FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS (Chapter Fifteen) - DAWN

I wonder if it was her or merely the circumstances of my life when we met.  Was Dawn my soul mate, or did she just happen to come along when someone like her was what I needed?  I'll never have a definitive answer, for such matters are beyond definition. What is love?  Whoever claims to know is either a liar or fool.  People are capable of vastly different levels of emotion and devotion.  Those on the high end of the scale love no truer than those at the bottom.  They're only more apparent.

Commitment is easier to get a handle on.  Concrete ground rules can be set for it.  Breaking them does not void the existence of love, but this tends to be difficult to prove in divorce court.

Dawn and I were officially introduced by her Cocker Spaniel, Holden.  I was strolling through Washington Square Park when he broke free of his master's grasp to greet me.  I stooped to give him a pat and looked down into his big brown eyes, then up into hers.

She was undeniably beautiful.  I would have been content had this been all there was to her.  But I was to learn that there was considerably more in Dawn's arsenal.

Like myself she had inherited early and substantially enough to make financial matters of small concern.  She too had chosen to dedicate her life to the arts, painting and sculpting at her loft in SOHO.  Conversing with Dawn came easy.  She was cleverly sarcastic, adorably pessimistic, pompous enough to display occasional evidence of her Ivy League education, silly enough to continue eating her ice cream cone after Holden sneaked a lick.  I worked hard on making Dawn smile, not solely to enhance my chances of winning her over, but also for the simple pleasure I derived when her lips curved upwards and her dimples took shape.  The next day I realized with amazement as I stared at my phone receiver, preparing to make the first call, that I was actually a little nervous.

"So would you like to get together sometime soon?" I asked after several minutes of fumbling small talk which I usually excelled at.

"That depends."

"On what?”  She was toying with me.  The tables I was a professional on were being turned.

"On where you plan for it to lead.  Is your intent to wine me, dine me, and then play me like a fiddle?  Or have you already booked the chapel?"

"I figured we would play it by ear."

"That will do.  I'd love to go out with you."

She had me.  I tried to dismiss the thought as we discussed where to meet and what to do.  I tried to act as if the conversation was ordinary, the situation routine, and my voice probably conveyed this.  But my heart was beating a rhythm it had never played before, one that made my soul want to dance.

As we spoke in the park on the day we met, I sensed that there was something different about Dawn, or rather, about the way I was being made to feel when I was around her.  She possessed a quality that the scores of femme fatales to come before her who had failed to cast a lasting spell were lacking.  When Dawn looked at me, it was as if she saw through the surface I presented.  Her gaze penetrated straight to the attic where my innermost feelings are stored.  This obliterated the need for pretense.  There was nothing to hide behind, which somehow meant that there was nothing to hide from.

Perhaps I imagined these things because I wanted them to be so.  It is quite possible that Dawn's powers were a figment of my mind, and the reason she got through my guard is because I had willingly lowered it.  The order of cause and effect doesn't matter much when the effect is so wonderful.  The effect was this. In the days to follow I would go to sleep with a woman in my thoughts, and miraculously awake each following morning with the same one there. This seemed nothing short of a miracle.

Events just prior to Dawn’s entrance into my world had caused me to re-evaluate the life I was leading, and perhaps predisposed me to settling down.  Yvette's do me or die proclamation had been unsettling, I must admit.  Given no choice I continued to see her, and she acted as lovey-dovey as could be, but each occasion deepened my loathing for her.  There had to be a way out, but I was damned if I could decipher what it was.

Hitting more directly was Jamal's recent confession.  He had tested HIV positive.  This information had yet to fully register. I expected a phone call from him at any moment revealing that it was all a twisted practical joke, April fool's with bad timing.  The amount of women I had been with dwarfed Jamal's head count, but this caused me no real fear, for my level of caution was also superior.  I did not view monogamy as a haven from sex diseases.  Nevertheless, I knew that Jamal's condition was symptomatic of his lifestyle, which made me wonder if the payoffs of that modus operandi were worth the risks.  I had had enough scary moments to know that kindness wasn't the only thing strangers could be depended on for.

If I hadn't met as incredible a woman as Dawn, my defenses probably weren't weakened enough for this old dog to seriously consider new tricks.  But I did meet her, and now I was suddenly asking myself the age old questions.  Is this it?  Is she the one?

I gave myself plenty of opportunity to find out.  The next several weeks rocketed by with Dawn at my side practically every second.  Now as I look back, I'm amazed at not having grown bored or claustrophobic within the confines of what was shaping up to be a long term sentence of monogamy.  At the time, I was too dizzy to contemplate enigmas.  The fact that I had sharply veered off the road so long traveled caused me no dismay.  I took these new sensations in without questioning them.  I just went where my heart led, which was always to her.    

I held none of my standard doubts, felt none of my typical fear.  As I sat across from her at the vegetarian restaurant she selected for our first date, the rest of the world vanished.  Only the two of us, in that place, at that time mattered.  The past was a memory I had no ability or desire to recall, the future something that may never arrive.  Only the here and now was of consequence.  I had been baptized by her presence, born anew.

