could make them pretty big if I
concentrated, but I mostly just loved the
soft poof they let out when they deflated.
Or the crackly pop they made when they
burst.
My first bubble popped, causing
Maya to glance over at me. She rolled
her eyes. She didn’t understand my gum
addiction, but I didn’t understand her
love of juicing basically everything.
Every day she came in with some new
mixture she had made up in her juicer.
She was convinced there was a tonic out
there for any ailment. I didn’t have the
heart to tell her it all basically tasted the
same. Like liquid grass.
She sidled over to me now with
today’s concoction. It smelled like old
carrots, but she was sipping it like a
martini.
“You are so weird,” I informed her.
“It’s good for the skin,” she insisted.
“Not that you have a problem with that,
you zit-less bitch.” It was said with
love.
“Hey, I’d kill for your hair and you
know that.” I told her. She did have
beautiful hair.
She flipped it over her shoulder.
“Juice, baby.”
I rolled my eyes. “Juice did not make
your hair that way. That’s all genetics.”
But Maya wasn’t listening. “Love
me, love my juice,” she said, heading
back to her end of the bar.
“That’s why you’re still single,” I
teased.
She gave me the finger. And a smile.
Best friend ever.
We had just opened, so the bar was
practically empty. Slow nights were
pretty much the only time Maya and I
could talk on the job.
I loved being a bartender, but
weeknights were the absolute worst.
Barely anyone came to the hotel bar
during the week. We got a few guests,
but most of the clientele worked nearby,
so it was large groups coming for our
Happy Hour deals. That meant a rush of
people ordering before seven and then
standing around nursing their $5 beers
while they caught up on work gossip.
Drinking was more perfunctory during
the week, which didn’t really equal a
flowing tap or chatting up the bartender.
Everyone would be driving home
afterwards and no one wanted to stay
downtown too late. For me, that equaled
a lot of time alone at the bar, standing on
my feet and waiting for them to leave.
I lived for weekends, the bar filled
with the crush of crowds from the hotel,
convention center and all the nearby date
joints. The air was always filled with
excitement and sex, and the adrenaline
could carry me all the way past closing
and beyond. On a night like that, I might
have held eye contact with Mr. Gin-and-
Tonic for a few seconds longer. Direct
eye contact was usually all it took to get
him to book a room in the hotel.
And all my relationships were one
night stands. I wasn’t interested in
relationships and even if I was, my life
just wasn’t set up for them. There were
too many other things in my life that
were way more important than coddling
some man’s ego. Because that’s what
relationships seemed to be. I had learned
that the hard way. Some guy who had
found my sexuality and sex appeal
exciting until we started dating – then it
had become a liability. Something to be
guarded and monitored. And if that
wasn’t bad enough, I found there was no
room in those relationships for the
person that mattered the most to me – my
brother.
Not a lot of people understood that
Mikey needed stability and routine. That
he wasn’t your average twenty-year old.
My brother had a form of Down
syndrome, which manifested in a lot of
obsessive behaviors, most of which
centered around his favorite show,
Doctor Who. There weren’t a lot of
people who could tolerate his single-
minded focus on the Doctor and his
companions. So there weren’t a lot of
people that I allowed to participate in
that part of my life.
My brother was precious to me. My
best friend, my biggest cheerleader. And
he came first. Always and forever. I had
yet to find a guy who understood that. A
guy who could put his own needs aside
to support me once in awhile. So I said
goodbye to being a girlfriend and
embraced sluthood fully. And never
looked back.
But I was a responsible slut. One
who had strict rules for one night stands.
Use protection, obviously. I was on the
pill and always had condoms in my
purse. Never go down on a guy unless he
went down on me first. You could tell a
lot about a guy by his expectations of
foreplay. The guys who weren’t
interested in my orgasm were ones that
didn’t get the pleasure of experiencing
theirs with me. I didn’t do selfish sex.
And last, but not least, I never went to
their house and never, ever stayed the
night, no matter where we were. I was
very much a wham-bam-thank-you-
ma’am and damn proud of it. It was a
policy that worked out well, though I
still joked with my fellow slut, Maya,
that we should get a commission from
the hotel for how much extra business
we gave them.
For the most part, there was nothing
better than a round of good sex to end
your evening, but tonight just wasn’t the
night. I caught Maya’s gaze as she was
taking orders at the other end of the bar.
With one single raised eyebrow, I could
tell she was feeling as bored as I was,
though she angled her head towards a
guy in the corner indicating that she
definitely wasn’t going to end her night
bored. She wasn’t as strict as I was with
her one night stands, when she made
them book a room at the hotel it was
because she wanted to stay at a five star
hotel and order something off the room
service menu.
“Lawyer?” I asked when she came
back to my side of the bar. The guy was
wearing an expensive black suit,
probably handmade, maybe Italian. That
meant money. In Los Angeles that could
mean lots of things, but despite the
obvious quality, it was still a pretty
simple, serviceable suit, which usually
was reserved for attorneys.
“Good guess,” she leaned down to
grab a bottle of seltzer. “Agent.”
I let out a whistle. “Suite or
penthouse?”
“Suite,” she pulled back the collar of
her shirt to show me the room key tucked
into her bra strap. “He’s only a junior
agent. But I’m still ordering the
waffles.”
“You’re obsessed with those
waffles,” I poked her side playfully.
