrangement?”

“I don’t know,” she said, “My parents picked all this stuff out!”

She reached into her purse to get a piece of gum.  “Can I get a piece?” I asked.  She searched her purse.  It took a while.  She was looking into it, and then she wasn’t searching anymore.  “I asked for a piece of gum,” I said thinking that she had lost her place.

“I know,” she said with exasperation.  “I’m looking.”  She put her head into the purse and came out with a condom in her teeth.  She shook the condom like a terrier with a play toy.

“I said gum.”

She tossed me a piece.

She pulled out a carbonated beverage for the two of us and poured us a couple glasses.  After doing so, she went to the freezer to get some ice.  In my land, you put the ice in first and poured the pop in after to get proper circulation of the ice’s effect on the pop, but that thought was dwarfed by the cartons of cigarettes I saw in the freezer.

“You put your smokes in a freezer?” I asked leaving my seat to get a better look at this anomaly.

“It keeps them fresh,” she said with the same fatigue she gave all my questions.  It was her way of life, and she believed in it.  Who was I, her exasperation said, to question everything she did.  The other thing was, I got the idea that each of my questions led her to believe that I was losing interest in her.  I wasn’t interested in her if the truth be known.  I wasn’t interested in her long term anyway.  I didn’t think long term, and if I had I would still be in the classroom picking up on Rhonda.

This humble abode housed some serious smokers I thought when she told me about the freshness technique that her family engaged in.  It’s always struck me as a little odd when people develop unnecessary routines in life.  I’m not an expert on cigarettes but I have to imagine that they have a shelf life of over a month.  Either these people don’t smoke that often, which I doubted seeing this girl smoke, or the Dad had so few lessons to pass onto his daughter that he came up with this little nugget as one of the few pieces of knowledge he could pass onto her.

We sat and talked about stupid stuff for a little while until we emptied our glasses.  At that point, I kept talking and she began chewing on ice with emphasis.  She was crackling it in her mouth.  It drove me nuts after about the fourth cube.

“Do you have to crack it like that?” I asked.

She ignored the question.  She kept cracking with an impishness that didn’t suit her.  “You know what they say about girls that chew on ice doncha-?”

“I don’t mind people who chew ice, it’s drives me nuts,” I said, “but I don’t say anything, until people begin cracking them with exaggeration.”

“-They give good blowjobs,” she continued.  That line right there has haunted me to some degree.  People may not consider that a line like that could haunt someone, but when you go through those long “single status” draughts some things ring through your head over and over until you’re punching pillows at night with bulged eyes and clenched teeth.  A smooth person would’ve stood from the table, taken her by the hand and led her to the bedroom.  I didn’t.  I either can’t, or don’t want to, remember my reaction to that comment, but suffice it to say there were no blowjobs given at that moment.

Moments later—I’ve managed to block out some of the interim where I stumbled through the after effects of what she said—I informed her that I had to go to the bathroom.  She told me where it was.  Then she said: “Wait!” and she scurried into the bathroom and locked the door.  In the process of scurrying to the bathroom, she cut me off with such expedience that she nearly knocked me over.  I heard rustling in her bathroom.  My first thought: she was cleaning.  After a space of time, say a minute and a half, I began to think something else was going on in there..  I called in there: “What are you doing in there?”

“Just hold on!” she said.  She exited about two more minutes later with a box that covered her entire torso.  She was beat red.

“What was going on in there?”

“Just go to the bathroom,” she instructed.  To this day, I don’t know what was in that box.  The impatient order to go to the bathroom and forget what I saw; the embarrassment; the time spent in the bathroom collecting things; and the harried pace with which she exited past me led me to believe that the products in the box were dildos, but I’ll never know for sure.  If I made a commotion about tampons or maxi-pads, she could call me a naïve bachelor.  Other than that I can’t think of any other product for which she wouldn’t have a prudent response to my inquiry.

