Self-Discipline

Missy is hard up.

She's out of gas and stuck in this Podunk town of Arizona. She's sitting on her car hood, the August sun beating down on her, and all the while, the payphone next to her is mocking her. Out of gas. Out of money. Out of people to turn to. She'll be damned if she's going to call her parents. She could hear the conversation now:

"But your daddy gave you four hundred dollars. He gave you an extra two hundred just to be safe. How did you spend it all?"

She could lie, but her mom would know. Once her dad found out, he would tell her to come home. Tell her if she can't even make it out to California to go to school, then she has no business being out there in the first place. He would tell her she has to go to the community college. The one all her friends are resigned to going. No. She would not be embarrassed like that. Her friends saw her off in the biggest party they had ever seen. Missy had bought everything – with the money her dad gave her. They were supposed to collect money from everyone who came. Missy was drunk before the party even started. No one collected. She woke up in Danny's car about five in the morning. It was parked on the farm field his father owned. Almost everyone was gone. She was hangin'. She had to get home. She did. Without the money.

Now here she is stuck on some highway town, just like hers in Alabama without a dime to her name. No food. No water. No gas. And worse yet, she's been staring at the single guys checking into their hotel rooms for the past three hours. There was the room upstairs that had good looking guy rented. He was young and probably heading out to college as well. But, then his three buddies showed up. That ruined the deal. Then there was the old guy who had a beard down to his fat belly. She couldn't bring herself to do it. Then there was the perfect guy. A twenty-something short guy who seemed harmless. He smiled a lot and unpacked a lot of bags. He drove a Lexus SUV. Then his wife and kids got out. That ruined the deal.

Dusk is approaching. Time is not on her side. A man exits his room. She hadn't seen him. He is middle aged. He looks like he keeps in shape. He's wearing a short sleeve button down shirt and shorts. He drives a new Honda. He has Cali plates. Some cartoony hat is covering his hair. It's now or never. Missy closes her eyes.

This will be a funny story, she thought. This will be one of those stories that you tell your girlfriends when you're all sitting around drinking cosmos, like those old girls in that show Sex and the City. This will be a story I keep from my husband. He's going to be rich, and I doubt I'll catch a guy like that, with a story like this. No, this will be the story that ten years from now, I'll say, "Well, I did what I had to do. I was in a jam, but it got me out of that pathetic little town didn't it?" All my girlfriends at the table will laugh, and gasp, and say, "Oh my god!" Then they'll all admire my courage. They'll look up to me, because I had it tougher than them. I didn't have the golden spoon that all of them had. I was born in a little town in Alabama.

"Hey," Missy says turning her southern accent into the charming one, not the stupid one.

The man turns. He's a little unshaven, and now that she's up close she can see he is more built than what she thought. The bag he is holding is causing his forearm to sprout veins like a dry leaf. It looks like Mr. Grendle's arm; her shop teacher from eighth grade. It's big, muscular, and hairy.

"Hello," he says. His voice does not match his forearm. It is soft. Caring.

"I was wondering." Missy pauses here. If she is going to back out, it is now. Once she asks, it's done. She closes her eyes. It will be a funny story. No it won't. Maybe I could just ask for the money? Yea, right, like some stranger is going to give you two hundred bucks. You're in the adult world now. Stop asking for charity. Take matters into your own hands. It will be a funny story.

"Are you ok?" he asks. He is staring at her. Her blue eyes are concealed by a veil of courage.

"Yea. Sorry about that. I was wondering sir, if," deep breath, "you want some company tonight?"

The man takes a step back. His jaw is open a little and Missy knows what is running through his head: the same thing that ran through Mr. Skinner's head when he saw her out at the bar with her fake ID. They went home, even though he was her dad's friend. He couldn't keep his hands off her. They fucked. He was a lot better than Jason, Danny, or the guy she met in Indiana when she was visiting her cousin. He was short and thin, but he knew what he was doing. He was the best looking older guy she knew. He had just graduated. He was the "young guy" in her dad's Thursday night poker group. A lot of the seniors looked older than him. That's how this guy is looking at her.

"No," he says.

