The Bad Mom

He then started pacing and yelling, “Fuck the white people in their assholes, I love to be black.”

For some reason hearing an angry black man yelling with a French accent is less intimidating. I wonder in France is it politically correct use the term “African French”?

I finally made it to Nice, France. I saw an advertisement for a cheap hostel in the area, so I checked in and rode the elevator up to my room where the others were hosting a party. I felt like an intruder and little uncomfortable with the George Bush poster being used as a dartboard. “Hey, I got one of these at my place,” I said. The floor was littered with beer cans and some guy was passed out in my bed. The group was gathered around one guy with a guitar, they were having a sing-a-long to such favorites by Sugar Ray and Smash mouth. I kicked the guy out of my bed and this lippy girl called me rude. Hey last night I slept on a bench with crack heads, I just want to crash in the bed I paid for. Fucking American, she mumbled. As my hostel grew hostile I said in a serious tone, “Is this because I’m black?”

Everyone in the room laughed, the joke being I’m obviously not black, but was being hated on for my existence.

Does anybody wanna smoke this joint I’ve been smuggling around in my vagina for the past week? The easiest way to make friends: offer drugs and try to make them laugh. I won them over and learned that they have all been living there for months, some of them years. They worked under the table doing odd jobs on the cruise ships that would dock in Nice. Travelers would pass through their bedroom as the guys bragged about how many of them they slept with. I was impressed.

The next morning I put on my swim suit and headed for the beach during lock-out which is where you have to leave your room so it can be cleaned from 11am-3pm. I stopped for a shot of espresso. In Europe they don’t have coffee. They will offer you an American Espresso, which is espresso and water but no coffee. A few blocks away I would find the most beautiful ocean I’ve ever seen.

I grew up on the West Coast, besides that the only other piece of ocean I’ve seen was a trip to Hong Kong with my grandmother when I was an adolescent. I started hating myself when I was twelve years old and my parents divorced. I felt emotionally abandoned fantasizing about the end, sooner better than later. I didn’t care anymore nobody else did why should I? But I was wrong, grandma cared, she saw my depression and invited me on a trip with her to Hong Kong. I didn’t know where Hong Kong was, I had never left California, it didn’t matter; it was the escape from my life that I needed. Grandma introduced me to a new world, I didn’t know existed. She believed in me and taught me the law of attraction. My mom on the other hand practiced the law of distraction.

Unlike the West Coast, the Mediterranean is odorless, not a trace of seaweed and crystal clear. Not only are the beaches beautiful but so are the women and they are all topless! I’ve never been nude in public before, I’ve never been nude anywhere but my shower (and the red light district). My ex-husband on the other hand, loved to be nude and we would often go to nude beaches, where he would be naked and I would be fully clothed. One particular afternoon spent picnicking near a section of tall overgrown sea grass where we noticed men just standing randomly in the waist high grass. We couldn’t figure out what they were doing, our best guess was bird watching. They must be bird watching; Jack was curious and walked over then ran back to the blanket, “definitely not bird watching.”

“What are they doing?”

“They’re getting blowjobs, I’m going to need therapy.” he said.

“I thought that only happened at rest stops, and in the future, don’t ever run naked again.”

That feeling of not knowing anyone and not caring what these foreigners thought of me, I let down my fears and my top. I went for a swim and felt like a kid again, the Mediterranean was my fountain of youth, I’d never felt so alive.

I soaked up some French UV Rays while people approached me selling things like sodas, jewelry and massages. An Asian woman asked if I would like a massage.

“How much?”

“10 Euros”

“Sold”

After sleeping on a bench, the 10 Euros was a good investment. At the end of the massage, the woman had me sit up as she shook each arm as fast as she could. Still topless, my boobs flopped around and I knew this wasn’t a pretty scene, I opened my eyes to see if anyone was staring at me…. Just the kids from my hostel standing there laughing. I don’t blame them, I would have laughed too. I thanked the woman and put my top back on, so much for anonymity.

from my book:  Scars of Paris  available at Borders  Barnes & Nobles  Amazon

“Can I call you back in about twenty minutes; some guy is here to have sex with me now.” There was something for everyone, from the little to the big in every flavor; some were the ugliest women you could possibly imagine. Hairy, teeth missing mentally challenged looking women. There were men posing as women and women who were pregnant. Do you think the politically correct Dutch people call black people African Dutch?

Then there were Barbie dolls with angel wings, the most beautiful women in the world. Never in a million years would I have thought about participating in the activities. My curiosity overcame me; this is the trouble about traveling alone, there’s nobody around to stop you. After close observation, I figure out how the system works. If you see a girl you like, you open her door and negotiate a price. There’s a level of anonymity, which could give one permission to do things I wouldn’t ordinarily do. Fuck it; I went up to the door of a chubby girl and knocked. I thought it would be more polite to knock. She shook her head no in disgust and shooed me away.

