The Girl the Guy and the Angel

THIS PART -

6:00 A.M.

Stop staring? I can't. It's too late for that. It's been hours...two...three, nearly! We're lovers. I've fallen.

I didn't sleep. I watched - pleading in silence, imploring even, please open your soft blue eyes.

He's new love. He's dangerous love. I wonder if guys grasp it; if they understand what girls see. Maybe. Anyway, I can't be sure.

His slumber's deep, his breathing soft, regular. He runs his hand over a muscled tummy. Are you hungry? Breakfast? Eggs? Bacon? Orange juice - fresh-squeezed? I'll...no, I sigh to myself. I won't make breakfast. He's a guy. Guys say no to breakfast.

All guys know a few girl words. Breakfast, for example. Breakfast, loosely translated to girl talk reads 'commitment.' Guys want to fuck. Guys want to leave. Girls want to fuck, but girls want to cook breakfast too. I want my way. This once. Is breakfast such a big thing?

Watching him more, I wonder more. Is there more? I need more.

Last night is long past. Last night, I gave myself. Something's wrong with this picture. He's tasted me before he's tasted my cooking! A woman's predicament, I think. If I don't give myself, he finds the girl who gives herself. Maybe she gets to make breakfast!

Like rambunctious buckets of water, the questions march on and I, like the Sorcerer's Apprentice, struggle to stop them. All I have is an obstinate broom; a broom that won't obey. It only obeys the Sorceress - and I haven't seen her since last night.

Was I different? From your other girls, I mean? There are other girls, right? You're too gorgeous for there not to be. Will I get hurt? Again? Will you remember my name when those sleepy eyes blink open?

My stare turns empty. You're a smart one - smarter than all the others. Why did you come here? To fuck? What?

The morning breeze slips silently under the raised window and sunshine dances through the blinds. Like some long-ago female Diogenes, my mind wanders, searches. I hold up my lamp in daytime, seeking what girls perpetually seek but almost never find - an honest man.

My phone interrupts. Worried its vibration might wake him, I slip from the bed to grab it. It's a text from Angel:

ANGEL - "where is he?"

ME - "sleeping"

ANGEL - "you're out of bed?"

ME - "yes. other side of the room. don't want to wake him up."

ANGEL - "you can't be out of bed!"

ME - "had to read your text!"

ANGEL - "he's stirring! back to bed! NOW!

THE NEXT PART -

He does stir. But sleep on he does too - soundly, relaxed. Guys do that. Lifting the white cotton covers, I breathe in Aphrodite's plume, an aromatic mix of cum, sex, of him. Its fragrance floods my brain, conjuring memories of yesterday, of carefully fitted bedding, of blankets turned down, of candles lit, of making nice, in case what happened - happened.

THE WORST PART -

I hadn't been with anyone for a month.

Is it a long time? I don't know anymore. I'm numb from men who can't feel love. Is this one different? I'm like a freshly-fucked schoolgirl who marvels over sensations unfelt - till him. I'm being naïve. I smile to myself and think, a girl can hope!

Through the night I've watched, never dozing, not once! Had to ensure he wasn't some dreamy dream. Besides, a man just laid is a study in post-erotic bliss. He needs watching!

I turn cynical. When he wakes up, he'll default - to guyhood. It's what they do - all of them. It goes something like this:

Girl: Looks moonily at guy - whispers: "Mmm...you're awake."

Guy: Blinks at girl. Blinks at watch. "Can't believe it's this late! Gotta run!" (Jumps from bed - girl hugs pillow.)

Girl: "Do you have to go? It's still early. Let me make you..."

Guy: "Can't stay sweetheart. Late. (Pulls on pants) Will call you."

Then comes the worst part, the part she hates, the part the guy doesn't give a second thought to. It's when Cinderella reverts to pumpkinhood.

So ends a Princess's dream. Not fair! Even pumpkins wish for storybook endings. And I've tried! I've left a glass slipper here, a perfumed handkerchief there. But alas, no prince. Princes lived once - in olden days! They worked thatched cottages of quaint English villages, searching for the girl whose foot - fit!

The guy rolls suddenly, his weight, jarring the bed. Our faces are inches apart. He exhales. I inhale. My lungs fill with his musky air, prompting a return of images - of him - of me, as I claw, struggle, dance Delilah's dance and impale myself on his iron shaft. In the end, extracting as I pleased, I bled him, taking for my own, his nourishing sperm.

Reaching out, I touch a cheek. The guy needs a shave, I think - and badly. So masculine. So cute. He was good, gentle, skilled. Parting fine-spun folds scrubbed scrupulously clean just for him, his fingers stayed busy. With his tongue, he pried - his clitsmanship deliciously expert.

