Naked Poop

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Abandoned girl on a deserted back casino road.
11.2k words
3.1
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cowboy109
cowboy109
308 Followers

The red velvet cupcake had delicate swirls of creamy frosting. The edges in the frosting were exquisitely sharp. The dough had a rich brown color the luxuriously collected and reflected the light. The tiny dots had a brilliant red color. The scent of hand harvested high land cacao gently filled the air and my lungs. The size was very cute. They are twelve dollars a pop. Richard had bought trays to celebrate with the entire floor.

That little thing spoke to me in the darkness and silence of a Friday evening in the office: "Eat me! Swallow me! Let me seep into every cell of your body!" Nausea rose in my body. My stomach shriveled to the size of a pea as to clutch itself hard to refuse anything my mindless arms may shove down. Evil! Pure Evil! This little thing was everything that was left of the Richmond case: Six months of 70 hour weeks, pounding headaches at midnight, a struggle to highlight one more document, loss of appetite for days, with a bleeding heart to open the hand for friends to slip away, and even Herbert, the cactus, died from neglect. Celebrating that with the cupcake would be admitting that I wanted all of that.

At the end of the long tunnel was supposed to be freedom and fun. This didn't feel fun. It felt empty. It felt like nothing. It felt like for months I was blinded by the activity of the project to not even realize how I had nothing in my life. I didn't have the energy or enthusiasm to do something fun. I could not calm down enough to close my eyes. My mind was too exhausted to do anything and too wired to do nothing. The entire day, I had simply been checking my e-mail over and over. The realization of what I had done came only know because my mind was realizing so little, that little thing that got pushed too much.

"Derek is downstairs," said the smooth, male voice of my assistant Brian through the intercom in the phone.

I stood up from the leather swivel chair. My high heels felt wobbly. My shirt had come untuck from the beige, tight, knee-length skirt. My makeup was probably a mess. I had skipped the afternoon touch up as a little letting go for a project well done. I stepped towards the office door. I knew that I was walking like an old cow with my butt sticking out. Fuck it!

Brian, the skinny man in that extra slim Calvin Klein suit with that extremely well groomed face, jumped up to press a white box with a red ribbon, the size of an apple, into my hand. He stuck a note with tiny scribble into my other hand. He pressed the black purse under my left armpit.

"Okay, Claire, you look like you won't read your cheat sheet. I'm going to walk you through on the elevator ride down."

He grabbed my hand and pulled my swaying, tired body after him. He kicked the trashcan out of the elevator door. Fuck, is he good! He made sure I didn't have to wait for the elevator. That's what you get when you hire an ambitious motherfucking kid from Harvard as a personal assistant to run your errands.

He looked at me earnestly and fired away with an energized voice. That's what a boxing champion must feel like sitting on the stool on the ring about to head into the fight. The trainer is yelling at the champ. The words barely register with the champ because he is too focused on the opponent in the other corner.

"There are four things you need to remember: #1 The Houston Rockets played the Golden State Warriors. #2 The Houston Rockets won. #3 Derek was routing for the Golden State Warriors. He'll be bummed out tonight. So, be gently. #4 The perfect joke to cheer him up is..." Brian talked at a fast pitch as the light moved from one floor to the next.

"Your makeup is horrible. Let me fix that," exclaimed Brian, slightly rushed looking at the light indicating that another floor had passed.

He pulled a makeup case out of his suit pocket. He dabbed a brush into some foundation. I stood there like a dog getting a bath: Making a slightly unhappy facial expression, yet patiently letting my face be prodded. He is one in a million: A man who not only knows makeup but applies it without question perfectly. The thing that I hated about it that underneath that perfect, fresh, and energetic Asian cheerleader face was a dead zombie. Nobody would reach me. The few people that noticed a crack in the façade would look at me with a pause and mute face. Then, their eyes would drift down to my perfectly round boobs, thank you underwire. The thrill of talking to me would return to their face, and they'd continue trying to impress me with their small talk. Each time it happened, I held my breath, waiting and hoping that someone would catch a glimpse of the real me. At the same time, I'd dread the moment of being caught and of being vulnerable. It passed each time.

