Unashamed (13 page)

“Fuck you guys! I like these shorts. It’s all I have, so whatever,” I defended myself.

Natalia shuffled through her bag from the mall. “Here, I’ll put this skirt on and you can wear the one I have on because it matches your shirt.” She ripped the tag off of the new skirt with her teeth and handed it to me so she could toss the bag out in the nearest garbage can.

“Oh, hell no! I don’t wear skirts. Especially a fucking mini. Are you kidding me? It’s just a bar.” I pushed the idea and the skirt back to Natalia.

Gordon chimed in with enthusiasm, “Yeah! Put on the skirt. You will look hot!”

“Gordon, I cannot dance in a fucking skirt. Let’s just go. Who cares?” I pleaded with both of them. They laughed as they pushed me from the patio to the restaurant bathroom and forced me to wear Natalia’s skirt, which was so tight it changed my natural gait and pissed me the fuck off.

“Guys, I can’t walk. I hate you,” I said, right before Natalia and I posed for photos with Gordon’s camera. I tried to sit in the backseat of the rental but couldn’t get comfortable no matter which ass cheek I leaned on, so I lifted the entire skirt around my waist and placed my shopping bag over my legs in embarrassment. “You guys suck. I am so fucking uncomfortable,” I pouted.

Gordon tried to adjust the rearview mirror with hope of catching a peek, but I flipped him off with a smile on my face. He laughed and reset the mirror for the road.

The drive was short and the bar was already packed by the time we arrived. I continued to tug at the skirt, even after we sat down at the only open table. Natalia leaned over to me and whispered, “See, people think you look hot in that skirt.”

“No, Natalia, they think I’m a prostitute,” I said sarcastically. Gordon handed us our drinks as Natalia threw her head back in laughter and tossed her long brown hair behind her back.

We didn’t stay long, but it was enough to throw back a few shots before we headed back to base.

Gordon drove, Natalia was in the passenger seat, and I was seated in the back, definitely the third wheel. It’s a bad combination for any group in their mid-twenties. When booze, dudes, and women get together, the guys always want more. In my experience, even sober in a high school cafeteria, boys saw sexual pleasure in girls innocently sharing ice cream. Connie and I didn’t see anything provocative in passing a cone back and forth, but the boys did. They wanted to see us lick the cone at the same time.

Why did we do it and let them take a photo? Because it boiled down to money, and there is absolutely nothing sexual about cold hard cash. Gordon was no exception to the Horny Guy Rule. He wanted to see us kiss about seven minutes into the drive.

I wanted to kiss her but certainly not for his pleasure. With a little coaxing from Gordon, she unfastened her seatbelt and leaned over the armrest for a smooch. It was all done in fun, but then she became more serious and leaned in for a second, more sensual one. Apparently, it was so good she squealed with laughter as she fumbled her way to the backseat for more. Gordon fought off her chunky heels as he tried to stay on the road without getting kicked in the eye.

Natalia was doing it to impress Gordon, of course. She would kiss me, then report to him that I was a good kisser and tasted like licorice, courtesy of whatever mixed drink I had from the bar. She reported that my boobs were small yet firm and that my nipples were very hard and how she wanted to lick them.

She pulled down my tank top to expose my right breast and flicked my nipple with her tongue like a man in a porno. She made sure Gordon could see us through the rearview mirror. Then Natalia turned to me and sucked on them, as if she was finally doing it for my pleasure. But, of course, Gordon had to fuck it up and say some shit, just like a man would. “Why don’t you go down on her?”

Natalia immediately sat up and adjusted herself to a proper, seated position. “I don’t give, honey, I just receive.”

I tucked my boob back into my shirt. “What?!”

Natalia explained what that meant while she feverishly searched the bottom of her purse. “Look, I was only with a girl once, and I don’t do that. Ew. I only receive. So gross.” She opened a pink compact and blotted her nose. “But I love making out.” Natalia snapped the compact closed and tossed it into the bag. She leaned into me. “You are a really good kisser.”