Where's Angel? I need her! Sleeping man or not, she'll crouch at the bed. "Wake him with a blow job, Sheila!" she'll order. Then she will watch, resting her chin in her hands in that way she does - and has, through my far too numerous and way too sundry sexual stumbles. Angel. Yes, I need her - now!

ANOTHER PART -

I only found him last week. He sat alone! A man! Alone! At a restaurant! In New York!

I spied him the minute he wandered in. Like now, I couldn't take my eyes off him. Tall, unhurried, subtly nimble, half shaved; his hair was mussed, like it didn't care. He held a Wall Street Journal folded under his arm. Though it was afternoon - nearly one o'clock - whoever he was, to him it was still morning.

He looked like he'd been up all night, still, the phrase "fit for feminine consumption," tickled me.

Sipping Caffé Misto and pretending indifference, I looked away when he looked my way. Glancing at Heather's empty chair and thrilled she hadn't yet arrived, I whispered, 'thank you Jesus.'

My mind raced to come up with something original before she showed up carrying her intimidating notebooks, her sharp pencils and sharper questions. Bold, I decided. I had to be bold, now!

By then, he'd sat himself on a stool at the bar. Only ten feet away, to a girl who is looking, it seemed ten miles. I wanted him!

A PART FURTHER ON -

"Are you just going to sit there? Go and meet him!" Angel and all her snippety terseness had occupied Heather's chair. I showed impatience. "Angel! My God! You scared the shit out of me! And where have you been anyway?"

"I had things, Sheila! You know...things, other girls to look after. So stop being mean. It's unbecoming. Besides, I went out of my way because you're special, but mostly because I was out anyway and stopped by to take a gander at His Edibleness sitting over there. Wanted to see for myself, you understand."

We both stared at the hottie who, seemingly unaware he was being scoped, skimmed over his paper. "He's a cutie," Angel murmured. "Do you want him?" Her eyes grew bright.

Though she often startled me with unpredictable arrivals, it wasn't uncommon for Angel to drop in on my life. The first time I was in a battered pick-up truck with Darrin. With my lips about to envelop his impatient cock, I heard a hearty rap - rap - rap on the rear window.

The clumsy Darrin, who I didn't even like, was unzipped and waiting. Things weren't supposed to get this far but he was kind of sweet and managed to push my head down. Anyway, I hated saying no so I opened my mouth, took a deep breath and shut my eyes tight. That's when she knocked hard on the window.

Raising my head, I looked over Darrin's shoulder. Dressed in flowing white robes, she had big blue eyes and golden hair. She sort of mouthed at me: "Sheila, don't you dare!" Whoever she was, she knew my name.

With tilted head, but appreciating the interruption, my puzzled look enquired, "Who are you?"

"Never mind who I am!" she struck back. "Do not! I repeat, do not suck that cock!"

"But..." She shook her head no.

"Don't stop, honey," Darrin pleaded. And if ya don't mind me asking, who...are you talking to?" Stroking his cock as a diversion, I stared at her impish face, raising my shoulders inquiringly.

"I'm Angel," was her smiling reply.

"Whose angel?" I asked.

"Yours, Sheila." Mystified, I raised my shoulders a second time. "I watch over girls who are about to do dumb things. You know, girls like you. He's a naughty boy," she noted, "and you mustn't blow him. If you do, I'll tell your dad."

"You won't!" I asserted.

"I will!" She insisted. "Now jerk him off. Then make him take you home."

"But shouldn't I at least..."

"Absolutely not! Lapping up cum is for girls like Andrea Pendleton," she announced. "Only sluts do that for boys they're not in love with. You're no slut, Sheila."

"I'm not?"

"You're not! It's hand job only. Now get on with it." Darrin, sensing a precious blow job moment had passed, frowned, stiffened, gushed and calmed. "Better take me home," I mumbled, glancing at the emptiness outside of the truck and mopping the sticky mess with a napkin.

It was my first time with Angel. It was my last with Darrin.

THE PART AFTER THAT -

"Angel," I whispered, "You shouldn't stay. I'm meeting Heather in a few minutes. And where did you buy that top?!" She sported a revealing white t-shirt that accentuated her voluptuous boobs. Its bold lettering read: "DON'T LOOK AT MY TITS! TOUCH THEM!" Sheepishly, I peeked at my own 32Bs.

"Oh stop obsessing!" she snapped. "That guy over there happens to be into girls, not tits. And besides, I like this shirt. Got it at the Smoke Shop. Anyway, who cares? It's New York! Now, listen as I haven't much time. There's a troubled girl in a Brooklyn warehouse who is tangled up with an evil biker. It's a mess. You need to approach Mr. Hottie and all I have is..." - she glanced at her watch - "... ten minutes."