When I exited the bathroom, she was sitting on the couch.  I decided to let the box controversy die.  She handed me the remote, which I thought odd.  She sensed the confusion, and she offered some cliché line like: “I know how you men are about your remotes.”  Whatever, I thought, and I began flipping.  I wasn’t ten to twelve flips in, when the screen went blue.  “What did you do?” she asked.

I was embarrassed and confused.  I was hitting the channel button, and the blue went black and a porn started.  At that point, I was clicking all kinds of channels pleading ignorance, and I finally clicked the power button.  It clicked immediately back on, and I clicked it off again.

“It’s me,” she said with that impish smile that didn’t appear natural on her.  She pulled the VCR remote out from her left side.  She laughed.  I didn’t.  I was relieved.  “Do you want me to leave it on?” she asked.

“No,” I said.  I told her I was good.

We watched TV for a second longer when she invited me to see some of her ceramics.  As naïve as I was at that point, even I knew that this was the gateway to the portal.  I knew that this would initiate the porn music in any halfway decent adult flick.

We walked to the bedroom, and she showed me her posters.  Then she said another set of words that haunt me to this day: “My songs!” she said in a frantic way that suggested something was on fire.

“What?”

“You drove down here to hear me sing, and I almost forgot.”  She raced around her room and the living room searching out that one perfect cassette tape.  She was cursing herself and running around.  “I can’t find it!” she said tossing boxes and blank cassettes.  “It’s all right,” I said, “just sing anything.”  “No,” she responded, “it’s gotta be here…

“Here it is!” she finally said.  She plugged it home, and she began singing some Christian song.  So far, this girl had hit every wrong note that I could conceive.  She was nasty with the condom, she tried to hit the blowjob note moments after my keester touched the pad of her kitchen chair, the porn, the dildos in the box, and now she wraps all of it up with her rendition of Jesus Loves Me.

“You’re really good,” I lied.  It wasn’t an out and out lie.  She wasn’t awful, but she had just filled my head with so many sexual innuendos in one school day afternoon that she could’ve sounded like PJ Harvey, and I wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference between good and bad.

It became obvious to her that I was losing interest in the song.  The only reason I say this is that my polite smile must’ve drained, because she turned beat red, clicked the tape off, and apologized for the song.  “I said it was good.”  I pleaded that part, because as nutty as she was I didn’t want to crush her dreams of being a singer.

She lay down next to me on the bed, and we kissed.  Here’s another thing I think about a lot now that I’m single: her lips.  Back then, kissing was unnecessary foreplay.  Kissing was something to do, so you didn’t have to look at someone while grabbing at their vital organs.  Her lips shocked me a little.

Up to that moment where I tasted those lips, I wasn’t sure if Debbie was a confused young one who thought that they only way she could land a man was to lay it out.  She wasn’t that attractive, she didn’t have a sparkling personality, and she wasn’t overly intelligent or refined.  In other words, Debbie couldn’t have competed with a Rhonda in any way, unless she made it well known that she was willing to lay it all out on the line.  It may have been that complex, or it may have been simple.  It may have something to do with the fact that Debbie was just a horny pig.  At that point in my life, I didn’t care much either way.  Rhonda did impress me.  Rhonda would’ve been a huge step up for me at that point in my life.  Debbie hadn’t made much of an impression at all, until my lips touched hers.

My first thought was that this was not natural.  I hadn’t kissed too many lips to that point, and I haven’t kissed too many since, but I couldn’t believe that lips were this soft.  They had such give to them.  Most lips have a tense quality to them.  Her lips were soft.  Her lips were soft.  Her lips tasted sensuous.  Previous to this point in my life, I believed that sensuousness was a quality that described the appearance of lips, but these lips were sensual to the touch.  I kissed her a little harder to see if the physical quality was a flaccid reaction to my kiss, but when she kissed back they remained as soft as they had when I first kissed her.  I couldn’t believe that lips could be this soft and sensual in general, and I couldn’t believe that a pig like this would be granted such a luxury.  I couldn’t believe that they were natural one minute, and then I couldn’t believe that they would be anything but natural the next minute.

