One-Night Stand with the Archangel

"My beloved is white and ruddy, the chiefest among ten thousand. His head is as the most fine gold, his locks are bushy, and black as a raven. His eyes are as the eyes of doves by the rivers of water, washed with milk, and fitly set. His cheeks are as a bed of spices, as sweet as flowers; his lips like lilies, dropping sweet smelling myrrh. His hands are as gold rings set with the beryl; his belly is as bright ivory overlaid with sapphires. His legs are as pillars of marble, set upon sockets of fine gold; his countenance is as Lebanon, excellent as the cedars. His mouth is most sweet; yea, he is altogether lovely. This is my beloved, and this is my friend, O daughters of Jerusalem."

--Song of Solomon 5:10-16

* * * * *

"Well, you didn't seem to have any problems with me being a pro at that party last month," I yelled into my cell phone, "why are you freaking out about it tonight?" I don't know why I let men get to me like this, especially when I know at some point they always disappoint. Why I would think this putz was any different, I don't really know—wishful thinking, I suppose. Well, I guess this is what I get for wishing.

So here I stand, in the middle of my bedroom in my tiny apartment in any city in the world. Could be in Paris or Pakistan, Moscow or Manhattan, Boston or Bangkok. Tonight I am home, instead of somewhere anywhere in the world I am at home, not by choice, but I am at home, standing in the middle of my bedroom in my tiny apartment. Cell phone is securely placed against ear, hair pulled back so as to more clearly hear the lameass excuses of Roger—I'm sorry, it's Keith—no wait, it's Alex—no no, it's Friday night, on my calendar, 8 to midnight, it's Jerry—"Jerry dammit, why did you even bother setting me up for this evening if you knew—YOU KNEW you would have your kids this weekend?" It seems more and more all men come from the same family, more and more it's Roger Dammit or Jerry Dammit or William Dammit; I ought to know better by now than to try to set up evenings in advance with the Dammit Brothers.

So here I stand, now almost ten, the night virtually wasted. I mean, I suppose there are a hundred parties up in the hills I could crash tonight, all with money and coke, all with testosterone and posturing and drunkery and everything else the Dammit Brothers do to cover up their soft inner cores. And I am quite sure I could make a killing, I could bring home a couple of Benjamins. I sure could use those Benjamins too, Jesus, the rent is due on Monday. It's late, a cab will take too long to get here, by the time I get out to one of those coke parties up in the hills everyone will already be loaded, everyone will already be getting laid, and I will be stuck sucking the cocks of the drunk losers who came alone and who will leave alone. It's late, and though even with that I could make at least a hundred, I don't think it's worth another night of lost dignity.

So here I stand, yelling at the gentleman caller who I met about a month ago at one of those coke parties up in the hills. As you can tell by my raving into my phone, his name is Jerry. Jerry something—I know his last name, it's written down here somewhere, I have to have it because I called him. I had to. It's almost ten and he was supposed to be here by eight. He was supposed to pick me up and we were supposed to have a nice dinner, maybe take a nice drive up in the hills, I would give him the fuck of his dreams, and he would pay me at least enough for rent on Monday. That was the plan. The only thing is, Jerry is annoyed I called because he is having trouble putting his shared-custody kids to bed.

"Has it occurred to you, Jerry, that you are fucking me in the worst way tonight?" I know that's no way to talk to someone who was going to pay my rent for me, but this is ridiculous. I gave up the best worknight of the week for this asshole, and he has the temerity to blow me off. I understand that girls like me aren't supposed to expect much out of the Dammit brothers, but believe it or not, "believe it or not, Jerry, I am a person too." Slighting hurts, it even hurts whores.

"I at least am an honest so-called whore." Not that I cared for Jerry—I take that back. He seemed a decent guy, collegiate, young, divorced, soft yet well spoken. Why divorced, I didn't care to ask, why single, the same. Were I in high school I would have been ga-ga for a guy like him. I'm not saying I have no emotional tie to him—had this been solely a business transaction to me, I could be as cold as I needed to be. But I did like him, I liked his smile, his soft hands, the way he talked to me like I was better than I am. Perhaps he really is like that, I'll never know now because the prick stood me up.