Missy opens her eyes. She didn't hear that correctly. She's sure of it. I mean, look at her. She's wearing a thin spaghetti strap shirt, and the bra underneath of a different color is pushing her B cleavage up. Her mini skirt shows off her tan legs. They look like she does track, but she doesn't. She is thin, but not skinny. Her stomach is flat, she has a beautiful face, everyone tells her that. Her teeth are perfect. Why, she only had to bat her eyes at her guy friends and they would trip over anything to help her out. Adam Nitti did her Algebra homework for an entire month, until he heard her tell her friends that he was gross. This guy must think I'm a cop.

"Listen," she says, "I'm not a cop."

"The answer is still no," he says. He turns.

"Look, mister. I don't know how to say this, but I'm kind of trapped here."

"I'll give you twenty dollars then," he is reaching into his pocket. To hell with twenty. She isn't going to sit out here and beg all of tomorrow just to make it to the next state.

"No," she says. "Please listen to me." He puts back his wallet and stands. His eyes are on her, but not like Mr. Skinner. He is trying to be sympathetic. The sun is beating down onto the black asphalt creating those heat waves that you see in the distant when you're driving, only these exist right next to you. Missy closes her eyes. She never did have much constitution when it came to the heat or cold. She asks if they could talk inside. The man reluctantly says yes.

He opens the door to the room. The AC is blasting making it feel like the Super Walmart freezer section on a hot summer day. He motions her to sit in those crappy little chairs in front of the cold blowing air. Her nipples are getting hard from the cold air. She thinks that's good. It'll give her an advantage. Missy looks down at the table. There's an old book there. It looks like the kind that smells like libraries and museums. It's brown. There's not even a picture on the front. It must be really old. Probably even has lice or some crap like that growing in it. Yea, books can have lice in them, right? It says Tennyson on the side. I wonder if that has anything to do with Tennessee or Mark Twain, since it looks old.

"First of all," he says, "what's your name?"

"Missy."

"Missy, nice to meet you. I'm Greg."

"Nice to meet you Greg."

"Now, let me ask you why you're about to sleep with a complete stranger. Is it drugs?"

He is leading the conversation. It's not the way Missy pictured it. She is supposed to ask him, and then, him being a hard up older guy says yes. She'll demand all sorts of shit and he'll agree to everything, because she's young and hot. If every guy at school thought so, she knew that some middle aged perv would think so.

"No, it's not drugs."

"Have you done this very long?"

"Me? No! For God's sake no! I've never done this. I'm not that way."

Greg raises an eyebrow. He wonders if she could hear herself, would she understand the hypocrisy of her statement. He doubts it. "Then tell me why you're doing this," he says.

Finally, I get to lead this conversation. Now it will go as planned.

"You see, I am heading out to school, you know, out in California."

"Which school?"

God, she wishes he would stop interrupting her. "A little school called USC." Her sarcasm had gotten her in a lot of trouble at school. It didn't seem to affect Greg. "I got admitted, but now I can't get out there."

"Why?" His voice is still calm.

"I was robbed. I pulled over to get some gas and someone stole my purse when I went inside to pay."

"You pay without your purse."

"Yea, you know, with the money in my pocket."

"Did you call the police?"

"Oh yea. I called the police and the whole thing. They came, they even fingerprinted my car. But, they told me that they would probably never find the person. So, that I had better just get going and stuff." Missy tries to fake cry, but it isn't working. She's not into the role enough.

"That's terrible."

Finally, she is getting somewhere. "I know. Now I'm stuck here. I ran out of gas, and this is my last option."

"What about your parents?"

"My dad and mom are divorced. They don't have any money. My dad still goes over to my mom's and beats her all the time. If I call them they'll make me go back home. I can't go back home." She squeezes out one tear.

"That's terrible."

"I know." Missy looks up at him. His face is like one of those guys you see on TV that play poker for a living. She can't tell if he's going to help her or not.

"I'll tell you what I'll do," Greg says standing, up. "You go get me the police report from your car, and I'm going to call the cops. If they can't do anything, I'll call Triple AAA and see if they can't get you to California. Ok?"

What the hell? Did she just hear him right? There's no police report. "I lost it," missy says. She is trying to squeeze out another tear. Nothing.

"You shouldn't lose important documents like that," he says.