"I want to, Angel, but..."

"But, slut, rut!" she expounded. "Still waiting around for your next life, Sheila? Go now. Meet him!" I gave him a yearning look.

"Listen, buttercup," she said earnestly. "Don't think about it. Just do it. Remember that jerk you hooked up with last month? Remember? Mr. Tit Fuck?"

"The one who came..."

"Yes, he came on your face and...he got cum in your hair! Left you a total mess and told his friends the next day!" Embarrassed, I blushed.

"Here's the thing, dear," she went on. "This new guy isn't the kind who comes and well - goes!" Again, she checked the time. "I have to get moving, so decide." She impishly giggled. "Look!" She pointed to my glass. "Go to the bar for more coffee. Yours is cold." I rolled my eyes.

"Hurry," she ordered. "That nosy writer of yours is nearing."

"Heather?"

"Heather, whether, whatever!" she said, waving her hand scornfully. "She'll interrupt things. Go meet him." I stood just as the bartender placed a Scotch in front of him. Mechanically, and without looking up from his paper, he sipped.

"I'm off," Angel announced. Her voice came from behind me now. "Sheila, if you don't make your move, I'll take him for myself. I'm thinking of getting laid today." The guy looked over at me, gave me a friendly nod, and returned to his reading.

"Oh fuck!" I whispered under my breath. Standing, I snapped up my glass, dumped its piping hot contents into a hanging spider plant, strolled over to where he was sitting, leaned and casually brushed an innocent pinkie against his.

The simple move should have fractured his concentration, but instead, without taking his eyes from his paper, he smirked. "So tell me something sweetheart. How long have you been left-handed?" He wasn't wearing a wedding band.

"Oh...aha...years, I mean, my whole life!" I faltered.

Nodding to my empty glass, he asked, "Want that refilled?"

"Oh, um...sure." The bartender grinned. I wondered how many girls he'd seen bobble their way into this guy's personal space.

"Patrick Levin," he said, turning to shake my hand. He had big blue eyes and striking cheekbones.

"Sheila O'Hara," I offered, sliding onto the next stool. A smiling Angel popped into view on the other side of him. 'Go away Angel!' I mouthed. Catching me, he gave the vacant seat a suspicious glance.

"What did you say?" he asked, as if addressing an unstable child.

"Oh nothing," I lied. "Do you come here every day to read your paper?"

"Pretty much." His eyes quickly scanned my empty table. Probably thinks I'm a hooker, I reasoned. "Who was that girl you were sitting with? The one with the funny shirt?"

"What girl?" Unfortunately, my mindless reply escaped before I considered Angel's buffoonery. She took form and melted away when it suited her. Slut, I thought. She'd allowed him see those boobs. The whole thing was going badly enough without having her tits to compete with.

Puzzled, he added, "The blonde. The one with the catching T-shirt." I liked his voice. It was masculine, resonant.

"Oh, ahh...you must mean...um...she's a friend. Yes, a friend. She had to go to work...at...she's a waitress...at Hooters."

"Sheila?" Heather's voice shattered my already compromised debut. Standing just inside the doorway and looking straight at the guy she guardedly explained, "Sorry...I'm...ah...late. I...ah...stumbled and broke my...ah...my heel!" Holding up the broken shoe, she added, "That's never happened before."

I knew instantly. Angel had tripped her out on the sidewalk to buy me time. "I have to go," I told Patrick. "Listen, I..."

"Here," he murmured, pulling a business card from his shirt pocket. My eyes scanned it:

//////////////Patrick C.Levin,M.D.////////////////

\\Practice limited to Obstetrics and Gynecology\\

I pulled the Cross pen from his pocket and scrawled my name and cell number on his napkin. "So I'll call you?"

"I'll...call you," he answered firmly.

"Really? How nice. You won't forget, will you?" I batted my eyes.

"I won't." Giving Heather a wave, he re-opened his paper and turned away.

"Yum," Heather purred. "So who is that?" She asked, a little too interested.

"Just a guy," I answered. I sat with Heather a full hour during what was supposed to be an interview. Throughout, I recognized she was talking because her lips kept moving. I know I must have answered, but couldn't stop thinking back to the exciting but all-too-brief exchange. I was so preoccupied with what had happened at the bar that when I looked up, Dr. Patrick Levin was gone.

It was Saturday afternoon. That night he didn't call. The next day was Sunday. He didn't call then either.

MONDAY'S PART -

I spoke hurriedly. "Two, Heather! Two fucking days, I waited! Two days and nothing - silence. Finally, he called, just now! Can you stand it?"

"Was he nice?"

"He's asked me to dinner! Wednesday! At the Kellari Taverna! I love it. The olives, right? They're aphrodisiacs, right?"

