Page 5

At the sight of my naked body, Jill says, "I'm not here for sex; I came for pancakes."

"Who said anything about sex? I'm in here for clothes." I toss my hands up.

She sits up in my bed, pulling the sheets to her chin. "Oh."

I shake my head, turning my back to her. The dresser is empty. All of my clothes are in a bin at the end of the bed. My balls are cold; that's the deciding factor of not strutting around the house in my birthday suit. I give them a scratch for good luck. I'm tempted to smell my fingers and see if I'm still funky. I'm glad that that's at least one place that never smells like a wino on me. Thinking of wine: why do I still feel sort of drunk? Shouldn't I have slept that shit off? I find no answers in my clothes. Jill watches me intently while I root around in my Rubberneck bin. I finally find my sole pair of boxers; I keep them around for Jill -- she got them for one of my birthdays. I'd wear my tightie-whities, but she makes fun of me, when I do. My dick needs encouragement, especially the older I get. And, not to encourage comedy, lest it invert like her junk. For the moment, I'm stuck with dangling balls, so I push my heavy legs through the holes of the boxers; I have to sit down to get the second leg in, the euphoria and disorientation making this a rather hard task. I twist around to look at her -- ta da!! -- when I'm all settled in.

"About the pancakes -- you'll have to make them yourself. I feel way too fucked up to wield a spatula just now."

She pouts a little; it's times like these she reveals how much younger than I am she is. "But you always make them better than I can!"

I nod; I know -- I've tasted some of hers: blackened-bottomed, still-liquid pieces of shit. "Sorry, Doodle; not this time."

'Doodle' was a nickname she tried to introduce with me, after sex became less than a financial interaction  between us. Mostly, I only trot it out when I'm making a point, especially in serious situations. Or, like now, when I'm too wiped to play Useful Parental Man. Daddyman. Ew. It works this time, because she makes no further protests. This, I think, would be an excellent time to chase this headache with the bottle of Jack's that I'd wanted to bop Sheila with. It's a figment of my imagination as much now, as it was then.

"Maybe later, okay? Give me a chance to wake up, maybe nip some of the hair of the dog, you know?"

"Maybe later," she echoes. "I'll see what you have in the fridge, for now." She hops off the bed, graceful, like any youth would. The blanket gets tosses aside quick, and rumples easily without her hands. She trots off to the kitchen, without so much as another glance at me. My head turns to watch her go by.

I rest my arms on my knees. Dipping down, I fish a shirt off the top of the bin. I hold it up to my crest of chest hair before putting it on. When Corrina had kicked me out, 2 years ago, I'd taken with me a giant bottle of her laundry soap. It had no brand; it was some kick-ass industrial stuff -- she'd bought it to tackle my stains, from the plumber gig I had then. It reminded me of her, as I sat here, sniffing the last remains of our homelife.

I'd get rid of all the hair on my body, if I was more industrious. I read somewhere that Marilyn Manson did that once, when he had pube crabs. I don't have those myself, but I really dislike my body hair, excepting my eyebrows. Waxing, plucking -- those are womanly ways. Electrolysis sounds like a chuck-steak asshole way to deal with it -- some sad, middle-aged Asian geisha zapping my balls for me. Maybe giving me a pedicure and a massage with the deal. The only thing I actually shave is my head; my head would be shaved now, if not for Corrina and Jill insisting that I look younger and less hoodlum-y with my small crown of curls atop my large mug. I actually intensely hate having hair on my scalp. The things I do, for women. Gah. I haven't been laid in two months, but I guess I must be a people-pleaser, or some shit. Jill shows up 1-2 times a week, but that doesn't necessarily indicate "services" anymore. We never talk about where she actually lives, or what goes on when she's not here. She never discusses other johns, but my hunch is that I'm a high favorite. She did once mention a pimp that got murdered over coke disputes, but that's about the grand depth we've gotten in to about the Inner World a la Jill. We don't really discuss personal lives. She doesn't know that my last job was in a liquor store, or that I got fired for drinking before work lately. She doesn't know that I've patiently sat on $500,000 for 4 years. She doesn't know much of anything outside of the walls of my crummy apartment. I just assume that wherever she lives other times has less food than even I do.

But, I guess none of that matters in the big picture. The girl really is hopeless at making her own food. My guess is before running away from small-town BC (she hinted), she was a spoiled kid. Maybe she even had a nanny. Who knows. She never had to cook, before hookin', and never got skilled during. She's hinted that what mother she had before this had no time to play Mommy with her. No one taught her cooking, cleaning, or much other useful self-reliance skills. I didn't either; Mom didn't raise me in the intent of helping my bachelorhood. I've always been decent at cooking and cleaning, naturally. I ended up being the domestic one with Corrina, when it came to household stuff. Corrina is a lawyer, and had absolutely no time to cook, let alone shit out a baby, and stay at home with it.

I'm a rather decent cook, I think I must say. I have an innate talent at mixing spices in to things. Ingredients go together typically flawlessly, under my guidance. Maybe my hidden talents are nestled in feminine qualities. I sometimes wonder if part of what's up with Jill is a last-ditch guise of paternal instincts, muddled by perversion. Jill stands by my fridge, hip cocked, door open. "Are the only things you have mustard and old Chinese?" She sticks her head right in to the fridge, seeking invisible morsels.

"Seems so. I tell you what -- I think my head cleared enough to handle some pancake-magic. Drunky-crash be damned."

I have a bag of frozen mixed berries, just for her. Pancakes are some kind of longstanding desire of hers. We eat them, constantly. She usually picks out the blackberries, so I try not to put any in hers. Maybe next time I'll just buy a bag of blueberries, and skip the hunting. I'd make her crepes, but Jill doesn't like my stepmother's recipe anywhat as much as I do. That was about the only thing my former stepmom and I bonded over. When she died, of cancer, all Dad said to me was, "Thank god. I thought that old bitch would take me down with her."

The batter takes no time at all to whip up. Egg or no egg, milk or no milk, we can do this. I typically have more in the house, but shopping got put off by the weekend bender. "What day is it, anyway?"

"Wednesday, I think."

Well, hell.

Jill won't eat raw fruit, or vegetables. When I buy those, they're usually for my steak-and-potatoes dinners that get eaten alone. I've been sticking to dried soup, side-dishes-in-a-box and instant oatmeal this last month, trying to prep for my eventual job-loss. There was no point denying myself fresh meat/vegetables, if I've got $500,000 sitting around, but I felt practical with this last-ditch attempt to relish my final paycheck.

I'll probably go back to steak-and-potatoes nights, when & if Jill moves on. I've been waiting for her to mention marriage -- not out of love, but convenience. Just the sheer advantage of a kindly provider. Corrina and I are divorced; she knows that, and she knows I would take her up, if I felt so inclined at the time. It'd destroy any chance of respect and love from Corrina ever again, but my paternal instincts feel like I could be a kindly old Daddyman. She'd end up being more of a step-daughter then, more likely to grow separate from my nads, and grow to love someone her age, on the side.

Corrina would love that: my own personal live-in prostitot. Sidewalk dancing in the evening, pancakes every day. She would totally reject me, and never-ever give back all that ACDC she kidnapped in the divorce. Goddamn insufferable divorce complications. She would never talk to me again, and fade back off in to single middle aged womanhood, taking on a 3rd and more prosperous husband. Maybe she'd be happier, because she was never all that happy with me.