Big Sex Little Death_ A Memoir Part 9

I didn't know someone so quiet could be a branch organizer. Geri was charismatic, and Ambrose was always chatty. Michael was an orator, Joe would not stop arguing, and the other half of the branch were loquacious UCLA professors. Even young members like me would argue and make speeches at the drop of a card.

Some of the other women, the "girlfriend" members - women who never said a word but were someone's girlfriend - they were quiet. We'd have these private talks afterward where they'd promise to say something "next time," but then they never did.

Stan sounded sure of himself when he spoke, but he didn't offer a lot of explanation or rah-rah. It was just, "This is what we're going to do."

The idea was that by having a laser focus, we would reform a moribund and corrupt union. Just saying, "I'm going into Teamsters," to anybody else on the Left was outrageous. Everyone thought we were joining an organized crime syndicate.

"There is no other left sect in the International Brotherhood of Teamsters, because no other group would have them," Joe said.

"Isn't Fitzsimmons like Nixon's lapdog?" I asked. The Teamster's current president appeared in press photographs with the president all the time.

"Yeah," said Joe. "Drinking buddies, for sure."

"Well, what am I supposed to do in Teamsters?" I asked.

Joe pinched my tummy. "You can head up the ladies' auxiliary, Sue." He'd made me come with his mouth the night before, and it had just made my head spin. His teeth were white, and he was young like me. Was that love? But I loved everybody in our branch - sleeping with them just made it a little deeper.

Stan gave everyone an a.s.signment at the next branch meeting, except me. I raised my hand: "What can I do?"

"Yeah, right," he said, not looking up. "You can report here, tomorrow, oh six hundred. You can flyer the Gateway yard with me."

Gateway: that meant trespa.s.sing and chatting up total strangers. I was good at that.

"I don't get out of school until after three; I could come then -"

Stan scowled. I saw it like a comic bubble over his head: Haven't we gotten rid of all the bourgie college coeds yet? What a jerk; he didn't even know who I was.

Geri touched his arm.

"Sue's still in high school, Stan."

He shook his hair out of his eyes for a minute and snorted.

f.u.c.k him. My G.o.d, he'd been here only a week, and he was sitting on what had been my bed with Joe and Reggie.

"I'll be here by three," I said. I wasn't going to use military time, either.

Temma, another Red Tider who'd dropped out of Uni, pa.s.sed me in the hall when I got up to use the bathroom. "Oh, he likes you," she laughed.

"Don't bulls.h.i.t me!" I whispered.

"I f.u.c.ked him last night -"

"What?"

"Yeah, yesterday - he's okay. You should check him out ... his partner, Shari, you know? She's in Fresno all the time."

I hooked my arm around belt loops and dragged her into the bathroom with me.

"What partner? Are you kidding? Are you going to do it again?" It was like hearing she'd made a statue come alive.

"He's practically married to Shari Z. - that's why he's down here, because she got an offer to teach women's studies at Fresno, and she's going to come visit him when she can on weekends. We don't have any comrades in Fresno, so -"

I cracked up. "Oh yeah, well, she can build a branch out of the Women's Studies Department, and they can come make cookies for the Teamster meetings!"

I couldn't believe Stan was acting like the Original Mr. Worker, and his old lady was a professor. One of the unrepentant ones who wasn't going to industrialize, apparently.

"His first wife, Marie, she's famous; she's the queen of the Wolf Socialist Party, and she's like the biggest d.y.k.e in Seattle. Even the local pigs are afraid of touching her ... she's some kind of wild woman."

"He was married to her?" G.o.d, he was old.

"Yeah, that's what Geri told me, but I guess she 'expelled' him for being a man at some point." Temma laughed and pushed me off the toilet seat. "It's my turn."

Somebody knocked on the door. "Hey, High School, get off the can."

Temma reached over and pushed in the lock. "Go run the water," she told me. I turned on both spouts.

"Shari's going to be at Ambrose and Geri's tonight, for the potluck," Temma said. "Come early, 'cause she's not a night owl. She's this perfectly nice white academic; she comes up to about Stan's elbow. Dresses just like him, but in tighter jeans."

The knocking started up again, warpath-style. I knew Temma would no sooner open the door than surrender at Pearl Harbor, but I had to get out. She'd already lit up a cigarette and opened the window; I opened the door just wide enough to squeeze through.

One of the older women, Xena - a professor's wife - blocked me, looking outraged. She'd been outraged ever since I f.u.c.ked someone she'd f.u.c.ked a hundred years ago. Jesus.

