Might Have Been Ch. 02

Sarah watched me as all this ran through my head, saying nothing, then asked, "Why don't you like to talk about sex, Lance?"

"I thought we just did."

"No, you evaded my questions about sex, and instead we talked about my reactions to what I saw."

"You saw sex."

"Which you won't talk about. Amy has an asshole father to get her fucked up about sex. Your parents are saints, so what's your excuse?"

Sarah's utter frankness had always made me uncomfortable. "I may be fucked up, but not about sex."

Sarah's eyebrows furrowed in distaste at my response. I couldn't tell if she was objecting to my saying I was fucked up, or saying I wasn't fucked up about sex.

I felt the need to defend myself. "It seems... ungallant. Most women are extremely uptight about it, and most guys who brag are assholes."

"Amy isn't uptight about it. I would like your point of view, but I'll get the sordid details straight from her."

"You'll have to."

"Then you're just using gallantry as an excuse. It's really about you, not her."

I was getting irritated. "Fine."

"So why keep it so private?"

"Why are you so public about it?"

"I asked you first." She maintained her smile to keep this fun. Somehow it worked.

"I don't know. Intimacy, I think. Sex is incredibly powerful. It brings up emotions strong enough to guarantee the survival of the species. As far as our genes are concerned, it's why we exist."

"That's deep."

Now I was sure I was being mocked. "In a praying mantis, the sexual instinct compels the male to offer his head to the female, for her to bite it off, so she can eat him and have enough protein to sustain her eggs. That's power."

Sarah feigned shock. "You offered head, and Amy tried to do that? The poor girl doesn't know what she missed."

That would have been funny if she hadn't been irritating me. "People are obviously wired different, but the power is still there. You have to be careful -- respectful."

"And you figured all that out just from losing your cherry last night?"

"Do you want your question answered or not? You don't need much experience to recognize the power of sex. Politicians destroy their careers for it. Rich men obsessively collect millions, and then lose most of it in a divorce settlement after cheating on their wives. Celebrities who base their careers on being a role model throw it away for a night with a prostitute, or a wank in a movie theater."

She seemed to consider that. "And we shouldn't fuck with such powerful emotions?"

"So to speak. Why are you so open about sex?" I asked again.

Sarah contemplated me over the rim of her orange juice before she answered. "Same reason, I guess." The slight smile was back on her face again. "I thought your choice of Halloween costume tonight was a cry for help, not a confession."

"Halloween costume?"

"For the dance, silly." She playfully kicked me under the table.

Memories returned -- a pale face in a wedding dress and the lacy graze of a glove on my cheek -- and I felt a sense of excitement. The wheels started turning. The Halloween Dance -- another missed chance.

I hadn't realized I had screwed up two different romantic opportunities almost simultaneously, and I shelved my earlier decision to find my home timeline today. Tasha would have to wait. I had been thinking earlier of her as Penelope, which now seemed even more apt, as Odysseus also took romantic detours on the way home. I expected to feel guilt, and it was there, trying to get my attention like an annoying little sister wanting me to watch her perform a cartwheel, but I ignored it. I had been faithful to Tasha for six years and had never cheated on any girl, but somehow alternate universes didn't count -- or so I was able to convince myself.

The dance. I needed a Cunning Plan. What the hell had I worn to the Halloween Dance in 2001? "What costume are you talking about?"

"Earlier this week, you were trying to decide whether Benedictine or Franciscan attire would better show off your quote -- bitchin' dance moves -- unquote."

I remembered. We had seen Monty Python and the Holy Grail, and I had loved the monks who muttered Gregorian chants while inexplicably whacking themselves in the face with large leather tomes. I tried coordinating a group costume, where we would all smack our faces with books while chanting on the dance floor, but Dave and Sarah had better plans. It was a two person show and I was the odd man out. "I went with Franciscan. Black makes me look pasty."

Sarah took mock offense, clutching the fabric of her black t-shirt.

"Pasty looks good on you though," I said, and then asked an unnecessary question. "What are you and Dave doing?"

"You'll find out at the dance."

I picked up the check. My own actions that night had been as forgettable as Sarah's were memorable. If I wanted to remedy that, I needed to gird my loins and brains for a rematch with That Bitch Courtney.

