Sex late night chats
"Hey, Davy," she'd breathe, "how 'bout a quickie?"In December the book tour ended, and I resumed a more regular kind of life—staying put in Michigan, playing basketball twice a week at the rec center, sleeping in my own bed.
And the more we got to know each other, the more the sex improved. She started calling me every day, a half hour before my reading, when she knew I'd be out in the van getting my notes ready.
She said her boyfriend was studying just outside her bedroom door. "Just talk out loud for a second so I can hear your real voice." She refused.
I got a little freaked out—was this a guy I'd been talking to? Still, she seemed like a girl—there'd been a few times when I thought I'd heard her real voice, times when she laughed, times when she moaned. Houston, Baton Rouge, New Orleans, Tampa—Nicole and I skittered across the South; it was like Badlands for the new millennium (less killing, more "anytime minutes").
"), and then other times, I performed in the voice of a black comedian making fun of the way white people talk, over-pronouncing each word ("Oh yes, baby, golly gee, keep licking my penis, that just feels absolutely stupendous! Only irony could distance me from the sad truth of what I was really doing: jacking off in the back of my van in a Taco Bell parking lot in Jefferson City, Missouri, while talking on my headset to someone who was possibly a man.
Over the phone, Nicole definitely had the resigned spirit of a woman who'd had a lot of attention from guys in high school but then, knocked around by life, had slid hopelessly overweight.