Ginny Blue's Boyfriends (19 page)

Authors: Nancy Kelly

BOOK: Ginny Blue's Boyfriends

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“Ginny Blue,” I said.

“Virginia Bluebell,” my mom corrected. “And I’m Lorraine.”

The introductions averted trouble for the moment. Mom kept one suspicious eye on Larry for a while. If I hadn’t known better I would have sworn she was a rabid Trailblazer fan.

Then the ball was inbounded, someone fouled another player, swear words were exchanged on both sides, and the Lakers were slapped with a technical foul.

Larry booed loudly and the Portland fans looked ready to lynch him, my mother among them. I, meanwhile, had realized that he was rather attractive. Sure, he was noticeably hairy. I mean, his arms were like a grizzly bear’s. And his eyebrows were fairly bushy. But the hair on his head was thick and lustrous, and as his crown was directly in my eyesight, I had the urge to run my hands through it in a way that gave me the shivers.

At halftime Larry headed out for a beer and surprised me by asking us if we wanted to join him and his friend, Jeff. Jeff was utterly silent. I was half-convinced he was a mute until he managed to ask for a round of Budweiser and we all stood in the beer room sipping out of clear plastic cups. Mom wrinkled her nose at the flavor but she valiantly kept on drinking. I was pretty sure it was her first beer. She favors white wine and iced tea.

Larry let it be known that he was visiting Jeff, a college friend, and, no surprise here, that he lived in southern California, as many Lakers fans do. (Larry was, in fact, the reason I decided to move to sunny SoCal in the first place.) My mother then embarrassed me by launching into a story of Jackson Wright,
über
-success, who’d moved to Los Angeles from Portland and made it big in the finance and film industry. Larry, a screenwriter, was intrigued. Mom didn’t have Jackson’s phone number, but Larry turned over his.

At the end of the evening, after the Lakers had pulled out a squeaker in the fourth quarter, Larry leapt into the air with a raised fist. His pleasure drew swordlike glances from the disappointed Portland fans, but Mom, true to her fickle nature, had switched allegiances. She was talking real estate to Jeff as we filed out of the arena. Jeff was apparently listening.

“I’m going to be in town for a few more days,” Larry said to me. “I’m staying with Jeff. I don’t know the city all that well. Can you recommend someplace to eat?”

“Well ...” I paused. “There’s Jake’s. It’s been here for a century or so.”

“Century-old Jake’s sounds fantastic.” His eyes seemed focused on mine. “Care to join me?”

I love Jake’s, but I didn’t know Larry at all. Mom wasn’t being a whole lot of help in this regard as she’d mentally adopted both Larry and Jeff, I could tell. I weighed the whole thing and suggested cautiously, “Could I meet you there?”

“Good enough,” he said.

We made a date for the following night, and while I prepared for the evening ahead I suffered serious cold feet. But Mom was now a Larry champion. “Oh, for pete’s sake.” She eyed me as if I couldn’t possibly have come from her gene pool. “Do something.”

Well, now, that hurt. Mainly because I
wasn’t
doing anything and she’d hit right on it. It was February and cold as the arctic. I wouldn’t have worn a dress if my life depended on it, so I put on a pair of black slacks and a fuzzy red sweater that looked okay with my brown hair. Mom
tsk
ed and complained. I said, rather tartly, that Lawrence Stoddard could be a serial killer for all we knew. I’m sure I heard wrong, but I think she muttered something about “at least having a goal.”

I was carless at this point, so I drove Mom’s blue Ford sedan and parked just off Burnside around the corner from Jake’s. I felt cold, odd, and conspicuous as I stepped through the door into the bar and waded through groups of people. I was twenty-two; I hadn’t gotten into Ketel One vodka martinis yet. Besides, I had no job, so I cheaped out and bought myself the least expensive beer on the menu. Glancing around for Larry, I realized he was late. I’d give him a few minutes and if he didn’t show, I’d vamoose. I would have gone right then but the thought of free food was enough to keep me rooted awhile. I took off my black leather jacket and draped it over my arm.