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My original failure with Amy had made me realize my obsession with Sarah was thwarting other romantic chances. Much to Dave's dismay, I had focused my romantic efforts on my high school nemesis. Dave had begun referring to her as "That Bitch Courtney" after she destroyed the snowmen, but despite her often hostile attitude, and our respective positions as generals of opposing political camps, I didn't think the appellation fit.

Courtney and I had a love-hate relationship throughout high school. Her father had lost the farm when she was young, and Courtney was possessed by the fear of repeating her father's mistakes. She developed an impressive head for business and economics, with a fierce discipline that had her working harder than any other student in the school. She was also the president of the school's Young Republicans club. We lived in a conservative rural area, so there weren't enough Democrats to have a high school organization, but I was the unofficial leader of the liberal wing of the student body.

Our school interactions were one long war of words. We fought in every social studies class discussion. English classes usually had a speech unit, and ours were always political, often taking opposing sides. We were both in debate -- never on the same team, but we practiced against each other, oratorically attacking and undermining each other over the course of four years.

We both saw our verbal combat as a form of foreplay. Courtney had long chestnut hair, a regal nose, a flirty demeanor, and a penchant for t-shirts two sizes too small. She had lettered in cross-country and track, developing strong, graceful legs that drew stares every time shorts-season started. Her most tantalizing feature, however, was her tongue, despite all the verbal lashes I received from it. When she laughed in class, it was a soft open-mouthed chuckle that revealed her tongue lightly tapping the roof of her mouth. When she smiled, her tongue would press against her teeth, as if searching for an escape from jail. When flirty, it would flick out between her lips. Dave said that was just how vipers used their sense of smell, but to me it was a tantalizing premonition of a kiss.

Courtney's ferocity, unattainability, and sensuality had me in carnal torment. During our debates, my lust for her often mandated the use my research folder to hide my priapic state. Her ability to distract me was her best weapon against me.

She reciprocated my attraction, actively flirting with me, seeking help with math and science, and inviting me to socialize with her friends. The illusion of a contentious courtship had half the school thinking we were dating, but it never happened. Courtney could never forgive my constant kicking of her ass. She had a drive to win, and no matter the cost, she would keep viewing me as an opponent to be defeated until she had finally won.

That was my mistake. She never emerged victorious from our verbal bouts. I knew it, she knew it, and the good citizens of Monroe High School knew it. Courtney's political tunnel vision prevented her from understanding opposing arguments prior to the debate. I always knew her arguments before she made them and had my rebuttals ready -- but Courtney never learned how to raise her shield against the arguments I wielded against her.

I had tried to coach her, but she said she would rather lose than read Paul Krugman's columns or slog through budget data. She got her wish, but I didn't. I asked her out once, shortly after we returned from Christmas break. Knowing I was giving her the ultimate weapon against me in any future argument, I cornered her in the hallway after school and invited her to a movie. With my most disarming smile, I said, "All that flirting we do has finally driven me crazy enough to ask you out."

Her eyes were cold and unblinking when she answered, "Lance, I'm sorry, I just don't see you that way." As she walked away, her footsteps in the empty hallway echoed like laughter.

When our next argument escalated in Economics, over the Bush Tax Cut, she used the doomsday device I had placed in her hands. I had savaged her claim the cuts had been for the middle class, and she responded with a smile so wide her cuspids flashed like fangs. "Arguments like that are why I turned you down when you asked me out last week."

There is no shame like a teenager facing romantic humiliation in front of a room full of peers. Few classmates minded seeing my ego take a hit, which made her verbal strike bleed worse.

Through the wisdom of time and Tasha, I resented Courtney less and realized it had been my fault. My mistake wasn't in a failure of perception or nerve, as it had been with Amy, but in defeating Courtney so often she could only cope by skewering my heart on the dagger of her tongue. The outcome had been inevitable -- written in stone since the Halloween Dance. That night had offered a better path for both of us, one I had missed.

A "phantom bride" had appeared at the dance, unrecognizable in dyed-black hair, a white dress and veil, and ghostly face-and-body paint. The dress had attracted attention, with its tight top and a scandalous neckline. The "phantom bride" had approached me with invitation in her eyes. She sinuously raised a white-gloved hand to touch my face, then she leaned forward, gracing me with a light kiss on the cheek. Her hand lingered as she retreated, and she locked her eyes to mine, not saying a word.

