asshole .”
I remember Jorden Vosh. He’s a local gay male model, one of the city’s best. He’s a total professional with looks chiseled from marble, my own molded from clay. Met that guy at a party once, his completely friendly and effeminate demeanor hides how he is so socially cold to females competing for attention. I learned what the term ‘frenemy’ meant to girls after meeting that cruel homo.
Misha spouts off about Jorden for the next ten minutes. Kiki hops in to defend him throughout her rant, but is quickly sorted out through Misha’s quick use of her index finger. Her technique to point in people’s faces is her often overused method of saying “No, no, NO!” to stagger any verbal duelist. I always found it so fascinating that one person can suggest to a girl that she’s overweight and she will bear that cross for eternity. Maybe some women tie in their weight with their sense of self-worth. Recalling the shitty and worthless feeling when I’m broke, and it all makes sense. Lonely ice cubes rotate freely as the last of the rum slides down my throat, just in time to hear Kiki blurt out a frustrated “Oh my fucking god Misha!”
The girls have been bitching for over ten minutes about the context of how Jorden called Misha fat. She has a very nice feminine body. Her toned upper abs could be in a jeans ad. Those tits are a bit saggy in her late 20ies, but look gorgeous watching from below when she is on top. I prefer being on her, with those soft, long tanned legs on my shoulders. Making out with her in my car is one of my most fond memories of her. My hands crept up her inner thighs, feeling like silk on my fingertips. Her jean shorts soaked, her fragrance filling the air. Kiki is intensely texting on her phone, stone faced with glass eyes.
Kiki sighs. “Well, Jorden is not meeting us here anymore. I’m going to walk up and meet him at the Starbucks.” Kiki dumping bucket loads of disappointment in her voice.
Misha has her legs crossed, and her elevated leg is kicking the air slowly, half obscured by the table.
“Misha, what are you going to do?” Kiki rarely talks in her serious voice.
It’s hard to believe a six month old comment has these two women mad at each other.
“Mish, you should come and check out the new Wosk collection.” I casually suggest that in my most sophisticated tone.
I think I slurred the word collection. My mind slips off to think ahead to Misha naked, and I feel my pants squeezing tight against my wedding tackle.
“Do you have any more drinks? I kind of feel like getting fucked up today,” Misha says through a sly grin.
My left eyebrow rockets up and I ask her if a leprechaun pimp would own anything green or gold. She chuckles while digging through her purse to pay her bill. Kiki thanks me for coming out and puts barely her share of money on the table. I’ll have to cover the tip again. No karma lost in lacking cash as long as you’re beautiful. The clothed reed-like waiter collects the money and drops off a few vanilla mint hard candies. They make this particular crinkle when you open them, forever reminding me of satisfied stomachs. I unwrap one, toss it in the air and catch it in my mouth. Lingering rum mixes with candy, a cold sweet vanilla breeze.
Walking up the street together, Misha’s bright dress contrasts sharply against unwashed awnings and the grimey sidewalk. A bum in camo pants and a stained green sweater is pawing through trash, his greasy hair stays flat on his head as he turns and spots Misha. A yellow smile hides in a ring of matted fur and tangled beard. Bob the painter must have found a happy little crack pipe. Misha ignores him with a polite but not very kind smile in the opposite direction; as we pass by a waft of intense BO assaults my senses. I tend to bitch about the smells and people I’m subjected to by living in a neighborhood like this, yet the raw nature is refreshing. In a world of plastic trees, photoshop, warm lighting, and