Strike One.

Ouch that hurts the old confidence level. Fuck it, next time no knocking, I’m going in and I’m gonna tell her it’s not what she thinks. I’m not looking for sex (even I have to draw a line), I was interested in a massage; that and I’m dying to talk to one of them. I noticed a beautiful Swedish woman wearing a skimpy bikini, blond pigtails and high heels. Golden bronze skin and a cute smile she danced in her room to some trance music. She was approachable because she wasn’t on her cell phone. I bet the cell phone cuts down your clientele. “Sorry to bother you, I see you’re on the phone but would you like to have sex, when you’re done.”

I walked in; she stopped dancing and looked at me strangely as if I was lost looking for directions. I had a feeling this might be strike two. “Can I help you?”

I stuck out my hand and introduced myself; I said I would like a massage.

She shook my hand and apologized, she had never been approached by a woman.

“How many other women have you asked?”

“Just one chubby girl, but I knocked; I think that’s where I messed up.”

“No No don’t knock,” she said. “But I will have to charge you what I charge for men, sixty Euros.”

“You’re worth more,” I said as I kissed her hand I was still holding, “Hey time is money and I’m sure you keep busy as cute as you are.”

She locked her door and closed the blinds, still holding hands we walk up some stairs where I noticed the angel wings tattooed on her butt cheeks leveled at my face.

“I like your ass, I mean tattoo.”

“So you are a lesbian?” she asked as we entered her bedroom dimly lit in black lights.

“No, I like men too; I’m an equal opportunist in the love department.”

We got naked and crawled into her pink satin sheets. I’m on my stomach she straddled my butt and began rubbing baby oil on my back.

“Why did you come here?” she asked

“I wanted a story, so when in Rome. Do you say that expression here?”

I think she had mistaken me wanting a story for me wanting her to tell me her life story.

It felt nice to have her greasy hands all over me and I was interested in what she had to say but I was hoping for less talking and more touching. I offered to return the favor and gave her a massage. Her body was so beautiful; I loved rubbing it. I flipped her over and educated her on the importance of massaging breast tissue to prevent clotting.

“My husband would be jealous,” she said.

“Why, because you’re enjoying yourself” I asked as she placed my hand at the entry of her vagina where moisture oozed.

“You’re so wet.”

“I never get wet at work,” she whispered, “I will never forget this.”

“I hear that a lot.” I joked as I put my clothes back on.

“What will you do after this?” she asked.

“Go smoke a joint.” I said as she girl slapped my arm.

“That’s bad for you!” she lectured

“I like to be bad” I teased then I quoted a T-shirt I saw in a souvenir shop that said, “Good girls go to heaven, Bad girls go to Amsterdam.”

“Duuude you look great, you must be getting laid.” he shouts where the bus driver reminds him on the intercom to watch his language

“No, no this is the other glow…I’m six months pregnant,” I whisper hoping he would lower his voice.

I had to agree with Rusty, I had never felt sexier than I have as a pregnant woman. I’ve become a regular at the doctor’s office where the nurses nominated me for the “Hot Mama” award. Maybe it’s because I’m single, so I put more effort in my appearance. Maybe because I work in retail, where looking attractive is a job requirement. It’s the only time I felt I could be round and beautiful at the same time.

“Are you still working for KNRK?” Rusty asks with zero response to my news of being pregnant.

“No I’m back in school” I said, “what about you?”

“I’m back in rehab and I’m homeless, but I’m wearing an Armani suit baby!”

“This is my stop, it was nice to see you,” I said as I exited the shame train.

Rusty followed, “this can be my stop too, I’m homeless remember?”

He followed me around the grocery store, pitching ideas of how we could become rich and famous.

“I’m over radio; it’s an endangered species, that’s why I’m back in school. I want to write.” I told him as I paid for my cereal and milk. Rusty is one of those people that just won’t go away.

Rusty came to that same Halloween party, Kat and I hosted dressed as a Limousine Driver in a tuxedo. He brought liquor and a stack of the worst selection of CD’s. Whenever our backs were turned, he would sneak over to the CD player and pop in one of his heavy metal discs. The other guest started to complain, “Who is that guy? Can you kick him out he’s obnoxious?”

Kat made it a rule that he was not allowed in our house anymore.

“Rusty, I need to say good-bye now. Kat will kill me if I brought you home.”

“You still live with Kat, is she the father of your baby?”

“Good-bye Rusty.”