Milkrun (13 page)

When I finally crawl into bed, it's 3:30. Good Lord, I have to wake up at 9:30 to go to Tae Kwon Do! I am
determined
to go to Tae Kwon Do. Okay, maybe I'll skip breakfast and get up at ten. No, I've got to eat something. Maybe I can pick up something on the way there. Something fast.

Rib eye, anyone?

I
TRY NOT TO INHALE THE STALE STENCH
of feet emanating from the blue floor mats. Glancing over at the cluster of shoes near the door, I begin to make my way toward a group of people stretching in white uniforms and colored belts. “Don't move!” a deep male voice resonates, freezing me to my spot.

“Why not?” I look up at a very built, very sexy, very Italian-looking stud whose deep tan/naturally golden skin contrasts brilliantly with his white Tae Kwon Do uniform and black belt. My knees feel kind of on the weak side. I might need him to carry me to the dressing room.

“You can't come into the
dojo
with your shoes on,” this perfect specimen says.

Now look what I've gone and done. I've only been here two and a half minutes and already I've insulted the sex-god. “Sorry.”

He smiles. Uh-oh. Is that a crooked tooth? Does a crooked tooth give a man character and increase his sex appeal?

No, it does not. He's definitely sexier with his mouth closed.

“No problem. I just thought I'd show you the ropes. I'm Lorenzo.”

Shh…don't talk, sweet pea. “I'm Jackie. I really appreciate your help.” I'm feeling a strange sense of déjà vu. He looks familiar. Maybe he's from Connecticut? No, he's got way too much sex appeal for Connecticut. Maybe he's an actor? I know that face…those pectorals…

“Jackie?”

“Yes?”

“Your shoes are still on.”

“Right.” Penn? No, he looks at least thirty. Orgasm? No, I repeat, he looks at least thirty…

“When you're ready, go to the Master's office. He's expecting you.”

Master NanChu is a six-foot, sixty something Korean man. He bows a bald head to me as I enter. I bow back.

“Sit, sit,” he says. Is that a photograph of Master NanChu and Sylvester Stallone framed on the wall? Is that Chris O'Donnell? Master NanChu watches me ogle. “You like Chris? He's a good boy. I train stars for movies in Hollywood.”

Is that Tom Cruise? That's Tom Cruise! He knows Tom Cruise? Can he introduce me to Tom Cruise? Maybe he trained him for
Mission: Impossible.
Maybe if I'm really good, I mean really,
really
good, Master NanChu will recommend me for a stunt woman's role. I can learn the short girl's killer karate chop in no time. Look how fast I learned to punctuate, and Helen always says my commas have a lot of punch.

“So, why are you interested in Tae Kwon Do?”

Back to business. “I'd like to learn a martial art so I can protect myself.”

“Good. Very good.”

“And get into shape, of course.”

“Good. Very good.”

And meet hot men.

We talk for a few minutes about Boston, and he sends me back to the
dojo
. “We will talk again after class. If you enjoy class, you will sign up, right?”

A little pushy, aren't we? But am I really going to argue with someone who knows Tom Cruise? I don't think so.

“Just leave your socks in the changing room.”

Here I go. Off to a whole new me. I thank him and head to the changing room, closing his door behind me. Off to take off my socks. Take off my socks? He never said anything on the phone about taking off my socks. I can't take off my socks—I haven't had a pedicure since June. This is catastrophic. I knock on Master NanChu's office door.

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“Can I leave my socks on?”

“Too dangerous. You'll slip.”

“Oh. Okay. Thanks.” Damn.

I spend the next sixty minutes trying to figure out what the hell is going on. Korean numbers and punches are being thrown all over the place. But even though I'm pretty sure my stomach is going to explode from running (the Starbucks mochaccino before class was not one of my better ideas) and I'm completely incapable of using the proper arm (“Your left arm, ma'am, left! Not
that
left arm, your
other
left arm!”), I am too busy loving the gender ratio here to care. Twenty hot, muscled men versus two three-hundred-pound women. And me. Yay! I'm not sure why other single, attractive girls haven't come up with this plan, but…who cares? More men for me. This place just drips with testosterone. I tried to convince Nat to join me, since it was kind of her idea to begin with, but she said her personal trainer didn't allow her to work out anywhere else.

Lorenzo leads the workout. “
Hanna, twul, zed, ned, dasso…
horse stance
jekiah!
” I'm not sure what he's saying, but it sure sounds sexy.

I must be doing something ridiculous-looking, because Lorenzo keeps coming over to fix my positioning. Or maybe he just wants to come over and
fix my positioning,
if you get my drift. Such dark, thick hair. Such tanned, soft skin. Such…what is that? It's…it's…B.O.! Ew.

I'm being unfair. I can't want a guy who's going to sweat, and expect him to smell like aftershave. He's still a hottie. Or he will be, post shower. But now I'd much prefer if he moved a little over…just a little more…to the other side of the room. There we go. Okay, now he's hot again.

Hmm. I can see the navy under wear through the white uniform of the man in front. Note to self: must buy more white underwear.

Punch. Snap-kick. Twist. Oddly, all the grown men can bend lower than I can.

“Okay, watch Lorenzo do proper push-ups,” Master NanChu says. Lorenzo drops to the floor. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down. “Watch how his pelvis tilts toward the floor.”

Up shoulders. Up big, manly, shapely shoulders. Up pelvis. Up big, manly shapely pelvis.

Oh, to be the floor.

Post shower.