I didn't say these things to Dawn, for it was too early.  Now it's too late.  At some point the right moment must have come, but it passed by without announcing itself, as moments tend to do.

"Don't you miss other women?" asked a devout bachelor friend I confessed my state of bliss to.

"I haven't really thought about it."

"How could you not?  Don't you feel trapped?  Don't you remember how incredible it feels to be with a beautiful woman you've never seen before, and will never see again?"

"I remember.  But what I find even more incredible is wanting to see Dawn again, and again, and again."

"Unbelievable.  I never thought I would see the day.  You're whipped, man.  You're done.  You might as well brand an L on your forehead."

"For love?"

"No, asshole.  For loser."

When Marc Jacobs phoned to invite me to his next party, I accepted with unusual zeal.  I couldn't wait for the opportunity to show Dawn off.  I wanted to publicly revel in my good fortune. And so I did.  That day was undoubtedly the happiest of my life.  I drank to my limit, danced to my limit, laughed till I was about to burst, and upon returning home made glorious love to Dawn under the watchful eyes of the gods.

How was I fooled to believe it would last?  Perfection is fleeting by nature, meant to hold still only in memory.  For all their beauty, perfect things are characterized by frailty, simply no match for the march of time.  I suppose this is one of the many reasons I end relationships prematurely.  I want to preserve the experiences in my thoughts before they inevitably begin to decay.

You'd think I would have retained the lesson taught by my parents.  They had once been young, beautiful, above and beyond the usual tribulations of life.  My earliest memories are of a world that strongly resembled paradise.  Then my father ruined it with infidelity.  Being the dramatist she is, my mother boldly confronted him.  He denied nothing, apologized blandly, and continued his behavior.  My mother engaged him in no further shouting matches.  She just kept a glass of gin perpetually in hand, apparently to drown the emotions she no longer wished to have.  When my father was killed in a car accident, the drinking ceased.  I hoped my mother's joyful demeanor would return as well, but this was not to be.  Too many things had taken their toll.  She was no longer young, nor so beautiful, and cared far too much about such matters to be truly happy again.  My mother wasn't being cheated on anymore, but couldn't help feeling cheated.  Everything had started out perfect.  She could never figure out how to settle for less.

I held my father to blame for a long time.  I believed had he been true to my mother's love, paradise never would have closed its doors on us.  I thought happiness would last forever, because it was all I knew.  I know a good deal more now.  I understand that happiness is not a birthright, but a sporadic flash occurrence.  Had my father behaved in a different manner, paradise still would have found a means to end.  To become spoiled by happiness just ensures future misery.  I learned this lesson early on, yet somehow briefly managed to forget.  I would be reminded soon enough.

TALE CONTINUED

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FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS (Chapter Fourteen) - YVETTE

No credit is deserved for recognizing beauty of the traffic stopping variety. I would not be surprised if many of you consider me to be a shallow individual, one whose life revolves around hedonism and eye candy. But truth be told, I take great pride in my powers of observation regarding subtle attractions. In creating woman, God presented man with a cornucopia of delights. If one looks past the obvious, beyond the superficial, he will come across far more precious and lasting attributes in the fairer gender.

Such was the case with Yvette. The rigors of her trade caused prettiness to be of minimal concern. Perhaps if she worked at an upscale restaurant she would have focused more on her appearance to get bigger tips. More valuable when working at a neighborhood diner was a comfortable pair of shoes. She was easy to look past, but if you chose instead to look close, your eyes would spot a glimmer of diamond beneath the coal.

Life had not been particularly kind to Yvette, as I was to discover. And I would end up adding to her list of woes. This was not my original intention, of course. I simply wished to reward her for the smile she greeted me with each day.

Yvette is a waitress at the diner around the corner from my apartment. She served me breakfast regularly, and for this reason an attachment was formed. Perhaps the mother-child bond is likewise explained.

She wasn't overly chatty or nosy - so much for comparisons to Mom. "How are things with you?" was as deep a question as she would pose. But the familiarity bred by frequent visitation caused me to volunteer a good deal more information than was customary. The fact that I wasn't putting moves on her no doubt played a part. We were just making conversation for the sake of hearing our own voices, and as time went by, ended up finding out quite a bit about each other.

There was one question I didn't ask, despite my steadily growing curiosity. Curiosity isn't the best choice of words actually, for I was fairly certain of what the answer was. Only a husband's fists could make the bruises that sporadically showed upon her. But it was none of my business, and I had no intention of making it so.

Intentions are only as strong as a person's will, however. If you remember anything I've told you, remember this.

On a day Yvette was unable to force a smile past her fattened lip or a sparkle past her blackened eye, I found myself no longer able to maintain silence.

"When is your break?" I asked.

"Why?"

"Because I thought you might want to talk about it."

"I don't," she said meekly.

"How about some revenge then?"

She looked at me curiously. "What kind of revenge?"

"The best kind," I said as I took her hands in mind. "The kind that helps you forget about the rest of the world for awhile."

Yvette pulled her hands from my grasp and looked at her wedding band, at all that it represented. She had promised for better or for worse, but worse was taking more out of her than she was willing to give.

