Wanting Rita (8 page)

Our hands almost touched. But when I heard him, that voice coming from the car radio, I froze. It was the whiny voice of Jeremy Peels! Our local D. J.

“Okay all you rascals and rascalettes out there. Listen up. It’s 8:30 on the dot, and the beautiful and sexy Rita Fitzgerald is out there somewhere with another man, you gorgeous two-timer you. Anyway, she has requested this song by the great Bette Midler to be played at precisely 8:30. You’re breaking my heart, Rita. Who is the lucky guy, boys and girls? Who is that rascal? Well, anyway, here goes. Anything for you, gorgeous.”

The song began.

“Do you wanna dance and hold my hand…”

I felt violated and nauseous. My face surely revealed it.

“What’s the matter, Alan James? Let’s dance. Come on.” She reached for me.

I backed off. “I hate that guy!”

“What guy!?”

“You know what guy! Jeremy Peels! He’s an asshole! A big pain in the ass asshole!”

“He is not!”

“He is!”

“You don’t even know him, Alan James!”

“I know him alright!”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do!”

“No way!”

“Yes way!”

Rita threw her fists to her hips. “Not this again.”

“Yes, this again!”

“You don’t even know him, Alan James!”

“And I don’t want to!”

“Are you going to dance with me?”

“No! I hate that song!”

Rita stiffened. “You little shit!”

She stormed off to the car, yanked open the door and snatched her red leather handbag from her seat. She took out a pack of cigarettes, shook one out and placed it between her lips. Turning from the quick wind, she flicked her bright green lighter. It flared and she lit the cigarette, blowing the smoke skyward.

I approached, incredulous. “What the hell is this?! You don’t smoke.”

“Really?” she asked, sarcastically. “Because you’ve never seen me?”

“I hate cigarettes!”

Her full lips broke into a mirthless grin. “Smoking is Sooo terrible, isn’t it?”

“Yes! It’s a dirty, filthy habit.”

“It’s one of the worst things anyone can ever do in this world, isn’t it, Alan James,” she said, mocking me. “One of the very, VERY worst!”

“Yes, it is!” I said, with self-righteous force. “What would everybody say if they saw you smoking?”

She took a long drag and let the smoke curl from her lips. “Oh, they’d probably say something like, let’s see…” She posed, cigarette dangling provocatively from her mouth. ‘Rita Fitzgerald! Smoking! No way. She shouldn’t! She wouldn’t! She couldn’t!”

She inhaled, took the cigarette from her mouth and blew the smoke at me. “They’d scowl and wring their hands. My God, not Rita! Please let it not be Rita! But then, they’d suddenly realize the truth behind this awful and atrocious deed. They’d realize that I, Saint Rita of Hartsfield, was led to this despicable and desperate act, by none other than…” She advanced aggressively toward me, jabbing an accusing finger. “…YOU, Alan James! YOU are the real guilty party here! Not little ole Rita!”

I threw up my hands in irritation and tried to speak, but she threw up a hand to silence me. She stood hipshot, head back, lips wet; her half-hooded eyes set in a lusty invitation. “…YOU, Alan James, tempted and enticed and forced me to do it!” She threw a dramatic hand over her overwrought face. “I didn’t want to, ladies and gentlemen of the jury! Please, please, understand the whole truth and nothing but the truth. It is such a dirty and filthy habit and one for which I should surely be sent to the stake, smoking all the way. But, and I say, but, with all humility. But!!” She shouted with a firm, loud intensity, pausing to take a long drag. “…Alan James made me do it! He did! I swear! He was so seductive with his, ‘Ah, come on, you little bitch, you’ll love it. Just one little sexy puff. You’ll love it, absolutely lahvit!’”

Her voice lowered to a throaty earthiness. “And, I, in turn, will love you, Rita Fitzgerald, like you have never been loved before. I, Alan James, a rascal and a whisky drinker, will show you how a real woman should be treated. How a real woman should be held and loved! I can guarantee that you will leave my strong arms breathless, satisfied, and forever and evermore grateful.”

I stood belittled and angry. “Go to hell!”