My intent was to make a liar out of her, but the car stopped, so we stopped. We had no idea where we were. Gordon could have driven deep into a canyon and murdered us both, we were that oblivious. Instead, he explained that we were at the Garden of the Gods, which provided a beautiful view at night.

Like drunken nymphs, Natalia and I followed him through the pathways until we found a suitable spot for viewing, which turned into a suitable spot for sex. At one point, Gordon tried to lean in for a kiss but was surprised when my arms pushed hard enough to make him stumble backward. “I don’t want you. Don’t touch me, okay?”

“So what can I do?” he asked.

I pointed to Natalia. “Her.”

The beautiful, bold moon lit everything perfectly as she gave me oral. The rocks dug through the material of my shirt, which remained on my body. Natalia’s shirt was pushed around her rib cage; her bra barely hung onto each shoulder. Gordon was fucking Natalia from behind, with his hands on her scrunched mini skirt. I tried to look at her without him in the picture. Natalia’s long brown hair and tits pulsed with every one of Gordon’s thrusts. They seemed to be millimeters away from popping out of her bra. They were so round and perfectly shaped, they almost looked paid for. I wanted her bouncing boobs to be my last image before this whole debacle ended, so I closed my eyes and reopened them to the twinkling stars. Staring completely numb is a total understatement.

What the fuck was I doing? I tried to let her tongue make me feel good, but Gordon was pumping so hard that poor Natalia struggled to keep her mouth over my clit. She began fingering me, but that turned into fast jabs with every one of Gordon’s thrusts. I made sex sounds in the appropriate places like the ladies in the pornos, but it hurt. It was like Doug-sex without lubrication, only worse. It burned; it stung.

The booze was beginning to lose its effects. There was pressure and ripping of thin tender tissues, yet I let it continue until Gordon came and she slumped over me.

The three of us dressed and walked back to the car in silence, where Natalia threw up the contents of her stomach on the sacred ground. Gordon drove us to a gas station so she could clean herself up. What a fucking gentleman.

On our way through the concession area, Gordon pulled me to the side to tell me that I must have started my period because there was blood dripping down my leg. It was bright red, almost to my knee, and partially dried. I scurried quickly to the bathroom, where Natalia was walking out of the stall wiping her mouth on her forearm. As I washed my leg with a wet paper towel, Natalia asked me what happened.

“You cut me, you bitch.” I scrubbed harder to get the dried part off.

Natalia rinsed her mouth out with water and apologized a million times with slurred words, which included reminding me that she was drunk, before she wobbled out of the bathroom with her hand over her eyes. It was a very quiet ride back to our rooms.

After showering in my hotel room, guilt and confusion wove itself into the emptiness I felt. It was not supposed to happen the way it did. I hated Gordon for being there and hated Natalia for doing it for his entertainment. But no one forced me to participate.

By the time Doug visited Arizona, I already confessed the sex with Natalia. I cannot remember if I omitted Gordon’s participation because it was petrifying or because it was unimportant due to the lack of physical contact.

Either way I was preoccupied with how Natalia was ignoring me and how she was having some sort of mental breakdown. She took the opportunity to see a mental health professional the very weekend my husband flew in from Germany. This meant extra rehearsals to cover her solo numbers during the time I was supposed to share with him. One night, after a late rehearsal, while having a smoke break, I secretly watched her sneak off with some guy.

“That skank just left with some dude. She looks all dressed up to go out, too. Of all the fucking times she could see a professional, she picks the one weekend you are here; and here she is going on a date. ‘Breakdown,’ my ass. Look, you can still see her walking to his car!”

From his relaxed position on the bed, he said, “Emma, get away from the window and just forget it. You should be happy because I am here.”

“I know. I am. She’s just ruining it, though. Pisses me off.”

“It’s not that serious, Emma.” Doug ended my bitch session with a reality check and a smile.