“How many times have you had them
this month?”
She gave me a naughty smile.
“Four.”
“Damn girl,” I whistled, giving her a
once over, though I knew I’d never see
any evidence of those waffles on her rail
thin body. Though she was blessed with
a supermodel’s metabolism, Maya was
also kind of obsessed with fitness and
ran marathons like they were going out
of business. She was always trying to get
me to join, but the only kind of exercise I
was interested in was the kind that ended
with an orgasm.
“You don’t even know, Nicole,”
Maya licked her lips. “I don’t think
there’s anything better in life than great
sex followed by these waffles. They are
smothered in dulce de leche, topped
with vanilla ice cream.”
“I guess I’ll just have to take your
word for it,” I interrupted, not interested
in watching her get orgasmic over these
waffles. Again. Between the waffles and
her juice, she was obsessed. Besides,
getting a guy to order room service was
definitely not my thing. I didn’t have
time to linger after sex and I didn’t want
any of the guys I slept with to get the
wrong idea. I couldn’t risk them getting
attached and I’d had too many close
calls lately – men were so sensitive
these days.
I glanced back at Mr. Gin-and-Tonic,
who was still casting fervent glances in
my direction. And not “ooooh baby, the
things I would do to you” kind of
glances. The “you seem like a nice girl,
maybe my mom would like you” kind of
glances. Yeah, he was totally a long-term
kind of guy and I was not that kind of
girl. At all. Not anymore.
“What about you?” Maya glanced
around the bar, which was only about
one third full. Slim pickings and she had
definitely snagged the best option. Mr.
Junior Agent was watching her with a
gleam in his eye. A very specific kind of
gleam. One that promised sex. And
waffles. And never calling again.
“Anyone catch your eye?”
“Not tonight.” I turned my back on
Mr. Gin-and-Tonic. Definitely
relationship material. Definitely not for
me.
“Really?” Maya frowned. “No one?”
“They all scream commitment,” I
told her. “I’m on a bad luck streak,” I
crossed my arms. “The last two guys
practically begged me for my number
afterwards.”
She grimaced. “Ugh. Let’s hope my
agent doesn’t want to talk about his
feelings.”
“What is with guys these days?” I
asked. “It seems like half of them think
that when I say ‘one night stand’ I really
mean ‘but secretly, I want to be your
girlfriend’.”
“And they accuse our gender of
being the clingy one.” Maya rolled her
eyes. “Remember when that guy kept
sending flowers to the bar?”
“Peony Pete!” I laughed. “How
could I forget? He did not know how to
take no for an answer.”
“I know!” Maya giggled. “I know
I’m hot, but come on!”
“I would have sent you roses,” I told
her.
“That’s because you’re a classy
broad.”
“The classiest!” I readily agreed and
then sighed. “Why is a good one night
stand so hard to find?”
“You’d think it’d be a piece of cake
in Los Angeles,” Maya shrugged. “Guess
we’re just looking in the wrong place.”
“Not according to my mom,” I told
her. My mom was a tabloid junkie and
according to them, all the men in Los
Angeles were cheating on their wives. I
kept trying to tell her that she couldn’t
judge the entire population of a city on
the actions of a few philandering
celebrities, but she was still deeply
concerned for my honor. I didn’t have
the heart to tell her that my honor was
long gone. That it took off around the
first time that she did. But I was doing
my best not to bring that up. We were
starting over. She was trying. I was
trying. Which meant humoring her, a lot.
“My mom is convinced I’m surrounded
by manwhores.”
“I wish!” Maya exclaimed. “I
thought becoming a bartender would
guarantee an endless supply of men with
commitment issues.”
“Me too,” I shook my head. “I guess
we should have specified the kind of
commitment issues we were looking for.
Namely, the not-interested-in-it kind.”
“Men,” Maya sighed.
“Seriously,” I lifted my hands.
“Where’s a good manwhore when you
need one?”
Hours later, after Maya went upstairs
with her man-of-the-evening, I went
home to where my brother was parked in
front of the TV, watching the 2013
Doctor Who Christmas Special.
“Hey, buddy,” I ruffled his hair as I
passed by to drop my purse off on the
kitchen table.
“Twelve,” he pointed at the screen.
“Oh, is this the first time he shows
up?” I asked innocently. I was referring
to the twelfth incarnation of the Doctor,
who was Mikey’s second favorite. Or at
least he had been last week. The list
changed on a daily basis.
Mikey turned around and let out an
enormous sigh. I bit my lip, trying to
hide my smile.
“50th Anniversary Special,” he
reminded me, even though I knew. You
didn’t live with Mikey and not know the
exact moment a new Doctor was
introduced, even if it was only for a
brief second.
“Want to help me make some cheesy
noodles?” It was our little routine. Even
though it was almost 2am, I was usually
pretty hungry after my shift and
sometimes this was the only time I got to
have something resembling dinner with
my brother.
He nodded and even though he kept
one eye at the screen, he came into the
kitchen. Cheesy noodles was our version
of mac and cheese, with two boxes of
noodles and one packet of cheese.
Sometimes if I had a good week tip-
wise, I could throw in some chopped up
hot dogs. Unfortunately, tonight we had
to go hot dog-less. But Mikey didn’t
seem to notice, his eyes on the screen as
I heated a pot of water on the stove.