Lustful Memoirs
By: Gina - gina@basic-nstynct.com
Chapter Forty Seven"Hello." I spoke into the receiver, hoping my voice was friendlier then I thought it sounded, however not so friendly that she would think that she could convince me to do whatever she had planned.
"Blake," she began, the syrupy sugar undertone in her voice, "I’m so glad that I caught you. I know that you have plans this evening, however, a very important client called. It seems a friend of his is in town tonight, and he would like to show him just what LA has to offer. I told him I would send my best girl, and as much as I hate to admit it, Blake, you know that is you. Is there any way possible you could meet this gentleman. I promise to make it worth your time and effort."
"Marie," I responded, not giving a thought to the manner in which I did, "I can’t, not tonight. To be frank, I wouldn’t cancel the plans I have if the Pope himself called. You’ll have to find someone else, they are just looking for a fuck, and anyone can do that."
I realized my words were harsh, but I didn’t care. I only hoped that they left no room for rebuttal. I should have known better.
"But," she began, I knew there was a but. "Blake, dear, just hear me out first. You have five weeks left to work for me. With the price this client is willing to pay, I assure you that you would be able to skip the last one. Here’s the deal. Meet with this client tonight, and you will only have 4 weeks left, I’ll let you out of the final week of our agreement. Besides, I know you are going to the concert, but this gentleman doesn’t want to meet until 1, that means you’ll have time to do both. Blake, honey, I’m looking out for your best interests, and mine. Could you please reconsider?"
Her words were spoken, a plea in her voice like I had never heard. It made me wonder as to the identity of the person requesting services for his friend. Only a few clients had that kind of control over Marie, and as much as I would have like to have her struggle, the thought of only having to survive the next four weeks outbid all other thoughts I had about making Marie squirm. Besides, I was sad to admit, she was right. If the client did not want to meet until 1, then I would still be able to see the show. There was no reason for me to turn her down, though I wanted to be certain that she knew that it was I doing her a favor and not the other way around.
With her offer hanging in the air between us, I responded, a sound of disgust and frustration, masked my voice.
"Fine, Marie, I’ll do it. Where do I have to meet this person?"
"Blake, you don’t know how much I appreciate this. You can meet him at the Ritz Carlton at 1, Room 2502."
I hung up the phone, quickly scrawling the hotel information on the pad of paper by the phone. I took a deep breath, my fingers massaging the tension now surfacing at my temples. I rolled my head from side to side, willing myself to forget about what would happen at 1, and just enjoy what was to happen in the hours leading up to that moment. After standing for several minutes, I glanced at the clock with a panic. I ran up the stairs taking two or three at a time. I grabbed my shoes, threw them on my feet and made my way out of the house, careful to grab the hotel information and the Nsync CD that had been on repeat nonstop all day.
I made my way to my mother’s, beeping the horn frantically as I pulled into her driveway. She hurried from the house, her lithe frame carrying her to the car. She settled into the passenger seat. I threw the car in reverse and backed out. I made my way through the growing LA traffic, uttering a litany of curses on our way to the Forum, which caused my mother to blush. We parked close to the entrance, we were early, however the growing anticipation caused my stomach to churn. We sat for several hours waiting for the doors to open, watching the spectacle unfold in front of us. The crowd began to gather, and I was quick to notice that mostly all the people attending the concert fit into three basic categories.
The teenyboppers were the most numerous and the most easily recognized. Young girls, early teens, who wore the name of the group and the name of their favorite member scrawled on their arms, their exposed legs, their face. Their shirts emblazoned with the image of one of the guys, Justin, I wasn’t surprised to find, was the most popular. They carried signs and walked from one side of the venue to the other, all vying for a chance to lay eyes on the men that they had come that night to see.