There is a long moment of silence. Missy can feel this is about to end. Maybe if she went the truthful route.

"I'll be honest with you," she says. "My purse wasn't stolen. I had a party before I left and I swear that all my friends were supposed to pay me back, but they didn't. I guess that's why I'm going off to USC and they're staying in Alabama."

"Why?"

"Um, well, because. You know, if my friend were leaving and they were throwing a party with their money, and they were charging admission to the party, then I would have made sure to give them the money. I wouldn't have just played them like that."

Again the irony escapes her.

"Missy," he says, "Tomorrow I will fill up your tank, buy you a cooler with food and drinks, and give you gas money to get there. Tonight, you can sleep in here, on the opposite side of the bed as me. Ok?"

Missy is happy. She is getting what she wants, but there's a strange side of her, a side that she doesn't understand, that is asking what's wrong with her. Who wouldn't want a chance to be with her? I mean he's giving her everything she wants and she isn't even going to have to sleep with him, but she can't figure out why – and it bothers her.

By the time Missy grabs her bags out of the car it is dark out. The desert is not cooling down at all. Just the short walk made her sweat. She's happy to be in the AC again. She is happy to be with a guy that isn't a weirdo, druggie, rapist, or killer. I guess I just got lucky. Luck always does seem to follow me. She hears the shower turn on. Greg must be taking one. His wallet is sitting next to that old book.

It is tempting to grab it and run. That would make a good story too. By the time he got out, she could be 100 miles away. Well, maybe 50 miles. Let's see if she were traveling at 75mph and left here, and he took, screw it! She's never been very good at math. No. It doesn't matter now, she has it good. She sits down on the bed and turns on the TV. TMZ is on. Her favorite. It's going to be a good one because someone mooned Keanu Reeves.

She hears the bathroom door open. She can see Greg in the mirror. He has one of those small white hotel towels wrapped around his waist. Missy stares for a few seconds. The mirror angle is perfect. She can see his chest and stomach. It's not ripped. It's bulky and muscular though. He looks like he used to be one of those powerlifters. His arms are thick and they match his back and shoulders which are broad. Her eyes drift down to the towel. She wishes he would take it off, just to get a peek. He doesn't. He grabs his toiletries and heads back into the bathroom and closes the door.

Missy stares down at her own body. She is young and hot. Her skin is tan from spending hours at her friend's pool. It's an above ground, but it's still a pool. All of her little brother's friends used to come over and try to peek at us as we laid out. They were all skinny. Probably jacking off in the bathroom just dreaming about me laying on my belly. They know a great body when they see one. Young and tight. One that hasn't had a kid or drank so much that it develops that little pooch stomach that Julie's older sister got when she went off to college. She still thought she was the shit when she came back, but she really knew she wasn't. I had replaced her. All the older guys like me, because my body is perfect. They all say so.

Greg comes out of the bathroom and the steam from the shower follows him. He is wearing casual cargo shorts and a t-shirt. He is shaven now, and his hair is not hidden by his stupid hat. It is short and hip, but hip for someone in their late twenties, not in their late teens. "The shower's all yours," he says.

Missy climbs in and turns it on. It's way too hot for her. She lowers the temperature. The water washes off the three hours of sun, wind, and desert dirt she accumulated while trying to decide which man to ask. She hopes the water will wash away everything. She grabs her Supersize Walmart bottle of body wash that her mom got her before she left. She pumps and the cream fills up her hand. She begins to wash. The soap lathers her tits. They are nice. They are perfect: perky, full, and they are the exact size for a mouth. Her nipples, she's always liked the way her nipples look. They look like those women in Playboy. Not too big, not too long, but just right. She washes her hips. They are not curvy, but straight. They'll be curvy when she gets old and has kids with her rich husband. Right now they are the kind of hips that Danny says he dreamed about when he did her doggy style. She would always say, "Grab my hips and look at my ass," and then he would bust a nut right away. He was a pretty descent lay. But, then he fell in love with Angela and that ruined their whole "friends with benefits" relationship. The soap circles around her ass cheeks and she can feel how they are rounded, yet not fat. They are the kind that pervs like Greg and young boys dream about. She pumps some more cream into her hand. She lathers up the inside of her legs and then touches her pussy. It is shaved. She did it for her going away party because she assumed she would get laid. She was too drunk to get laid. Everyone just let her ramble on about how great a time she was going to have until she passed out. Too bad for them. This pussy looks perfect. It's barely been used. Maybe fucked 50 or 60 times in her whole life. She's only been with 4 guys. That doesn't make her a whore. Her friends have been with a lot more. Way too bad for them. She looks down at herself. It is perfect. Her lips form a nice little hood that covers her clit. They are pink and she knows it's tight. That's what Mr. Skinner told her over and over that night.