I peered closer -- at her height, the regal nose, the contours of her lips, and the way she posed her body. I had studied that face and body closely for years, and knew her at once. "Courtney?"

She deflated into a small, disappointed pout. "Aw, man! How did you know it was me?"

I shrugged, and displayed a smug smile. Without even trying, I had outsmarted her yet again.

Courtney ignored me the rest of the night, but she had revealed her hand. I knew she felt the same perverse attraction for me that I felt for her. This stoked my courage enough to eventually ask her on a date, which presented her with an irresistible chance at the revenge she owed me.

I had missed my opportunity. She used the lie of her disguise to speak the truth of her attraction. If I hadn't recognized her, or had pretended not to, she could have declared victory in one of our bouts, and maybe she would have been mollified. Maybe her drive to win would not have overwhelmed the clear sexual interest she had in me.

Maybe.

Maybe I had a second chance.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Crepe paper bats and rubber spiders dangled from the poles and archways that demarcated the dance floor. Several spiders had already been impounded by students and impressed into duty as yo-yos. Marilyn Manson was blaring from the speakers, but no one was dancing. It would take the Twin Cities DJ a few more tries to realize he needed to play Country Music or slow songs to get anyone out on the floor.

I couldn't remember what time Courtney had arrived, so I was at the dance unfashionably early. There was no sign of her yet, and I was being worn down by thirty minutes of constant deja vu, as the people and events of ten years ago unfolded around me. Interacting with people in a different way than I had a decade ago kept the deja vu at bay, so I tried to engage, or at least watch, those around me. Heather approached me to ask what I was wearing under my robe, and I answered with the first of many evasive answers to that question I would give tonight. I would date Heather the summer after graduation. We had taken each other's virginity, but she cried every time we had sex. I didn't suck at sex (at least no worse than any other newly deflowered eighteen year old -- I hoped), rather, sex with me evoked an almost-Pavlovian guilt response.

There was Amber, the school's head football cheerleader, dressed as a Minnesota Golden Gophers cheerleader. Unimaginative, but I couldn't criticize her for flaunting her curves. She was a sweetheart -- we had been close growing up, and worked together in the summer at the municipal pool. I never saw a flicker of interest from her, except maybe once.

Amber was talking to Sidney, her best friend and partner in crime, who was dressed as a cat. The "Toothsome Twosome", as Dave called them, were also the stars of the gymnastics team. Sidney had a physique to rival Amber's, but mild acne-scarring on her face resulted in less attention from men. Sid also worked at the pool, and she had a wry sense of humor I liked. Both Sidney and Amber specialized in dating college athletes while cock-teasing the high school jocks.

Fatigue-wearing Sumbeech Carl was glaring at Scott The Hoople, who was characteristically tone-deaf -- dressing as Osama Bin Ladin only a month after 9/11. Snazzy Pete made the mistake of dressing as a mulleted redneck, when a dozen real mulleted rednecks had shown their disdain for social convention by attending without a costume. Dwayne The Impaler was Zombie Elvis. Red Madison, Blonde Madison, and Brittney all stood glaring at each other from different corners of the gym, each annoyed that the other two had also dressed as french maids.

I greeted them all with the nervous enthusiasm of someone who hadn't seen them in ten years.

Amy was there as well, but I only recognized her body. She was wearing a genie costume with a bikini top, and her face was hidden behind exaggerated amounts of make-up, making her look more a geisha than a genie. She ignored me, mooning around some guy in a devil costume -- I thought it was Rod the Mod. I felt a pang of disappointment, but it wasn't as severe as last night, when I was convinced my heart had been broken.

I wondered whether my entire infatuation with her had been a sham. I had no right to be jealous of her attempts at Beatnik Boy, when I was trying to sprint toward my next assignation as fast as she was. Had it even been Amy I wanted, or a manufactured illusion of Amy, or just any fantasy offering an escape from Tasha? Self-doubt chewed at my stomach, forcing me to wonder whether I was repeating the same mistake with Courtney. I mulled over this unhappy thought, until I heard Dave and Sarah hail me from the doorway.