The second group, I would refer to as the groupies. I didn’t realize that there would be groupies at an Nsync show, though I knew why they were there. Body glitter, tight leather pants, short tops that barely covered anything, singled members of this group out from the others. They too, would migrate from one end of the arena to the other, though it took them longer, as their high-heeled shoes wouldn’t allow for faster movement. As I walked out of my house that night I wondered about my dress, I wondered if I was dressed too scantily. However, as my eyes gazed over the outfits adorning these girls’ bodies, I felt like I was overdressed. My leather pants weren’t as tight, or as colorful. The heels on my boots not as high, my shirt consisted of enough material to make three of theirs, leaving only the slightest hint of cleavage. I smiled to myself for a moment as I thought about these girls. They were dressed the way they were in hopes of obtaining what I already had had. To them, I could be the poster girl for the "Become a Hooker, and fuck famous people" club.
The final and most broad category was a wide array of people. Older and, in my opinion, more mature girls, thankfully free of scrawled on names and body glitter. There were fathers, with thinning hair and opened wallets. The mothers that came along, it seemed, to carry the forgotten signs and banners, and all of the newly purchased treasures. There were the few and far between teenage and twenty something males that didn’t accompany a female, either gay or true fans, I would guess. Then there was my favorite group, the boyfriend dragged along, or the boyfriend who willingly brought their girl, hoping that the guys movements on stage would elicit such a sexual response from the girlfriends that they would easily score on the way home. Both groups of the boyfriends were recognizable, one by the scowl on their face, the other by the hopeful look.
Finally, after spending what I considered way too much time analyzing the average Nsync fans with my mother, the doors opened. We made our way through the maze that is the Forum to our seats. As I sat, in my fourth row seat, thankful for the connections Marie had to obtain the tickets, I glanced over at my mother. Her graying hair, at her clear blue eyes that I wasn’t lucky enough to inherit, at the wrinkles that had formed around her eyes and mouth, the way her skin wasn’t as taut as I remembered, the way her body moved slower, her step shorter. She was beautiful. A tear formed in my eye as I let my mind replay the events that had brought us together, so together that I could think of no one else that I wanted to share the concert with. To let her see the man that had changed me, to let her watch him, the one that had forced me to face my past demons, the one that gave me the strength to pick up the phone and call her.
It was a week after I returned to LA that I made the call, a call that I was dreading, a call that I knew that I should make, a call that would change my life. I lifted the phone, my finger tentatively reaching for and pressing the seven digits that would connect me to her. I hadn’t seen her, hadn’t heard a word from her. The thought that this number may no longer belong to her, crept into my mind. It was a start, however, a small start, but a start, nonetheless. The ring sounded in my ear, shaking me so bad, I had to sit. The second ring held the promise of an answer and yet there was none. The third, and my mind said to hang up, there was no one home, my heart saying give it another ring. The fourth brought the sound of her voice, a pleasant, honey sweet hello. A voice I remembered during those times of childhood traumas, my first scrapped knee, my first dog, my entry into womanhood. The voice that had soothed for so long and yet turned cold in an instant. I heard it again, before I realized that I should respond.
"Mom," I paused, not sure of what set of rules should be practiced, "it’s Blake." Was it silly to introduce myself? Did anyone else refer to her that way? Would she remember me? Would she want to talk to me?
The questions brewing in my mind were met with silence, until suddenly, the quietness burst into sobs. Sobs so wrenching, so sad, they reached through the tangled phone cord, reached through the tangled emotions welled up inside of me, and reached my heart. All the words I wanted to say, the blame, the hurt left me. I listened as she cried, unaware of what I should be doing, what I should be saying. I heard her mumble something incoherent and as she said it again and again, I realized she was saying my name. The sound on her lips caused the dam to break inside of me, tears wetted my cheeks as my own sobs met hers. Minutes that felt like hours passed as the hurt, the rejection, the regret poured out.
