Christmas Eve
Right after sex a certain kind of woman wants to tell you everything.
He now knew her former house where she once had lived with her two kids was four times the size of this spacious condo. That her kids were off skiing with the hubby and the nanny he had replaced her with. And that the nanny, taking on airs, had hired an interior decorator to do her new house, the decorations, every last detail. And of course all the holiday goodies were brought in from the outside. The nanny did nothing now. Nothing.
He did not tell her about his own Christmases, the ones of his childhood in the Midwest: the plastic tree, the pathetic cheap gifts, the Santa hat his mother’s boyfriend of the moment always wore, not to mention the Santa hats the guards wore in prison, or what it was like getting punched in the face by a dick wearing a Santa hat.
Photo: Joel Goodman
She thought it was pretty great that they met at the church service on Christmas Eve. She wanted to know how often he want to church.
“Me? I go in spurts, you know, when I’m feeling Godly.”
Actually he could count on one hand the times in his forty-four years he had ever been inside a church. His mother, Alma, had been a rabid church hater, claiming the pastor in her church molested her at age nine. The three of them, his twin, himself and his older even crazier sister, all thought she was God. And he knew that was just the way she wanted it.
It was Christmas Eve in the evening, in the Brentwood section of Los Angeles, O.J.’s old stomping ground. He was having a lot of luck in Brentwood this holiday season. First, the fires where he’d been given shelter, clothes and food and now had a pocket full of keys and pass codes to security systems which was like having money in the bank.
On a whim, he had decided to put on his best and take a stab at a Christmas Eve service. And sure enough, he had spied a nice looking chick, around his same age, with good clothes, and an expensive watch, who he could discern
was alone, and not too happy about that. Weeks of being well fed and housed and the hand outs he had acquired along the way, including a better phone than his brother had given him and much better clothes had him really blending in the casual style of the rich who worked, golfed and drove around in the space ship looking car of the moment, the Tesla. He had counted eleven in the parking lot of the fancy grocery store.
When he was on his game, looking his best, he could not just attract attention but could maneuver himself into strange beds, new hearts, practically anyplace he wanted to be if he put his mind on it.
She was newly divorced, her ex had the kids for the holidays, and her parents were dead. All her friends were off skiing or doing whatever rich shits did over the holidays, and she was nice and she smelled good. She smelled rich, she smelled pampered, she smelled like flowers and hand cream, and he liked being in bed with a woman like that. He had enjoyed making love to her too.
“Wanna watch a little Netflix?”
He had seen some billboards, and heard some talk in the fire shelters, but he was not exactly sure what she was talking about. Was it a show? Was it some special kind of porn, what was it? Not knowing, made him angry. He prided himself on being up on the world, even if he hadn’t really lived in the world for quite a while, only on the fringes of it. It was always a struggle pretending to be above it, when he knew somewhere deep inside him, he was below, a place where he could sometimes swear he could smell the fire and brimstone. And that wasn’t just because a lot of the time he’d been in jail.
Now, as his hands began to tremble, he closed his eyes.
“Are you cold, here let me warm you up!” She took his hands in her own, this trusting soul and held them first in her hands, and then placed them on her breasts which were harder than normal breasts, he had noted that right away, but then forgot as lust took them both over. He supposed they must be fake ones. Now that he considered that, it made him angry too, the first tits in a while were fake; he had a great desire to snatch the nipples and twist them off like caps on beer.
“Are you OK?”
“Yeah, just the usual holidays blues, I’m glad we both went to church, you’re a girl in a million, and I’m really glad you brought me home.”
He said this with as much sincerity as he could muster and let go gently of her breasts.
“Let’s watch that Netflix,” he told her. “And drink a little booze, hey pretty one!”
He studied the hallow of her neck where a good sized diamond gleamed on a nearly invisible chain. A thumb right there, would knock her out in seconds, but would leave a purple bruise.
He watched her as she reached over for the remote control, a whole big bowl of them were beside the big bed. She held it up with an authority he did not like. It reminded him of something. But he didn’t remember what. Probably because he didn’t want to.
As she flicked on the giant flat screen TV, all at once the dark room was full of sound and motion and color; a whole new world dancing before his eyes bouncing off their faces and bodies. The screen was one whole wall of this fancy bedroom with the king where they lay. The big side lamps, the padded chair that held their clothes, the soft carpet beneath it could all brace the shock if he lost it and the shaking started again.
He wondered how long it would be. It was only now a matter of time.
by 
