The Boots My Mother Gave Me (16 page)

“What’s the other part say?”

“That maybe this was supposed to happen, the end of the road for us, ya know? Maybe we needed each other for a while and now we’ve graduated from that place and it’s time to move on,” I reasoned.

“So, the universe wants us to break-up? That’s a lot of power to give the universe, Harley.”

“Well, the universe didn’t sleep with another woman,” I said. “Don’t belittle how I’m processing this whole thing. Maybe it’s easier to accept if I think the universe is at work and that it happened for a reason. Everything has to happen for a reason, right? Otherwise things that make absolutely no sense whatsoever happen all the time, and how do we explain them, accept them, forgive, forget, and move on?”

“You have got to let go of the past, Harley. Get rid of the baggage.”

I felt my temper rise with his words, as the truth always hurts. I stood from the floor, pulling magnets off my refrigerator, throwing them into a packing box. “This conversation is not about my baggage. It’s about your penis and how you failed to keep it in the confines of your jeans. And yeah, maybe I do have a lot of baggage, but it’s my baggage. And I’ll take it wherever the hell I want, for as long as I want.” I threw my arms out to my sides pointing about my apartment at all the boxes and bags I had packed. “Look at all my baggage!”

I slumped into the chair at the kitchen table, looking around my apartment at all my shit piled up here and there. Was that scene a metaphor, for all the baggage I carried with me? I didn’t know how to get rid of it. My answer, again, was to throw it all in and run. Life was getting a little complicated, serious, and I couldn’t take it. “I have to get out of here,” I said.

I felt instantly panicked, my skin grew flushed and moist. I looked down at my feet, my mother’s boots, the boots she gave me. They felt tight, suffocating. My heart rate soared, my pulse echoed in my head so loud and rhythmic, like a drum. I pulled at the boots frantically, kicking them away. I rested my elbows on my knees, steadying my breathing. Casey came to me. Picking up the boots, he put them in the bottom of an empty box I had sitting in the kitchen. Slowly returning to myself, “I’m sorry,” I whispered, looking up at him.

He shook his head. “I’m sorry.” He took a deep breath before releasing. “Can I stay? Help you pack?”

“I’d like that.”

He extended his hand, coaxing me from my chair. Casey stayed and helped me finish packing. We said our goodbyes into the wee hours of the morning, in my bed, a sexual healing for me, a cleansing for him.

At sunrise Charlene and I headed west, my favorite time of day to drive. The sun always welcomed me with its warm rays, my heart happy in its brilliance and intoxicated with the wonder of what I might find beneath.

A
s Prince sang, I partied
like it was 1999.
It was, late summer 1999, and gorgeous Southern California did not disappoint. I resided in a five-hundred-square-foot studio flat in Santa Monica, a five minute walk to the ocean. No stranger to small places having lived above Benny’s Automotive, it was all the room I could afford. For its ample appeal, Cali had a few downsides. The cost of living, unlike anything I had ever seen, was quick to break the bank.

And people, there were so many people, leading to horrible traffic. But it was worth it, every beautiful, miserable minute on the freeway. The town typified the epitome of dreams coming true. The attitude, chill, I never saw so many innately
cool
people as I did in California. I loved the vibe, and the culture was every bit an education. With tolerance for individuality, you could be anybody or anything you wanted.

I worked a lot to afford the lifestyle, so school took a backseat. I transferred my credits to UCLA, taking a part-time load, changing my major to broadcasting. Maybe I’d be a television reporter, a sports reporter, who knows? I always had so many ideas. I wanted to try everything. Having ventured out into the land of opportunity, my focus failed me. There was so much to do, so much to see. Too curious and too easily distracted by my next new notion to follow through with any one thing, I loved ideas, and never found myself short of them.

I continued to experiment with songwriting, my environment lending itself to endless inspiration. I got an agent. Everybody in Los Angeles has an agent. I enjoyed acting classes and auditioning, pretending to be someone else was definitely easier than being myself. I
worked
occasionally in the industry, booking a music video here, a television promo there, maybe a local commercial every now and then, but nothing of any real significance.

