Wherever the Dandelion Falls (11 page)

Oh god.

I hadn't noticed Sal was wearing sweatpants, which provided almost no resistance for his quick-to-rage hard-on beneath me. Who wears sweatpants to a strip club?

Apparently the kind who wanted to feel as much friction from the dancers as possible, resulting in a horrific, grunting ejaculation timed precisely to the music, occurring just as I was lifting off his lap to escape.

Grossed out and seriously rethinking my decision to work here, I grabbed my money, yanked back the curtain, and made a beeline for the stage door.

Even though I hadn't directly touched more than Sal's arms with my bare skin, I felt the immediate urge to shower.

Down in the dressing room, I washed my hands and ran a baby wipe over my thighs and breasts. I half considered walking out right then, turning in the money tucked in my garter belt and paying the rest of my house rent out of my pocket for the chance to escape. But the leggy blonde woman who had been onstage when I first walked into the club the day before entered the dressing room at that moment.

She eyed me, baby wipe in hand as she opened her locker. It didn't appear she was going to speak to me as she retrieved a costume, stepping out of the one she had on. Then, without making eye contact, she said with a smirk, "You get stuck with Sweatpant Sal?"

I felt validation that what I'd just been through was horrible and other dancers thought so too.

"It was
so
gross."

She gave a stiff nod, pulling on a pair of bright blue panties and taking out a matching bra. She was clearly getting ready for her stage dance.

"Don't worry, he wears a condom underneath so there's less mess."

Now I felt even less understood than before. Was that kind of thing normal? I felt my eyes sting like I was about to cry, but I forced the tears away.

"Do you have any-" I swallowed, trying to steady my voice. "Do you have any tips? I'm new here."

"You don't say," the woman mocked.

Burning with anger, I turning back to my locker to find my stage dress. I had imagined the other girls would be friendly, but they were anything but. To make matters worse, I would be going onstage after this woman. I would look like an amateur next to her. Which, of course, I was.

The woman sighed. "I'm not the house mom or anything. But just move slow. Everyone can tell a new girl because she dances too fast. Give it more than one night before you quit."

Grabbing onto her tip like a lifeline, I nodded.

"Thanks.” Then, daring, I said, "I'm Violet."

The woman didn't respond, closing her locker. Her eyes flickered to me before she turned and left. Just as she was about to ascend the stairs, she said, "I'm Summer."

And though it wasn't much, I was grateful that someone had spoken to me.

When it came time for my first stage show, I was shaking. I was glad for my disguise, and more grateful for Summer's advice than I could express. As the opening notes to Amy Winehouse's
You Know I'm No Good
started, I took a breath and walked slowly out into the light, letting Violet do the work for me.

And for those three minutes, Violet sparkled. I kept my movements syrupy and slow, using the pole minimally, since anything I did with it would look childish compared to Summer. A few men put bills on the edge of the stage or approached and waited for me to extend my garter to them. By the time the song ended, I had refilled my reservoir of confidence, and had no desire to leave.

I had just closed the lid of my washing machine at the laundromat and settled into the bucket chair to catch up on my text messages and emails when the door opened, letting in a gust of damp air. I wouldn't have looked up if the person entering hadn't been carrying a laundry bag that caused her to hunch over under its weight, another bag hanging from her hand and pinky finger clinging to a bottle of laundry detergent. She looked like a street person, only she was too polished and showered.

My heart raced and I flushed cold. It was Faye.

I slouched down in my seat, unsure what to do. She hadn't called or texted me in the last week, which was a clear indicator she wasn't interested in pursuing anything. There was something clean and final about a one night stand.

I didn't know what to do. I stayed slouched and tried not to look up at her. At least not too often. Once a minute or less. Maybe every half minute.

Faye spent the next ten minutes sorting her laundry. She had so much built up laundry, she filled six machines. She drizzled detergent down the line, letting half a capful seep into each bin, then went down the line inserting quarters as though they were slot machines. Only after all the machines were vibrating did she walk toward the row of chairs where I was sitting. When she was a few feet away, she stopped.

I willed myself not to look up. If we didn't have to acknowledge each other, this wouldn't be awkward. I slouched lower in my chair, hoping it didn't look forced.

"Riley?"

I looked up and tried to pretend I was surprised. "Hey!"

"Faye," Faye said, pointing to myself. "We met at Jules'."

"Yeah, of course," I said.