She laughed wildly. “Alan James, you are a little stuck up, rich, snobby, tight- assed shit!”

I burned past her, jerked the door open and slid in behind the wheel. I switched off the radio, crossed my arms and fumed.

Rita ignored me. She sauntered toward the lake and finished her cigarette. I watched her irritably, heart pounding, veins throbbing, and then turned away. For a deliciously revengeful moment I thought of driving off and leaving her. The longer I sat, tense and beaten, the greater the temptation. That would show her! The whole town would know. They’d know that Rita was a low-life bitch! Just as I slammed the door and found the gear, I heard the passenger door open. Too late.

Rita got in and closed the door. I faced her with anger. She gave me a soft appealing look. “Hey, there, Alan James, were you going to leave me?”

I ignored her.

“Turn off the engine,” she said, at a whisper.

I remained inert.

Her voice dropped into a rich tone of desire. “Turn it off, Alan. Please…”

Reluctantly, helpless now, I did.

She leaned toward me and sought my eyes. “Look at me.”

I felt like a little boy, but I did, with a stony stare that soon melted. I was struck by a quiet vulnerability in her eyes—by her long, curled eyelashes, by her long lazy and sensual gaze. I felt myself unravel as she took my hand and squeezed it. “Come on, Alan…Let’s go outside.”

Outside, we went to a place where fallen leaves made a carpet, near the edge of the cliff.

“Let’s dance.”

I crept close, took first her left hand, holding it loosely at my side, then her right, raising it to shoulder level. We stood eye to eye; Rita was 5’10” in her heels. We danced to silent music, keeping four inches between us. The power of her enveloped me with a strange pleasure, so I turned away, avoiding her gaze, embarrassed and rigid.

“Not so bad, Alan James. Not so very bad for a concrete man.”

The chilly wind shifted direction and a shower of leaves fell around us. I was vaguely aware of the waves on the lake below brushing the shoreline. Rita nestled close and placed her head gently on my shoulder. I tensed up.

“Relax concrete man,” Rita joked. “Relax.”

I don’t remember how long we danced before Rita took off her heels, knelt, reached up and drew me down to her, keeping her steady eyes locked on mine. We faced each other, close. I tried to keep my face as blank as possible. I was petrified.

“It’s not so complicated, Alan James.”

“…What?”

“…I like you. Simple. I like you very much.”

I couldn’t speak. Rita took me in for a moment, searchingly, and smiled. When she kissed me, her lips damp and soft, I shivered. My heart throbbed with the first wildness of true love, and suddenly and unexpectedly, I cried. All my defenses were breached and my senses were stung by a sweet and wicked bliss. My eyes were fully open and Rita saw the tears. She touched them in wonder and surprise, and kissed them, as the shadows danced around us. Feeling hopeless and ashamed, I looked away.

“Hey…don’t turn away from me, Alan James. No, no, don’t turn away. No one has ever cried for me before. Ever. No one.” She took my head in her soft hands and looked deeply into my eyes. “It’s okay. It’s okay to want me. Wanting me is okay.”

I reached for her with a new surprise, with a man’s strength, and pressed her lips against mine. They were moist and yielding. I quivered. The wind scattered her scented hair, and as it brushed my face, my erection pressed and ached.

She helped me when I fumbled with the buttons of her blouse, but she didn’t rush; she kept her deliberate eyes on me. She released her bra, but allowed me the gift of peeling it from her breasts. I did so slowly, overcome and breathless. The leaves were wet with moonlight, and that same moonshine flooded her. As she tilted her head and gently lifted her torso, proudly, I released a labored breath. Her breasts were large, firm and straight, her waist naturally slim; her nipples erect. I touched them, held them, and felt the assault of love.

It was a moment without thoughts; a moment of turmoil and excruciating desire. When she removed my glasses and flung away my shirt, she stared for a time, grinning. I shivered in the snappy wind. “It’s not the worst thing, Alan James. Not the worst.”

Her nakedness exposed my own inner nakedness, breaking open something inside that began to pulsate and rise. She seemed to sense it and she coaxed it on with her wide, dreamy eyes. “Come on, Alan James. Come on, baby.”

