THE COLT
A Woman in Command
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It starts with a shot. A drink, not a gun. Val, her slender brown arm, lifting the tiny glass filled with Captain Morgan, downing it in one fell swoop.
We're sitting on two separate, adjacent couches.
She gazes at me, smiles, says, 'C'mon, pussy.' She always curses like this. Ever since I met her. She's 22, Mexican-Irish, long dark hair, green eyes, death wish. She fucks like a whore. Drinks like a man. Punches like a gangster.
She slides the handle of Captain over on the wood table; it makes a whoosh sound. Liquid swishes. I reach, snatch the shot glass, pour, lift, breathe, slam home.
'Good boy,' she says.
We're at John's house, in Oak View, the little white trash town sandwiched between wealthy mountain Ojai and coastal Ventura. Ninety miles northeast of Los Angeles. No one else is home. It's just me and V. She lives in Santa Barbara, twenty minutes' north on Highway 101. I've been trying to fuck her for weeks. She's tough.
Val jacks her head back slamming another shot. She's got smooth tan copper skin. She's wearing her signature: tight black skirt, tight green blouse that matches her eyes, Chucks. Just looking at her gets me hard. She's a year older and a world more experienced.
Pulling out a Baggie she dips a little brown finger, pulls it out, sniffs white powder, eyes closed, smiles, says, 'Uh huh.'
Val dumps the powder onto the table. I see zigzagging scratch marks on the wood from John's hunting knife. He and I had known each other since age 13, when we met in Kenpo karate. We'd learned to surf together. Learned to make out with girls together. Got drunk and smoked pot for the first time together. How many trips had we taken on Highway 33 from Ojai or Oak View to Ventura or Santa Barbara or LA?
'Coke?' I ask. But she's already leaning down to snort. She gets her short, pointy nose close to the powder, pinches a nostril, runs her open one up the line like she's racing it. She sits up, sniffles, rubs her nose till it's red.
'You,' she says. I eye the line. I glance over her shoulder at the living room, see the shaggy orange furry carpet, the paint-peeling green door, the poster of Bob Marley tacked to the wall.
I reach for the Captain, pull it to me, pour a shot, slam. I shake my head. I'm deeply buzzed. I edge my ass half off the couch, lean down, get very close to the line, pinch, breathe, little white flakes drifting from my breath, and snort.
I lean back, sniffle, tweak my nose. It's meth, not Coke. Fuck. Bitch.
When I look up I see her facing me, skirt hiked up a ways, knees slightly parted. I can see her leopard-print panties. A red bra strap juts over her right shoulder. She scares me. Val's tough. She can punch. She can scream. She can fight.
Suddenly she grins, then chuckles, then whole-hog laughs, hurling her head back. The couch crunches. She lifts a hand, flips her dark hair off her neck; it jumps, bounces, returns. She ogles me with her fierce green orbs.
'You want to fuck me?' Her voice is high-pitched, slightly ghetto. It's the voice of an addict, of a woman who gets what she wants. She leans back, opens her knees more, like some amateur porn star.
I reach for the Captain, pour, lift, slam, as if downing a nasty pill. It's medicine.
I say nothing. Just watch. She's performing.
'Come here,' she says.
I don't move. I feel my cock stiffen and stir in my jeans. I can hear my heart thudding in my chest, ba-boom, ba-boom. My mind is racing, thoughts uncontainable. Then a memory: me and John, 15, canning cars out front of my house, on Colina Vista Road. Midnight. Fishing line across the road, attached to half a dozen empty cans of Budweiser, the six-pack we stole from Don's Liquor. We didn't see the squad car come. We canned an OPD cop. He slammed on the brakes. We ran. Rushed into my house, careful not to wake my folks, hid in my room, saw the huge moon-sized search lights against my wall, above my bed, through the blinds' slats. We almost cried in terror and delight.
'I said come here,' she says.
I look at her. She's nothing. Just a meth addict, a broken hood rat. She's fucking some 46-year-old married salesman in LA, stays with him in a ratty motel on Main Street sometimes. The man has two kids, a faithful wife, a dog.
I don't move. Val pulls her purse over from the floor, a ragged brown leather thing. She unzips the gold teeth. Reaches in. Extracts a pack of Menthols. A blue bic. Lights up, inhales, blows. The cloying reek of tobacco. Nasty. Lovely. Perfect.
She pushes the pack to me. I pull a cigarette out, light it, take it into my lungs, deep. She drops more powder, snorts. I pass. She drinks. I drink.
Then she rises, ashes her smoke into a half empty red Coca Cola can, the sssszzz sound, the sizzle of lighted cig meeting black fizzy liquid. She looks good. Better than good. She adjusts her skirt. Her tits are small, perky, aggressive. They push, strain against her green tight blouse. The red bra strap against her brown skin is like some intoxicating drug. I feel the meth swirling in my veins.
She steps over to me, stands above me, looks down at me, grins. Then she lowers her body onto mine, her thighs on the couch, crunching into it, her ass grinding onto my crotch. Her arms wrap around my neck. She's sitting on me, facing me. Her skirt is hiked up insanely high. She faces me two, three inches away. I smell her rank chemical perfume, her Pantene Pro-V conditioner. Her green eyes are staring right into mine. She pulls my head toward her, kisses me. I'm shoving my tongue down her throat. I'm moaning. She's rubbing my crotch with her ass. Her fingers are clasped around my neck. Green eyes, green eyes, green eyes.
I cum. In my pants. She knows. I groaned. She knew anyway. She laughs, detaches, stands, smooths her skirt, walks to the other couch, slings her purse over her shoulder, reaches down, pours one last shot, slams it, says, 'Ta-Ta,' grins, turns, walks off, her ass swaying, along the kitchen and along the furry orange carpet, opens the shitty green door.
*
Twenty minutes later I hear a truck on the street rumble up, slow, park, cut the engine. A metal truck door slams shut. Fumbled keys. Then the green door opens. John, haggard, hair unkempt. Looks exhausted. Gray Carhart jacket, ripped, loose black jeans.
He walks in, sees me, says nothing, drops to the couch she just left. He reaches for the Captain, pours a shot, slams it. He whips a smoke out from his jacket pocket, lights it, sucks.
Finally he sets his blue eyes on me. He drops his thick set of keys on the table. Leans back, kicks his boots into the table, inhales, blows.
'So, ya fuck her?'
I feel the cum squishy and sticky and warm on my thigh, attached to my inner jeans like glue. I scratch my scruffy neck.
I laugh, grab the Captain, pour, slam, bum a Marlboro, light it, lean back, cross my legs.
'She's a wild colt,' I say. 'Nobody fucks her.'
And we both laugh. At first gently, and then it becomes a rolling thunder, hands-on-knees, eyes squeezed shut, nearly crying, falling off the couch, dying.
That laugh continues for at least the next decade.