Here's a brief disclaimer - cause this is a long one. Many of you have seen the first two parts of this story in an earleir stage and under a different title (Destiny Moves On) As my criminal friends can atest to, this story keeps getting longer and longer with no end in site. I've kind of given up on it being anything but a novella. Dangit. Anyway, I'm still working on it and I would love any critique y'all want to give. The third section is new - it's not the end of the story, but it's all I have ready for now and I wanted to support this contest because it's one of my very favorite parts of this site and I'm so stoked to read the work of you...my inventive, crazy, talented friends. I'll try to post subsequent sections as I finish them if anyone is interested. And hopefully the whole thing will end up on Crims eventually (either as a series of related stories or as one big old mess!)
Fate's a funny thing ...
My name is Destinee Luann Brine. And believe me, it's not easy walking around with a name like that. I always wished I could have been named something classy like Tiffany or Shayla or even something timeless - you know, like Candy.
But Mama had it in her head that I would be a Destinee. I don’t know why she had to spell it funny. It seems to me that if you are gonna name a child something weird like that, you should spell it the same way it is in the dictionary. She swears it's because they asked her how to spell it while she was still groggy from the anesthesia, but I think that's just an excuse.
And it's a pretty pitiful one at that. I always wanted one of those key chains that look like a license plate with my name on it. They don't make "Destinee" key chains. They don't make "Destinee" anything. I know. I've looked high and low, and I have never seen anything: not a mug, not a pencil, nothing.
Digger Tatum, my first real boyfriend, gave me a gold necklace that said "Destinee" for my sixteenth birthday. It was real pretty; I wore it all the time. Then it started turning green around the sides. Digger said that was because my body carried dangerous toxins and that was causing some kind of negative reaction. He was real smart at science and knew all about stuff like that.
Eventually I had to stop wearing it. But I still have it – to this very day. It's about the sweetest present anyone ever gave me. I think he had it made up special. It hangs on my rear-view mirror now, right next to my Goodahville High School class of '96 graduation tassel. It looks nice and you don't even notice the green unless you look real close. Not that it really matters now. Digger hightailed it out of Goodahville about ten minutes after graduation. He was supposed to be joining some kind of improvisational theater group up north, that's what he told everybody anyway. I have my doubts.
My best friend Tina swore she saw him on "Jerry Springer". He was some kind of cross-dresser or transsexual or something. Tina thought that maybe I should get tested for AIDS since Digger had some tendencies none of us were really aware of back then. But Digger and I never really did much of anything. I always thought he was shy. But looking back, I think I just turned a blind eye. Love will do that to you.
But my life has taken a whole other turn since then. See, I was a loser back in high school. In Goodahville, the line between losers and winners is pretty obvious. And when you live in a second-hand trailer, have a name like Destinee and a boyfriend that isn't even sure if he's boy … well, it's not hard to figure out which one you are.
That's the one good thing about being called Destinee. I always thought it meant I could make my own. I've been trying to make my own destiny for quite a while. The way I see it, destiny keeps moving. It rocks and rolls, glides and jives its way around the block whether you're ready for it or not. But trust me, I’m ready.
-- Destiny Moves On --
The first time I knew for sure that my luck had finally changed was the day Charlene Libitz plowed into the back of Lucille, my 1988 Hyundai Excel. That car had never really excelled at much of anything other than overheating and leaking oil. And it was right there on Farm to Market Road 1872 that Lucille finally gave up the ghost.
I had just bought a case of Shiner at Joe Don's Kwik Stop and was heading out to Tina's for a night of beer and beauty when it happened. Tina’s just a few cut-and-dyes away from her hairdressing license, so she likes the practice. I can't afford all the highlights and streaking and frosting and whatnot, so I don’t really mind being her guinea pig. Even if it doesn't turn out exactly right - it's still looks interesting. Interesting is a rare commodity in this neck of the woods, so as far as I’m concerned - it’s all good.
I had just passed the old Miller ranch when it happened. Lucille had a leaky hose that I hadn't managed to get fixed. I had to add a gallon of water every couple of days and if the light on the dashboard hadn't been enough of a reminder, the smoke pouring out from under the hood was.