We listened to each other talk for at least an hour. She repeatedly told me that she feared hanging up, for the connection would be broken. Surprisingly to me, I felt the same. I longed to reach out and touch her, was it possible to forgive this person, to allow her back into my life after all the pain she caused. Was it really all her fault? Was I not also to blame? The questions pelted me, my father had left, he had deserted us, and I blamed her, the realization hit me so hard it knocked the wind from my chest. How could I hate this woman for her actions? How could I blame her for his? In the heat of an argument, tempers flared, each of us in our own state of denial, each of us holding fast to the dream that he would return, that he would love us again. Words were said, yelled, our hurt pouring onto each other, until I walked out and she, caught in her own misery, let me leave. I wondered if I had just turned around, if I had just ran back into the house, placed my arms around her, and told her I loved her, would things have turned out differently? As I listened to her sobs, her words of sorrow, her words of regret, her words of remorse, I knew that they would have been. Yet, all that time, I blamed her for his actions, thinking that my father was the hero he should have been, never once did I allow myself to think otherwise. Listening to her talk, she spoke of him not once, she apologized for her actions, for making me feel as though she blamed me. She assured me that not once had that thought entered her mind, not once. The words that forced me out the door were her anger, not at me, but at him. How could she provide for me? She didn’t work, relied solely on his support, and then he was gone, leaving me with her, and with no means to care for me. She felt responsible, reiterated her responsibility over and over, she held the blame to her heart and I could not further push it through, killing her. He left, as much as I wanted to blame her for his departure, I was wrong to do so. He didn’t leave because I wasn’t a stellar student, he didn’t leave because I wasn’t good enough, and he didn’t leave because she was a bad wife or a bad mother, he left because he wanted to. He wasn’t the man that I thought he was. Listening to her talk, this time through the ears of maturity, I knew that we were all to blame: him, her, and me. It was time to end the blame, at least for her and for me. And so, we spoke, caught up, and then finally realizing that the bonds between mother and daughter were being rebuilt and would not be broken, we ended the call, with the promise of lunch the next day.
I arrived at her house, unsure of what to expect, my heart beating rapidly in my chest, my breathing short and shallow, anxiousness ran through every fiber of my being, as did fear. What if the phone conversation was nothing like face to face meeting? The emotions were soon pushed to the side as she opened the door, and with a catch of her breath, she pulled me toward her, her arms enveloping mine in a way that I had longed for, for years. My name fell from her lips over and over as we stood, holding each other, tears making moist trails down both of our faces. Standing before me, she was my mother, she was still as beautiful as I ever thought her to be, and I loved her as though the years that had passed, all the accusations, had not existed.
We went to lunch at one the most exclusive restaurant in LA, she in awe of the surroundings, I, not about to tell her how I could afford such luxury. I blew my self-imposed budget that day, but decided that it was more then worth it. We spent the passing afternoon hours, much like we had the day before. We spoke of our regrets, our disappointments, and our hopes for the future. We talked of her second marriage, to a man she described as an angel, a man she couldn’t wait to introduce me to. We spoke of her volunteer work. We mostly talked about her. When the conversation switched to me, the subjects became more limited. I told her of my time in Orlando, visiting friends. It was not a complete lie, but I was not about to tell her about my profession. It would be over soon, and there would never be any reason for her to know. When she asked about the time after I left, I told her that it was a friend that had taken me in, another not complete lie. I told her about school. She, thankfully, didn’t ask about what I did for a living. And so, the conversation turned to my friend in Orlando and his friends. As I spoke of JC, and of Renee, and of the uncanny resemblance, more shocking words could not have been muttered from my mother’s lips.
I sat, still, frozen, unable to move. How could this be? Here was the woman sitting in front of me that I had thought for so long was my mother, and now she was telling me that she was not. That I had been adopted, that I had a twin sister. After a few gulps of water, I calmed myself, staring intently into her eyes. The story unfolded, a glitch in the system. My parents had died in a house fire, I was three months old. The fire fighters had rescued my sister and me, however were unable to successfully pull my parents from the burning building. In the chaos that ensued, we were parted. Unable to locate any family members, we were placed in separate foster homes. In time, the mistake was realized, however so much time had passed that to separate one of us from our family to have us join the other would not be advisable, in fact, it would be traumatic. So, we grew up, as twins, living in different houses. The decision was made that our parents would tell us when we were older, when we would be able to understand. That time never came. Renee, who’s real name is Brenda, ran away when she was twelve, disappearing without a trace. From what I had already heard about her, this didn’t surprise me. And I, I had separated from my parents before they could tell me as well.
As we finished dessert, and my mind continued to process the information about Renee, I told my mother all that I knew about her, and that I needed to find her, the reason this time, being far greater for my own benefit then for JC’s.