The guy who’d carded me on the way in kept looking at me. I found it flattering so I smiled at him, then worried that there might be something in my teeth. With that in mind, I headed to the bathroom, and found there that I looked fine. In fact, I looked better than fine. Stepping from the frigid outside to the body warmth inside had added a pink tint to my cheeks that made me seem prettier than I believed myself to be. I pinched my cheeks, Scarlett O’Hara style, to keep the illusion going and headed back to the bar.

Larry was there when I returned. I lifted a hand in greeting and the guy at the door thought I was signaling him. When he realized my date had arrived he pretended to be very, very sad. I laughed.

Larry grinned. “You got a great laugh.”

Flattery. It always worries me. Nevertheless, Larry was looking good in a blue dress shirt, open at the throat, the sleeves rolled up his muscular arms. His black leather jacket was draped over his arm as well, a concession to the body heat inside Jake’s.

“We must buy at the same discount leather shop,” I remarked.

“I can’t stand retail,” he revealed.

“Me, neither.”

“Makes me feel like I’m getting cheated.”

“Amen,” I agreed, deciding I liked Larry a little.

“You ready to eat?” He glanced around and found the maître d’ at his desk. We were shown to our table, a small, boothlike affair that would’ve been too intimate to my liking except that Larry was relaxed wherever he went. He ordered scotch on the rocks for both of us.

“I don’t drink scotch,” I said.

“Give it a try,” he suggested. “If you don’t like it, we’ll find you something else.”

What I didn’t like was his high-handed ways, but since he was buying—at least, I assumed he was buying—I acquiesced. I had a moment of fear and distress, then decided if he suddenly wanted to go Dutch I’d pull a Nancy Reagan and “just say no.”

The bad news: after a couple of sips that burned down my throat like molten ore, I found the scotch was not too bad. I drank my drink, and a second, and suddenly I was very much in love with Lawrence Stoddard. I also became way too chatty, as alcohol was wont to make me become, and before long I was remarking on his luscious head of hair.

“Oh, yeah?” he said, pleased. “I got hair everywhere. Except my back. So far, anyway.”

I was glad to hear about the nonfoliated back. That might’ve put me over the edge.

I scarcely remember what I ate. I just was having such a jolly old time that the next time I truly surfaced, we were heading toward Jeff’s place, which was around the corner from Jake’s in a fairly chichi area of northwest Portland.

It worked for me.

Jeff, as it turned out, was incredibly wealthy. He was an investor, or partner, in several going concerns. I pointed out, rather cleverly I thought, that he must be a silent partner. When we got to his place, Larry steered me to the guest cottage—his own private digs.

Before you could quote Nine Inch Nails and say, “Fuck me like an animal,” we were all over each other. Larry was stripping off his clothes in between heavy panting kisses; I was doing it even faster. Since Kane, I hadn’t made it with anyone past a few heavy petting sessions before I’d lost interest. I was going to score with Larry if it killed me.

He was true to his word about the back hair. Nothing there. But legs, arms, and definitely beard made up for it. I ran my fingers through his mane and practically purred with delight. We didn’t spend a lot of time on preliminaries which was just fine with me as I was in the mood as I’d never been before.

And ... I climaxed for the first time ever. It was so unexpected and fantastic that I wanted to cheer. Trust me, it was nothing special Larry did; he was all business. In, out, a couple of joyously raucous thumps and I was THERE. I could have kissed him. Actually, I did kiss him. Repeatedly. We ended up having three lusty go-arounds before I felt the need to find my mother’s car and head home.

I was so delighted I almost told Mom about it the next day. This, of course, does not fit into the mother-daughter rule book of behavior, but I thought, “What the hell. I’m of age.”

I fumbled around with how to divulge my girlish delight, but in the end I kept what happened to myself. However, my Cheshire-cat smile must have given me away anyway, because late that same afternoon Mom looked up from digging inside one of her big-ass purses—a purple one—and said dryly, “It looks like you’ll be seeing him again.”