Heather changed the subject. "Sheila, listen. I'm suspending our interviews and am leaving New York," she said. "It's a last-ditch effort to get my creativity back, something I can't do here. Too many memories, I guess." I felt bad for her. Russell's exit had sucked the air out of her.

But I couldn't think about that now. I had a date - with a stranger - a doctor - a gynecologist! The very idea made me cringe. My thoughts swam in concentric circles. He knows too much about women's bodies! Is he real? He's too good to be true! Is he married? Guys like that aren't just hanging around reading newspapers, right? Applying lipstick, I leaned into the mirror.

"Yes they are Sheila. Sometimes, anyway," a voice said. Complete with Cheshire cat smile, Angel peaked over my shoulder into the mirror. "All it took was a miracle!"

Nonchalantly blotting my lips with a tissue, I said, "I see you've changed tops. Did you donate yours to the Salvation Army?" I paused, then admonished again, "Angel, can't you at least warn me that you've let a man see you? It's the second time! The guy must think I'm a nut! Anyway, I can't talk now. I have to get ready."

Crossing her arms, she retaliated. "Angels don't tell everything, dear. It's how we are. Besides, he called you, didn't he? Have you decided? Will you fuck him?"

"I can't make up my mind. And it's none of your...why don't you go and check on that biker chick you're nursemaiding? And I don't even know him - hardly!"

Her smile turned smirk and she asked, "And all that is relevant because...?"

"...It's relevant because...because it might be nice for a change! To actually know who a guy is before I let him fuck me - if you don't mind, that is." I paused again and said, "Unlike some heavenly bodies, I don't spread my legs for complete strangers!"

"Spank, spank," she admonished, mockingly sliding one index finger over the other. "It never bothered you before," Angel reminded. "Admit it. You had your eye on his buns the moment he walked in. You crave him!"

"All right, ALL RIGHT!" I conceded. "Now go away!" Having made her point and with a graceful curtsy, my annoying conscience dissolved.

THE GIRL, THE GUY AND THE NIGHT -

Smart, understanding, good humored, the guy was lightening in a bottle. Dinner was a pleasurable litany of emotionally charged thrusts and parries. He was a joy in conversation and over coffee; he reached into his pocket and plunked down tickets onto the table.

"Want to see Phantom with me?" he asked warmly.

When the show ended, and so unlike New York where solitary girls disappear into the night, he didn't leave me on the street. He took me home! Thrilling as it was, disappointingly, he turned down my nightcap offer. "I can't, Sheila. Have to be at the hospital. I'd better get going." He leaned, kissed me softly and drove off.

Damn! I thought. I'll never see him again. I trudged up the stairs, inserting the key into the lock just as the clock struck twelve. So predictable! Of course, I wondered why he left as he did. Maybe he detected the excitement spinning in my head. Leaning into the mirror where I had glowed with anticipation only hours earlier, I looked at myself and whispered, "You blew it, didn't you." Dialing my phone, I thoughtlessly awakened Heather.

"How did it go?" she asked sleepily. "Did he come up for a drink?"

"He left," I said curtly.

"Oh shit. Did something happen?"

THE NEXT TO THE LAST PART -

Girl time and guy time run in parallel. Neither intersects. Girl ticks drift by; tiresome, endless. Guy tocks pass quickly, through soundless vacuums. Guys have no conception of time. When they check it - if they bother at all - whole centuries have passed.

I crashed into an uneasy sleep and after what seemed forever, a text vibrated my phone. It was 3:30. I read the message:

>>"S - on my way there - see u in half hour - P"<

Controlled-panic seized me. It has to be perfect! Everything - perfect! Makeup re-applied itself, silk replaced flannel, and candlelight mastered incandescence.

"Will you please stop all this? It's annoying." I turned to find an abrupt but beaming Angel, standing behind me, her form bathed in soft golden light. "I hate that eyeliner," she observed. "Otherwise, you're dazzling." Reaching up, she tweaked my chin with her fingers. "Sheila, this isn't what the guy cares about." Looking skeptical, I bit my nail. "Relax. It took me forever to find him and he's on his way back. I knew he would."

"You did? And it really took you forever?" I asked naively.

"Sweetheart, even Angels can't find doctors who make house calls these days!" she snapped. "And obstetricians are the worst!"

"They are?"

"Of course. Think about it. A man! Spending half his life...well...down there!"

"It's true, Angel. I know you really worked this one for me and I don't like that he knows so much about my insides," I admitted glumly.

"Worked it? I'll have you know I've put in for overtime! Probably won't get it with the economy the way it is...even in heaven it's the same! Anyway, I found a guy, finally, who won't come in your hair! And...he won't insist on blowjobs either. They're optional now! And no more pick-up trucks!"