by William Arthur “Bill” Holmes. © Copyright 1990
Sandi strolled out of the motel room wearing her tight spandex pants, high-heeled shoes and a simple peasant blouse. She had just turned another trick and she wanted to vomit. This was not a reaction to just the one trick, but from the life she had been leading these past several months. Being part of her Aunt Meg’s “stable” in exchange for a few bucks and a place to stay just wasn’t cutting it.
As Sandi approached the street, combing her brown, unwashed hair, a banged-up late-model sedan screeched to a halt in front of her. A powerfully built man in a maroon jogging suit leaned over and shouted through the passenger window for Sandi to get in the car. It was Jethro, Aunt Meg’s enforcer/assistant pimp.
“Meg wants you back at the house,” Jethro said.
“I’ll walk,” Sandi replied.
“Just shut up and get in!” he ordered.
It was useless to resist Jethro. If she ran, he would just catch her. And if he caught her he would beat the hell out of her.
She got into the car. As they drove, neither of them spoke. They were not friends and did not pretend to be. When they arrived at her Aunt Meg’s two-story Victorian home, Jethro climbed out of the car quickly and trotted into the house. Jethro jogged every chance he got, Sandi thought to herself. And she hated him and everything about him. The fact that he had raped her several times didn’t help their relationship.
As Sandi dragged herself to the door, she noticed a beautiful new Lincoln Continental parked in the driveway. She glanced inside to see if the keys were in it, but they weren’t.
Sandi was greeted at the door by her smiling, almost toothless Aunt Meg.
“Sandi, an old friend from Albuquerque has stopped by on his way to Vegas. Be nice to him, huh? He’s got bucks and we want him coming back, got it?”
“Got it,” Sandi said, knowing Meg didn’t have any old friends in Albuquerque, or anywhere else. But she didn’t argue the point. Instead, she simply moved toward the stairs. Her old friend, who introduced himself as “Johnson” was in the kitchen, nervously fidgeting with his cowboy hat. Sandi looked him over slowly while he smiled weakly at her. She thought to herself that he looked like all the rest. Stupid. Stupid and nervous.
Finally, Sandi sighed, gestured toward the stairs and, in an exasperated tone, said to Johnson, “Well?”
Johnson looked for approval from Meg, who tried to smile reassuringly, but only ended up looking like the greedy, gap-toothed, burned-out old whore that she was. Meg shooed Johnson onward with her hand, and Johnson trailed Sandi up the stairs.
When Sandi reached the top of the stairwell she began unbuttoning her blouse. Johnson, a few steps behind, was working up a sweat trying to undo his tie.
By the time Sandi entered the bedroom, her blouse was completely unbuttoned. A breeze obligingly blew in through the window to gently caress her skin and reveal her firm young breasts. She ambled up to the bed, sat on its edge and kicked off her shoes, just as she had done a thousand times before.
Johnson was still having trouble with his tie. He had his shirt and shoes off now but his tie was in an irreparable knot. Finally, he just gave up and left it hanging from his neck. Again, he looked stupid, Sandi thought, with his flabby, pale, sweaty skin and that silly tied knotted up around his neck.
As he entered the bedroom he started to remove his pants, but couldn’t. The zipper was stuck. He was sweating like a racehorse as he worked on getting the zipper loose, smiling nervously at Sandi. Sandi simply watched, amused, offering no help. She lay back on the bed, leaned on one elbow and smiled.
“Whenever you’re ready,” she said, feigning impatience.
“Just a minute,” he said. “I’ve never had this much trouble before.”
“Have you ever done this sort of thing before?” she teased. He didn’t answer, trying unsuccessfully to look cool as he struggled with his zipper. Sandi almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
“Do you need some help?” she finally offered.
He nodded yes, and she got up from the bed, kneeled down in front of him and took a hold of the zipper with her right hand while holding onto his pants pocket with her left hand for balance. She yanked hard on the zipper. Nothing. She yanked again, and ripped out the pants pocket, spilling coins and keys to the floor. She tried to apologize between gasps of hysterical laughter.