So I started to ease up on the gas. And then I turned down the radio. You know, I don't know why I always do that. Every single time I have car trouble it's the same thing: I turn down the radio. I know that one has nothing to do with the other. Still, I can't concentrate on the smoke with "American Bad Ass" blaring in my ears.
Anyway, there wasn't much of a shoulder, and the road was too crooked to make just stopping a good idea. But I was stuck – right there in the road. I was reaching down to switch on the hazard lights when Charlene came hauling ass behind me.
Her daddy owns the Ford dealership, and she was behind the wheel of a cherry red Mustang convertible. I heard her way before I ever saw her - she had that car running wide open. I guess the smoke wasn't enough of a signal for her to slow down.
She rammed that sweet car right into Lucille – I don't think she even saw me. Too busy checking out her lipstick or something I guess. The point is she ended up pushing Lucille and me right off the road and smack into a bar ditch.
Of course, Charlene wasn't hurt; you couldn't even see her behind the big air bag. She got out of the car and started crying and yelling into her cell phone. There I was, sitting in what was left of the Hyundai, trying to figure out if any bones were broken, and Princess Charlene didn't even bat an eye.
It wasn't 9-1-1 Charlene was alerting - it was Daddy. Bruce Libitz, a.k.a. Mayor Libitz, arrived on the scene before I even climbed out of the car. He doesn’t just own the Ford dealership – he pretty much owns everybody in the county.
The mayor was none too pleased with Charlene. I admit, I did enjoy watching him yell at her. She was blubbering about how I was just sitting there in the middle of the road and wasn't there a law against that and how could she be expected to see me and blah, blah, blah.
He wasn't any more concerned about me than she was. Mr. Libitz was mainly worried because Charlene had this little calamity while driving on a suspended license. Apparently, she was going for the DWI record of North Texas. Plus she had a small, recreational baggie of skunk weed and half-empty bottle of tequila riding shotgun. All he wanted to do was keep the highway patrol from carting Princess away.
When I crawled out of the Hyundai, Mayor Libitz turned on all that car-salesman charm. How could he help? He was so sorry about the car! Did we really need to call the police?
Whatever. I may not be the shiniest penny in the jar, but I can do simple arithmetic. Here's my take on the equation. One: my life in Goodahville left a lot to be desired. Two: the mayor was willing to work with me to keep this little incident under wraps. And three: an opportunity wasted will gnaw away at your stomach faster than an ulcer if you let it slip away.
The way I see it, sometimes it takes a swift kick in the ass to jump start fate. And well, my ass had pretty much been kicked. People like me don't get too many fresh starts. And this whole situation had fresh start stamped all over it in hot pink neon. The time had come for me to get out of Goodahville. I wasn’t about to do it on a Greyhound.
Mr. Libitz was very accommodating. I got a sweet little car from his inventory of used vehicles as a going-away present. It wasn't a tricked out convertible or anything, but it was definitely classier than Lucille: a black Trans Am with a CD player and power windows. Tina said it was like the king of cars, so I named him Elvis.
I put my Destinee necklace around the rear-view mirror first thing. I didn't bother with the Goodahville graduation tassel though. Goodahville is small town, and there's not gonna be anything small town about me any more.
Did I mention the cash? Nice little nest egg. That's what Mama said. But it seemed to me that she was more interested in her nest than mine. In my opinion, it’s my pain and suffering, so it ought to be my money. The car and the cash were just the first things that changed.
To be honest, the changes I’m talking about were in my appearance. See, I had kind of been letting myself go. It doesn't really pay to keep yourself looking good in Goodahville. There aren't a lot of Prince Charmings out here on the prairie. Not a helluva lot of frogs either. Still, I’d gotten lazy and moved right on past pleasingly plump and straight into lard ass.
I got a plastic surgery coupon in a Val-Pac mailer just two days after the mayor gave me the money. The doctor was in Abilene, and the ad said he was a miracle worker. I’m not real religious or anything, but I know a sign from God when I see one. The doctor’s office was in a strip mall. It had extra-plush carpeting and bottled water. Praise the Lord.
