A Red Door On A Silver Car

He knows the flirty waitress is watching him. She is tall and lithe with small breasts and russet hair heaped into a high pile of coils. Her perfect pout is stained a deep, sensual red; she’s jerked her uniform shirt into a knot at the hem and left it open to expose a white, ribbed tank underneath it. What does the nametag say? Gee Gee.

It’s short for something. Gertrude Gray. Gail Givens

.

He knows her type. Something about her is sorrowing, trashy. She is low. But after he’s dropped some cash for a wide-brimmed cup of Dane’s Diner’s infamously bitter coffee, Ian takes her home with him. In the car she fawns, feathering him relentlessly with mischievous touches as she drones in her feminine basso. Ian is excited by her loose talk, the promise of her body.

“So you live way down on the east end.” She intones.

“Yeah. Across from the elementary school.”

“Man. I’m sorry if I’m all sweaty or if I smell like grease. We were fuckin’ jammed all day today.” She undoes the knot in her shirt, peels it off, and tosses it in the back seat. Beneath her wife-beater, her black, frilly-patterned bra is visible. Parts of it peek up over the scooping neckline. Gee Gee’s flesh is pale and smattered with light freckles. A long, silver necklace is draped over her shoulders; the pendant hangs in her modest cleavage.

“I’ve done my share of counter duty,” Ian replies, “I think you smell great.”

She titters a lusty laugh and her spindly fingers dance along his inner thigh.

For Ian, home is a beryl-walled hole on the second floor of a 19th century building on Bank Street. A leather sofa is pushed against the wall by the door, facing a TV on a precarious stand. To the right of the door is the hall to the bedroom, but Ian and Gee Gee never make it there. Not a minute after they arrive and Ian throws the bolt, what shallow small talk they attempt degenerates into deep, lustful kissing. The girl has a strange scent about her; as she pulls off her tank top and presses a careful palm against his crotch, Ian guesses it is lilac. But there is something sickly about it, something false.

Like a red door on a silver car.

Gee Gee turns out to be insatiable. Her ass is round and taut and her vulva is as bare as a baby’s. As Ian bends her over the couch arm and pushes his prick into her wet warmth, her cunt muscles clench like a fist and ripple expertly over the length of his cockshaft. They rock like that for twenty minutes; Gee Gee bucks and claws and shamelessly barks lewd demands for faster and harder fucking. Ian drags his hands down her muscled back, her slender hips; she grunts like a weightlifter when he smacks her phenomenal ass.

A fuckin’ quarter-bouncer, Ian’s bar buddies would’ve laughed.

When Gee Gee comes, her thighs quiver and she arcs her back, moaning through gritted teeth. Again, it’s that deep, animal growl rumbling from her pallid throat. Ian grabs a fistful of her hair and pummels into her, riding her rough orgasmic waves as a swell of his own develops in his gut.

Then he’s exploding in her, pushing himself to the hilt. His useless seed flows; Ian loses himself in the release. When he’s twitched his last, he slips out and his legs ache. It’s a good ache, though, the burn of exertion. His cock is ruddy and pulsing, wet to the root with Gee Gee. The girl turns, stretching, still wearing her black bra.

“Mmmm,” she thrums. She unclasps the bra, pushes the thin straps over her elbows. Her breasts are pert with tiny, pink nipples. “This is nice.”

But it isn’t over. She slips her hand to the base of Ian’s still shuddering cock and smiles prettily. Her eyes are gray-green and round as an owl’s above her blushing cheeks.

Youth there, Ian thinks.

Then Gee Gee sinks to her knees and slowly takes Ian’s cock gingerly between her lips, swallowing what come is left seeping from the head.

All that night, Ian and Gee Gee loll and revel in brazen frottage, sweating and grinding against each other until the sun turns the sky to blood. Ian is surprised at his own energy. He comes five times that night –the last into Gee Gee’s anus. The girl is hungry for anal; she comes more fiercely with Ian’s piston cock in her ass than in any of the other positions they try.

When Ian finally heads for bed, she follows him. And when he wakes four hours later, shaken by some horrific nightmare, Gee Gee is still asleep beside him, nude. He looks her over, traces her curves and folds with his eyes. One of her perfect feet juts from beneath the comforter. Her hair is down; it pools around and beneath her head, still crimped where it was earlier held in place by a scrunchie. With a curious smile, Ian realizes how uncannily Gee Gee resembles Liv Tyler. The nightmare begins to melt away, like thunderheads finally dissolving to reveal a sapphire sky; but it is not quite peace that takes the nightmare’s place. It is a species of deep doubt which gnaws incessantly at Ian.

Like I’ve come to the kitchen

, Ian thinks,

and forgotten why

.

As he’s showering, Ian hears the waitress leave. She calls in to him, something sweet and gracious, but he can’t make it out. Soon after, the bolt slides and the door thuds shut. Ian finishes quickly, steps out of the bathroom with some conditioner still clumped in his hair and holding a coral-colored towel over his lower front. He runs to the one window in his bedroom and looks out over Bank Street. A taxi is sliding away. Is that her? He thinks, foolishly, about calling her name. Instead, he heaves a heavy sigh and steps away from the window.

Ian dresses slowly, yawning. He is wracked with dull pain; it hurts just bending to pull up his pants. A song lilts through his head, something from Soft Cell. As Ian pads into the living room, he sees the light scuffs mark made on the hardwood by Gee Gee’s big, black boots and the pile of blankets and couch cushions where she gave herself to him unabashedly. Had she left a mark? A brand on his mind? Ian knew this was ridiculous. Gee Gee was trashy, sorrowing, low. A picture of self-deprecation.

Ian flips the TV on and leaves it yakking moronically as he heads out into the hallway. He walks down to his car; he’s headed back to Dane’s Diner, though he does not know it yet and will deny it even until he’s sitting in the restaurant’s parking lot. He is being strung along, but not by anything as base as infatuation. Gee Gee has left an awful hole; she burns in Ian’s brain as a preternatural mystery. A frightening void. And now he remembers the lilac smell and the feeling of falseness that came with it.

Not what she seems.

He sinks into the driver’s seat of his Lincoln –two years shy of being an antique, this heap– and finds Gee Gee’s work shirt still lying where she left it the night before. He reaches back and bunches it in his fist; before he knows it, Ian is lifting the shirt to his face and inhaling deeply. The lilac scent is there, quixotic and taunting as ever.

A red door on a silver car.

Ian’s Lincoln is silver. He finds the nametag and tries to read it. The marker is smudged, but the letters finally begin to materialize.

They’re different.

Ian’s eyes grow wide; his mouth is a hard line. The weight of his abject shock threatens to crush him breathless. The lilac smell seems to pervade his senses, burning his eyes to tears; his nose runs against the invading scent. It’s impossible, but the name on the tag has changed. The handwriting is the same, blocky letters shaped by a black Sharpie. But they now longer read “Gee Gee.”

Now, the name on the tag is “El Tee.”

The void where Gee Gee had been is hungry, gasping, afire. Ian takes control, breathes to calm himself, drops the Dane’s Diner uniform shirt into the passenger seat.

I wasn’t looking last night. Not at her nametag and not too long at her face either. That’s all

.

But it isn’t, and Ian knows it. And he knows, even as he leaves the east side for Dane’s Diner, that he won’t find Gee Gee working there today. Or ever again.