The Dirtbag Vernacular [Original Novel]

ENTRY 17

Still a little incoherent from her dental appointment, that night Molly sleeps through Mean Streets on the Bravo channel. We both crash on a bed made up of sleeping bags and pillows in front of a wood-burning stove.

The next morning Molly is more normal and much to our surprise her mouth is not swelled up like a chipmunk’s. After breakfast we go for a walk out in the woods near the place. I kiss her bloody mouth as we sit in a tree. We greet a neighbor who rides by on a horse.

“I wonder what Frank would say about this situation?” Molly asks.

“Fu-uck,” I mutter.

“He might be, cool with it,” She continues. “He might be all, ‘Cool, you guys went off and fucked…’ Maybe we should tell him when we get back. Just, you know, we’re two people. People like, fuck..., we fucked, no big deal.”

Molly sets in my lap after lunch as I watch a Cowboys and 49ers playoff game. I can’t help but wonder what the step-mom is thinking. Molly had been here with Frank a mere two weeks earlier and the two had most obviously been together. I mention this. “The little slut,” out of earshot Molly mimics the British woman’s accent.

That evening, Trixie loans us her video card and we go into town to rent a video and I pick up a six pack of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale while we are out.

Later, back at the ranch place, I start in on the beer with a great dinner Trixie has cooked. Pork chops, with sides of steamed broccoli, boiled onions, and potatoes smothered in butter.

I continue working my way through the six-pack while we watch Peter Sellers in The Party. By the end of the movie I’ve finished the six pack and we fall asleep again in front of the wood burning stove.

Sometime in the middle of the night I wake up all dried out and a little sick from the beer. I fool around with Molly some and manage a half-assed fuck.

In the morning, at breakfast Molly jokes, “Last night you were all, ‘I could fuck you better but I’m drunk.’ ” After eating we walk to a nearby small model train railroad park and watch middle-aged men ride around on miniature trains as I kiss Molly’s bloody mouth again and again.

As the weekend goes by I am more and more surprised at my feelings for this girl. Before, there had definitely been some kind of mutual attraction. Molly is definitely an attractive girl, but her beauty is subtle and not in your face. She’s tall, about 5’ 9”, just right, a few inches shorter than me and reminds me of a model. I can envision her walking down a catwalk with some surly expression on her face. I find her attractiveness sort of an acquired taste, one of those tastes that, once you’re hooked on, has really got you.

That evening Trixie has to go into town to do some shopping and volunteers to return the video for us. As soon as Trixie leaves we head to a room in the back of the house.

Molly grabs a cowboy hat from a pile of clothing in the corner and puts it on. I pull her pants down and then on a fake Persian rug in the middle of the room on all-fours she waits for me to shove my cock in from behind.

I ride her fast and hard and we just barely are getting into it when Trixie comes riding up in her Ford Explorer. It seems that the lady doesn’t like leaving us there alone.

The next morning we load stuff that had belonged to Molly’s father into the van. An old chest, a book case, and among other things, an Eames chair along with a footrest.

Riding back to S.F. we decide not to tell Frank about the weekend’s events. We decide that we won’t be doing this again and it will be a one time special thing kept between the two of us.

Driving along I start to become more than a little paranoid. I’m worried that Frank will sense something has happened between me and Molly. I’m afraid that I’m going to act weird and he’ll clue in.

“Just act normal!” I keep telling myself, “Just act normal!” Then, “What’s normal with Frank?” I’ve known the guy for ten years, lived with him for a number of those years. He’s probably my best friend, but if I have to think about it, I can’t really define what is normal with Frank.

After arriving in S.F. we exit the freeway and South of Market around 4th and Harrison I pull the van over and give Molly one last kiss.

Double-parked on Leavenworth Street, the unloading process goes by in a quick frenzy. We’re concerned, worried about getting a ticket. I forget about acting normal with Frank and before I know it I’m waving goodbye to him and Molly and heading home.

The next day at work I can’t contain myself and relay the weekend’s activities to one of the student maintenance workers, a Virginia native, Jimmy Taylor. “Molly huh? She’s from Virginia,” Jimmy laughs. “Well sometimes you just gotta do those things.”

I find myself thinking about her all day. I stifle the urge to look up her place of work in the phonebook and call her. Linda has been out of town visiting friends in New York and I don’t have to deal with the problem of facing her just yet.


Photo by Hoffacurse