Black Sheep Ch. 02

"Again with the titles. You make me feel ancient," she said, taking a step closer. "Call me Susan. What brings you over?"

"I'm preparing for a debate with Jasmine upstairs."

"I wish she had told me earlier," Susan said, dramatically. "Then I could have made arrangements for you."

"It's quite all right," I reassured her anxiously.

Susan Salador stood at around five and a half feet. Her hair was red, but a few shades less fiery than her daughter's. Her complexion was alabaster white and her green eyes had an alluring quality of their own. Despite being middle aged, she maintained a perfect hourglass body accentuated by infusions of silicone in the right places.

"Jasmine never told me what a total knockout her classmate is," she giggled, stepping even closer. "I could just eat you up right here, right now."

Her voice had a natural melody to it, a musical note in every syllable. It was the last trace of her singing career. A lifetime ago, she was a destitute singer in some nightclub in Queens when one night, she caught the drunk fancy of aged investment tycoon, Emmanuel Salador. The rest, as they say, is history. The dirty old sod kicked the bucket within a year and she got everything -- the house, the cars and his entire portfolio.

"I should go upstairs now. It was nice meeting you," I spluttered.

"I know you'll probably laugh at me for this, but I really do think you're handsome, Damien. So handsome, that I want to take you out to dinner sometime."

All of a sudden, I felt ill. I needed to leave. Involuntarily, my legs began moving.

"Will you at least swap numbers so we can talk about it later?" Susan implored. I took that number, gave her mine and fled back to the sanctuary of Jasmine's room.

"You took your time," she drawled.

"I ran into your mother."

"Oh? What did she say?"

"She wants to ask me out for dinner sometime," I said, hoping this revelation would lead to Jasmine telling her mother off and sparing me any more uncomfortable moments.

Jasmine shrugged nonchalantly. "Go out with her if you want, but she'll most likely want you in her pants at the end of the night."

"Let's get back to the debate now," I said, on the verge of tears from despair.

"Fine," she said, putting her notes down beside mine. After a brief silence, she spoke again. "You really are very good looking. I'm not surprised everybody with a pussy hits on you."

"You don't," I said, in a tone of near admiration.

"That's because I'm queer."

"You're what?" I asked, sure I'd heard wrong.

"Queer. Lesbian. Dyke. Twinkette. Boxlicker. Muff-muncher..."

"All right, I get it," I said, signalling her to stop with my palm. "Does anybody else know?"

"Any guy who's brave enough to ask me on a date will know. They all seem too intimidated to even ask."

"I can guess why," I smirked. "Well, it's good to have one friend who can be near a Chandler and not want to jump their bones."

"Weeellll... not exactly," she said, squinting playfully.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"There is one Chandler who keeps popping up in my wet dreams. I would seriously jump into bed with her in a flash," Jasmine admitted, glancing towards the bookshelf nearest to her desk. I followed her gaze to see a line of paperbacks, all written by the same author: Lucy Chandler.

I really really ... REALLY needed to get back to the debate.

* *

"I thought we agreed this was one line you weren't going to cross."

"I'm sorry, Damien," Marilyn panted, holding a bedsheet around her body. "I didn't know you'd be back so soon."

"For heaven's sake, Mom. Put on some clothes," I said vehemently.

She scurried off apologetically. I walked into the guest room, holding my head in my hands, coming to terms with what I had seen. My head was spinning and I wanted nothing more than to throw up.

"She promised she wouldn't. She promised," I thought in the same emotionally wrung out loop. Each time I want to believe that my parents can't do anything new to hurt me, they take it as a challenge.

I went to my solace, my study, and tried to distract myself on my tablet. Of course it didn't work. It never does. I tried closing my eyes, only to be assaulted by memories of what I had glimpsed downstairs.

There was a faint knock on my door. So faint, it took three or four of them to register with me. I got up and opened the door, to see my mother with tousled hair and a gown hastily thrown on, waiting with a perplexed expression.

I stared at her, trying to come up with the right words. Finally, she spoke.

"Damien, I'm so sorry. I didn't realize you would be back so soon," she repeated, her voice trembling.

"That's all you have say?" I shot back. "Not sorry for what you did. Just sorry I came back early and caught you doing it?"

Marilyn looked at me, fumbling with her words. I took a deep breath and resumed.

