Butter on Cream - Michael, a recently single, slightly bitter, handsome Asian man, decides to indulge himself with an anonymous fling with a White woman, which he has never experienced before, as a birthday treat to himself. Lisa, a somewhat pretty, recent single herself, willingly submits to the seduction by Michael as a way to reassure herself that she is still desirable to men, as her long-term lover has left her for another man.
*
Michael pulled his pickup into a parking spot, turned off the air conditioner, and cut the engine. Stepping onto the sidewalk, the pavement shimmering in the early evening swelter that was Iowa, he checked his watch, again. "At least I'll have time for a beer," he thought as he caught his reflection in a darkened store window, and stopped to tuck his brand-new t-shirt into his khaki slacks. The reflection staring back was a tall, slim and toned Asian-American with a short, no-nonsense haircut, a slightly sarcastic smile,
and dark RayBan shades. If he looked nervous, and just a bit peeved, he hoped it didn't show. He'd never been on a blind date before. How'd he ever let his boss talk him into this? "She's the niece of our new client. She just moved here, and she doesn't know anyone... Come on, this client is important to us. And I promised... She's a lawyer, you know... And you seem to like brainy girls, like, you know, Grace..." and his voice trailed off.
Of course he liked brainy girls. Grace was a doctor. And Grace, he thought ruefully, left me for another doctor. Michael pushed open the gate of the outdoor terrace of Valentino's, the appointed meeting place, and sat down facing the street at an umbrella'ed table for two, grateful for the shade. And for the smiling waitress who offered a wine list. "I'll just have a beer, thanks," he smiled back, and soon the ice-cold brew was in his hand. After a few slugs, he surveyed the surroundings, scanning for the red-headed Ms. Allison Payne. He'd googled her, checked out her Facebook, texted out the details with her, and visited her firm's website, and had a pretty good idea, at least, of what she might be like. The inter-webs made it so much easier now to know what you might be getting into. He glanced at his watch again. 7:42. Hopefully, she wouldn't be late. He wanted to get this over with, and make an early exit. He finished off his beer, and waved the waitress over for another. "Damn, it's humid," he thought, and debated the wisdom of wearing a tight white t-shirt. Perhaps, he'd be able to keep the flop sweat to a minimum. Screwing the cap off the second beer, he noticed a girl emerging from the shop across the street holding a bucket and a squeegee. She was tall, with long blonde curls cascading to the middle of her back. She was wearing a pink, full-skirted sundress and flat, pink shoes. Her figure, as much as he could tell, was slender, lithe. Not too busty. Just nice. She proceeded to wash the shop's large front windows with long, graceful swoops. He studied her long, toned, arms and legs as she scrubbed and squeegee'd. "Not bad," he thought, pushing his sunglasses down to get a better view. "Not bad at all." She looked ethereal, sinuous, sexy. Like a ballet dancer.
Then, in his periphery, was a voice. "Michael? Michael Shaw?" Someone, a female someone, stepped into view. It was Ms. Allison Payne, Lawyer. And blind date.
"Hi, Allison, right?" Michael stood up, and offered his hand. Her handshake was remarkably wimpy for a lawyer, Michael thought nervously. He swallowed, thinking, "Here we go... might as well make the best of it..." He started with a smile, "Have a seat. Did you want a drink while we wait?"
Allison pulled up a chair opposite him and Michael waved the waitress over yet again. Ms. Allison Payne wanted an appletini, which the industrious waitress hurried off to get. And Allison started to chatter. And query. And chatter. She had never had a date with an "oriental", she just loved sushi, and the Chinese people had such a rich history, blah, blah, blah. He didn't bother to tell her he was born and raised in Wisconsin. And was only half Korean. The appletini was just making it all worse, but at least she wasn't blocking the view of the lovely ballerina window-washer across the street. Michael nodded and responded to Allison's many questions. "Jesus," he mused to himself, "Nooobody expects the Spanish Inquisition...If fact, those who do...God, I must be bored, I'm already quoting Python to myself... what is this, a fucking job interview?" But by then, he already knew that this evening was to be a complete bust.