I’m not real stuck on myself or anything. To me, the liposuction was an investment. Face it, men may or may not make passes at girls who wear glasses, but they run like hell from fat chicks.
The lipo and the implants ended up taking a big bite out of my windfall, but I still have a nice chunk of change left over. Enough for a slightly greener pasture anyway.
Next thing you know, my new car, my new boobs and my new ass were on our way to a new life. I pulled out of the Dusty Arms Trailer Park on a Tuesday morning and headed east toward Dallas. I checked into a motel on the north side that first night.
The next day, I drove Elvis over to the long line of Men's Entertainment Emporiums on Northwest Highway. I got a job at the fourth one I walked into: Boobapalooza. Not the classiest joint in the world, but it'll do. I got booked on the afternoon shift for the very next day.
So, that’s how Dumpy Destinee from Goodahville became Destinee D-Cup of Boobapalooza. Who knows what'll happen next? It's like I said before…fate is a funny thing. Blink and you might miss your best chance. I’ve got my eyes wide open.
-- Destiny Stripped Bare --
Becoming a stripper made me a much more interesting person. I didn’t think it would happen that way, but it did. It’s like the implants made me smarter. I know that’s not really possible: IQ points and cup size aren’t really related. They aren’t even measured the same way. Still, the minute I got them, people hung on my every word.
And I’m not exactly naive. I knew people were much more interested in – how can I put this – the daily grind of Boobapalooza than in my personal philosophies. That’s OK. Most of the time I kind of enjoy talking about what I do. I don’t even mind talking about how I look. Hell, this body cost me enough – I’m not entirely opposed to showing it off. But that’s not what my story is all about.
Stripping is a big part of it though. As it turns out, I'm pretty good at it. But it took lots of practice. At first I was a little stiff. For customers, a little stiff is a good thing, for dancers … not so much.
The main problem was I just had the one outfit: a cheetah-print teddy I bought at the VF Outlet in Goodahville. It wasn’t really made for professional stripping, so I had to modify it a little. I tried sewing in these little satin ribbons I could untie in the front. But I’d get all nervous, and it always took way too long to get them undone. Most of the guys there don’t want a slow, sexy strip. They just want your t*ts out there front and center before the vocals come in.
And that was the other problem: I just had one song. “Fat Bottomed Girls.” I kind of took offense to that when they suggested I use it. I had invested a lot of money in getting rid of that particular problem. But Terrence, the manager, said it could be my signature song. He said a lot of the customers like a fuller-bodied booty.
Anyway, those were dark days in the beginning. I kept tripping on the heels, and the thong took some getting used to. But I did get better, and the money was sweet.
A lot of people think you can’t make money on the afternoon shift, but that’s just not true. We have this thing called the Businessman Special that runs every weekday from noon-6. You get a lap dance and a T-bone for twenty bucks. Beats the hell out of the All-You-Can-Eat salad bar at the Sizzler. That was Terrance’s idea – he’s very innovative.
And he’s real good about explaining things so they’re easy to understand. See, Boobapalooza isn’t a fancy club: the lighting is bad, and the pole is pretty wobbly. The customers don’t seem to mind. We don’t cater to a particularly high-class clientele. But Terrence explained how that could be a good thing. At Boobapalooza, we stress volume and value, kinda like Denny’s.
And Terrence taught me that the key to making good money is regulars. A good regular is a much better return on your investment than any kind of 401(k). They’ll fork over a hefty chunk of their paycheck every two weeks if you know how to work them.
They have their drawbacks though. Sometimes they start to think that they love you or that you love them. Then they want to tell you their problems or ask you about your family or your feelings. That’s just not my thing. It’s never a good idea to mix business with pleasure; I’m not that kind of girl.