Then she came up with an idea. “I’ll get some WD40!” she said, suddenly enjoying herself. “Wait here.”
“No! No, you don’t have to do that!” Johnson protested. But she ignored him and scurried out of the room, laughing. A moment later she returned with the promised can of lubricant. He protested again but she silenced him with a squirt on the zipper. She missed, leaving an embarrassing stain.
“Oops, sorry,” she laughed again. She tried again, taking careful aim this time, and squirted again. Bullseye!
He continued to perspire uncontrollably, damping at his neck and forehead with a nonstop handkerchief. At least he was now able to unzip his pants, which he did quickly.
“Let’s make this quick,” he urged.
“Fine by me,” Sandi shrugged.
After a moment he was standing naked in front of her. She rolled her eyes at the sight of him as she peeled the rest of her clothing off. They looked at each other’s bodies for a moment before Sandi sighed heavily and crawled up onto the bed. Johnson did not follow immediately. All he could do was stare.
She was so young. So young. Not much older than his daughter, in fact. And his loins stirred at this perverse thought, and he got an erection. Then he made the mistake of thinking of his wife, and his erection wilted.
His wife always had that effect on him.
He tried to clear his mind of them both. Visions of slim young boys then came to mind. But that didn’t help. I’m no faggot, dammit!, he told himself. He tried thinking of his daughter again, but hated himself for his own thoughts. His mind was reeling. It was all too much for him.
Sandi could see it on his face. She knew how to get around such impotence, but offered no help. She did not want to touch his pudgy, sweaty body if she didn’t have to. Finally, Johnson gave up and said, “Let’s just forget it.”
“No problem,” Sandi said.
“Don’t tell Meg about this, alright?” he asked. “I’ll never live it down.” And he reached for his clothes.
“For a free ride to Vegas, I’ll keep quiet. Otherwise, it’ll be all over town that you’re queer.”
“I am not …” He stopped himself mid-sentence and looked at her strangely. Had she read his mind? Did she know that he was thinking about slim young boys in order to get an erection earlier? No. That was impossible.
He looked at her again, but turned away when her eyes met his. She was not to be trusted, that was sure. But he agreed to her terms. He could always dump her in the desert on the way to Vegas, he told himself. He should have known he would never have the nerve to do that, but he fooled himself into believing that he just might.
Sandi quickly got dressed and pulled her suitcase from out of the closet. She grabbed a couple pairs of pants, underwear and a few blouses from the dresser. Just the bare essentials.
“Okay,” she barked out orders as she slipped into a pair of sandals. “You go down the stairs and out through the front door. I’ll climb out the window and be in your car by the time you get there. It’s unlocked, right?” She knew it wasn’t.
“No, it’s locked,” he confirmed.
“Give me the keys,” she said quickly, snapping her fingers.
“I will not give you the keys,” he protested loudly.
“Not so loud,” Sandi whispered, looking around nervously. “Just give me the keys, and I’ll be in the back seat waiting for you by the time you get there.” She gave him the most innocent look she could muster. It worked, and he handed over the keys. She was out the window with her suitcase in a matter of seconds. She let the suitcase fall to the ground ahead of her, then followed right behind. She landed well, like a cat, and scurried off in the direction of Johnson’s car.
Johnson hurried downstairs in hopes of getting to his car before Sandi. He tipped his hat to Meg on his way out, while she sat at the kitchen table smoking a cigarette and reading the National Enquirer. Jethro was in the front room, watching television.
“Come again,” Meg said, then broke into hysterical laughter at her favorite pun. She spotted the rip and stain on Johnson’s trousers, but pretended not to notice. He had probably asked Sandi to do it, she thought. And she returned her attention to her tabloid.
The sound of a Lincoln Continental starting up could be heard coming from the front of the house. Johnson dashed out the front door, shouting “She’s stealing my car! Meg, she’s stealing …” Johnson and Jethro ran outside, with Meg waddling out behind them.
Sure enough, Sandi was stealing his car.