Note to self, Trina: I don't care how bad it tastes, never EVER spit in the car.
Malcolm is a pretty reliable guy. Street smart and tool savvy, knows how to jump-start a car, can fix anything that runs on batteries. Not the hottest thing on two legs, but he keeps fit. Big biceps, killer pecs, and when he's hitting the gym regularly, a washboard stomach that could withstand a cannonball.
So, it's Friday. I'm at the bar, pregaming for my old friend Renee's bachelorette party. I'm flirting with some college kids for free drinks when I realize that I'm suddenly in no shape to drive across town to her place. I can't be bothered to order an Uber, but since Malcolm lives only half a mile from the booze joint, I shoot him a text:
"If you've ever loved me or had fun blowing spunk up my trunk, come give me a ride."
Of course, I'm five shots of Jose Cuervo into the evening at four PM, after having eaten nothing all day but three hot wings and some bar olives, so the text itself comes out garbled. A real zero-punctuation crime against second grade grammar. But somehow, Malcolm decodes the gist and swings by in his blue Ford Mustang.
He's all spiffed up when he arrives, wearing some nice khaki pants and a white, cotton shirt with the top three buttons undone. He's slicked back his shoulder-length blonde hair and trimmed his wolfish goatee to a slick, inverted triangle in his chin. Whether he rolled out of bed looking so stylish or he made a special slapdash effort on my part, I'm far too buzzed to ask.
I sling myself into his passenger's seat, catching the tail of my black cocktail dress in the door. While I'm struggling to unstick it, Malcolm grabs me by the chin and pulls me into a French kiss.
I hope he doesn't mind the taste of cheap tequila, and that he doesn't get pulled over for a breathalyzer. I let him play with my tongue, even if I'm not a huge fan of his brand of mouthwash. Then again, Malcolm always has been a good kisser, especially when he has another appendage jammed inside me, along with the tongue. One of the only guys I've ever let finish in my ass without a condom on repeat occasions.
He hits the turnpike and asks, "So, Trina, who's party are ya crashin' tonight?"
I check myself in the visor mirror. My hair looks great, raven dark with fresh layering from the salon. It looks so chic, cascading onto my shoulders. My makeup, on the other hand, seems okay at a glance but appears smudged upon closer inspection. "It's Renee's bachelorette party," I say. "And I've got an invitation."
"An invite? Really? That's a new one for ya."
"It seemed like a fun change of pace, being somewhere I'm actually supposed to be for once. It should keep everyone on their toes." I dig around in my purse, locating my cosmetic kit beneath a mess of tampons and half-full Tic-Tac boxes. "Do you have plans for tonight? If you're free, maybe you want to be one plus-one?"
"Me? Ah, hell, no, I'm lousy at parties. I can mingle for maybe ten minutes before I gotta, like, wander off and make friends with the dog."
"Though not with the cat..."
"Gee-aahd!" I watch his skin crawl. "Goddamn, Trina, why'd ya have to remind me of THAT?"
Malcolm HATES cats. If anyone wants to point fingers, I'm the girl to blame. Once while some psycho ex was threatening to chop off his penis and stuff it in his mouth, I let Malcolm crash at my place. Though I had offered to let him share the bed, he stationed himself on the couch, for fear that the ex would catch us under the covers and turn grievous bodily harm into a double-murder.
Middle of the night, I awoke to the sounds of shattered glass and blood-curdling screams. Half-naked, I scrambled out of bed and charged into the living room, brandishing an empty bottle of wine as a weapon.
There was my cat Koko, hissing atop the coffee table.
And there was Malcolm, cowering behind the couch, shrieking, "Keep that thing away from me! It's evil!"
I said, "Calm DOWN, Malcolm! It's just Koko! He's harmless!"
"The hell he is! The Goddamn thing tried to fuck my leg!"
I scooped Koko from the coffee table and stroked his bristled fur, trying to make peace between the two. But anytime I brought the cat near him, Malcolm would scream and dash to the farthest corner of the apartment. So, I put Koko in the bathroom for the night and convinced Malcolm to hide with me beneath the sheets. Traumatized and jangle-nerved as he was, I couldn't help getting a kick every time I purred in his ear and watched him leap out of his skin.
In the driver's seat of the Ford, Malcolm says, "That Goddamn thing's a menace. I can't even knock on your door anymore without fear of inter-species rape."
"Oh, please. Koko's never fucked anyone I know. At least, not against their will."
Malcolm cringes from head to toe. "Ya oughta get that thing clipped. If not for me, for the sake of society. Goddamn cat should be on a pervert's registry."
"So should I." I swipe some smeared foundation from my cheeks, reapplying a new layer with the help of the visor mirror. "I could never have poor Koko fixed. It's just a professional courtesy amongst us perverts."
"At least keep that little fucker locked in the bathroom or somethin' when I come around next. I don't mind pissin' off your balcony."