She washes down there way too long and realizes she's not washing, but playing with herself. It's not something she did often. But, this is kind of a special occasion. I'm going off to college and this guy out there is going to pay my way because I'm so hot. He wants me. I know he does. But, I'm not even going to let him have me when he asks me a couple of hours from now. He's just playing the nice guy. He's going to come on strong later. I'm going to shoot him down. Maybe jack him off, but that's it. I'm certainly not going to blow this guy. I haven't done that with any guy, it's gross. I don't intend to start now. But, still I'm wet as hell and swollen. So what? It'll go away. It always does.

Missy steps out of the shower and puts on her pajamas. Well, really it's just sweatpants and a t-shirt. But, it's what she sleeps in. She comes out and TMZ is turned off. He is sitting with the reading light on. That old book is in his hand. The sheets are already turned down on her side of the bed. He is on top of them, on his side, using a separate comforter. Is this so she can't touch him in the middle of the night? What the hell? And besides, how is she supposed to fall asleep without the TV on?

"Do you have anything to read?" he asks without taking his eyes off the book.

"No."

"Aren't you going to college?"

"Yea, I said I was. USC, remember."

"I remember, but shouldn't you be prepping for your classes?"

"I don't know," she says.

"Self discipline is the key to college Missy. You need to remember that."

"Have you been?" she asks while rolling on her side to face him. He can feel her stare.

"A bit," he says.

"What's it like?"

"Hopefully, for you, it will be motivating, a time to grow, and a time to learn self control."

"I have all that," she says. She did. She told a lot of guys no. She did all her homework, except for the stuff Adam Nitti did. She even joined extra curricular activities, like drama, to get into college.

"Irony," he says under his breath.

"I know what that is," she says. "That's when something funny happens, like rain on a wedding day or a free ride when you're already late."

He sighs. He is quiet and goes back to reading. The sleeves in the t-shirt do little to hide the muscles in his arms. They weren't like Jason's. He was the football player she dated. Jason was built, but his arms look small in comparison to Greg's. There is something about his muscles, maturity maybe, but something that makes them thicker. They look stronger. A lot stronger. She used to think Jason was strong, but not anymore. Not after being this close to Greg's arm.

"You're giving me complex just staring at me? Would you like something to read?"

She hadn't even realized she was staring. "Yea, do you have any rag mags?"

"Do I look like I do?"

The obvious answer is no. If this is his version of sarcasm then he's not very good at it. Wait, isn't irony a form of sarcasm. Some teacher told me that once. "No," she answers.

"You are correct," he says. "But, I do have a novel by Kurt Vonnegut titled A Man Without A Country. It's short. I can even let you keep it. Who knows, you might find him funny."

He gets up and reaches into a soft shell briefcase on the floor. Who the hell carries briefcases? He pulls out a book. It is orange and again there are no pictures on the cover. Just some hand drawn sketch of an old dude smoking. She might as well give it a go since mister numb nuts over here isn't going to let her watch TV. Besides, whenever she's tried to read she's fallen asleep after one or two pages anyway, so it'll be a good thing.

The book starts with some poem about a machine and a bunch of different people. Then the old guy talks about his childhood trying to point out things that are funny. Missy does not think they are. She gets the feeling Greg finds them hilarious, and if he were reading this book right now he would be laughing out loud, and having to stop, and rolling over on his side to face her. His eyes would be a little wet from so much laughing. He would be facing her. His mouth would be close. She would lean over and kiss him, and then they would have sex. That's all she thought about as she read. She wishes he would roll over near her so they could kiss. Maybe they wouldn't have sex, but she would at least like one kiss. Perhaps, he's waiting on me.