"And what do you get out of it?" she asked.

"Maybe I get to see you smile."

"That might be asking too much."

"I'm willing to give it a try."

"I think you'd be better off ordering breakfast and leave the smile making to circus clowns."

"Okay. Two scrambled eggs, ham, homefries, a toasted bagel and coffee." Yvette didn't write down my order. She had already known what it would be.

"It isn't as bad as it seems, Michael."

"There are a lot of ways to touch a woman, Yvette. None of them should leave marks like that."

"His job is very hard on him."

"What does that have to do with you or that bruise?"

A tear slid from the corner of Yvette's good eye. "I'll tell you at three-thirty. That's when I go on break."

Yvette's husband was one of New York's finest, a fate I wouldn't wish upon my greatest enemy. His days were spent sifting through piles of manure disguised as human beings. To forget about this he went home and drank. When his memory persisted in spite of the liquor, he would lash back at the world. Yvette was the world's designated stand-in.

For reasons I've never fully understood, many women have a tough time fighting back or running away from the men who they love in spite of themselves. When he carries a gun for a living, that probably makes it even harder. Excusing bad behavior and convincing themselves that the last time really was the last time is something women like Yvette have mastered. Blaming herself was another neat trick she had perfected. She was convinced that her inability to conceive a child was at the core of her husband's rage. Only the innocence of a baby could wash away the stench of the streets.

I chose to put a more simplified spin on the matter. Yvette's husband was an asshole and his actions would be rewarded by my fucking his wife. Crude and juvenile perhaps, but straight to the point, and what better path is there to take to a point?

Why I believed my penis could serve as penicillin for an unhealthy marriage, I'll never know. We believe what we wish to be true. I thought I could give a sad woman much deserved moments of joyful surrender. And from the way she moaned beneath me that afternoon, it seemed my mission had been accomplished.

"I feel like my life took a wrong turn somewhere," she said as we lay contentedly on my bed. "But it isn't too late to turn back. I think I see a better way now."

The way she looked at me, I was pretty sure who she thought would provide that way. Ordinarily I would have begun climbing out of the hole I had dug for myself right away. But I didn't want to spoil things for her. I would let her bliss be uninterrupted for the time being. And so I kissed the places her husband had seen fit to strike. Then I kissed the place he wanted to be an exit door for his heirs and gave Yvette the best tip she ever got.

I arrived at the diner at my usual time late the next morning with hope that our relationship could go back to normal. The previous day would be our special secret, acknowledged from time to time with a knowing grin. When I gauged the bounce in Yvette's step as she headed towards me, the lilt in her voice as she greeted me, and the tenderness reflected in her eyes, I knew that my hopes were not to be.

Our conversation was similar to past occasions, except for a new found giddiness to her words and the question she asked as I paid the bill.

"Three-thirty?"

"Sure." The bruises her husband caused had yet to heal. It didn't seem right to disappoint her so soon. I took a break from writing each afternoon anyway, and Yvette was as good a way to spend it as any.

So this became the new pattern of my life. Three times a week Yvette and I would fornicate as feverishly as if we were responsible for the survival of the species. On the days I didn't have breakfast at her diner, she would remain out of sight and mind. Much like a soap opera or daytime talk show, I served as a temporary escape from reality for her. The arrangement should have been sufficient. But after about a month, Yvette began to express that she wanted more. It ceased to be about strings-free sex. The sex would be followed by imposing questions.

"What do you do on the days I don't see you?"

"How come you're never home when I call?"

"Are you doing this because I'm married, so you know it can't get too serious? If I was available would you still want me?"

I'd answer as I answered all women who wished to know more than was good for them, telling whatever lie would momentarily appease while simultaneously planning my escape. I had become Yvette's bad habit and would now have to cure her cold turkey.

At 3:30 on the fifth consecutive day I kept away from her workplace, someone knocked on my door. I was not surprised by who I found on the other side.

"Hi, Michael."

"Hello."

"It's been a while."

"Has it?"

"Are you busy?"

"Actually I am. I'm in a real groove with my writing. I try not to disturb a good flow if I can help it. They're not that common."

"I was beginning to worry that you're avoiding me."

"Worrying isn't good for you, Yvette."

"I'm not asking for an explanation."

I hadn't planned on giving one but refrained from telling her this.

"I don't want to be taken for granted," she continued. "I get enough of that at home." She undid the top button of her blouse and opened it wide enough for me to glimpse the bruise over her collar bone.

"Do you get enough of this?" I asked, after which I gently kissed her discolored flesh while drawing her into my apartment. Although my brain was warning that I would be better off sending Yvette on her way rather than setting a false precedent of reliability, my sentimental heart was wary of crushing her spirit.

I swore to myself that this would be the last time I played the part of Yvette’s Band-aid. She would have to find someplace else to heal. If our arrangement went on any longer things would start getting complicated, and I liked my life simple and manageable. Easily said, but as it turned out, not so easily done.

"Yvette, what are you doing here?" I asked reproachfully upon the occasion of her next unannounced and unwelcome visit.