I began to think such was my lot in life, a jack-of-all-trades master of none. An amateur model, an amateur songwriter, and now, an amateur actor, would I ever truly excel at any one thing? What was I born to do? What did I love to do? For as long as I could remember, I never had that thing, that one thing I knew I was destined to do. I wanted to do everything, at least once.

After Casey Timmons, I swore off men intermittently at my leisure, dating casually every now and then. I wanted to be free, untouched, and as Casey pointed out, I had enough baggage. I didn’t want any more. I liked my solitude. I ran every morning at sunrise on the sands of the Pacific Ocean, a joyful addiction. It helped clear my mind, lifted my spirits and kept me centered.

I continued my work as a massage therapist with a plentiful clientele, a highly accepted and desired practice on the West Coast. Some people even came to me before they went to their doctor. I delved into yoga and personal training, acquiring my certification to instruct both. Such involvement with unconventional modes of physical, spiritual, and mental well-being piqued my own curiosity. I wanted to know why I thought the way I did, what formed my opinions, who was I, who did I want to be, how strong was my spiritual connection, what made my mind tick and my body click? I thought I was so deep.

I signed up for an intense spiritual yoga series based in the fundamentals of celibacy, requiring such a vow from its participants. The idea: through celibacy, one could gain control of the senses and acquire perennial joy and inner peace. The concept, though difficult to fathom, appealed to me, liking the premise of controlling anything, especially my senses. In order to acquire these things, one had to free oneself of sexual thoughts and desires, making a pledge of celibacy.
Sure, I can do that.
How hard can that be? The last time I had sex was with Casey, over a year ago now. I survived that.

Three months into the class, I dreaded my afternoon session. Celibacy in this particular series implied you were not even supposed to think about sex. Don’t have it, don’t think about having it, erase it from your thoughts completely.

I had thought about SEX all night, and woke up this morning thinking about it. I ran four extra miles on the beach, in addition to my usual four-mile jaunt to tire myself to the extent that even a thought would require too much energy. It haunted me.

I couldn’t get away from it. I was eating my banana at breakfast and before I knew it, my mind wandered to penises and sex. I passed my next-door neighbor in the hall on my way to class, and he had on a
Dick’s Last Resort
t-shirt. I know he must have thought,
how strange,
when I quickly covered my eyes and turned my head as I greeted him in passing.

And the billboard on Sunset Boulevard, freaking Russell Crowe in the
Gladiator!
In the role of the magnificently audacious Maximus, in full warrior wardrobe, muscles bulging everywhere, and I’m not supposed to think about sex? I pushed through the traffic light, as it turned red, to avoid the mental onslaught of sexual images I was sure to encounter if I had to sit there and look at him the entire time.

Nearly causing a wreck, I whipped Charlene into a parking spot, averting my eyes from all the
toy
shops in the vicinity. You’d think they would at least have the sessions somewhere exclusive of such temptation.

As I neared the door to the studio, I could feel it, I knew something lurked to my right in the window. It called to me. I gave in, looking. There lay a hot pink dildo, perfectly sized. I swear it had a white aura around it, with music, the music that plays when buried treasure opens in the movies.

Oh, my God,
I groaned, under my breath, biting down on my lip and forcefully turning my head away, before slipping into the doors of the yoga studio. Surely a conspiracy, they followed me. Everywhere I turned, penises abound. Here a penis, there a penis, everywhere a penis! Finally within the confines of the studio, I could breathe easy.

For all the difficulties practicing celibacy, the yoga series had some fundamental teachings. Lust is all consuming, man can become a puppet of passion, and impulse can blind intellect. I was attempting to reflect, to grow spiritually, but as it turns out, I wasn’t that deep.

Shortly thereafter, I read an article in a medical journal on “the key to living longer.” In the international study, researchers found women who have at least two orgasms a week increase their life span by three years. That did it for me, complete validation. I no more than deciphered the words then I fled out the door to the
toy
store on Sunset Boulevard.

That hot pink vibrator waited for me in the window. It must have been fate. I was the proud, yet slightly embarrassed, new owner of what I would soon find revolutionary. I had no clue how to use the thing, but I figured it out, eventually.