I grinned even wider. I did see him again, at the fateful chest hair burning event. He called me that afternoon and invited me to a party. Jeff and some buds were getting together. He wanted me to join. Thrilled, I dressed myself carefully in a long black skirt, black boots, and a pale blue boat-necked top. Feeling ultrafashionable, I showed up about ten minutes late to the party—didn’t want to seem too eager—just in time for Larry to be coaxed by a horde of beer-swillers into performing his famed trick. In slack-jawed shock I watched as he poured a liberal amount of lighter fluid onto the shaggy black hair of his chest, picked up an automatic lighter and WHOOSH! He went up in flames!

I think I screamed. If I did, no one heard as they were screaming with laughter themselves. Everyone instantly and frantically patted him down hard, making sure he didn’t burn anything besides the chest hair. The odor of singed fur permeated the air. Unlike CeeCee’s long-haired friend who’d accidentally fried his locks, this was apparently a regular gig for Hairy Larry. I was horrified.

But ... I did have sex with Larry that night. I didn’t quite reach the pinnacle of ecstacy as the night before, but it was pretty good. Almost a climax. He took a shower before the big event, but even so I had to work hard to train my nose from twitching at the scent of his now hairless, slightly red-skinned chest. I left him with slightly less of that euphoric feeling I’d possessed from the night before, but after a serious talking-to with myself in my bedroom mirror, I decided I was still game for the long haul.

That is, until he didn’t call. Ever. Again.

I waited around the next day but when it was five o’clock and no Larry, I grew a set of balls and made the call myself. Jeff answered the phone with a rather croaky, “Hello?” as if his vocal cords were as rusty as I believed them to be.

“Hi, it’s Ginny. Is Larry there?”

“Oh. No. He had to go back to LA. You want his number there?”

I was shocked. Poleaxed. I managed to say, “Sure” and to sound fairly nonchalant but come on! Give me a break. I should have known right then and there that it was never going to work with Larry, but nope. Instead I finally found the career goal I’d been looking for: a move to Los Angeles. And why not? All my college friends were already there. When I told Jill, Daphne, and CeeCee that I was coming down their way they were thrilled. I didn’t have the heart—or the new, now seriously shrinking, set of balls—to tell them what had driven my decision.

Now, sipping away at my martini, I cringed to remember how I’d looked Larry up in the land of everlasting sunshine. I’d called cheerily, blurting that I’d moved to the City of Angels myself, and wasn’t that just the most amazing coincidence. The stars had just aligned themselves. He was pleasant. He actually sounded happy that I would be around, and when I showed up on his doorstep he enveloped me in a deep bear hug. My fears were allayed. My heart sang.

It’s just that ... he was really too busy for a girlfriend. Not that he came right out and said it, but it became crystal clear as I did all the calling, all the chasing, everything. Our relationship lasted a total of four months, on and off. Then, about the time I was ready to give up and call it off completely, he beat me to the punch.

Kind of like Nate.

Depressing.

The good thing was that my move to LA had been what it took for me to begin a career. While my relationship with Larry stalled I jumped into the commercial production biz, starting out as a PA. When I’m feeling generous I recall that Larry’s the reason I found the job that I love. Most of the time I don’t think of him at all.

But now, joy of joys, I was going to get to see him again. Realizing that my martini was dry as a bone—and not from lack of vermouth—I got up from my chair. I took three steps toward the bar when the man of the hour himself strode into the room, big as life. Hairy Larry in the flesh. I did the proverbial double take. My jaw dropped almost as much as it had when I walked in on the pyrodefoliation. Hairy Larry was totally gray. A silver fox. And it looked damn good on him.

He spotted me and grinned. I raised a hand and smiled back. Well, hell. No use holding a grudge. “Hairy Larry, as I live and breathe.”

“Virginia Bluebell. You’re gorgeous, you know.”

This was a blatant lie, but he made me feel gorgeous anyway. “I’m doing okay.”

“Bullshit. You look like a million.”

“So, CeeCee talked you into coming. I can’t believe it.”

“It’s been awhile,” he said, with just a trace of sheepishness.

“I hope you feel like dogmeat for breaking up with me.”