In a blur, our remaining clothes were tugged off and whipped away. She reached for my erection. Her touch sent me into spasms. She squeezed and pressed, without force. She came against me, allowing the full thrill, the ripeness of her body and spirit to have its mesmerizing effect.

She nudged me backwards, and then lay down on top of me. Her breasts were warm and heavy on my chest. I was hot and cold, kissing her neck and hair.

We tangled and played and rolled across the rough leaves and heard distant thunder that made the moment seem destined and primordial; an acknowledgment by the gods that this extraordinary moment was blessed, sacred and inescapable. When she straddled me, I was surprised. I panted, hotly, unsure, confused, seeing a hunger in her eyes.

She handled and guided me, slithered down the length of me, with a shutter and a gentle cry. I faltered, as if struck. We remained motionless for a time as she waited, eyes shut tightly. I pulsed.

Then something deep gathered into a force—a rage of startling passion—and it compelled me to action, a steady drive for satisfaction. Rita was stirred by it, meeting me with a cry of pleasure, drawing me to her, with a poetry of touch and kisses. It became simple then. We kept finding each other, by abandoning, discovering and sharing. Our eyes met with a shock of pleasure, our march to gratification steadily escalating.

I felt the start of a tremor, the swelling of desire—of loss, of grace, of death. I saw the taut muscles in her neck, saw the growing strain and urgency on her face. I slid in and out of madness, helpless now under the currents of a savage sensation.

When she cried out into the sky, a rocking agitation found a sharp release. The end of longing, fantasy and passion poured into Rita with a driving desperation—with a prayer that my seed would fill her, impregnate her and mark her, for all time, as my lover. I drove as fast and as deep as I could, prayerful, until I fell into a damp exhaustion.

Thunder rolled across the sky. The strobe of lightning caught us. Rita began to unfold in a slow crumbling descent, coming to rest on my trembling body. I wanted to stay inside her, warm and blessed. I wanted to breathe only her breaths; hear only her words; make love only to her with a man’s raw strength, love and lust.

Her face fell into peace, and I held her, feeling the heat of her waning desire.

“Rita…” I whispered. “I love you…”

A coffee cup shattered on the floor. I was jarred back to the present. One of Jack’s customers had dropped it. Coffee lay in splattered geometric designs on the floor behind me. The diner was quiet now. The two men next to me had left. The booths had mostly emptied; there remained only an elderly couple eating oatmeal, and a family of four sharing eggs and pancakes, not talking. A teenage busboy mopped up the spill, while my waitress wiped the counter, refilled my cup, and then stopped to take me in, as if for the first time.

“Anything else?”

“No. Check please.”

I was already buzzed from too much coffee. I reached for my wallet, convinced that Rita had gone home or had every intention of ignoring me. It was just as well. I felt slightly irritated at myself for reliving those memories, and surprised by the power of them to leave me strangely sad and wanting.

When the waitress dropped the check, I stood, releasing a little sigh of disappointment and relief. Instinctively, I passed another glance toward the kitchen door, and for a second or two, I thought I heard someone call my name, at a whisper. I quickly scanned the room. Nothing. No one.

As I pivoted away from the counter, the kitchen door opened and Rita slowly emerged. I stood in a strained formality, heart racing. She made a tentative entrance, like an actress on opening night, unsure of her character or lines. Her appearance startled the doctor in me to rigidity and alarm. For the boy of 17, who remembered the goddess, there arose a swift agony. I waited. All eyes were on her, rapt. The room became a tableau. I sensed that she felt my presence before she saw me.

She turned slowly, finding my eyes. All that luxurious long hair was gone, replaced by a mercilessly short style, spiked with gel, and lusterless. Thin and bony, her body lacked shape under the loose blue nylon dress; and the damned dress cheapened her; demeaned her.

It was the ravaged body of a starved animal, the pallid color of an old rag, and the hollow, deep set eyes of someone who had just emerged from a tomb. I met her gaze, seeing the once brilliant fireworks had vanished, replaced by a cold, vacant darkness.