But occasionally, you can make money off plain old walk-ins too. Flame, this red-haired girl at the club, made $3,500 in a single shift off a bunch of dotcom dorks. They had just sold some computer game or something. They kept her busy all afternoon, and she didn’t have to do anything. They said she looked like the girl from the game, but they didn’t even talk to her or hit on her or anything. All she did was sit there. That’s just sad. That kind of money is wasted on guys like that. There’s something wrong with a man who would rather jack off in front of a computer than have the real thing dangling at eye level.
Flame said I was just jealous. She’s right, I suppose. That same day, I got stuck with some ceramic tile salesman from Tulsa who said I reminded him of his daughter. How scary is that? Plus, I only made $125 off of him – might as well be a receptionist for that kind of money.
There are all types of people in the club. It’s fun for them, I guess. We’re who they turn to when their wives or girlfriends are pissed off or on the rag. They don’t have to try so hard with us; that’s probably a relief.
Besides, we all know where we stand. I know they aren’t really interested in me as a person. They’re more interested in the idea of me. They don’t want to know who I voted for. And they aren’t curious about my views on capital punishment or the Taliban either. They want me to shut up and shake my t*ts. Fair enough. It’s not like I’m curious about their stock portfolios or golf handicaps.
Now I won’t lie and say I never hooked up with anybody there. Sometimes things happen, but it was always a one-time deal - until Benjy. One time when I was a kid, I fell out of a tree and slammed flat on my back. All the air went whooshing out of my lungs, and I couldn’t talk for a minute. That’s how I felt when I first saw him: speechless, shocked and a little scared.
I wasn’t on stage when he came in; I was in the middle of my daily meet-and-greet with the regulars. But even my most loyal followers took notice when he walked through the door. Benjy didn’t look anything like most of the guys that come into the club, but he looked like he belonged there. Benjy looked like he would belong anywhere he wanted to.
His skin was the exact color of coffee with one spoonful of cream, and he was wearing a black silk suit that hung on him like God himself had tailored it. He had beautiful jewelry too – not pimp-daddy stuff – real classy. His shirt collar was open all the way down his chest and I could see a thick, dark scar trailing down his breast bone.
I work with this New-Agey chick named Willow; she thinks she can see auras and stuff. I never really bought into all that. Personally, I think if somebody has a green glow around them, they probably live too close to a nuclear waste facility. But if anyone ever really had a glow, it was Benjy.
It was like Moses had parted the Red Sea all over again. People just scattered to make room. He was with about ten guys, and Terrence put them at a table right down front. People were coming up to him and shaking his hand, patting him on the back, asking for autographs. Every eye in the place was glued on him.
I felt bad for Amazonia, the girl on stage. No one paid any attention to her. And when a six-foot-tall blonde is dry humping a pole and no one notices ... well, you know something pretty spectacular must be going on. I’d never seen anything like it before in all my life. Not too many men can be the center of attention in a t*tty bar.
Heather, my best stripper friend, straddled the chair next to me. She leaned over all flushed and excited then whispered in my ear, “Can you believe he’s here?”
Heather was smiling so wide her lipstick was cracking. Her hair was sweaty and damp and stuck in clumps on her neck. “I’m gonna go up there and talk to him, do I look ok?” She fluffed out her bangs and readjusted her bustier, then checked her reflection on the mirrored ceiling.
To be honest, I was pretty pissed that all my regulars had wandered off, so I asked Heather who he was. She just laughed. “Jesus Destinee, what rock did you crawl out from? That’s Benjy Haynes.”
Even I knew that name. And I understood why all the men were so excited. If there is one thing the men in North Texas love more than a t*tty bar, it’s the Dallas Cowboys. And Benjy Haynes wasn’t just any Cowboy.
He was retired, but he’d been a star cornerback. They called him “Heat” Haynes cause he always burned quarterbacks for interceptions. He’d been a legend for years. But two Thanksgivings ago he collapsed – on national television – right there on the Silver Star after a punt return.
Heat’s daddy was a preacher in East Texas, and after they carried him off the field, Pastor Haynes came out and led all of Texas Stadium in prayer. Granted, people in Dallas will pray at the drop of a hat, but they really light it up when a five-time Pro Bowler’s life is on the line. It was beautiful. Even the fat guys with blue stars on their bellies were crying.
