The Night After The Power Exchange

Stage Left: When The Actors Become Lovers

I dragged myself out of bed after working a swing shift
on the shaky premise that an eighteen-year-old bombshell
would spring from bed at eight in the morning,

and take buses all the way from Marin to rendezvous
with a balding, forty-one-year-old pervert, simply because
the low-lighting in a nightclub had hidden my age.

I shaved, showered, flossed and brushed my teeth,
put on my Retinol anti-wrinkle cream, and did a double-dose
of Tom's of Maine mouthwash in hopes of making some passable

appearance before this angel of mercy. I splurged on a USA Today,
even thought I'm usually too cheap to buy newspapers, because
I'd been jilted so many times in these situations that I knew

to have reading materials ready for "the long, sad wait."
Our appointment was at 10:30AM. I rushed out the door
and made it to Café Algiers five minutes early, 10:25AM.

I laid out my newspaper, ordered a strong Americano coffee
and hunkered down for the usually-bitter disappointment.
And I could not help but ponder the fact that my delusions

are usually based on magical thinking, the juvenile hope
that some great boon can come without some harsh hidden cost.
My self-deceptions are of the same seed of all self-deception,

desperation itself. I contemplated the infinite number of times
I'd told myself that someone was kind, beautiful and interesting,
only to be forced to finally admit they were mean, homely,

and shockingly dull. Pondering such hard truths, I felt,
would soften the blow of her not showing, or of her arriving
only to be revealed, in the cold light of day, as an embarrassment.

What happened next, however, disproves all preachers
of positive-thinking theory, since they all claim such thoughts
produce negative results in the real world. In fact she did show up,

and she was even more sweet and beautiful and engaging
than I had ever hoped. So much for the "law" which claims
that negative thoughts guarantee negative results. How wondrous

it is that the guilt-ridden, crypt-puritanical, crypto-workaholic
garbage that is New Age thinking, turns out to be simply, finally,
and factually, false, as well as a kind of Spiritual Republicanism.

In spite of my gloomy thinking, she turned out to be more perfect
than the most expertly-crafted gem. Her small, fleshy waist
was tucked into her tight, leather pants. Her blue-tinted hair

was morphed into a serene aqua color; and it would not be
an exaggeration to say she was simply bursting out of her blouse.
"Okay," I reasoned, "she's shown up out of politeness, but

in the sobriety of this weekday morning, what chemistry
could possibly remain?" Again, my negative thinking should have,
if half my friends were right, doomed me to a unhappy result.

Again the "law of attraction" failed, because she used the pretext
of needing to go to the restroom to slide her firm buns right next
to my hungry hands which cupped those glorious, little butt cheeks

eagerly. She smiled pleasantly at this, and I bowed to Indra,
Varuna, Zeus, Apollo, Vishnu, Shiva and all the imaginary gods
ever conceived of, since I am a very religious sick-pervert

who happens to be addicted to college-age ass. "But surely,"
I thought to myself, I shall soon be ashamed of myself. She is
only eighteen; and here I am with my Philosophy degree.

God only knows what we shall talk about. The shallowness
of my endeavors will soon be revealed to me." But again,
positive-thinking doctrines proved to be wrong. Upon her return,

she began showing me great works from her photography
portfolio. It was soon revealed she'd been studying four languages
and had used them all over Europe. She spoke excitedly about

Impressionist painters and the poetry she loved. She turned out
to be quite lively, worldly and able to hold-forth on any topic.
The beautiful Turkish woman behind the counter at Café Algiers

was charmed by us and declared, "You're such a beautiful couple!
I wish I had my camera, so I could take your picture." Raeanne
and she then launched into a conversation in French before

we left to explore each other more fully in the confines of
my little, basement room. As we arrived at the front door
of the Warrington, the husky, middle-aged maintenance man,

formerly from Leningrad, greeted us in the courtyard. Raeanne
passed a few words to him in Russian, and his eyes lit up.
Uncertain of what to say to such a ravishing, young beauty,

he pointed to me and said, "Melvin is working man's hero
of the Soviet Union. I have given him many medals!" We all
laughed and smoked a cigarette together. Raeanne loved

my humble underground room. We spent an eternity making out,
and at last traded oral sex and orgasms. She let out a deep cry
of total satisfaction. In a phone call from the East Coast, she said,

"I have never had an orgasm like that." We indulged in long
cuddling sessions peppered with sweet talk as she stroked my penis
with her small, bird-like hands. After hearing my hard-life story,

she took my side more completely than anyone ever had,
This made me fell like an ocean of injustices had been undone.
This was the greatest miracle of all. But the sad time arrived

when we had to part. I forlornly drifted off to my swing-shift job
and she headed back to the Big Apple. We tried to imagine ho
the relationship might work, but there were too many miles

and too many decades to overcome. Her next lover worked
in the World Trade Center. She often went there to see him.
I was never able to find out her fate after the towers came down.