 

When I get home at 12:30, I have very smelly feet, and five hundred and sixty dollars less in my bank account. Five hundred for a year's worth of classes, and sixty for that adorable white costume that I've still got on because it's so darn cute.

Sam is wrapped in her afghan, watching
Beautiful Bride
again. Photo albums have been strewn all over the couch. “You smell,” she says.

“Thanks, so do you. Did you sleep on the couch? Did anyone call for me?”

“No and no. Why? Who should call?” her voice sounds like a flat bottle of Diet Coke I might have accidentally left on the counter.

“I met a boy at the bar. He said he'd call.”

“Just because a guy says he's going to call doesn't mean he's going to call.
City Girls
says that a guy says he's going to call only because it's an easy way to end a conversation. Who is he?”

“Damon Strenner.” Since when does Sam read
City Girls?

“I know him. He's cute. I thought he had a girlfriend.”

“Guess not.” Enough with the girlfriend thing already. He's obviously gotten over it; can't everyone else? My
Cosmopolitan, Mademoiselle, Glamour
and
City Girls
magazines are spread out all over the floor, looking far too well-worn. “You're memorizing this stuff?” I plop down on the floor beside her, and begin leafing through pages.

“They're full of useful information. I've learned all about tantric sex. If I ever have sex again, I'm going to try The Pretzel.”

“And The Pretzel is what exactly?” I ask.

“The woman's on top with her legs wrapped around and under the guy's knees, and his arms are loosely looped around her back.”

“Sounds like work.”

“It has four barbells out of five. That means it's pretty difficult. I want to try The Diving Board, too.”

I don't even want to know how that works. A thought occurs to me. “Do you know your and Marc's combined first initials are
S
and
M?
” “So?”

What a great Halloween costume for them—they can throw on some leather clothing, sew red letters
S
and
M
onto their chests, and handcuff themselves together. However, I'm not clear whether “so” means she's unaware of what S-M is or if she knows but doesn't care. I drop the subject.

“Look how happy we were,” she whines, tossing the flowered photo album onto my lap. On the right side of the page are three pictures of the then-happy couple on a Florida beach, and one of her sitting on a hotel bed. Each picture boasts a typed label:
Sam at the Hyatt, Marc and Sam on the Sand, Marc and Sam in the Water,
et cetera. The left side of the page is a collage of airline tickets, museum ticket stubs, menus, and bus tickets. She's the type of person who probably kept the wrapper from their first-time condom.

Marc and Sam certainly look happy in the photos. In one picture Sam is lying on a hotel bed, wrapped in a white afghan, smiling and holding a glass of wine. In fact, in all the pictures, even the ones of her in the water, Sam is smiling and holding a glass of wine. Wait a second…“Sam, is that
your
afghan in the picture?”

“Um…yes.” She runs her hand along the white afghan draped over her legs.

“You bring your own linen to hotels?” Is it possible? Can anyone be this nuts?

She refuses to make eye contact. “Do you know what kind of disease lives on hotel comforters? There's cum stains, there's dried blood, there's—”

“Do you bring your own pillows, too?”

“Pillowcases. Don't you watch
20/20?
”

“You have to lighten up. No one will want to marry anyone who's this crazy.”

And then she goes ahead and starts crying.

I was
so
kidding. Some people have no sense of humor.

 

Damon calls at three o'clock. I can hear the phone ringing, but I can't see it anywhere. It's got to be somewhere on the floor of my room…I see sweaters, a crumpled sheet, yesterday's thong…

“Hi, there,” he says after I finally find the phone cradled between two cups of my strapless bra.

“Hi.” He called! He called! He said he was going to call and he called he called he called!

“Are we still on for tonight?”

He feels the cosmic pull. The current runs straight from his stripe to my soul. “Certainly.”

“Great. Where should I meet you?”

Meet me? Where should I pick you up? is what he's supposed to say. What kind of soul mate wants to meet me somewhere? “I don't know. Where do you want to go?”

“Where do you live?”

“Back Bay.”

“Me, too. Why don't we meet at Marlborough and Dartmouth?”

“Marlborough and Dartmouth?” On the corner? He wants to meet me on the corner? Am I a prostitute? What if some pervert pulls me into his moving car? What if the getting-hisjollies-supercreep from last week is waiting there for me?

“Is that okay?”

No. It is
not.
Who meets his soul mate on the corner? What if he doesn't show? What if I'm stuck there for hours waiting, checking my watch every two minutes? To make the time pass I'll have to play little games with myself like trying to remember the names of all the guys I've ever wanted to sleep with.

“I guess.” I guess you're not my soul mate, you inconsiderate jackass. “What time should I meet you?”

“How's 9:30?”

“Fine.” If he's not at the corner by 9:33, I'm out of there.

“See you there.”

Unless I decide not to show up because of these completely despicable dating conditions. “Damon?”

“Yeah?”

“What number can I reach you at? In case something comes up?” In case I find some self-respect and tell you to go to straight to hell instead of to a street corner.

He pauses. Hello? What's the problem? I'm being nice here, trying to get your number in case I decide to ditch you so that I won't leave you standing on the corner and counting cars all night.

After a long pause, he rattles off his number.

“I'll see you later then.” I slam down the phone. A two-minute conversation and we're already in a fight.

“Was that Damon?” Sam hollers from the living room.

“Yes. See, he called! We're going out tonight!” I scream back through my bedroom wall.

“What time?”

“At 9:30! Why? Do you want to have dinner together?”

“No! I'm going out with Marc! But
City Girls
says you can tell how serious a guy is about you by what time he calls the date for! If he calls the date for after nine, he just wants to get into your pants!”