"I thought I'd surprise you." She held up a bag of groceries. "Make you breakfast instead of only serving it to you. Free of charge, too. But judging by the scent coming from the kitchen I guess you're already cooking for yourself."

I made an embarrassed smile. It had been eight days since Yvette last served me breakfast in the morning and herself in the afternoon. The tone of her unreturned phone messages had grown increasingly frantic over that period. I had been hoping she would get the hint. Apparently I needed to be blunt and unambiguous.

"Why aren't you at work?"

"I took the day off."

An awkward silence followed. This was supposed to be when I asked her to come inside. No invitation would be forthcoming.

"How come?" I asked for some asinine reason.

"To spend it with you. Didn't you get my message?"

'Which one of the twenty?' was the sarcastic reply I benevolently kept to myself. I vaguely recalled her suggestion of playing hooky one day to spend like a honeymoon couple. I begun glancing through the newspaper as soon as I recognized her voice on the machine, scarcely paying attention.

"Is this a bad time?" she asked.

"Actually ..." Completing the sentence became unnecessary when Roberta emerged from my bathroom.

"Something smells scrumptious, she said. "I'm ravenous."

I dreaded having to introduce the women but Yvette took me off the hook by promptly turning around and walking away. I closed the door and wondered which diner in the neighborhood I would be taking my business to now.

You're probably thinking that this was the end. I certainly did. So imagine my surprise when two minutes after putting Roberta in a cab and returning to my apartment, there was a knock at the door. I'll give you one guess who it was.

"Alone at last."

My surprise registered plainly.  Yvette responded to my expression of bewilderment with a chuckle.

"Why the face, Michael? Did you think I was angry with you?"

"Sort of," I answered numbly.

"But why? I know you have girlfriends running in and out. I admit I was a little jealous at first. Then I decided I was being silly. You don't let my being married spoil your fun. So why should I get upset? As long as you don't take me for granted. And that's what you've been doing, Michael. But I forgive you."

"You do?"

"Of course I do. I don't want to lose what we have. The only reason I can stand living with my husband, the only thing keeping me from going crazy, is the time I spend with you. I'm not asking you to take any vows. I'm not demanding monogamy. All I want is an hour a day, as many days as you can spare. Because those are the only times I can be who I really am, the version of me who isn't walking on eggshells afraid to say the wrong thing that will set off an angry drunk."

"Has he beaten you again?"

"Terrence doesn't need to hit me to hurt me. And the reason I come here is not so you can lick my wounds."

"Then why do you come?"

"Because I love you, stupid."

My sole thought was that if Yvette's husband beat the hell out of her and still she wouldn't leave, what could I possibly do to get rid of her. No answer came so I decided to wing it.

"Yvette, this has gone a lot further than I anticipated. I was hoping to ease out gracefully. Okay, cowardly. But it doesn't seem that's possible. You're not thinking about leaving your husband for me, are you? I mean, I really do think you should dump the guy. But for yourself, not for me."

"I'm not leaving Terrence. I'm committed to my marriage. The fact is, I'm trying to save it."

"By fucking me?"

"Every time Terrence sobers up and realizes what he's done, it tears him up. He can only cope with the guilt because I forgive him. The reason I can forgive him is because I'm sinning too. And I don't feel guilty about us, because his sins are what drive me to you in the first place. So everything works out. Up until now, anyway."

"So this isn't about you being in love with me?"

"Yes, that's part of it too. You think I can't love you just because I'm using you? Don't tell me you're that naive, Michael. Learn to appreciate the irony. Terrence loves me and treats me like a dog. You could care less about me and treat me like a princess. I love both of you for different reasons. And I'm using both of you in different ways."

"I'm glad you have this worked out so well for yourself, Yvette. But I'm afraid there's one little flaw in your plan. Suppose Terrence finds out about us."

"He won't."

"Now who's being naive?"

"You're saying you want to end this before my husband finds out and comes after you?"

"Something like that."

"Michael, the only way Terrence could find out would be if I told him. If I did that he'd hurt me, and he'd kill you. Of this I have no doubt. Now I can only think of one reason why I would do something I knew would get you killed. If you took away the only thing in my life right now that's any good. I love you, Michael. I need you. You don't have to love me back. But you do need to be here for me. Because if you don't I'll be very sad, and in my grief I might say things to Terrence that you'll regret very much."

"You have a real fucked up way of showing someone you love them."

"It runs in the family. Now lets move on to more important matters. Did your date tucker you out? Or do you still have a couple of good screws left? Because I'm horny as hell and I've got a whole day to kill."

My life had become a psycho feminist movie. The blood must have drained from my head, for I felt dizzy. But it went to the place it was needed, so I was able to give Yvette exactly what she wanted.

TALE CONTINUED

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FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS (Chapter Thirteen) - SALLY

"You've got mail" are the words that greet me each day when I log onto America Online.  I can almost see what the speaker looks like, have pictured his miniature domicile behind my computer screen.  He is sort of my unofficial roomie.