Their prayers were answered, and “Heat” got better. Then the doctors found out he had some kind of heart defect or something, and they wouldn’t let him play anymore. But he was more popular then ever.
He ran for City Council and opened up a camp for troubled kids. He even made lots of speeches and started some kind of foundation. Anyway, Benjy became a role model for a lot of people. However you want to look at it, Benjy “Heat” Haynes was a hero. And now that hero was looking at me.
And because he was looking at me, everyone else started to look at me too. All of a sudden, I felt every eye in Boobapalooza on me. I know what to do when people are watching me dance, but I didn’t have a clue when people were looking at me for no good reason.
Next thing I know, Benjy cocks his head toward me like he wants me to come over. Now, I’m not the prettiest girl at Boobapalooza, so I figured it must be some kind of joke or something. And honestly I was a little tired of always being somebody’s punch line, so I ignored him. But he just kept on staring.
Heather was elbowing me in the ribs and smiling. She had a huge wad of bubblegum in her mouth, and I kept looking at it so I wouldn’t have to look anywhere else. Next thing I knew, Benjy was standing over me.
He held out his hand, and I took it. We walked back to his table without a word. He sat back down and patted his lap, motioning me to sit there.
So there I was, fiddling with the strings on my teddy, still not really sure what I was supposed to do. It didn’t seem possible that someone that everyone wanted to be with wanted to be with me.
Finally Benjy asked, “What’s your name baby?” His voice sounded like Barry White on steroids.
“Not your stripper name angel; your real name. The one God gave you.”
“Destinee is my real name, but God didn’t give it to me, my Mama did.”
“Well that’s good baby. That’s real good. A name like Destinee is special. It means something.”
People had always made fun of my name before. Like it was a joke – like I was a joke. But Benjy heard my name and thought it was something magical. I just sat there and stared. I didn’t want to say the wrong thing and make him send me away. I wanted to stay there forever. Finally he picked up my hand and held it in his own. His hands were huge but they were as soft as a baby’s. I’d never seen a grown man with hands like that. He turned my chin up and looked right in my eyes. I don’t know what he thought he saw in there, but I knew nothing would ever be the same. “I knew you were something special the minute I laid eyes on you. Destinee. There’s power in that name. Power in you too, I can feel it. I think I may have just met my destiny."
-- Brazen Destiny --
People like Benjy don’t happen very often to people like me. My life just never worked out that way. Still, I always thought that somehow my life would end up being bigger than most other folks’.
That’s a hard thing to explain to someone who doesn’t feel that way. If I told Mama I was hungry for something more, she’d just give me another piece of chicken. If I talked about wanting a bigger life in someplace like Boobapalooza, they’d just laugh and say everything on me was too big already. When the people around you start turning your dreams into jokes, it’s easier to just keep them to yourself. But I never stopped dreaming. Not for one minute.
I just kept on thinking that sooner or later, I’d get out of Goodahville - and I did. And I kept on thinking that Boobapalooza wasn’t the most I could hope for in life – and it wasn’t. For the longest time, wherever I was, I knew my destiny was some place else. I just hadn’t found the directions yet.
Besides, people think you’re snotty when you talk about looking for your destiny. Like you think you’re better than they are. That’s not it at all. I didn’t think I was better than those people, I just thought I was better than the life I had. Sometimes I think people who don’t dream are luckier than people who do.
The first person that ever understood that was Benjy. I could tell him all my thoughts and he’d just look at me all intense and nod his head. He said I could have been a philosopher if I wanted. I think that’s pretty unlikely. I’m more Confused than Confucious.
But still, he liked to hear me talk. He thought I had important things to say. Benjy said it made him proud to be with someone who dreamed big, like dreaming was an accomplishment.
One of the first things I learned about men at Boobapalooza is how many of them are dreamers. The jobs they want to have, the cars they want to drive, the girls they want to f*ck. Most men can sit and spin a pretty convincing web of lies, half-truths and just plain wishful thinking about almost anything. Like, for instance, you would be amazed at how many guys at a t*tty bar are self-employed entrepeneurs. I tell you right now, it’s not a coincidence it rhymes with manure.
