show me something."
I stared at him for a moment, unable to quite believe what he was saying. He wanted me to flash him right here in front of everyone? The worst thing was I would have done it too, if only he hadn't laughed at my wide-eyed expression.
"Not right here," he said. "But you owe me, okay?"
He started to walk away. I dropped half my books as I pulled the rosary up over my head - it had managed to get caught in my hair.
"Wait!" I yelled. "Your necklace."
He turned on his heel and laughed.
"Keep it," he said. "It belonged to my grandmother." And then he turned back and walked away. I scrambled to pick up my books and straightened up in time to see him roar away on a big, old-fashioned motorcycle. Holy shit.
An artsy looking girl in ballet flats came a couple of steps closer.
"Justin Theroux," she said, looking in the same direction as me, the direction in which he had vanished. "I would give my left tit to hit that."
I laughed, more from surprise than anything else.
"Really?" I said.
"Oh hell yeah," she said. "What's your secret?"
I shrugged. I had no idea. She looked more like the kind of girl I'd imagine he was into - clever, cynical and kind of bohemian. She had a copy of Kerouac's Big Sur sticking out of her bag and while her face was otherwise scrubbed bare of make-up her lips were painted a shade Everglade liked to call 'Fuck-you Red'. Her long brown hair was bundled up in a messy bun on the back of her head and she had one of those big, retro sailor-style tattoos on her upper arm. Next to her I must have looked like an al-dente noodle - thin, white and largely tasteless.
“Maybe he’s into the whole blank canvas thing,” she said, looking me up and down. “He’s an artist, you know.”
No, I didn’t know. But I was on fire to find out.
The next time I saw him was at the bar where I'd first seen him - I'd been haunting the place for a week in the hopes of catching a glimpse of him again and I was beginning to get angry, desperate and crazy. Or maybe I'd been angry, desperate and crazy from the start - I don't know. It was hard to tell with him. Maybe I'd been nuts all along and he just knew somehow exactly which buttons to push to make me worse. All I knew was that every time I saw him and every time he spoke to me, sex stopped being this thing that happened to other people and became a thing that had to happen to me, with him, as soon as possible.
He was dancing with a rock-chicky kind of girl, whose tight lacy top left very little to the imagination. I was wearing a denim skirt and a sleeveless white t-shirt I'd hoped would make me look vaguely rock n' roll, but actually made me look like a blonde version of Olive Oyl. I was pissed but wasn't I the one with his grandmother's rosary around her neck? I'm not sure how much I'd had to drink but it gave me an idea.
I went into the bathrooms and took off my bra. I stuffed it in my purse and went marching back out there, onto the dance floor. He was still there and smiled when he caught my eye. I leaned close to yell in his ear, my heart doing double time.
"You wanna see something?" I shouted.
He looked amused. I took a step back and, still not quite believing that I was about to do this, hoisted my t-shirt to chin height. There was a rowdy drunk cheer ringing in my ears, but his face was all the reward I wanted - he was laughing, beautiful, incredulous.
"You're insane," he said, and grabbed my hand. As he pulled me through the crowd I could already hear the mutters - slut, tramp, whore - but I didn't care. I had what I wanted; his undivided attention.
He led me out the back door to a narrow little alleyway behind the bar. Before I could even look at him I had what I wanted - him. His kiss was every bit as delicious as I remembered, his hands hot under my t-shirt.
"I know you," he said, grinding into me. "You're the movie star's daughter, aren't you?"
I felt him hard against me and it gave me a jolt of fear, but it was quickly smothered
I stared at him for a moment, unable to quite believe what he was saying. He wanted me to flash him right here in front of everyone? The worst thing was I would have done it too, if only he hadn't laughed at my wide-eyed expression.
"Not right here," he said. "But you owe me, okay?"
He started to walk away. I dropped half my books as I pulled the rosary up over my head - it had managed to get caught in my hair.
"Wait!" I yelled. "Your necklace."
He turned on his heel and laughed.
"Keep it," he said. "It belonged to my grandmother." And then he turned back and walked away. I scrambled to pick up my books and straightened up in time to see him roar away on a big, old-fashioned motorcycle. Holy shit.
An artsy looking girl in ballet flats came a couple of steps closer.
"Justin Theroux," she said, looking in the same direction as me, the direction in which he had vanished. "I would give my left tit to hit that."
I laughed, more from surprise than anything else.
"Really?" I said.
"Oh hell yeah," she said. "What's your secret?"
I shrugged. I had no idea. She looked more like the kind of girl I'd imagine he was into - clever, cynical and kind of bohemian. She had a copy of Kerouac's Big Sur sticking out of her bag and while her face was otherwise scrubbed bare of make-up her lips were painted a shade Everglade liked to call 'Fuck-you Red'. Her long brown hair was bundled up in a messy bun on the back of her head and she had one of those big, retro sailor-style tattoos on her upper arm. Next to her I must have looked like an al-dente noodle - thin, white and largely tasteless.
“Maybe he’s into the whole blank canvas thing,” she said, looking me up and down. “He’s an artist, you know.”
No, I didn’t know. But I was on fire to find out.
The next time I saw him was at the bar where I'd first seen him - I'd been haunting the place for a week in the hopes of catching a glimpse of him again and I was beginning to get angry, desperate and crazy. Or maybe I'd been angry, desperate and crazy from the start - I don't know. It was hard to tell with him. Maybe I'd been nuts all along and he just knew somehow exactly which buttons to push to make me worse. All I knew was that every time I saw him and every time he spoke to me, sex stopped being this thing that happened to other people and became a thing that had to happen to me, with him, as soon as possible.
He was dancing with a rock-chicky kind of girl, whose tight lacy top left very little to the imagination. I was wearing a denim skirt and a sleeveless white t-shirt I'd hoped would make me look vaguely rock n' roll, but actually made me look like a blonde version of Olive Oyl. I was pissed but wasn't I the one with his grandmother's rosary around her neck? I'm not sure how much I'd had to drink but it gave me an idea.
I went into the bathrooms and took off my bra. I stuffed it in my purse and went marching back out there, onto the dance floor. He was still there and smiled when he caught my eye. I leaned close to yell in his ear, my heart doing double time.
"You wanna see something?" I shouted.
He looked amused. I took a step back and, still not quite believing that I was about to do this, hoisted my t-shirt to chin height. There was a rowdy drunk cheer ringing in my ears, but his face was all the reward I wanted - he was laughing, beautiful, incredulous.
"You're insane," he said, and grabbed my hand. As he pulled me through the crowd I could already hear the mutters - slut, tramp, whore - but I didn't care. I had what I wanted; his undivided attention.
He led me out the back door to a narrow little alleyway behind the bar. Before I could even look at him I had what I wanted - him. His kiss was every bit as delicious as I remembered, his hands hot under my t-shirt.
"I know you," he said, grinding into me. "You're the movie star's daughter, aren't you?"
I felt him hard against me and it gave me a jolt of fear, but it was quickly smothered
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