But suddenly, it didn't matter. The ballerina window-washer had completed her task, and had disappeared into the shop. Allison and her annoying snobbish chatter and unintentional racism didn't matter. His rage over Grace and her new cardiologist husband, with custody of his son, no less, didn't matter. His relative inexperience and awkwardness with pretty white girls didn't matter. He'd never really dated, much less slept with, a white girl. Grace was 100% Korean, first generation, and had been the only woman he'd ever had sex with. They met when she was a freshman, he was a senior, and they were pretty much the only Asians at their small college. She got pregnant, and they got married, soon after. His college friends, white and black, boasted about their conquests, sleek sorority girls, party goddesses, blonde, blue-eyed and supremely sexual. He always fantasized about them, the haughty ivory toys he wouldn't, couldn't, didn't, ever have. It didn't matter. Even his loneliness, which he dulled with long hours at the gym and on the jobsite, didn't matter. Anymore. He'd made a decision. He was going to change all of this. Whatever it took, for once, he was going to be the one who saw what he wanted, took what he wanted, hit it, quit it, and walked away. This Asian man was going to get the white girl. He was going to get even.
After a mercifully short dinner and more unwitting condescension, he walked Allison to her car. She seemed receptive to more. He gave her a half-hearted hug and promised her he would call. He knew he wouldn't. Waving her away, he strode over to the dimly-lit window of the ballerina girls shop. And there it was, painted on the side window, in old-fashioned letters. Greene Jewelers. Specializing in Gold, Diamonds, and Porcelain. Goldsmith on Staff -- Repairs while you wait. Established 1980. We buy Gold and Estate Jewelry. Top Prices Paid. Lisa Greene, Proprietress. 555-2334. Website: greenejewelersiowa.com. Michael smiled. Things were going to change. His birthday was seven days away and he was already hatching a plan.
"Shit... it's morning...." Lisa rolled over and slapped her alarm clock to stop the angry buzzing. Rubbing her eyes and stretching, she padded into the bathroom to shower and jolt herself awake. Even though it would be fun to sleep in just once on a Saturday, she liked to work weekends. They were busy. And she liked to keep busy. It just made things easier. The steamy shower was waking her up, and she shampoo'ed and shaved her legs, thinking, "I'll wear some capris today. Be comfortable. And maybe clean the back room if it's not too busy." She let her soapy hand rub between her legs, stroking, maybe for a little longer than she needed to. But it felt good to want sex again, any sex at all, even her hand, and she hadn't felt anyone else's hands but hers on her neatly trimmed, tight pussy for a long, long time. Even though Garrett moved out in May, he hadn't touched her for months, almost a year, before then. Shutting off the shower, she wrapped herself in a towel and combed her dripping hair. The waves were already springing up. She loved her curls as much as Garrett hated them. She'd spent the better part of 6 years of mornings torturing her hair straight. The way he liked it. Pretty much the only "straight" thing he probably ever liked, she thought sarcastically. Well, she was free from him and she was free from the blow dryer and the flat iron. Good riddance, she smirked to the mirror. To both of them. To all of them.
She heard her cell's ringtone that signaled an incoming text, and picked it up. A text from Garrett, spelling, "Coming 2 pickup the last of my stuff -- r u working all day? Ill leave my key this time, k?" Lisa punched the buttons back. "Yup - theres boxes in the spare room and dont let sinatra out. ill b back at 8 or so"... There was a time when call or text from Garrett would have made her cry, or throw things, or feel sick with shame, but all she could feel now was relief. And utter apathy. " Just get your shit and then stay out of my house..." she sighed under her breath. Sinatra, her Siamese cat looked at her like she was crazy. "Maybe I am, Sinatra," she said, rubbing his head, "Maybe I am." She picked out a black bra, panties, black capri's and a black tank top. And some flip flops. It was going to be another hot, humid day, and she wanted to be comfortable. Besides, who cared what she looked like? The customers? "They're lucky I put on makeup..." she mused, twisted her damp curls into a messy bun, stuck some black chopsticks in it and grabbed her keys, throwing them in her bag. It was 8:45 already... and she didn't want to be late. Work made the time fly. And she needed it to. When it was quiet, when she had time to think, remember, that's when she felt the loneliness, the ache, the regret. It was much better to be busy.