Then there was silence. How did one start a conversation with a former one night stand?

"How've you been?"

Faye sat three chairs down from me. "Pretty good. Midterms are coming up, so that's a bitch, but..."

"Midterms?"

“Oh, I'm a journalism student,” Faye said.

I felt embarrassed that I didn't know that about her.

"How's neuroscience?"

I was surprised that she remembered I had a degree in neuroscience. It was nice to know she had retained some information about me.

"No neuroscience," I said with an amused smile. "Just killing brain cells one drink at a time." I realized how bad that sounded as soon as I said it. "I mean the customers' brain cells. Not mine."

Faye gave a forced giggle and leaned over to take something out of her purse, drawing a book into her lap. I inhaled the residual lint that clouds all laundromats, settling into the tension of sitting for the next half hour in painfully awkward silence.

But then Faye looked up at me. "I'm sorry I didn't call."

I shrugged. "I didn't call either."

Faye nodded, not acknowledging that we both knew I couldn't have called because I didn't have her number.

We sat in silence, me fidgeting with my phone as Faye read her textbook. After an excruciating minute, she turned to me with a look of determination. "I did mean to," she said, words rushed and anxious. "Really. I did.”

I shrugged. "It's okay."

Faye pursed her lips, unsure. Then she nodded and turned back to her textbook. The machines seemed to grow louder as my heart rate picked up, realizing my opportunity to talk to Faye was growing shorter by the minute.

"You have a lot of laundry," I said.

Faye seemed startled, then embarrassed. "Oh... Yeah. I never do it. Then I don't have any clothes and I have to do like five loads."

"Six," I said before realizing what I'd said.

"What?"

"Six loads."

"Oh..." Faye looked away and I couldn't read her face.

I flushed with embarrassment as I realized I'd just admitted to watching Faye sort her laundry.

"It's okay," I said, eager to make up for my faux pas. "My record is eight loads. After Girl Scout camp."

Faye gave me a polite smile, then looked back at her book.

It was odd, sitting next to someone who was kind of a stranger, but also knew what I looked like naked and what face I made when I came.

My tension grew as the washers spun quicker. I felt my pulse pick up as they whirred, spinning the dirt and grime out of our clothes. I realized that the outfit I'd been wearing when I met Faye was in the washer, getting whatever sweat and lady juices we'd worked up washed out.

I wished Faye would talk. Small talk about the weather or her exams or the latest headline in The Chronicle. Anything to not sit in silence and let me spin. I wondered if Faye was embarrassed or overwhelmed or indifferent. Did she feel anything about sitting there with me? I felt hot with embarrassment and attraction, cold and dizzy with nerves, and weary from thinking too hard.

I spotted a magazine curled under a chair across the room and was relieved. I hopped up and retrieved it and sat down to read it. I flipped pages blindly before I noticed Faye was watching me.

"Do you like cars?"

I was confused. "I guess."

There was a pause before Faye said, "I was just asking because of the magazine."

I looked down, closing the magazine to see it was
Automotive Today
. I felt ridiculous now. "I just wanted something to read."

Faye leaned over and reached into her bag, pulling out a copy of
Nylon
. "Try that," she said. "It's my favorite."

Being handed a copy of Faye's favorite magazine felt like being given a picture of her as child. Maybe I'd be able to learn something secret about her in the pages, something that would help me figure out why she was the way she was. Why she was so beautiful and so friendly but at the same time totally closed off.

I timidly opened the magazine, being careful not to crease the onionskin pages or dog-ear the corners. I looked at each image, the rich hues of the ink, scouring every word for clues. Faye's magazine smelled like she did: rich and polished and covered in fabric softener. I studied each page, curious.

"Your laundry's beeping," Faye said, gesturing with her book towards the machine.

I'd been so engrossed in the magazine that I'd tuned out my surroundings. I'd tuned out Faye in an effort to understand Faye.

I hopped up, carefully putting the magazine in the warm hollow of the chair. I removed my clothes from the washer and put them into my hamper, the stiff wetness of the material heavy in my arms.

I didn't want to leave, but I hadn't brought enough change to use the dryer. I liked to hang dry my clothes, since it was free and better for the planet. But I didn't want to leave Faye without saying something.

"Thanks for letting me read your magazine," I said quietly.

Faye looked up. "Oh, you're leaving?"

I nodded. "I hang dry. It's good for the earth and stuff," I said, looking at the chipped tiles below my feet.