I thought I had orgasms before with Casey. I assumed that’s what I experienced, when it felt exceptionally good at times. Not that he wasn’t a generous lover, he was. However, fortunately/unfortunately, a light cast on my once dim conclusion. I lay there in my bed in total delirium, completely dumbfounded.
This is what I’ve been missing?
Ironically enough my attempt at celibacy, introduced me to the female orgasm. Celibacy rocked! I didn’t care how I got there, simply happy to have arrived.

I failed to gain control of my senses, as I had primarily set out to do, but I did gain control of my vagina. Yes, I said it,
my vagina.
It was mine, just like any other body part attached to me, and I found it incredibly powerful, liberating to claim it. After all, if I didn’t know what to do with it, how could I expect a guy, my boyfriend, lover, husband, partner, he with a penis, not a vagina, to know what to do with it?

My sixth grade sex education class quickly came to mind, and I wondered why masturbation was discussed when addressing the adolescent male, but not mentioned once in the
normal
sexual development of the adolescent female. Go figure. Boys got masturbation. We got our period!

S
aturday, September 8, 2001, Hawaii. I accepted a summer position as a massage therapist at a tourist resort in Lahaina to study the art of Hawaiian Lomi massage. I completed my contract with the resort and successfully mastered the Lomi, enjoying my last weekend on the majestic Maui Island. I took a second job in the evenings, bartending at a Tiki bar, one, because I thought it a neat experience, and two, because I needed the income, as the cost of living in Hawaii proved more expensive than California.

My last shift in full swing at the
Tiki Hut,
couldn’t end soon enough this particular night, due to an overzealous patron who continued to throw multiple, lame, vulgar come-ons my way, as well as to every other woman in the bar. He was so annoying, a friend of the owner’s or he would have been escorted from the premises. I let him wear me down, his antics spiraling me into an unpleasantly foul mood. My back to the bar, a rag in hand, I took my frustration out on a completely innocent counter-top, determined to scrub off the finish.

“Could I get a Jack and Coke?” a male voice sounded behind me.

“When I get to it.” I kept my back to the bar. I didn’t even want to look at another man tonight.

“Take your time,” he said.

Hearing him quietly take a seat at the bar, I acknowledged the fact that this poor, unsuspecting stranger didn’t deserve my shitty attitude. I quit scrubbing and prepared his drink. Turning to place it on the bar in front of him, I stopped, dead in my tracks. The glass fell through my hands, shattering on the floor beneath me. Did my eyes deceive? I closed them tightly, peeking first through one, then the other. The image did not alter.

“Miah?” I whispered in disbelief.

His mouth gave in to that gorgeous smile. “Harley-girl.” I hadn’t seen him in four years. Nervously, I ducked down behind the bar, occupying myself with the broken glass at my feet.
What do I do? What do I say? What is he doing here?
Shirley, the manager, came to me carrying a broom and dustpan.

“Harley, I’ll get this. You get that man his drink.”

“Sorry, Shirley.” I continued to help her.

“No worries. I’ll take care of the glass. You take care of the customers.” She coaxed me back up to the bar. I smiled anxiously at Jeremiah, looking over my shoulder and then back to the service cart, preparing his drink once again. He watched me, pleased at my reaction to him. I steadied the drink, carefully placing it within his reach.

“Sorry about that. I can be a bit of a klutz,” I said, taking my eyes off the glass, scanning up from the bar, slowly passing by his chest, his neck, his chin, and his mouth, until I met his eyes.

“I remember.” He grinned, raising the glass to his lips, the liquid wetting his mouth. I wanted to be that glass. How could he have grown more handsome? Age looked good on him. His shoulders broader, his chest fuller, his face distinguished, and his once wavy surfer-boy hair replaced by a high-and-tight trim. He carried a subtle air of self-assurance. I guess boys really do mature later than girls. Four years, the difference between a boy and a man.

My thoughts were interrupted by a voice all too familiar that evening. The tone grated my ears. “Hey, baby, can I get a Slippery Nipple,” he requested the drink, while licking his lips, purposefully allowing his eyes to fondle my breasts.