Twisting the key in her shop's door, she pushed it open and reached for the alarm system, disarming it. Snapping on the lights, turning on the till, opening the safe, replacing the diamond pads into the cases, setting the till cash in the register, all the familiar routines. She loved the routines. She loved her shop, her brick and brass and glass sanctuary. Dad had opened it when she was a baby, and she couldn't remember when it didn't exist. She spent her childhood there, helping out, hanging out, napping after school behind the cases. And working. From 14 on, all through high school and even during breaks from college. She took goldsmithing and jewelry design classes to be able to help out, even though her major in college was Theatre and Costume design. When she and Garrett had graduated, with Master's, mind you, she was overjoyed when he got a job teaching Theatre Arts at her old high school. She could go back to her beloved home town, to her beloved shop, and her beloved parents, until she found work that used her degree. Which, in this town, if you weren't going to teach, seemed unlikely. But who cared about that, when she could assist everyone's favorite teacher Garrett with his productions at school. It was ideal. But then Dad died. Suddenly. Heart attack. And Mom semi-retired to Florida to live with her sister. She said she just couldn't deal with the weather anymore, but Lisa thought it was the memories she couldn't deal with. Mom still technically owned the shop -- but it was all Lisa's responsibility now. And so it went for 3 years, Lisa and her work, Garrett and his all-consuming teaching/directing career, and his supportive, new best friend Rick, the soccer coach.
She should have seen it coming. When she met Garrett, he had just transferred from another, smaller college. They worked on some productions together, dated, had incredible sex and better coffee, moved in together, and experimented with drugs and scenes together just like good little Neo-Bohemian - Free -Spirited- Theatre Students did. When he proposed three-somes, complete with hunky, sexually-confused undergrads or androgenous goth girls, fueled with plenty of beer and ecstacy, she was down with that. Lisa would do anything he wanted. White, handsome, alternative, straight, and a Theatre Major? Everybody wanted him. And she had him. And she intended to hang on to him, even if it meant doing things she wouldn't have dreamed of doing when she fantasized about her perfect, lifelong partner. He told her she needed to "open", "liberal", and was so proud of her rejection of "bourgeoisie" morals. They didn't need marriage. They had each other. That's just what you did, trying on gender roles like they were vintage hats. When Lisa objected, he reassured her that she was the only woman he'd ever loved, and that it was, "We're partners in crime! Just you and me. Only Bi 'til we kiss college good-bye!" He didn't want to miss a thing, not one crazy thing, while they still could get away with it.
"There's no such thing as Bi," Lisa sighed inwardly, while dusting the crystal display. She winced at the memory of her own dalliances, "Just greedy... desperate, or gay in denial..." When her Dad had the heart attack, Garrett stopped smoking, began to exercise and watch his diet. "Good for him," Lisa thought. And the new soccer coach, Rick, was right there, helping him every step of the way. And soon, he was there, at their house, every day. Garrett started spending even more time "working", and "working out". He lost his pallor, his taste for drinking, and his thin, "rock star" physique, buffed out, and even quit begging Lisa's help on the school's productions. Lisa made excuses at first, "He's tired, he's overworked, he's training for a marathon, he's finally got a good het male buddy..." But then she came home early one slow Friday in May with a headache and found the two of them in bed. Her Bed. Garrett told her then. "I'm gay. Not Bi. I'm coming out. And I'm moving in with Rick." And that was that. She became, in that instant, an ex-wife. The one all her old friends from high school whispered about. It must be all her fault, right? The one who must have turned that wonderful, handsome, committed, caring teacher gay. All this, without ever being married. And six years wasted.