Only Brian was astute and saw the real me. Though, he only recognized me as a machine that had to be oiled and send back into battle. There was a brutal exposedness with him, like a boxer naked in the gym with skin flabs hanging loose from a cut. Like a coach, Brian never paid any mind to my nakedness. He was focused on the serving his purpose to make me serve my purpose. I wouldn't say that Brian was soulless. He had the most exquisite soul made by an award winning designer – just not human.

"No, I'm not doing that anymore," I protested. I felt embarrassed for acting like the eight year old girl that I used to be, all bratty, all emotion, all unreasonable.

"Claire, we are not doing the whole thing. But you need a little energy for your date with Derek," there was no reasoning with Brian. He was the family doctor that forced every vaccination through the needle and into my skin despite all of my protests.

He pushed the straw into my nostril and held the makeup mirror with a penny sized white pile. I inhaled. There was that sharp feeling. There was the pulse in my arms twitching alive again. There was that clarity breaking up the stupor. My heart was fluttering instead of pounding fast. I pushed that warning sign away that my body was pushed beyond safe limits.

I felt a finger between my trim butt cheeks. The spot felt so tender, so vulnerable, so absolutely throwing me out of the train of my thoughts. I jumped into the air. I inhaled sharply. I got my right hand ready to slap Brian across the face for squeezing my butt. Not only did he grab my butt, but his lanky fingers exquisitely slipped between my butt cheeks to touch me where nobody touches me!

"YES!" he yelled into my face with fire that quickly made me slump back into the desponded feeling that I had been nursing. "Your fire is back. You are going to be the flirtiest thing this side of the Hudson. Now, go get Derek to drop on his knees!"

He shoved me out of the elevator door into the three story high glass lobby. Derek was standing outside with his black Range Rover in a standard gray office suit. Fuck! It was game on! I put a smile on my face. I tugged my knees closer together to give me hips more of a sway in the walk. I started strutting my high heels with straight knees forward – left, right, left right. My gaze was locked on him like fire. I let a smile slowly and seductively grow as if Derek were lighting up my life.

He stood there cooly, leaning against his Range Rover with his ankles crossed. He had a warm, wooly overcoat for the already cooling New York fall evening. The daily stress seemed to drift out of his face. My power to light up a whole room was turned on fully. With an elegant arm gesture, he opened the passenger door for me as I stepped through the double swing glass door.

"Hey, I'm sorry honey that the Warriors lost. I got you a little something to make your day better!" It told him, while I put my hand on the back of his hand on the door. I kissed his cheeks with my fresh, red lips.

"That guy in the second inning was a complete bum. My little brother can pitch better than that!" complained Derek.

"I know, it's terrible," I replied putting all my emphasis into the emotion of the statement because I didn't watch the game.

He went on rambling about baseball while the trees lining the street drifted by. I'd normally make an effort to throw in a few words to make him feel like I was part of his conversation. Why bother? I had put so much effort into Derek. He still hadn't proposed. He was gorgeous. He was successful. My parents liked him. My girlfriends were jealous. That moment, he simply felt like a lot of work. He had promised me kids and a dog. A faint suspicion walked into my mind that some fantasy of those kids and that dog was what I was after, not what he was really delivering.

I pressed the button to make the windows zip down. I listened to the whine of the electromotor being drowned out by the roaring draft pouring in. My hair was getting tussled. I felt the heat being peeled out of my face until my face felt like the bare bones of a fish carcass after the flesh has been peeled of or the warm skin in my case. There was a beauty to the mindlessness of braving the storm.

"Stephen Curry," yelled Derek against the roar of the draft.

He must have been repeating himself from the sound of the strained voice. Stephen Curry was his hero. He must be looking for a positive statement.

"You can always trust him to carry the water when everyone else fucks up," I told him while taking one last look at his face. He had a classical manly Caucasian face: A thick jawline, strong cheekbones, a smoothness about the curves of the skin between those anchor points. The brow line was perfect – energized, rich, yet not overly hairy. He had a confidence of a classical business man in his mid-thirties. If one were to think about a real man in the city, not a lumber jack, that would be Derek.

I soaked in the last look. When he said a self-satisfied "that's right," he sealed the deal. I threw the exquisite gift box out of the window. It hit something. There was a loud bang.

"What was that?" he asked startled, steeling glances over his shoulder.