But it wasn’t all bullsh*t with Benjy. He made things happen. For the most part, his dreams came true. And he had a way of making other people believe theirs could too. That was his gift. And that’s why people respected him. That’s why everyone wanted to be around him. That’s why everyone wanted to be like him. Well, that and all the money.
And that’s the main thing being with Benjy did for me. People started to respect me – just because he did. At least it felt like they did. They sure were a lot nicer – and even that would have been enough. Benjy really changed everything for me. How I thought, how I spoke, how I dreamed, even how I stood. From the first day I met him, I knew that my destiny had finally arrived. And it was just a big old bonus that it happened to be behind the wheel of a Mercedes SL600.
It sure didn’t seem to be going anywhere at first though. Benjy always made me feel a little off balance. Kinda like when I first started dancing on stilettos. I was always waiting for a big fall.
I figured he liked me since he came on so strong, but I never knew what he wanted for sure. That first night, he watched me dance, and I shook about as hard as I could without putting my back out. But he didn’t hit on me exactly, and there was some look on his face that made me think he didn’t appreciate it at all. Mostly, we sat together. And he stared at me a lot, but in spite of everything he said about fate and destiny, there wasn’t a lot of chemistry to the equation at first.
He stayed through to the end of my shift though. As he was leaving he kissed me on the cheek and said, “I believe in fate baby. I believe in magic. I believe all things happen for a reason. What do you believe in Destinee?”
All I could do was shrug. “I don’t believe in much of anything, I suppose.”
“You should believe in yourself. Believe in destiny.” And with that he just patted me on the ass and walked right out the door. Without another word. I didn’t know what to think. One of his buddies slipped me three $100 bills but I don’t think Benjy even knew about that. I didn’t know if I would ever see him again, but deep down inside, I knew my destiny changed the day it ran head first into Benjy’s. I could feel it. I believed.
I didn’t see him again for ten whole days - the longest week and a half of my life. I thought about him the whole time. When he finally showed up at the club, Benjy talked to Terrence and somehow I ended up just sitting with him for the whole shift. It was a relief to not be dancing for him. With Benjy there, dancing started to seem dirty and cheap. You’d think it would always make a person feel that way – but it never did before. Dancing was just a job – something I did. I knew some people saw me as nothing but a white trash skank with a boob job, but I never felt bad about it before.
Truth is, I was proud. I had made myself a nice little life, and I wasn't the least bit ashamed of it. But it didn’t feel right to have Benjy staring at me like that. I could see he wanted me and was ashamed of me at the same time. I was used to men looking at me with lust or pity, but never with both.
Benjy didn't really talk that much. He can move a roomful of people to do most anything, but he's kind of at a loss when it's just one person. He talks about ideas a lot - and those work best in general terms. Day-to-day chitchat like what you had for lunch or your favorite movie doesn't really interest him. And I'm not much good at the deep stuff. Somehow though, the silence suited us.
I never did figure out what he saw in me that first night that made him come back. It sure wasn't my big ideas he was focusing on at first.
At the end of the night, he reached into his wallet to give me some money, but I didn't want it. I hadn't done anything to earn it. He said he should pay me for my time, and he was right about that. Sitting with him had cost me a shift's worth of tips. But I didn't want him paying for me or my time.
Stripping is like a trade. It’s a service. If you pay your plumber for fixing the pipes in your house, you ought to pay your lap dancer for a job well done on your personal plumbing. The only real difference is that plumbers pay union dues and wear tool belts and strippers tip the wait staff and wear G-strings. But taking money from Benjy felt wrong to me. I wasn't with him for business - we both knew that.
So, I guess it was kind of inevitable that Benjy and I would take it up a notch. For about a month, he would come into the club every couple of days. Some times he wanted me to dance for him, but most of the time we just sat together. It made me real popular with Terrence, but not the other girls. I got promoted to the twilight shift – which, as a rule, has less weirdos and more drunken bachelor parties. The wedding parties tipped better but took more liberties. Truth is, I’d rather have a dozen lonely dorks too scared to look me in the eye then one blitzed-out groomsmen who keeps trying to grab my ass.