"Mom, I've learnt to live with all that you and Dad do around here. Everything," I said, every word slow and measured. "In return, all I asked was that you keep your activities out of my room and don't include anyone I know at school. Was that so hard?"

"Damien, please-"

"Did you give the doubles partners lemonades at least before fucking them?" I asked, rage bristling.

"Please, hear me out," Marilyn wailed.

"Go ahead. I'm very eager to hear why my opposing doubles team was in my house, in my room; double-teaming my mother."

"They're actually nice boys," she pleaded softly. "I was at the Sutton club, getting a few hits in when I heard Marty call. He and Kyle were practising too and they wanted to hit some shots with me. So we began rallying for fun and laughing and..."

"Got it!" I said. "... and one thing led to another and it ended with Marty in your ass and Kyle in your mouth on my bed."

"Don't make it sound so crude," she replied. "They're such handsome boys, I couldn't resist. You know I have a weakness for cubs. But, if I had realised you would walk in on us, I would never have taken it so far."

"Please, Mom. Stop. You're not making this any better."

"I'm sorry, sweetie," she beseeched. "You have to believe me."

"Was this the first time?" I asked, sudden realizations dawning. "Have there been any others?"

Marilyn bit her lip and avoided my gaze. Guilt exuded from her every pore. Suddenly, I felt light-headed. I tried imagining school and everyone I met. How many of them were fucking my mother? How many hands had I shaken which had been in her vagina? Were they having a collective laugh over it?

"I'm so sorry, Damien," she whimpered. "I can't control myself. Every time I see a handsome young man, I want to fuck him hard. The thrill of him being your classmate makes it even more of a vicarious thrill."

The bitter feeling of bile filled me. I clenched my eyes shut, momentarily revisioning that glimpse of Marty, Kyle and mother-dearest on my bed. As sorry and as wretched as she felt in that moment, I knew it would happen again, only worse. Her libido always had a way of overwhelming her shame.

"Are we okay now, dear?" she asked in a small voice.

"No we're not," I said, with the hint of a smile. "But we will be."

In front of her paralysed form, I took out my phone and called a recently stored number. She looked at me, bewildered at my growing smile.

"Susan. Hi. I've decided to take you up on your offer for dinner. Let's not waste any time and catch something right now... I hear Hwang's is open and it serves good stuff... Great. Be at your place in a bit."

"Who was that?" my mother asked warily.

"Susan Salador, or as you call her, the gold-digging tramp," I said smoothly. Her face went pale.

"What?!" she gasped. "I told you to stay away from her."

"And I told you not to fuck my classmates."

"Damien, please," she implored. "Don't do this. I realize you're upset right now and it's my fault. I promise, I won't have sex with anybody in your school again. But please, don't go anywhere near that woman. She's bad news."

"So I've heard," I said with a sardonic smile. "You keep insisting I get a date. You should be happy for me. I might even get to have sex, you know, like you did. In my room. Twenty minutes ago."

I walked past her and stopped when she grabbed my hand.

"Punish me if you want," Marilyn said, her head hung low. "Just not this way."

"Gotta go," I said cheerily. "Can't keep a lady waiting. Tell Marty and Kyle I said hi."

* *

"Well.. well. On the very same day we meet for the first time, we're having dinner," said Susan, taking a small meatball between her lips and licking it slowly.

All that bravado from earlier had evaporated. The longer I sat there, the larger the realization loomed over me that I had come on a date just to teach my mother a lesson. I wasn't attracted to the skank on the other side of the table. I barely knew her.

Susan wore a dark red dress which went well with her hair. It was low cut, a little too low for my liking. Her elbows rested on the edge of the table, one hand on mine and the other toying with some food. She was a dead ringer for Joan Holloway from Mad Men, all the way down to the seductive smile.

"Tell me, Damien," she asked coyly. "Have you ever dated an older woman before?"

"No," I said, my shifty gaze darting around.

Even as I said it, I felt her foot grazing my ankle before making its way towards my thigh. My heart skipped a beat and my skin crawled as I imagined where that foot had been.

"Are you nervous?" Susan asked.

"Is it that obvious?"

She threw her head back and laughed. Her luscious red lips returned to her meatballs momently before she looked me with an intense gaze.