The whole week, I had this little rhyme going through my head: "Nantucket – fuck it." I would have never been able to tell him because he didn't approve of cursing. We had planned a romantic weekend getaway in Nantucket to celebrate the success of my project. He hadn't said a single word about the project. We were already almost out of Manhattan.

"Babe, let me out," I told him.

The care slowed. He looked at me like a wounded deer. "Why," he blared like a teenage boy whose phone has been taken away.

"Babe, say Nantucket," I told him, looking deeply into this eyes.

He said hesitantly, "Nantucket."

I crawled into his eyes to feel every sword stab into this soul as I slowly reveled in saying "Fuck it!"

Then, I pushed the door open and stepped out into the cold New York fall with freezing air wrapping around my bare shins. There was too much adrenaline in my body to actually feel it. It was only a vague knowledge that my legs were freezing. I walked away. I keenly listened for footsteps to follow me.

There weren't. I heard him yell into his phone to make sure that I'd hear him, "Hey boys, body sushi at Sapphire is on me tonight!"

I felt the atmosphere of a quiet street on the edge of the city. The cars were already parked for the evening. The sidewalk had emptied as people cozied up on couches and in beds. The prized fall leaves were abandoned by the kids collecting them for they were already asleep. The darkness send a certain gloom. There was a certain beauty to that gloom, like peace, like ease from the hustle and rumble. Pale clouds in the night sky reflected the light of the full moon. Had I broken something precious? Had I rid myself of a burden?

I unlocked my phone. "Hey, Brian, I'm free to do that client meeting in Vegas tomorrow."

"I had a hunch. I've reserved roundtrip ticket for the red eye tonight. Can I send you a limo?" asked Brian without a hint of surprise.

"No, I'll get an Uber. You know a limo is over the top for me," I told him.

There I stood waiting in the cold for ten minutes for an Uber to drive to the suburbs. I could have had it so easy. All I had to do was say "yes" and the company would have expensed it. I had grown up in the Bronx. There was a certain code that I inherited growing up. Look a person in the eyes. Say important things in person. Everyone is equal. You are judged by how you treat the most vulnerable. When I studied at Columbia, those principals were a bedrock, something to feel good about. Having about fifty people work for me and the increase in income slowly peeled the tapestry off that bedrock. The tapestry came off in strange fits and starts. I'd still wash the dishes myself, not even use a dishwashing machine. Yet in weak moments, I could be extremely entitled. Spending time washing dishes didn't make sense anymore when I could see interns working until 10 pm in the hopes that I'd step by their desk on the way out and tutor them.

My self-image was so fragmented. With the long hours at work, I didn't have the time to figure myself out. I kept acting in strange ways. Because I have so much power and beauty, nobody even calls me out. I don't even run into problems that make me stop and reconsider. Everywhere people are ready to throw themselves on the ground be it in hopes of sexual and business favors. It's a strange world where I've lost any barometer of good and wrong. There is only making that project work out – the world reduced to a singularity.

The next afternoon, I found myself in the Chandelier Bar in the Cosmopolitan. An entire bar was built inside of a giant chandelier. The glass crystal strings were hanging down all around the bar. Comfortable velvet couches invited chilling out while sipping on cocktails. I swiped through the profile of my business contact. Brian had researched the guy carefully to find out his hobbies, interests, and school background. From all I could read, he was a boring technocrat. He volunteered his weekends to feed homeless. He had been in the same position for seven years. The decision to retain my employer would come down to numbers, facts, and statistics. This was going to be a boring Vegas trip. The nerd would probably be happier to meet at a museum. Though, his boss had dragged him out to Vegas. We'd meet the boss later at the club to get the potential sign off after we had worked on the details.

He showed up with leather flip flops, a t-shirt with a print, and jeans. Way to make a girl feel like a loser. I was wearing a white dress and top combination. It looked like a single piece at the first look. However, the top and skirt were completely separated to show my abs. The fabric looked perfectly stretched around my body. The color was so sheer to reveal a shadow of my sexy underwear. I was wearing seven inch high heels that had the sharp sparkle like I was ready to kill. I definitely sported the high end hooker look, which is Vegas fashion. He looked like the pool boy.