Faye nodded. "Okay. Have a good one."

I gave her a strained smile and turned to go. "Good luck with your laundry."

"Yeah, you too," Faye said.

And I left, feeling myself get heavier with each step. The uphill trek home was always worse than I remembered due to the heavy basket I now had to hold with two hands to stay steady. I walked upstairs and set it down, hands red and aching.

As I was hanging up my clothesline, I heard my phone chime in my purse. As soon as I had checked that the knot was secured to the coat hook in the closet and the other end tied firmly to the curtain rod, I fished out my phone and read the message. There was a message from a 210 area code number at I didn't recognize.

Do you want to get a drink later?

A second message buzzed through as I frowned, confused about who the message was from.

This is Faye by the way.

I felt myself get warm as I smiled. I typed out a quick
Hi! Sure!
and pressed
Send
.

Faye answered
Great! Lime at 9?

Sure!

I tucked my phone in my pocket and grinned the entire time I hung my laundry.

A few hours later we were settled into our booth at Lime. She looked even more beautiful than when I'd met her. I wasn't sure how to start the conversation, so I asked her more about school. She shrugged and let out a frustrated sigh.

"I just worry I won't be able to find something I like after I graduate and I'll end up whoring myself out to anyone that will pay me to string words together."

Wanting to lighten the mood, I said, “There are worse things than being a journalistic prostitute."

Faye laughed. "You know what we say... writing is like sex. First you do it for love, then you do it for friends, then you do it for money."

"Do you still enjoy it?"

"Sex or journalism?"

"Yes."

Faye laughed, not quite as fatigued this time. "I suppose."

I raised my eyebrows and my coffee mug at the same time, indicating I was doubtful. "If I asked someone to have sex with me and they said, 'I suppose,’ I would doubt their sincerity."

Faye sighed. "Money ruins everything."

I gave Faye a sad smile. "I'm sure you're a good writer," I said, grasping at straws. "I'd read your column."

Faye gave me a doubtful look. "Do you even read the paper?"

"I would if there were interesting articles instead of news about everything that's wrong."

Faye gave me a steady nod.

"We should just call the Chronicle 'San Francisco What's Wrong.'" I said. "Maybe newspapers aren't what you need to be doing."

"What I need to be doing is figuring out a way to pay the rent on my studio once I graduate and my parents stop footing the bill."

I gave her another sad smile and she changed the subject.

Once I felt the tingling warmth of the alcohol start to relax me, everything flowed. The drinks kept flowing too, until I was in that happy, giggly haze of Faye and alcohol. I didn't know which was more powerful.

She talked more about journalism school and her undergrad and her experience running Bay to Breakers last year. With a smirk I asked her if she'd run naked and she returned my wicked expression, but then said no, her boobs were not for public consumption. I felt a little special that I'd been permitted to not only view, but touch them.

"Plus," she said, setting her third glass down in the table a bit harder than she intended, "it's always the people you don't want to see naked that decide to go Full Monty at Bay to Breakers."

I agreed and we talked about the Folsom Street Fair, Outside Lands, and Carnival.

And then I asked about Pride. Despite having had three drinks, she seemed to stiffen.

"I've never been," she said.

"What?" I squawked. "How is that possible? It's the best party the city has!"

She shrugged and looked down at the table. "Not my scene."

I was mystified. "Didn't any of your girlfriends ever make you go?" I asked.

Her eyes stayed fixed in the table as she shook her head. "Nope." The word was final and even with three drinks in me, I knew better than to push the issue.

Faye turned and gestured to a waiter, lifting her empty cup and holding up a peace sign, signaling we each wanted another. I was already feeling buzzed, but I wasn't ready to go home. It was nice to let loose with someone besides Justine.

She turned back to me and asked about my work, my family, and all the polite topics we'd already covered in our first meeting. It seemed she was taking a step back from me. Not wanting to lose our progress, I changed the subject to the latest political happenings, and that got her talking.

Before I knew it, it was midnight, we were drunk, and I was asking her back to my place. We paid out our tab and made the brisk walk back to my house. I didn't even care about the laundry hanging up because I was so excited to have sex with her again.

This time we went a little slower. I got to see more of her body in motion. Everything about her was supple and blooming and focused on me. She was just as untamable as she had been last time, and I didn't have to talk myself into anything. It was good, and by the time we both finished, I didn't feel more than a little buzzed.