They had arrived in black trench coats, concealing their costumes. Sarah had her black mane imprisoned in a severe bun. She was wearing glossy red lipstick and had applied what was, even for her, an excessive amount of mascara. Sarah noticed me, crinkled her nose, and greeted me by way of a happy-dance.

Dave noticed my robe and approached. "What are you wearing under there?" He didn't wait for an answer. "I think I might get kicked out of the Tribe, and I need some fallback options. Do the Friars have a dental plan?"

"Yes, and free beer, but I don't want an angry rabbi blaming me and bringing down a plague of locusts on my house."

He shook his head. "I thought you knew history. Jews don't blame. We get blamed." Dave wasn't nearly as excited as Sarah. He removed his trench coat and hung it up on the rack. His clothes were all black -- a makeshift outfit, strewn with metal loops and straps. He turned his back, donned a black leather mask, then moved to take Sarah's coat.

As he took it from her shoulders, Sarah wheeled on him. "Scum! I shouldn't have to wait for you to take my coat. You'll be punished!"

Sarah was revealed in her glory. She had gone the full dominatrix -- a bustier, skintight pants, gloves, and stiletto boots -- all PVC vinyl and black as sin. Her bustier exposed her taut, snowy stomach, with its embedded ruby glinting malevolently in the muted gym lights. To complete the effect, she wielded a whip, and handcuffs dangled from her hip.

Dave groveled in character. "Yes, Sultry Mistress. May I kiss your feet as punishment?" A crowd had begun to gather.

"You talk too much, insect! Put on... The Gag!" She withdrew a red and black contraption from her belt and held it high, as if it were Excalibur fresh-drawn from the stone. She presented it to her boyfriend, who sniveled on cue before reluctantly taking it from her.

Dave turned to me. With a the-things-I-do-for-love expression, he placed the ball gag in his mouth. Sarah fastened it around the back of his neck and gave him a firm pat on the cheek. Her finishing touch was to leash him by way of a loop on the rear strap of the ball gag. I recognized the leash as belonging to Dickens, Dave's loyal terrier, but I never did find out where they got the gag. When I asked, Sarah just chortled and Dave muttered, "Don't ask."

Dave's mom always was too submissive for her own good.

"Down on your knees, slave!" Sarah commanded, shoving him to the floor. "Your punishment commences!" She removed her whip from her waist, made a show of running her fingers down its length, and snapped a test lash on the floor. The crack of the whip drew more attention, and now almost every attendee at the dance was watching -- some with horror, more with amusement, and a few with lustful intensity. Red Madison, I hardly knew ye...

Not all attention was welcome -- Vice Principal Murphy, the dance chaperone, was making his way from the front door, following a high school administrator's instinct that whatever fascinates students is bad for the school. Murphy was a balding, duffel-bag of a man wearing a rumpled corduroy sport coat that had already been passe when he was hired by the school in the mid-eighties. Murphy elbowed toward the front to inspect the source of the commotion.

Sarah was now playfully whipping Dave's behind. No force was behind the whip, but Dave would cringe and flinch, as if in exquisite pain, and then raise his rear higher each time. The gag muffled his cries. The man was a true artist, giving his all for his craft.

Vice Principal Murphy watched the spectacle, and dismay and mortification contorted his features. "Oh, Sarah..."

Sarah's first acknowledgment of his presence was a narrowing of the eyes. "Vice Principal Murphy." Sarah's voice was clear and loud -- her tone wasn't deference, but the polite respect due a peer. "Am I encroaching on your role as school disciplinarian?" Murphy and Sarah had tussled over her painting's entry into the art show the previous year, and I had no doubt she had maneuvered him into his role as straight man tonight.

"Sarah, you can't do this." Murphy had the beleaguered expression of a middle-aged cop in a Hollywood action movie -- trying to last two more days until retirement, but knowing in his heart he wouldn't make it.

"I understand." Sarah nodded to him.

Murphy was smart enough to be more wary than relieved.

Sarah turned to address Dave, who was still supplicating himself on the floor. "Slave, Vice Principal Murphy wants to administer your punishments himself. Obey him as you would me." She offered her whip to Murphy, and Dave shifted his body to present his ass for abuse by the Vice Principal.