So here I stand, wearing a blouse and skirt—professional (in a good sense of the word) looking, as if I were a secretary for some power broker on Wall Street. Jerry thought I was classier than I let on, so, upon his encouragement, I dressed a little different, not the tank top and tight cutoffs that I wear on warm summer nights, not the super tight leather with the pushup bra that I wear to the up-in-the-hills coke parties. Tonight I dressed more like a middle class working woman, as opposed to the lower class working girl, as he put it. Heels, pearl earrings, some cleavage but not overly slutty. I even smiled when I looked in the mirror. For a moment I liked the idea of class, and in that premature moment I even liked Jerry a little.

That was two hours ago. "And now my night is wasted, thanks to you, now how am I to pay the rent?" Jerry was my best chance to make rent. Tomorrow night is going to be hell now.

So here I stand, dressed above my class, pissed, phone against ear, getting more pissed, listening to the whinings of Jerry Dammit, getting so pissed I could throw—SHIT—with a thud I threw the phone against the floor. They make cell phones too well these days, because all that happened was the battery came off from the back and the antenna bent. Remember when you could actually break things by throwing them on the floor? Arrrrrgh!! I walk briskly to the fridge and grab the bottle of vodka I keep chilled and take a deep pull from it. I cough and shake my head, but another pull goes down a tad easier. And a few more. I stand against the wall, dressed above my class, pissed, bottle in hand, drowning out the whinings of Jerry Dammit, so pissed I could throw—SHIT—with a thud I dropped the bottle of vodka on the floor. Fuck it, I'll clean it up tomorrow. I stagger to bed, now a little tipsy, now a little less pissed. Whoever said drinking doesn't solve your problems is naïve, for if my problem was being pissed at Jerry, it's not so much a problem anymore. Vodka one, clichés nothing.

I sit on the side of my bed and unbutton my blouse—I gaze at the mirror across the room as I undress. Can't believe I dressed so good for Jerry Dammit. I stand up and touch the mirror, touch myself, touch my cheek, I smile as my cheek feels the soft fingers. I am a good girl, I pay my bills, I don't lie, I'm honest at least to myself. There are still no blemishes on my face; every other girl I know has a scar or a cig burn from some guy that felt it necessary to remind her what she does to pay the bills. I'm lucky, I'm a good girl. I let the blouse dangle from my shoulders as I reach behind and unhook my bra. You honestly think Jerry Dammit would rather have his hands wiping the snot from his brats' collective noses than cupping THESE? Every other girl I know has at least one baby that they didn't want, and one of the grand rewards for doing so in almost every case was to have their tits stretch and soften and fall. I cup them and smile as my fingers softly squeeze the firm titflesh—I didn't let THESE go to waste in the name of premature motherhood—I am a good girl.

I slip my thumbs beneath the waistband of my skirt and, bending, I slip it down my legs and step out of it once it becomes limp on the floor. I smirk as I stand there, wearing only a pink blouse open and dangling, white lace panties, and heels—Jesus I still am fine. No stretchmarks, nothing sagging, I turn and there is no cellulite, no love handles, I still have my legs, Jerry Dammit liked my legs, especially in heels. No marks on my ass. The question beckons as I stand here before my mirror, with a girl as fine as I am (and yes I know I am fine—I am not conceded, I am convinced), why is it the best I can do is the Dammit Brothers?

"Do you really want me to answer that question?"

I gasp in fright as I hear an unexpected male voice coming from behind me. I try to see in the mirror, try to see if I can see, but he is not in range. I dare not turn around—it's bad enough he caught me like this, half naked, high, talking to myself—do I need to face my potential rapist as well? Even whores are scared of rape and murder.

Cockily, the voice resumed, "I can tell you why you can't do any better than the, what is the term you use, the Dammit Brothers."

I hadn't said that out loud, just said it in my head, didn't I? I put my hands across my chest in fear, not quite reasoning why I should do this—he has seen my ass and legs and my hair let down, and if he is at the right angle he could see my face and tits and figure in the mirror. Even whores are scared of rape and murder.

"Please, my money is in my dresser, take it and go." Please be a burglar, please be a beggar, please be a wiseass, please be a loner or a petty criminal or a peeping tom or a john or a neighbor or just a creep getting off frightening me. Please be anything at all, just don't touch me. Even whores are scared.

"Of rape and murder," said the stranger.