"Better get those nerves together fast, boy," she said in her best bedroom voice. "You have a long night ahead of you."

That was the last straw. I couldn't be part of this macabre soap opera any more. Wiping my face, I said politely. "I'm sorry, but I'm not feeling well. Could I go home now?"

"I suppose," she said, taken aback. "We could always reschedule this for some other time."

"Actually, I think it's best we forget about it."

"What?!" she said, loud enough to be heard by some nearby patrons.

"This was a bad idea from the outset. I wasn't thinking clearly. I'm sorry, Susan."

She looked at me, a melancholic disappointment playing on her eyes. I was about to stand up, when she grabbed my wrist.

"What's the matter?" she asked in a small voice.

"I can't do this," I confessed. "I'm not attracted to you."

"Then why did you call and ask for dinner?"

"To punish my Mom," I said. "I knew she would never agree to me going on a date with a gold-digger like you."

I stopped, my mouth hanging open, and slowly realized what I had said. The words hung in the air between us. She looked at me, putting up a superhuman front to the river of tears which wanted to burst out.

"I'm sorry. I should go now."

"There's something I'd like to say before you go," Susan said in a small voice. "Just hear me out."

It was the least I could do.

"My parents never loved me, Damien. My father found it more convenient to pretend I didn't exist. To this day, he has never once given me any approval or affection. Since high school, I have been searching for that approval elsewhere, with any man. Jasmine's father was my Social Studies teacher in high school. My father kicked me out when I told him about the affair and my teacher denied it when I told him about the baby. I've scraped by since, singing in various places and looking for love in cheap motels with cheaper men."

She paused to wipe a stray teardrop which had made its way past her defences.

"Then one night, Emmanuel came into my life. He was much older than me, but in his eyes, I saw the love which no man had ever given me before. I couldn't resist him."

I leaned in, clasping my hands.

"Tell me, Damien," she continued. "Is it so wrong to make the last days of someone a little happier? He was a lonely man. His family had forsaken him, waiting for him to die so they could swoop in on his estate. I cared for Emmanuel. I loved him."

She held her pendant out to me. The heart-shaped locket snapped open to show pictures of Emmanuel and her on a beach.

"Even as the multiple sclerosis slowly killed him, I stayed by his side. I fed him and sang to him. I put a smile on his face. I never asked for his money, but he gave it all to me anyway. Hence, the gold-digger tag."

Susan smiled weakly, holding my hand.

"The tabloids like a story so they went with that. My own daughter thinks of me as a greedy whore. She never even looks me in the eye any more. Everywhere I go, I hear people pointing and whispering, no doubt pointing out the gold-digger to their friends.

Ever since Emmanuel died, I have a big hole in my life. I needed that warm feeling of love and affection, but knew I would never find it again. So, I resigned myself to how I was like before I met him. But when we were together, I never cheated on him. Not once. I would trade all the wealth Emmanuel left me with for one more day with him in a heartbeat."

I closed my eyes, feeling lower than the Dead Sea.

"If you were to look at my thighs, you would see several scars. I do it when my lover is gone, so he can't see me hating myself after I make love to him. Maybe some day, I will cut my femoral artery and won't hate myself anymore."

"No," I said quietly. "Don't do that. Please. It would hurt Jasmine very much."

"I doubt it," she said. "Not a day goes by when Jasmine does not berate me for being such a slut. If only she knew how I feel every time she says it."

"I don't know how that feels," I said. "But I know someone who goes through the same thing everyday."

I paused and remembered the look on Marilyn's face as I left her, standing in the hallway. She was probably crying in her room at that moment and would cry herself to sleep later on. I made a mental note to talk to her when I got back.

"You really are a nice guy, Damien," Susan said, running her fingers over the back of my palm.

"Thank you. You're nice too."

"Tell that to everyone I meet," she said with a grin. "They all hate me because of what they think I am."

"I know how that feels," I said, suddenly feeling very vulnerable. "Believe me, I know how much that hurts."

I clasped her hands and she looked at me intently.

"We should do this again," she said.

"We should," I agreed. "Just don't come onto me again. Deal?"

"Deal!" she exclaimed with a laugh.

"Was there any song which Emmanuel particularly loved?"

"To Make You Feel My love."

"The version by Adele? I love that. Could you sing it for me sometime?"

"It would be my pleasure."

* *