After weeks of rejection from my only confidant on tour, loneliness forced me to befriend one person who disgusted me. His name was Aaron and he was an asshole. No one on the tour understood his sarcastic humor enough to get close. He was happy being a jerk. Just when you thought he was an okay guy, he would say some degrading shit, instantly making him Asshole Aaron again.

However, it was sunburn that caused him to show a small level of vulnerability. Apparently, he fell asleep face down near a pool and fried his back. In constant pain he begged for someone to smooth aloe over the seared skin. No one offered sympathy but me. After volunteering, the routine ran twice a day for quite some time, even after it peeled dead skin away exposing new pink flesh. It lasted nearly twenty minutes each time because it had to be executed very carefully. In all honesty, he should have seen a doctor, it was so bad. Aaron began to speak to me on another level during our aloe appointments and was actually a nice guy. Then, as soon as his shirt was on again, he turned into instant fucktard. There was deep, sincere hatred for each other, yet, before long, we sat together to share life stories. I reluctantly admit we had our moments of laughter, but I assure you, in my head, his untimely death was planned in so many ways.

It was a strange relationship. We argued in the wings, during rehearsals, and vocal practice. We never agreed on anything unless it was aloe time, sleepy time, or joke time. We yelled at each other during the setup of production lights and tear-downs. At some point, arguing wasn’t enough, so we became physical.

His verbal abuse was not going to go unnoticed. I demanded respect from him when he threw temper tantrums, which were often. Once, Aaron became angry when a bolt wouldn’t loosen enough to disassemble the front lighting grid, so, in a fit, he threw a ten-inch steel bolt wrench near my foot. I immediately screamed, “What the hell is wrong with you, fucking psycho?” before charging him with a hammer in my hand. At the last second my hand released the hammer, enabling me to push him on his ass where he flipped over the grid that was propped on the floor.

“I’m sick of your shit and your goddamn temper tantrums!” My scream was fierce and direct. The hammer near my foot moved as I lunged forward. Instinctively my grip constricted around the handle. “You want me to throw this mother fucker at YOU?!”

Aaron tried to get up as quickly as he could, but the grid restricted his limbs. His face flushed angry red to pale white, then to red again. “Fuckin’ bitch, I’ll kill you!”

The rest of the crew who initially stopped to investigate the commotion dropped what they were doing and ran over as fast as they could. A technician restrained Aaron before he could get his balance. Someone grabbed my arm but not in time to prevent my lunge and my free hand from slapping him across the face. Considering this was a military function with all ranks in the crew, we could have been in serious trouble. It was assault by both parties.

They told Aaron to take a break and moved me to do lights in another section. We ignored each other at every passing moment; however, on stage, the show must go on. Our audiences were none the wiser. We smiled and danced hand in hand, as if we were a Disney-on-Ice couple.

The stress of the shows began with lack of sleep and the eventual seven bus breakdowns, including a major five-car accident somewhere in Delaware. We were away from our support networks of family and friends, which made dealing with personal issues very difficult unless you had a friend on the tour. It’s no surprise these semi-forced relationships always cracked.

When Aaron finally apologized on his own, it was obvious he needed my friendship to make him feel part of the team again. Notice, he didn’t necessarily want it. I accepted his apology and, for a time, things were good between us. Then it was back to arguing as usual. It never got physically abusive again, but it did get physical.

If the good Lord and baby Jesus could tell me why the hell we slept together, I still wouldn’t believe him. There was absolutely no chemistry! There was no compatibility on top of the fact that we wished horrible deaths upon the other. So, when I cried about it, guilt-ridden for cheating on my husband, justification became the pressures of the show and Natalia’s rejection. We continued to argue and express genuine hatred after it happened. Then we did it again, and I was horrified. My roommate suspected more infidelity despite my denials. My proclamation was that it was not going to happen again, because of marriage. Additionally, Aaron was an abomination to mankind! My plan was to forget him. Out of mind, out of sight.

Separation worked until Aaron surprised me one night with a knock on my motel door at one of the venues where I had a room to myself. It transformed into an opportunity to rebuke his name.