My initial purpose for acquiring internet access was to use it as a research tool that would save me trips to the library.  I am a man easily distracted, however, not to mention curious by nature, and above all else, a social beast.  So it wasn't long before I grew intrigued by the peculiar world of online chatting. Browsing through personal profiles became an addictive habit for a while, and eventually I came across one that seemed too good to be true.

Sally’s micro-autobiography described her as being drop dead gorgeous, five feet ten inches of long legged perfection, one hundred and thirty five pounds of curvaceous and toned womanhood, and possessing a sexually insatiable appetite.  How could I resist making contact?  If she was not taking considerable artistic license with her description, I was a few types on the keyboard away from heaven.

Speaking online is a far different animal from face to face conversation, or even from communication over the phone.  This is because one can carefully construct in advance what they say, and control with ease what they decide on second or third thought to leave out.  You are in the privacy and comfort of your own home, impossible to be physically located unless you choose to divulge such personal information.  This causes guards to be let down and a high level of intimacy to be reached at a faster rate than usual.  Actually, I think that part of the reason for my opening up to Sally so readily was that I didn't truly believe she was real.  It felt that like the man who informed me that I had mail, she existed only within the confines of my computer terminal.  It is easy to see why many people have fallen in what they perceive to be love with people they have never met.  The peculiar phenomenon of computer mating is a potent draw for thousands upon thousands of lonely hearts.

I, of course, have no difficulty meeting women in real time and space.  There is no need for me to get my rocks off through a box filled with complex wiring.  Nevertheless, I would be the last person to rule out any method of communication that could lead to carnal pleasure, and in the case of Sally, this was the path taken.

After a month of chatting and emailing and exchanging on-screen photographs, we decided to get together and see if reality would live up to electronic fantasy.  The easy manner in which we vibed in cyberspace suggested, if not downright promised, that we would enjoy each other's company.  And if she matched her snap shots, which showed her to indeed be stunning, it would definitely be on.

I was the first to arrive at the bar we agreed to meet in.  Never having been on a blind date before, I found myself amused by the unfamiliar emotions experienced.  Nervous does not adequately sum up how I felt, nor would I go so far as to say I was excited. But the anticipation certainly produced a rush.  I felt like a spy, my mission to investigate the prospects of lust, love and all that lies in between.

Our eyes met immediately upon her entrance.  I could see she was relieved that my appearance lived up to what had been billed. As for her, she was not quite as pretty as she photographed.  Although her skin was flawlessly smooth, her facial features were a tad hard for my taste.  But she was certainly attractive and her body was as extraordinary as advertised.  This was more than enough for me and what I had in mind for the night's festivities.  Score one for AOL. 

Within an hour, aided by an excellent bottle of wine, it was as if we were old acquaintances with but one crucial piece of business to attend to.  Sally and I had now seen and heard one another.  We had inhaled each other's scents and felt one another's touch.  Only our senses of taste remained ignorant, for I was not counting the kiss on the cheek I had greeted her with.  I am not a man who is satisfied by a nip or nibble.  There was a feast before me that I intended to devour at first opportunity.  As Sally was finishing off her third glass of wine, drowning the last of her inhibitions, I knew that meal time would be arriving sooner rather than later.

Sally and I both honestly expressed before meeting up that we were enjoying our statuses as single people.  Until the right person came along we were content getting to know the wrong ones who passed through.  We had already determined that we were a pleasant match as conversationalists.  The time had come to find out how compatible we might be in a more private setting with more intimate activities. Glass of wine number four sealed the deal.  I slipped my hands onto her firm waist, slid my tongue over and around her own, and simultaneously our names were signed on the dotted line.  Anyone who wants cyber sex can have it.  I prefer a more personal touch.

Almost wordlessly it was agreed that we would go to my apartment.  Plenty of words had already been typed, a sufficient amount more had been said.  It was time to use our mouths for more pleasurable purposes.

She could have stopped me later in the game than she did.  I guess I should be appreciative of this fact.  At the time, I could only be furious that I had not been alerted far earlier.  It would have been considerate of her to notify me prior to our agreeing to meet, to making goo goo eyes at each other, to kissing one another.  Certainly before my fingers were preparing to set free the breasts they had been enjoying the contours of.

"Wait," she said, sliding towards the opposite end of my sofa.

"What for?"

"There's something I haven't been honest about.  Something I've been keeping from you.  I was going to hold off on getting together for a couple more months.  By then my secret wouldn't exist anymore.  But that isn't really true.  The evidence might be gone, but the secret will still be there.  And I can't lie to you about something like this.  I thought maybe I could, but I can't.  So I decided to meet you, in case I got lucky and it turned out that it didn't matter that much."

"What are you talking about, Sally?"  I prepared myself for the standard "It turns out that I actually do have a boyfriend and/or husband" speech, deciding on the fly which words I would use to convince her that at least for tonight, it didn't matter.  As for tomorrow, it still wouldn't matter to me.  She could deal with it however she saw fit.

"We have something in common, Michael.  Something I plan to get rid of, but I haven't done so just yet."

I followed the downward direction of her gaze and the hint proved sufficient.  I would not need to see the evidence.  It was unnecessary for Sally's mystery to be literally revealed.  I got the nauseating picture, understood with total clarity the trait that we shared.  Sally and I both urinated standing up.  Not only did I have mail, but I also had a male.