Smalltalk was lost on him. He started right away drilling me on numbers. He wasn't really trying to get a general low down. He was rather probing for a flaw. I felt like he already entered with a hostile intent to crater this deal. I continued being my upbeat self to lift his mood, no matter how much he displayed grumpiness, no matter how hard he made me dig numbers out of my cellphone. I prefer the clients who sit down with you and stare you down for five minutes and then based on a hunch shake hands or walk. This guy was a royal pain the ass. The worst part was that he relished the boring parts of the job.

I secretly took a photo of his t-shirt. I had seen that graphic before. I sent the photo to Brian. Brian instantly knew. There was some kind of cult cartoon movement behind the t-shirt called XKCD. He told me to wait until the next time that Brian got dense and read the attached prompt.

Sure enough, the guy, Marin is his name by the way, insisted on listing all the contingencies for contract termination. I looked straight at him and said, "He's getting existential again." My heart was fluttering. This sounded like nonsense to me. I was either getting called on it or would hit a homerun. His face turned quizzical. I had to hold that tension. He was probing me, doubting that I knew what I was talking about. If I knew, I wouldn't be fighting down the heat rising in my body. But in absence of knowing, I had to pretend knowing. A poker player would have drawn out the moment to grill me. He was so inexperienced with negotiation that he was genuinely stunned and made it even more painful.

"It's okay, I have a super soaker," replied Marin. Then, he broke into a huge smile. "I didn't know you are one of us. Seeing how hot you are, I thought you were one of them! Have you read today's xkcd yet?"

"Let's drink to that!" I waved the waiter. Deflection was essential to covering up my lack of inside knowledge to a club I had just joined.

"Phew, I was stressing so much. I thought, you were like a super powered suit the way you dress." Marin slapped his thigh in physical relief.

My phone vibrated. Brian had sent me a text message with an attached photo. "Show this to Marin." It was a photo of a nerd in khakis with a horrible haircut giving me a side hug for the photo. I could tell the lighting didn't match up between the two people in the photo, a poor PhotoShop job. I lowered the lighting on my phone and handed it to Marin. Marin jumped up and held his head like he couldn't belief it. "You've met Randall Munroe, the creator of xkcd?!"

Marin gave me the benefit of a doubt from now on. Whenever I gave him a shaky answer, he made up a reason to explain it away on my behalf. The double strong cocktails kicked in as well. I had tipped the bartender to make his drinks ultra-hard. I let my slender Asian hand with a perfect manicure (paid as a company advertising expense) rest on his lap after making a point. I let it linger there to build up a heat and sexual tension. How quickly, his crotch welled up was almost disgusting. He hadn't gotten laid in a long time.

While the business conversation was smooth sailing, there was a disturbing event. The evening had turned into the beginning of the night. The beer belly tourists had handed their reign to sleekly dressed socialites of the night. The elegant day wait staff had been replaced with risqué dressed wait staff. Plunging boob lines, exposed butt cheeks, and sultry makeup filled the air with a new excitement – something dangerous, something forbidden, something rising out of the shadows.

An obvious gay man stepped up to our low table. By left mind measures, he was dressed casually in a shirt and drawstring pants. Yet, there was something about just how everything fit, how prim and shiny everything was that made him look like a million. He brought an air of excitement and sexiness with him. My eyes were fastened on the details of his body, I was checking out his toes for that pedicure. I was checking out his abs flashing me glimpses with the turns and sways of his upper body. A personal trainer worth his weight in gold had been chiseling away on this body for the better part of a decade. I instantly sat up more upright and put a more refined and playful smile on my face.

"Hey, dude, I love your t-shirt," said the man with upbeat happiness that was purely infectious.

"Fuck off! We are talking business," said Marin rudely. Marin struggled with a full body shudder and tried to turn his face away to avoid seeing the man.

The man twitched a question in his face like "What's up with that dude?" He walked away and smacked his buddy who had been waiting on the butt before they disappeared into the throng of people.

"Excuse me?" I asked Marin.

"What they do is against nature. It's disgusting. I'm pretty sure, he would have touched me if I hadn't acted in self-defense!" Marin burst out. He was really struggling with his visceral reaction. I put a non-perplexed face on to continue the business conversation.

cowboy109
cowboy109
308 Followers