"There's still someone in there," I said, like I'd come out of a train station lavatory.

"Someone!" she spat. I shrugged.

Stan appeared behind her. "Hey, take it easy," he said, and he touched her lower back. She shuddered, then moved up against him, like a kitten that couldn't help it. He didn't take his eyes off me.

I walked into the meeting s.p.a.ce again with my arms open wide. "I'll show you a Teamster ladies' auxiliary, gentlemen," I said, bowing to everyone huddled on the floor. "Give me some flyers."

Temma was right about the tight jeans. Shari was pet.i.te and curvy. I found myself scrutinizing her body more than I did Stan's. She was one of those women who make a sacrifice by not wearing a bra, because she was narrow-shouldered, and her t.i.ts were full and ... pendulous. Every time I said that word, I felt like I was sneaking a peek in Penthouse Penthouse magazine. I wished my b.r.e.a.s.t.s were on the pendulous side. It was s.e.xy. When I told Geri that, she said, "Oh, you'll get your wish eventually." magazine. I wished my b.r.e.a.s.t.s were on the pendulous side. It was s.e.xy. When I told Geri that, she said, "Oh, you'll get your wish eventually."

But when? I could be really, really old by then.

Shari had a tiny waist. Her hips flared out, like a Mexican guitar. Short legs, and, due to her strict feminist costume, flat sandals. It was funny, because sure enough, the UPS women who came to the potluck, including Geri, all wore at least three-inch platforms. So did Temma, who'd permed her hair into an Afro, and had burned herself a dark red-brown at the beach.

I patted the top of her perm to see what it felt like. "You went to the Boardwalk after the meeting."

"You could have gone, too; the Hare Krishnas fed everybody," she said, slapping my hand away. "But I guess the 'ladies auxiliary' was calling - are any of you holding?"

I tilted my head behind me. "Go ask Joe, or go through his pockets, if you can stand it. He's the new dope dealer of the 208 Teamster hiring hall."

Joe was rarely working a shift, but he wore his blue Teamster jacket all the time. He said he was making more money selling weed and speed to drivers than he'd ever made on campus.

I heard someone take Linda Ronstadt - Ambrose's heartthrob - off the turntable, and Kool and the Gang started up.

I joined some of the girls in the living room, swaying and chanting: Watermelons, fresh ripe tomatoes, apples and oranges, Idaho potatoes, yeah ... Fruitman!

Geri was ladling out chili, and it smelled so good, but I just wanted to dance.

Stan may not have liked high school, but he was lucky The Red Tide The Red Tide was there. He was lucky to see Temma in her high heels, plus all the local girls and all the non-Teamsters, the ex-Panthers and "crazy motherf.u.c.kers," as Joe called them. We knew how to have a good time. It was the only way new people, our "contacts," would ever give our politics a chance; those awful meetings would kill them first. was there. He was lucky to see Temma in her high heels, plus all the local girls and all the non-Teamsters, the ex-Panthers and "crazy motherf.u.c.kers," as Joe called them. We knew how to have a good time. It was the only way new people, our "contacts," would ever give our politics a chance; those awful meetings would kill them first.

Stan wasn't dancing; I didn't know where he was. I kept picturing the way Xena shuddered against him. Shari was dancing without him, her arms around Xena's husband's shoulders.

Soon, I wanted to lie down, crash in one of the other rooms where there wasn't any dancing. Ambrose and Geri had a room in the back where they kept a plush leather coffee table. I found it, curled up, and dozed off, until Geri came in and put a blanket over me and tucked a little pillow under my head. It must have been a pillow for the baby. I dozed off again.

Shari stumbled in and woke me up. She cursed the stack of books on the floor that she'd tripped over. She didn't know where the bathroom was. She looked excited, or really high, or both. Fresno must be awful.

I wish I could remember what I said first. It was a polite question. I wish I could remember if I was precocious, or awkward, or earnest. I felt all three afterward.

I only remember how she answered: "Go for it ... He's a great f.u.c.k." Her smile was like sunshine itself. Her blond ringlets bobbled as she nodded her head.

I remember thinking, Wow, this is how it's supposed to be. You're supposed to be able to approach your sister and say, "Comrade, I'm feeling it for your old man. May I proceed?"

And then she would say, just like Shari did, "Go for it ... he's a great f.u.c.k."

You could say, "Women are more important to me than men." You could blush and stammer, saying, "I wanted to ask you, if you wouldn't mind, and I don't mean to be rude, and this really isn't a big deal -" But I don't know what came out of my mouth. I wasn't even sure I wanted Stan. I just kept thinking about Xena's back arching up.