Without thinking I started to run, but could only start. Being high and naked and in heels is not a good combination if speed is the goal—I fell after only a few steps. The front door was miles away, it might as well be, I started to cry. Even whores...

"Are scared of rape and murder, yes yes Olivia enough with the pity-poor-me routine." The stranger sounded as if losing patience. The stranger sounded as if he had hopped from the bedroom window onto the floor. The stranger sounded as if he were coming closer—shoes don't sound like that, a rapist would wear shoes, wouldn't he? Too soft for shoes, even for sandals—nevertheless his steps suggested he was getting closer. Facing the floor, I cried, a few tears sticking my lids together, not running down my face, just staying in my eyes, making vision watery.

What is it with this guy anyway? How does he know what I am thinking? Am I muttering? I've been known to talk in my sleep, am I sleepwalking and sleeptalking? Am I just so drunk and pissed that I am having loud conversations with myself, and this asshole is screwing with my head? Is he one of those telepaths I see on every other episode of Star Trek? What is it with him? More importantly, why hasn't he jumped me yet?

"I haven't jumped you, as you so eloquently put it, because I came here to make love to you." A little softer his voice was, although it seemed only a few feet behind me. A little softer, perhaps, but he finally said something to stir up the anger, to make me explode in rage. Wish I wasn't so goddamned wasted, I would slap him, the nerve. But I wasn't so wasted that I had lost my senses or my dignity—my hair shielded my face from him, a saving grace, which allowed me to wipe the sticky tears from my eyes, to not let him see how he got to me. A gentleman rapist he may be, but he is not going to get the satisfaction of seeing my tears.

"What do you mean, make love to me? I have a pimp if you want to fuck, I have his card in my purse, you need his number?" I sat up, still not facing him, not yet wanting to, trying in my head, which no longer seemed a safe place to think, to figure the situation out. "I mean, you did come here for pussy, right?"

Silence. No witty remarks?

I start to stand as I begin to explain to him the rules. "See, there are two ways this works. Either I approach you, or you approach my pimp." I dry my face with both hands as I continue to talk condescendingly to this joker, this naïve fucking joker. "You can get his number from me or from any bartender in this area." I steady myself against the wall. "The other way is to go to the coke parties up in the hills and hope I get there kinda early." I pull my dark hair away from my eyes. "I also frequent a few bars, and..." I open my eyes and gasp in horror as I look at the stranger.

In the dim light he shone like an Oscar statuette. He was golden—fucking gold colored, I tell you, not tan, not that fake tan body paint, he was golden, shining and everything. Must be seven feet tall, but then again, girls usually think hot guys are seven feet tall until they reveal themselves as Dammit Brothers. Hair even blonder than his skin cascading down his back. No clothing. A body straight from Mount Olympus, with one exception—all the Greek god statues, all those statues I saw in books were of men with the most incredible bodies but the smallest genitalia. Must be eight inches flaccid. I gazed at all this magnificence, but his smile, his kindest smile, I gazed at. His body, his cock, his hair—I gazed at that magnificent smile. Was it for me?

"Yes, Olivia, this smile is yours."

I was breathless, but once breath returned, so did cynicism. "How do you know my name?" There were a million questions I could have asked, but that one spilled from my lips first.

"I got it from your pimp."

I really wanted to trust that warm, warm smile, but the bullshit that came out of it just irked me. "Really! Well, maybe I should call him and ask if he's talked to any giant golden assholes lately." I started to walk back into my bedroom and stared for a long moment at the inanimate pieces of my cell phone and, realizing I would probably embarrass myself by trying to fit it back together with my shaking hands, I just mentally cursed at it. Fuck it. Fuck him. Fuck this.

"Maybe I ought to start over. Hello Olivia, my name is Michael." If this were a real guy, to say something like that would sound arrogant, self-serving, as if I were misunderstanding the situation. What's to misunderstand? He might be hot, but he is still trespassing and potentially a rapist. Normally someone so patronizing would get the wrath of my hand slapping his face. But there was something that kept me from raising my hand to him. Even as I stood in the middle of the room, virtually naked, wasted, things spilt and broken all over the floor, despite my vulgar mouth and vicious thoughts, despite the hottest man in the world painted gold and standing in the bedroom of a lowly whore, it was he who began to apologize.