She or he or whoever/whatever was hastily shown to the door, after which I did some heavy gargling, showering and drinking.  I had never been more infuriated or appalled, yet a part of me could not help but admire the skill of the deception.  I could not think of a single guy who would have turned Sally down before the nasty little secret was revealed. 

I called up a lady friend who I knew wouldn’t mind my late night request to stop by.  More importantly, I knew from firsthand knowledge that she was exactly what she appeared to be, all woman. I raced to and then through Theresa with fervor, followed this up with a rock solid sleep, and awoke the next afternoon with order restored to my world and Cyber Sally relegated to the most confidential chambers of my memory bank.

TALE CONTINUED

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FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS (Chapter Twelve) - RAVEN

I didn't think anything was capable of distracting me from a third row center court view of Maria Sharapova’s legs. So it was much to my surprise when I found myself paying little attention to her match against Serena Williams, who I also don't mind watching run about. What mesmerized me instead for the near three hours their contest took up were the gams and everything northward on the woman seated beside me. She possessed the tranquil beauty one usually associates with women who accompany middle aged celebrities to televised award shows to make them even more enviable. Her skin was the color a brand new penny, but worth considerably more to my appreciative eyes. Her attire subtly hinted at the extravagance of what she had to offer. She had a regal bearing, remindful of a tanner Princess Di as she watched the green ball whiz back and forth.

We played the game that people play, sneaking peeks when the other wasn't supposed to notice, graduating to eye contact of increasing duration, eventually accompanied by a smile, a hi, small talk about the match, then about anything that would keep the conversation going. By mid-third set I was bold enough to inquire what her plans were after the match. Her schedule was tied up by her companion one seat over, an absolutely hideous woman who greeted me upon introduction as if meeting a leper. They had probably been friends since high school, for my recollection of that period is of the prettiest girl's best friend always being among the ugliest, and having the worst attitude problems to boot. What caused this I never did figure out, though I do have a few theories which I won't bore you with.

I had to settle for exchanging phone numbers. Raven's business card informed me that she was a lawyer, and her aura suggested she was a high profile one. My friend Jamal would have termed her a first class lay, but I know from experience that bank accounts and social status neither improve nor detract from the quality of sex.

It was a bit tricky arranging to get together. Raven seemed to have prior obligations for every minute of her life. After two and a half weeks of phone tag and tentative engagements which never panned out, we managed to meet one Thursday night for a late dinner. The period of anticipation had heightened my already substantial interest in her, as well as given me time to rehearse my intended spiel. I suspected that she may be more expert at detecting bullshit than the average woman, so prepared to be at the top of my game. Time was obviously a valuable commodity to her, so it was imperative that I make what little I had count.

The restaurant I selected was suitably elegant and wallet thinning, with atmosphere to spare. Raven looked even more resplendent than I recalled, and if I do say so myself, I was her match. All of the fairy tale elements were in place, except that happily ever after was not a consideration. Happily all night would suffice.

I entertained her with anecdotes about my life as a Navy pilot who braved the dangers of Desert Storm, went on to be a real live cowboy on a cattle ranch in Montana, and then secured a life lasting fortune by patenting a software program later sold to Bill Gates. It's amazing what you can convince a person of due simply to having varied acquaintances, being a good listener, spending a few hours reading, and possessing the ability to lie with absolutely no compunction. Give enough obscure details and they'll take you at your word every time. It wouldn't require much probing to expose my fabrications. But no one ever calls me on this stuff. You can only sell folks what they want to buy, whether they are aware of the desire or not.

Raven told me about her experiences as a corporate lawyer, of which I took note so as to include the profession in my cast of characters. This is what I do. I use the lives of others to create ones for myself. What would you prefer, that I tell the truth? Why subject others to the tedious facts of my existence? I want to entertain and be entertained. Truth would only spoil things.

But it would make me a better person, is that what you're thinking? Better than what? What crime am I committing? Who's getting hurt? Some feelings and egos may suffer damage on account of my actions, but neither are made of glass. Your problem is that you have a preconceived notion of what to expect from a confession. “Where's the remorse?” you ask. And where is the Freudian interpretation of my actions? You want me to proclaim that I do what I do because I miss my father or want to fuck my mother. I recall some childhood trauma and everything is neatly explained and justified. There has to be a rational explanation for how the monster was created, so you won't have to fear becoming one yourself.

Who gave you the right to judge me? The only difference between us is that you merely wish, I do. You stubbornly persist that love is the answer but have no idea what the question is. You're so smug about knowing who you are, but what does that accomplish other than keeping you from seeking a better self? Why be grateful for being fairly certain what tomorrow will bring? That’s only because you plan to live it exactly as you did yesterday and today. Not exactly a great accomplishment, merely re-treading what you have mastered rather than venturing to explore new territories. And what's so tragic about dying alone? Is there really any other way?

