Page 5 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

Except my pussy. And my brain.

‘Cause he ain’t got the decency to be forgettable.

Could’ve been just another late-night backseat mistake. Could’ve been just another pair of bedroom eyes and a freakishly long tongue. But no.

I knew exactly who he was before I ever let him walk me to my car after The Clover closed—him all sweaty forearms, dimple, his tired voice that sounds like he’s got a heartbreak-lined throat. I should’ve known better.

Instead, I let him pull me into the backseat of my Altima.

Let him slide off my jeans and panties. Let him spread me open with both hands. Let him look at me. Taste me. Make me come so hard I saw stars. Then convinced myself I was special ‘cause he licked me clean too.

After he was done, he disappeared, not botherin’ to answer my texts or calls when I got home that night. Then the following night, when I waved at him through the bar window, he never waved back.

So I waited outside The Clover like an idiot gargoyle almost every night for a few weeks. Three-forty in the goddamn morning, standin’ across the street under a jewelry store sign, puffin’ Newports. Wind was brutal, knifin’ through the avenue and rippin’ between buildings. My thighs were numb. My toes too. But I waited while every pair of sketchy-ass eyes groped me as they passed by—the reason Staten girls keep knives in their glove compartments.

I knew his schedule better than my own menstrual cycle. Thursdays? Always came out the side exit ‘round 3:45, apron slung over his shoulder.

It made me sick, watchin’ him through the front window, laughin’ with the other bartender with the fake tits, some fantasy turned fuckboy. Made me wanna throw a brick through the window and scream, ‘You ever clean her up with your tongue, too?’

When he finally came out the side exit? He didn’t see me.

He started his tired-little-prince-of-the-Clover stroll—head low, headphones in, walkin’ as if his cum tastes like vanilla ice cream. He headed east toward 1st Ave, where MTA buses pulled through late at night. When he was half a block ahead, I dropped the cig, crushed it under my boot, and peeled off the wall to follow him.

We passed the red-door speakeasy, where he flirted with some other skank last week, then a guy pissin’ behind a delivery truck.

Every streetlamp buzzed above as I passed: don’t do it, girl. Let it go.

I didn’t want to hurt him. I just wanted… I don’t know. To be seen, maybe. A little recognition like, ‘Oh shit, it’s her.’ Something. I wanted to drag him into the street, shove him onto his back, pull down my jeans and panties, sit on his face and say, ‘Still not ringin’ a bell?’

Is that so crazy? Probably.

By the time we got to the bus stop, my lips were numb and my lungs had Alaska in them. He propped himself against the map glass, starin’ at his phone while I was standin’ there, ten feet behind him with his dried spit still between my thighs ‘cause I refused to wash it off.

I stopped and watched him tip his head back and close his eyes. His nose was red from the cold. His ears too. And I swear on everything in me, I still wanted to kiss him.

That’s how messed up I was.

Soon as I stepped up, he opened his eyes and squinted, tryin’ to place me. And that honestly fuckin’ hurt. So I turned it into a laugh.

‘You forgot me already? Maybe if I spread my legs you’ll recognize the view?’

He pulled an earbud out, mouth parting for some soggy half-truth.

But, no. I didn't wanna hear it.

So one second he’s breathin’, blinkin’, bein’ beautiful.

In the next second—whack, I smacked his cheek hard, my palm lightin' up red. His head snapped sideways, earbud goin’ airborne and flingin’ across the sidewalk.

He stood mannequin-still. Only thing movin’ was his jaw grindin’ and his nostrils flarin’ as he tried to keep calm, avoidin’ my eyes.

God, he was hot when he was hurt and pissed.

I wanted to punch him in the dick.

‘Oh, not stickin’ your dick in me makes you a saint?’ I hissed. ‘You think goin’ down on girls and makin’ them come makes you a god?’ He froze, starin’ at the sidewalk. ‘You’re not a good guy, Harding,’ I said. ‘You’re just a polite piece of shit.’

And then I came at him, drivin’ my fist into his chest so hard he turned sideways to protect it. I wanted to tell him he’s lucky I left the knife in my glove box.