I lost myself in these lips.  I wanted to kiss them all night long.  I wanted to grasp their essence in a way I knew I never would, for there was a call to progress.  We were on a bed, we were horizontal, and I was on top of her.  Something had to happen.  I reached down and grasped another slice of heaven.  I had been in the nether region a couple of times on girls, and I usually found things to be generally unappealing on the surface.  When push came to shove, I enjoyed the product on the whole, but on the surface I’ve generally found the nether region to be unkempt. She had a really nice one.  I couldn’t see much in the way of upkeep, but she had been granted a degree of softness there that I had not heretofore experienced.

I had just had a conversation with a bunch of fellas in a college dorm room where the discussion of the day was slowness.  Being smooth and going slow was a quality the ladies liked was the theme of this discussion.  The participants of this discussion appeared to be much more experienced than me, so I giggled a little and took a lot of mental notes.  I was going to be a smooth operator with the next one.  Debbie was that next one.

That was an ingredient to my deliberation, but the fascination with both sets of lips was another.  Before I kissed her, I’m sure that my expression revealed my boredom.  I just wanted to drill the girl and go home and tell all my friends that the damned streak was over, but those lips brought me out of that phase.  I was concentrating, I was fascinated and fixated and I wanted to fully explore and experience everything about her.

“We have to hurry!” she said.

“What?” I asked pulled out of my investigation.  I almost forgot she was there.  I almost forgot what I was doing.  I was enjoying it to that point.  “I’d like to go slow.”

“We can’t,” she said, “my Dad will be home soon, and if he finds you here, he’ll kill you.”  Here’s where I have put a stop to the laughter that I have heretofore taken with good nature, and I ask my friends what they would do?  When the woman says she wants it fast, you give it to her fast.  When the woman tells you Daddy is coming home, and he’s going to kill you, you give it to her fast.  You can give me that ‘you’re so naïve’ laugh for only so long before reality kicks in and you realize that you would’ve given it fast too.

When I tasted those lips, and felt those lips, I thought this would be a pleasurable ride.  Instead, I pumped, released, and held hands under dryer.  I removed condom, flushed, left.  She didn’t show up for class again.  I didn’t even notice it until day two.  I was ballsy enough to try hitting on Rhonda again.  She would have none of it.

A friend of mine wanted to “meet” Debbie.  I called her.  She sounded a little off, but she invited me over.  The girl was stoned out of her mind.  This, on the face of it, didn’t bother me too much, until I discovered that she was frying what remained of her brain on Scotch guard.  She showed me the novel procedure of spraying the chemical substance into a towel.  At that point, you put it to your face like Dennis Hopper on Blue Velvet.  I hadn’t seen Blue Velvet to that point.  I never heard of this procedure to that point.  I asked her questions about it.  She answered them.  Then she invited me to hit it, I said no.

My friend wanted to hit it.  My friend wanted to hit it with Debbie.  There was another girl in the room, but she had established quite quickly that she was going to play the morose, little pig that didn’t want to oink with anyone.  My friend asked me to allow him to put it to Debbie.  I said no.  I told him that I thought it was weird.  I had no allegiance to Debbie, but the idea that he would have her screaming in the other room while I sat with the sad, little piggy just wasn’t appealing to me.  I played cock blocker I know, but it had to be done.   Even though I had a solid excuse locked in for my meager performance, I don’t think her screams would’ve settled with me too well.

Flash forward to the ending.  About three to four years later, I stood at a Kwik Shop counter.  I ordered cigarettes and gas.  The woman behind the counter stared at me.  I repeated my order.  She continued to stare.  Finally, she rang me up.  I got halfway to work before I realized that the person staring at me was Debbie.