Stop looking for deeper truths. Sometimes people take or give simply because they want to gain or lose something. That's it. The big mystery has been solved. I'm not suppressing any inner demons. I am sampling life. I do not run away because there is something I don't want others to know. My feet stay in motion because if I stop in one place I will take on a definition, and once I'm defined, that's all I can be. Love means selecting a decorative prison. I prefer to be out in the cold, with the option of changing my scenery at will. If that makes me an asshole in your opinion, I can live with the label. But if I'm missing out on something, I at least know what it is. Can you say the same? Can you live with that?

As the evening progressed, Raven went from telling me what she is to who she is. She had been married, but it only lasted eight months. The marriage had been one ongoing argument which started shortly after the honeymoon. Its cause was Raven's dedication to work, which her husband felt took precedence over everything, including him. He longed for a more traditional wife, one who would make him the center of her world. Not that he ever admitted this. He just came up with one thing after another to complain about, until he found something big enough to create an ultimatum from.

"We had barely discussed having children before we got married. Now suddenly it was his number one priority. I was just beginning to make my mark at the firm, I was finally being assigned to the bigger cases. It was the absolute worst time to put my career on hold to have a baby. Richard wanted to know exactly when the right time would be. A fair question, I suppose. He didn't want to have his first kid when he was in his forties. He thought I was being selfish. I couldn't deny what he claimed and I didn't have any definite answers. None he wanted to hear anyway."

I looked sympathetic and held her hand. This was pretty heavy stuff for a first date. Usually it took a person considerably more time or alcohol to reach such a high level of intimacy. But Raven had less time to budget than most.

"My parents raised me to always strive for the best, and that's what I've done. But they didn't tell me how much I would have to sacrifice. At first it was just trivial things. I didn't get to go to parties and goof around with friends as much as other people. There was always something more important to take care of. But the things I’m missing out on have been getting a lot bigger lately. Richard and I could've had a good life together. I would love to be a mother someday. It seems I'm screwed no matter what. I can't be happy unless I'm the best, but to be the best I have to forfeit happiness."

"You just need to find a man who understands that you have things to take care of other than his ego. That might be harder than it should be, but not impossible. You may even have already met him."

You're probably thinking that I'm going in for the kill at this point, and you're right. But I was being honest as well. Raven and I really would have been good for each other. She was looking for someone with enough flexibility to fit into her consuming and unpredictable schedule without taking the lack of quality time personally. My perfect match would be a woman with enough going on of her own not to crowd me. Neither of us would have been the most important thing to the other, so the odds of either of us hurting the other were greatly diminished.

So why didn't I pursue a relationship with Raven? For the reason you'd least suspect. Because when all is said and done, I'm as much of a romantic as anyone else. I want to be the center of a woman's world, and I want a woman who can be the center of mine. The rub was that such a woman I had never encountered, and was not sure actually existed. I had thrown away many a good thing, but would never discard greatness. I've always known that if I ever managed to begin a masterpiece, I would give everything I had to complete it. Along with this knowledge comes the realization that I'll likely be buried in a coffin filled with first chapters, my death mourned by many, but no one particularly significant.

Raven had no discernible flaws. For a million dollars I couldn't tell you what ingredient was missing, or what was present that I didn't want. I only knew what I always know. I wanted Raven as much as I could want anything. And once my passion was spent, I would yearn to an equal degree for her to be gone.

I told Raven she was an incredible woman who must have married a fool, for as much as I understood wanting all of her attention, it made no sense to opt for none of it. Then I said that I had been to exotic places and seen many beautiful things, but none more lovely than her. In her eyes I saw belief that perhaps I was the one she could finally balance love and being the best with. Shortly thereafter, her body echoed the sentiments.

Raven wanted to meet for lunch the next day, but I already had plans. I told her I was meeting a literary agent for lunch who was interested in representing the autobiography I was working on. In fact I was having lunch with Antoinette, a breathtaking French woman I had met the week before. She spoke little English and I even less of her language, but no matter, for a great deal of conversing wasn't what I had in mind, and most of the words I had to say to her were too naughty to be found in the French-English dictionary I was carrying around. As I was reaching over to nibble on Antoinette's ear lobe, I noticed a woman staring at and then heading towards me. A woman who looked real pissed off. A woman I hoped was Raven's twin sister, but knew I wasn't lucky enough to be getting off that easy.

"You son of a bitch," she hissed.

"This isn't what it looks like." The way I figured, with my date not being fluent in English I had a chance to quickly pacify Raven yet not screw up my shot at Antoinette. Why pacify a woman I was already done with? If you saw the way she was looking at me, you wouldn't need an answer.

"It looks like you're a fucking asshole," Raven said, no longer bothering to keep her voice down. Since she obviously had no intention of being civilized about this, I chose to follow suit.

"Then I guess it is what it looks like." My cavalier wit was not appreciated. A sweep of Raven's hand later, I was wearing my meal.

"Nobody treats me like a whore or a fool." She was with business associates but far too angry to be discreet. "You're a worthless piece of shit, Michael. Was anything you said true? Was any of it real? Did it mean a damn thing to you?"

