Neither my first, last, nor middle name starts with a "B" or an "S." So everybody always wants to know how I got the name BS. I have a story, I tell them that when I was little my father always told everybody I was a big bullshitter, and so they started calling me BS. And though it's true I was full of piss-and-vinegar as a little girl, the story is, actually, bullshit.
In high school, no let me think, it was middle school, puberty hit me early and it hit hard. By the time I was twelve everybody teased me about being built like a brick shithouse. The kids started calling me Brick until a teacher asked about it, then they switched to BS and the teacher didn't ask any more. My tits were famous, they went from mosquito-bites to cantaloupes overnight, and my ass caused traffic accidents behind me as I walked along the sidewalk. I was a normal, somewhat outgoing kid, but I would say overly blessed in the body department. It brings certain challenges to a young girl but it also teaches you early to deal with the realities of life when you, literally, grow up fast.
This meant of course that every boy in town hit on me, and I learned quickly how to keep them at a distance. I loved the attention but I was never wild. Held onto my virginity till college, and even then I was more subdued than most of the girls. This actually paid off for me, made me even more of a prize; in my senior year I started dating Bud Nichols, and as soon as we graduated and he got settled in his father's company we got married.
Bud had some connections with inside knowledge, and we were able to buy a plot of land on a cul-de-sac next to the woods where we knew the developer was having trouble and the other lots would never be developed, at least not for a long time. With all the benefits of living in town, we were able to build a "house in the country" and we did it right, with an architect and landscaper, it was not overly expensive but it has statuary and gardens in the back, hedges and hiding-places, a hot tub, sun room. We host parties fairly often with his friends from work. It's been eight years now, and I am glad to say I am still built like a brick shithouse. The tits hang a little lower these days but I actually think they look nicer this way -- they used to stick out like a pair of rocket ships, now they jiggle and sway when I move. I still wear the same sizes I wore in high school, if that tells you anything.
Summary of my marriage: boring boring boring. Bud turned out to be a big nothing, and his friends from work are worse. Well at least they try to hit on me sometimes, which is more than I can say for my husband, who hasn't touched me in a year. Which is fine with me, he creeps me out. But I smile at him, make him his nice dinners, take care of the place -- the gardens are my special treat, I love to go out in the back yard and dig in the dirt, and the results are very rewarding. I don't have much in the way of friends but I kind of like it like that. I read, I garden, I shop -- did I mention, one of the benefits of this kind of marriage is unlimited credit everywhere. I have a whole dresser full of beautiful things that Bud has never seen, every drawer filled with nothing but frilly, girlie, sexy lingerie. Nobody has ever seen any of it. This is what I love to wear when I'm alone, which is every day, cute little peek-a-boo things. I make myself look pretty and live like a queen in a tower. I often spend the afternoon in my recliner, reading, all alone, in the sexiest outfits money can buy. I like to leave the curtains open; I've gone out and looked, and you can't see in because of the glare, but it is a little bit of a thrill to sit there with everything on display while a delivery guy comes to the porch, scans his bar codes, and leaves, oblivious. Some days I sit in the cool shade of my back deck, reading, in some luxurious little piece of expensive lace and silk, surrounded by the sounds of nature. I can't be seen from the street or anywhere outside my property, and the sun and the breeze are wonderful when you are next to naked with only a couple of ounces of light ruffles and sexy lace lightly tickling your skin. I feel a little defiant and a little naughty, nobody sees me and nobody needs to see.
Our cul-de-sac was an oasis of peace in the heart of a busy city. Now and then neighbors would walk their dogs on our street, and occasionally the neighbor kids got together a game of baseball nearby, but other than that we had deer, raccoons, squirrels, birds. One year we had a family of rabbits in the back yard, the next year we had a family of foxes. Funny how that is. One other thing, it seems our cul-de-sac has a reputation as a kind of lover's lane. They'll come back here and park along the street, even in the daytime, and nobody bothers them. I have a few times seen couples go off hand-in-hand into the woods and come back an hour later, but usually they stay in their cars. I secretly like the idea of some strangers having sex in their car; I have a kind of favorite fantasy that there is sex all around me, behind every drawn curtain, in every shadow, sex everywhere but not to be seen. Like my own intense sexual feelings, it is a big secret.
There's almost never anything to see but there was one couple who left the passenger door open. I had heard cheerful laughter and I looked through the hedge and a woman was standing on the pavement leaning into the car, and it appeared she was performing oral sex on her boyfriend. I could see her head bobbing up and down as he leaned back in his seat. I think about that sometimes and it looked kind of fun but that's not the way I do things. Growing up as BS, I expected to be the center of attention myself, playing hard-to-get, teasing and not often pleasing. My thing is to get a man's attention and then leave him wanting more.
You get the picture: I've got it made. I am taken care of, I have money and freedom, a beautiful house, all the time in the world, elegant things to wear. We never had kids, it just never happened, and it probably won't -- you have to fuck to make kids last time I checked. I mean, it would be funny to have a little guy who looks like the FedEx driver, but ... just joking. The FedEx driver doesn't even know there's anyone home when he comes by.
It was a warm afternoon in late spring. My routine at that time of year was to work in the garden for a few hours, bathe and change, then spend the afternoon reading before dinner. I was digging in the dirt near the fence when a shadow crossed over me and I looked up.
I was familiar with this person, though I had never actually talked to him. An older man, gray hair, walking a mellow old beagle. I figured he must live in the neighborhood. He was standing beside the fence -- chickenwire across some rustic old posts -- watching me.
"Hi," I said.
"Hi," he responded. "Plantin' some flowers?"
I was on my knees with a trowel in my hand. "Vegetables," I said. "I figure peas over here, near the fence."
"Hmm, good," he said. The dog sat his butt on the pavement and scratched his ear.
The man stood there, and I suddenly realized that I was leaning over in a flimsy tank top with no bra, probably giving this old guy a show. I knew I should have been embarrassed, but I had a different thought, which was, why not? Give the guy a little thrill, what could it hurt? At this point in my life it had become instinct; wrap a guy around my little finger, let him adore me, and reject him. His frustration was my pleasure.
"They call me BS," I said.
"Oh, I'm Jake," he replied, seeming to come back to himself. "I didn't mean to stare."
"Were you staring?"
"I guess I was, a little," he said. "I didn't know who lived in this nice house."
"Just me and my husband," I said.
"Guess you got the whole block to yourselves, don't you." He had a bit of a Midwestern twang, kind of folksy, with a friendly tone to it. I liked it.
"Pretty much," I replied. "It's nice and quiet."
"I see. I live up around the corner there. Me and Boogie walk on this cul-de-sac now and then, and over to the woods."
"Well I'm sorry to look like this," I said. "I wasn't expect to run into anyone."
He laughed. "Sorry, huh? What you got to be sorry about?"
"Well, it's just my sloppy old gardening clothes," I said.
"Young lady, those sloppy old clothes warm an old man's heart."
I didn't know what to say. I'd put this man in his late fifties, early sixties, not anybody I would ever have an interest in. Still, it was nice to feel appreciated for a second.
"Thank you, sir. I mean Jake."
His eyes were having their way with me. "So what does BS stand for?" he asked.
"Everybody asks me that," I said. I stood up and wiped a drip of sweat off my forehead.
"I bet they do," he said.
"It doesn't stand for anything. There's the usual story I tell, and the real story. It's probably not real polite to tell you the real story. I usually tell people my father used to say I was a big bullshitter as a kid."