It didn't seem to matter. The Blond G.o.ddess would've cut me off, with a warm smile, like a mother to her chick: Go for it. He's a great f.u.c.k.

Shari was so low-key, just the way I imagined it would be after a ma.s.sive s.e.xual revolution. Women wouldn't be catty. No one would bother to be jealous. Who would have the time? s.e.x would be friendly and kind and fun. You'd get to see what everyone was like in bed. You'd learn things in bed, and that would be the whole point. Romances would seem like candy cigarettes. You could have all the s.e.x and friendship you wanted for free. Exclusivity would be for bores and babies.

The way Shari spoke to me, the way her curls bounced everywhere, was the new shine. Like a challenge. I wanted to go back to Fresno with her and drink from the same fountain. I'd negotiated boys with my own girlfriends before, but it never sounded like this.

I thought I understood women. I never knew what went on in a boy's head before I went to bed with one. I always wanted to see. See how it was. I liked the whole finding-out part. They were so brainy and vulnerable at the same time.

Shari was different ... she was advertising her man. She wanted a tribute! Was I supposed to file a report? Maybe none of my friends had ever bragged about anything, because there was nothing special to brag about. Just what did this Stan do in bed that was so extraordinary? I felt like I should call and make reservations right away, before he got a cramp or something.

But for someone so generous, Shari bowed out a little quickly.

I was saying to her, "Wow, thank you, thanks for letting me know ..." Maybe I was a little breathless.

She exhaled a short breath, out of her nose, and turned on her flat heels away from me, before I finished expressing my grat.i.tude. Maybe I was too much. Maybe she was on her way to f.u.c.k someone else.

She left me sitting there, like a kid with the wrong pizza delivery. Her shine had settled on everything around me. The brown carpet twinkled, the purple sofa and love seat were royal. I could feel my wet underarms, and even my head felt damp.

"Hey, Sue, what's the matter; you look soaked!" It was Joe.

Everyone came through this room on the way to a nonexistent toilet.

"I've just been dancing too much, I gotta change," I said, getting up, "I'm so glad it's you."

Geri had told me her grade-school-age son, Billy, went through three T-shirts a day, he was so hard on clothes. I bet he had one I could borrow, and my chest wasn't that much bigger than his. I went down the hall to find his stash.

Joe followed me and saw me staring into the kid's dresser mirror.

"'Who dat?'" he said, reading the slogan on my T-shirt.

"Oh, shut up," I said. "Do I look okay?"

"It sure is tight," he said, hooking his thumbs in his jean pockets.

"You wanna go somewhere?" I felt like I could slap him or f.u.c.k him, but not much else.

"We can go for it in the john, if you want," he said. "Jesus, you're wound up." He walked over and put his hand on my shoulder.

"I don't want to be wound up!" I hissed. "Close the door - oh s.h.i.t."

Little Billy was dead asleep on his bunk bed with a pile of coats stacked up on top of his covers. Only a little neon light from the window leaked into the room.

"He's dead to the world," Joe said. "So, what's up?"

I made him sit with me on the floor on someone's leather trench coat. I held the sleeve up to my face. "G.o.d this smells good." It was like a tonic.

"Shari Z. just said something really trippy to me; I gotta tell you," I began. I quoted her. Joe burst out laughing, but Billy didn't miss a beat of snoring.

"You've gotta be quiet! Do you think she was being sarcastic? Is that why you're laughing?" All my anxiety came back again. I was going to soak this fine House of Wilson leather coat with my sweat.

"I don't know what that chick means, but I know you'll hold her to it, Sue; that's a promise. Man, she is in for it -"

"It sounded like she was giving Stan a guarantee, like he came with a certificate!"

I could feel Joe scowl, even if I couldn't quite see his face in the dark.

"Yeah, call me right afterward and tell me how he ate you out," he said. "I wanna hear if it's a six-point-oh."

"Oh, c'mon, Joe, don't pout; this is serious!"

He started giggling. "Oh man, serious, yeah, I wanna know, too. If he's that good, I wanna f.u.c.k him."

"He's straight, Josephine!"

"Yeah, that's the point. He's straight, white, over thirty, can't dance - what else do you need to know?"

"He's twenty-nine!"

"Right."

"You are so f.u.c.king c.o.c.ky," I said. I was starting to relax.

"You know I'm right. Here - here's my bet. If he eats you out the first time you do it, I'll ..."

"What?"

"I'll give you my green flake helmet that you want."

"Really?"