I know the point of no return when it's reached, so gave not a second's thought to returning. I simply shook my head to indicate a negative response to her query. An apology was deserved, but the way I saw it, my dry cleaning bill and public embarrassment equaled her wounded pride.

Raven finally remembered who she was with, where she was at, and why she was there. She uttered regrets to her colleagues, who seemed as embarrassed for her as she was for herself, then herded them out of the restaurant at a brisk pace. At the door she stopped to deliver one last evil eye, accompanied by an extended middle finger. I noticed this as I was rubbing Antoinette's thigh and looking up the words to apologize for the rude interruption.


TALE CONTINUED

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FEEDING THE SQUIRRELS (Chapter Eleven) - ROSA

I've known Wesley and Rosa for nearly ten years. Wesley is an extraordinary saxophone player who has fronted about a dozen jazz bands during that time. I first heard him play in a seedy dive on Avenue A, which I believe is currently a Sunglass Hut. When the session was over I had to tell Wesley how overwhelmed I had been by his performance. Money and fame are apparently not in the cards for Wesley, so he settles for flattery of which he never grows weary. After taking in my words of praise, Wesley introduced me to his band mates and then to his lady.

Rosa was and is a beautiful Ecuadorian woman with a sultry accent that reverberates in one's crotch, and huge eyes which seem to be gazing adoringly on whatever they behold. These things were immediately apparent despite the low lighting and smoky haze of the club, as was the fact that she was pregnant.

Wesley and Rosa spawned two more kids in the years which followed, the last for whom I serve as godfather in a strictly symbolic capacity. The whole father figure mentor thing isn't really my bag. They seem as in love today as on the night we first met, my role model couple despite or perhaps because of the fact that they never married. They claim to want the freedom of being able to pack a bag and hit the road with a minimum of hassle, if and when either one of them ever sees fit. In their shared opinion, Abraham Lincoln's emancipation proclamation declared ownership papers of any kind involving fellow human beings illegal, so marriage should therefore be considered a crime.

Despite the lack of until-death-do-us-part commitment on Wesley's part, he manages to exist in a temptation filled environment as a relatively pure man. His expert manipulation of his instrument's keys float seductive notes from brass tunnel through ear canals and into warm, moist places where women frequently beckon him to follow. For the most part, Wesley turns down these offers. He claims this isn't so much for the sake of his unofficial union with Rosa, but because he refuses to use the gift of music that God gave him for as pedestrian a purpose as getting into groupies' panties. He considers the lust his melodic riffs evokes as evidence that he is successfully following the footprints headed towards immortality laid out by Coletrane and Parker. On the rare occasion when his flesh does succumb, Wesley always says the same words in his defense. “It’s not as if I’m a married man.

I was perusing the shelves of Barnes & Noble one day when a siren song summoned me.

"Hey, Mike."

I greeted Rosa with a hug and asked what she was doing uptown in my neck of the woods. Though we had hung out countless times, it was always I who visited the apartment that she, Wesley and their brood shared. This was primarily because I usually got invited over after listening to Wesley play in a club and the vast majority of his gigs were below Fourteenth Street, as was his home.

It turned out Rosa had been visiting a friend. The kids were with her mother. Wesley was working with his band on some new material.

"When will I be able to find a book of yours in here?" Rosa was one of the staunchest supporters of my literary endeavors.

"As soon as I buy a publishing house. Know of any for sale?"

Rosa replied with that adorable smile of hers, taking me in with saucer sized eyes. I suppressed a thought I knew better than to be having as I scanned her ample cleavage, generous hips, and conversely narrow waist.

"You know something, Michael. In all these years I've never been to your apartment. It's pretty close to here, right?"

"Only a couple of blocks."

There were no illicit intentions in my heart, mind or any other part of my anatomy. I was simply playing host, getting better acquainted with the wife of one of my dearest friends. It is my lot in life to be capable of many actions that later cause me shame. But I also know where lines should be drawn, at what point my conscience will start to get restless.

Rosa and I had been flirting harmlessly in a covert manner with each other for years. That was as far as things had ever gone, as far as they were supposed to go.

Not only had she never been in my home, but the two of us had never been alone together for an extended period of time. There was always the presence of Wesley, or a band member, or the kids. On this occasion however, Rosa and I were accompanied only by a near decade of repressed longing.

In my defense, it was Rosa who initiated what was to happen. But I am not making excuses, for her advances were met by no resistance. She confessed that she knew about Wesley’s infrequent dalliances, for he was not very adept at covering them up. She felt herself entitled to one of her own, which would be equally meaningless and harmless to their relationship, and which she would be considerably more discreet about. We had both fantasized about this for a long time, and when it finally took place, it both surpassed our grandest expectations and saddened us immeasurably. We knew it would never happen again, but curiosity in the long run proved mightier than friendship or love. At least for one memorable afternoon that I simultaneously look back upon fondly and would gladly forget if I could.

The next time I saw Wesley, I feared my guilt would be apparent. But if he suspected anything he certainly didn't let on. He seemed as happy to see his second most loyal fan in the audience as ever. So after listening for an hour or so, I did what I always do. I let my worries drift into the heavens on the wings of his music.


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