Benjy always drew a crowd, so it was just good business to put me on the later shift. The other girls didn’t see it that way. Instead of being a joke to them, now I was a threat. All in all, life in the club was becoming a lot more grind and a lot less bump. The older strippers were always causing problems for me. One of them even told Terrance I was turning tricks in the parking lot – that got me banned from the big tipping VIP rooms. The new girls were even worse. They looked up to me like I was Queen of the Titty Dancers or something. They thought I had found the Holy Grail on how to land a professional athlete, and they all wanted me to tell them how it was done.
The thing is, no matter how it looked to everyone. I hadn’t really landed Benjy at all. I never knew for sure when he would come in or how long he would stay or even if he would acknowledge me. Sometimes he’d just sit and watch me talk to my other regulars or dance a set then leave. I thought every time he left it would be the last time, but he always came back and we always did the same things.
I’m more direct than that. When you grow up like me you have to be. Subtle has never been my specialty – it sure never got anyone very far in Goodahville. I wanted to just ask him if he wanted me or what, but something always stopped me. Looking back now, I think it was God telling me to not be so slutty. I’m pretty sure that’s in the Bible somewhere and with the way I was living, I was a prime candidate for some sort of divine intervention.
One night, he had asked me to walk him out to his car when he was ready to leave. I figured it was my best chance to just ask what it was he wanted.
“Baby, ain’t it obvious what I want,” was all he said.
Now, I flat-out hate answers like that cause they aren’t really answers at all. If it was obvious what he wanted, I would never had to ask him. But he said it like it was some kind of riddle – like if I said it wasn’t obvious, I’d look stupid or something.
Sometimes, having a conversation with Benjy was more exhausting than a 2-for-1 lap dance special. And while we’re at it - why would anyone think a 2-for-1 lap dance coupon is a good idea? What am I supposed to do with the bar code? Sometimes, Terrance takes that whole innovation thing a little too far. It’s not like you can buy a look at one boob and see the other one for free. And why should I have to grind on two fat sweaty salesmen for one low price? I think that offer should be void where prohibited by common sense and good hygiene.
So, anyway, I didn’t say anything more after that. I figured it was best to avoid answering his “question” or whatever it was cause there really wasn’t an answer that was gonna get me anywhere.
Benjy met my stare for the longest time. Finally he shrugged, “I guess I just want to spend time with you.”
“Well, Benjy – I guess I just don’t know what kind of time it is you are hoping to spend.”
“Don’t make this so hard baby. I want to get to know you better. Get to know the real Destinee.
“I’m not sure how you’re ever gonna do that at Boobapalooza Benjy. I’ve got a life outside of here you know. I have hobbies and all sorts of interesting stuff going on in my life. I’m very well-rounded and intriguing.”
Benjy laughed a little then and asked me what some of my intriguing activities were. I hadn’t really thought my story through that far. And other than laying out every morning and watching TV Land most afternoons, I didn’t really have any hobbies to speak of.
So, even though I thought it might make me look trashy, I just grabbed Benjy by his leather lapels and kissed him. Hard. And it was just like the episode on the Brady Bunch when Peter kissed the neighbor girl and fireworks start going off. I mean, I’ve had a lot of tongues down my throat, but nothing has ever been that magical before.
“That’s quite a hobby you got there Destinee,” Benjy’s face was all flushed and he was a little out of breath.
“Beats the hell out of knitting doesn’t it?” I asked.
We just stood there in the cold shivering for a minute or two. Finally, Benjy said the words I’d been waiting to hear.
“How bout I take you to dinner tomorrow night – show you a good time?”
Now, if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that you have to go hard after what you want. Sometimes, fate needs a kick in the pants. Sometimes all it needs is a tongue down the throat. If you want your dreams to come true, you need to know which end needs attention at any given time.