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Peach (2) – by Claire King

June 5, 2010 9 comments

I don’t see him all day, he’s up in his office with the air-con cranked up, working on his papers. But then around 5.25 he starts up like a teenager – sprays on cologne, brushes his teeth, so when she gets in from Kroger he’ll be fresh for all the PDAs. He brushes his teeth with hot water; I’ve seen him. What is that?

Ugh, whatever. She’s, like, eight years older than me, and he’s getting ready to retire. It’s disgusting. Way to go, Dad, Mom would be so proud of you.

They love it when I ‘stay over at my girlfriends’. Petting in privacy in the den, eating take-out, watching her belly grow round. He bought me the car when they found out she was knocked up. My consolation prize.

Today it’s the gas station guy.  He was a way down the list but he’s easy-pickings. I’m early parking up, so I get a soda and stand out front looking like some kind of hooker. But the night’s warm and there’s a stand of gardenia right by me. Smells like heaven.

He’s here at last and playing Springsteen. His eyes light up like a kid on Christmas day when I slide in beside him. He’s pleased to see me, all right. Damn it, though, he’s taking me to Joe’s bar on Lafayette and Tenth. Shit, Joe’s seen me here before with the biology teacher that gave me herpes. Nice twist on sex education, you asshole. But Joe’s OK. He looks at me funny, but then turns away, shaking his head a little, and pours the beers.

I’m a virgin, I tell Gas Station Guy. They love that shit.  He holds my hand. He has stubby, rough little fingers. Good. Then I drink my beer and shut up. Gas Station Guy can talk for both of us. I guess not many people listen to him.

Tomorrow morning I’ll tell him I’m feeling sick. Headache. He’ll give me Tylenol. I’ll tell him I don’t remember a thing. Then he’ll tell me nothing happened, that I was a little drunk, couldn’t say where I lived, passed out. The usual. I’ll thank him. Then he’ll leave for work early, tell me to make myself breakfast, close the door behind me. I won’t eat a thing in his crumby kitchen. Gross. But I’ll help myself to a little souvenir.  I’m a collector.

Peach – by Claire King

May 27, 2010 4 comments

Peach

by Claire King

 


Ah, shit, Man, she’s a peach. I know her Daddy.  Rough son-of-a-bitch. Old though. And rich. She’s standing outside the 7-11, skirt up round her ass. Ripe. She could be a whore but she looks way too classy. Plus she has a huge soda – I’d guess diet – and a Twinkie. I work kitty corner, at the Sunoco and I’ve been watching her since six-thirty. I’m getting off in ten minutes.

I drive the Chevy over, top down. I have to make four rights to get back over there. It’s a pain in the ass. She smiles mad, like she’s been waiting on me for hours.

Want to get a beer? I say.

I’m fifteen, she says.

You don’t look it.

There’s oil stains on my arms and I stink from the heat, but I got Springsteen in the deck – always a winner. Just like that, there she is, sitting right next to me, Her legs open a crack in her little Barbie skirt.  All that skin. I’m telling you man; she’s a fucking grade A peach. What man in his right mind wouldn’t?

We park up on the corner of Lafayette and Tenth. The place is still half empty, strip–lit in blue. The bartender looks at me funny.

Rags, he says. And he pours the beers. Oily Rags, that’s what the sons-of-bitches call me in this joint. They’re as close to family as I got, though. I order beers.

The girl’s at the jukebox. The whole damn bar is staring at her ass and she knows it. But she ain’t playing it. She’s put on some goddam sentimental shit. The regulars groan, but when she comes back to the bar she takes the cigarette from my mouth and puts it in her own. She sucks it hard, and she knows what she’s doing. Jesus.

I’m a virgin, she says. Just so you know.  I hold her hand and she relaxes a little.

I love Foreigner, I say.

Four beers later and she’s falling through the screen door.  I scoop her up, over the couch and I pull up that skirt. I’m still good to go on four beers. My cock is hard. Not that she’d notice either way.

Who’s your Daddy? I say. And I slap her ass.