"I'm sorry if I startled you Olivia." He bowed his head and put his hands behind his back. I see little boys stand like that when they are being scolded, did he expect me to scold him? Were this one of the Dammit Brothers I would think his meekness a prelude for something on the S&M tangent, something in line with I've-been-a-bad-boy-please-punish-me. But there was sincerity in his stance—in fact, come to think of it, there hasn't been anything insincere about anything he has done since he came. Cocky, perhaps, but cocky can be confidence misread.

A fragment of a smile broke onto my face, just a wee piece of one, just enough to crack the rage that Jerry Dammit and Michael's intrusion filled within me. When was the last time a man apologized to me for anything? I mean, something other than I'm sorry you chose to be a prostitute Olivia, but you chose this life. I don't mean those accusing apologies. I mean a real apology. This was unfamiliar.

"Michael, is it?" I started to walk back to the kitchen. "Would you like some vodka, Michael?" I picked up the bottle—still a little in, still perhaps a good shot or two. "So, Michael, are you new around here?" I was still so frightened, still not knowing what the hell was going on, still thinking of his skin and his cock and his smile and by the way his cock is magnificent and his eyes were they blue I think they were blue and that smile I think I am a little wet thinking about that cock but that smile that was for me he could give that cock to any woman in the world and probably has have I had bigger but that smile was mine he even said it was for me and for me alone has a man ever smiled like that to me no never or to any other woman no never and he smiled for me will he smile like that again will I say the wrong thing and kill the smile oh god please don't make the smile die oh please god don't let it die...

"You do know taking the Lord's name in vain is a sin, don't you Olivia?"

Shit.

"That's better."

I drank another swallow of vodka myself, I needed it worse than he did.

I heard him follow me into the kitchen, and he put his hand on my shoulder as I faced away from him. Dropped the bottle. I closed my eyes and felt a little limp feeling his touch, his strong hand on me, my skin separated from his only by the thin silk of this blouse. His touch was as radiant as his skin.

He spoke, "Believe it or not, it's better to say profane things than to take His name in vain. Fuck, shit, nigger, cunt, motherfucker, all better than calling His name." It sounded so strangely wonderful, hearing him curse, hearing his voice, hearing what seemed to be inane banter, yet his voice, his baritone, his deep brown voice made anything he said sound Shakespearean.

I still wanted to cry, no longer out of fear, no longer out of anger, but now because I was confused. With shakiness in my voice, I asked, I begged, as if the very words were tears sticking my eyelids together again, "Who are you, Michael?"

Confidently, as if he were awaiting that question since he arrived, he replied, "You know who I am, you read about me when you were a little girl, before everything went wrong, before you ended up here, like this." As cryptic as that seemed, in a way I felt as if I did. At least I wanted to. I wanted that man, that voice, that smile, that golden body and golden cock and golden face to be of someone I had known all along. I really did.

So I turned to face him, and he placed a hand on each of my shoulders. I felt his warmth, and from looking down, from seeing his golden feet and ankles, I started lifting my head, seeing his knees and thighs, then his oh my god sorry holy shit enormous half-erect cock, then his washboard golden abdomen, then his godlike chest then his Adam's Apple, then that glorious smile. And again, I asked, this time with wonder instead of confusion.

"Who are you Michael?"

"I am the Archangel."

He said it with a straight face, but I'm sorry, I bent over laughing. I'm sorry, I'm drunk, I thought you said you were an archangel. You have to be kidding, an archangel. You almost had me, Michael the archangel. If ever I could think a man capable of winning me over...

"I'm not a man, I'm the Archangel Michael."

Amidst my giggles I tried to talk. "OK, OK Michael, you're an archangel. Now tell me how you do that trick, that thing you do."

He continued to smile, not quite getting that I was laughing AT him and not WITH him. "Which trick?" he asked.

"You know, the mindreading thing. I thought I was just talking to myself at first, but whatever you do, you do it well. You have to show me how you do that." I was full of myself. Archangel, my ass.

"It's not a trick. Sometimes it gets a little confusing because people say one thing when they think another, so it's like two conversations with one person."

"Ain't it the truth, Mike?" I started to stumble back to the bedroom. Very high. Fucking heels, I kicked them off and walked barefoot across the carpet and sat down on the side of my bed. In followed Mike. Oops, sorry, Michael the big and bad Archangel. I giggled because in my mind my voice was so exaggerated, the big and bad Archangel, that was funny.