Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp (8 page)

“Maybe I could take him,” I said, biting into a glazed old-fashioned.

Sheeni waited expectantly. I chewed my donut thoughtfully.

“But I have certain conditions.”

“What sort of conditions?” she asked nervously.

“If Albert is going to be our love child, I’d want to feel like the only dad on the scene. Trent has to go.”

Sheeni pondered this. “That’s asking a lot,” she said at last.

“Is it?” I asked.

“We’re very close.”

“I want to be even closer.”

“Trent has a brilliant mind,” Sheeni observed.

“I’m not exactly retarded.”

“He’s very good-looking.”

“Looks aren’t everything.”

“He has a great body.”

“OK, I can take up bodybuilding.”

Sheeni bit her lip and thought some more. “Trent worships the ground I walk on.”

Welcome to the club, Trent! “It’s your choice,” I said. “Life with me and the dog you love. Or a pet-free existence with a shallow, egotistical poet.”

Sheeni swallowed the last of her donut and licked her lovely fingers. “OK, Nick. I guess I don’t have any choice. I’ll break up with Trent. But if he kills himself, it’s on your conscience.”

“I accept full responsibility,” I said. “For the dog. And the deserted lover.”

Sheeni beamed. “Well good. That’s settled.”

“Not quite, darling,” I said. “I want one thing more.”

“What?”

I looked Sheeni straight in the eyes. “You know,” I said.

“Oh no,” protested Sheeni. “Not that. You’re too young. I don’t want that on my conscience.”

“What do you mean!” I said. “You were 13!”

“That’s different. Girls mature faster.”

“But how else can I really feel bonded to my love child?” I demanded.

Sheeni looked like she regretted ever having introduced that phrase into the conversation. “Do you have a condom?”

Now we were getting somewhere! “Of course,” I said.

“What brand?”

I checked my wallet. “Uh, it’s a Sheik.”

“That’s bad,” said Sheeni. “Those are made for big guys. It might slip off you. And motherhood is definitely not in my plans.”

For a woman with just one sexual experience, Sheeni seemed to know a great deal about male contraceptives. “OK,” I said, “I’ll get another kind. Any brand you want.”

Sheeni thought some more. “It has to be in a safe place. A nice comfortable bed. With no threat of interruptions. And for relaxation and mood setting, some good red wine—preferably French.”

I was suddenly aware the woman I loved was definitely the daughter of a successful attorney.

“OK,” I said. “Anything else?”

“I want a new condom. Not one that’s been riding around in your wallet for years.
Consumers
rated them a while back, I suggest you get their top-rated brand. This may take some research in the library. I’d appreciate a photocopy of the article. plus, for supplementary protection, I want a name-brand spermicide.”

“How about I have a quick vasectomy just to be on the safe side?” I asked.

The sarcasm didn’t register. “Well, Nick. That, of course, is your decision to make,” Sheeni said.

“Don’t you want to have my children someday?” I asked.

Sheeni was shocked. “Don’t be silly. I don’t plan to marry until I’m at least 30. And the father of my future children is probably now at the Sorbonne, studying philosophy.”

How I hate that unknown pretentious Frog!

Pensively, I watched Sheeni sip her coffee. I had a tall mountain to climb, with many treacherous glaciers still to cross, but finally, at last, I had obtained a stamped and signed entry visa to the paradise that lay beyond. Now I could begin to believe that tantalizing but abstract concept, commonly termed “sexual intercourse,” might actually become a part of my everyday reality. In short, I had a real prospect for getting laid.

“Well,” I said, chugging my coffee, “if I’m going to get all of this ready before tonight, we’d better get started. I wonder what time the library opens.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Nickie,” said Sheeni. “You couldn’t possibly get everything arranged today. Besides, I’m not in the mood.”

“Well, what should we do then?” I asked dejectedly.

“Let’s go rescue darling Albert!”

The smelly beast was overjoyed to be liberated from his patio sweat box. While Sheeni lavished kisses on him, he cast a smug glance in my direction—just like Dad with his bimbettes. Boy, will that ugly dog be surprised when he finds out who’s going to be exercising suzerainty over his food bowl. I expect to see lots of humble doggy groveling then.

As we were leaving, I noticed a pale, ghostly face peering at us from behind a curtain in the trailer. The woman looked like Sheeni in the year 2174 A.D. “Was that your grandmother?” I asked.

“No, my mother.” Sheeni squeezed her puppy and said no more.

I sensed a terrible dark secret lay beyond those high aluminum walls. My heart overflowed with emotion, and I felt a powerful urge to shelter my inamorata from life’s adversities. I can only hope this does not cause some future therapist to label me a “rescuer.”

We went back to “My Green Haven” to discuss dog adoption with Mom, but she and Jerry were out. No doubt off shopping for trailer hitches. With just the two of us (plus Albert) alone in the trailer, the atmosphere quickly became charged with intense erotic energy.

Soon, we were in each other’s arms on the tiny couch—our locked mouths mixing the lingering bitterness of coffee with the sweet taste of desire. Emboldened by passion, I pushed up Sheeni’s bikini top. In the bright light of day I could finally view her fabulous breasts—made even more delectable by the contrast of virginal white skin rising from deep tan. Sheeni moaned as my eager mouth closed around her warm nipple. She moved her hand down my
body and found the T.E. throbbing in my pants. I unzipped and Sheeni pulled out my granitelike tool as the Lincoln rumbled to a stop outside.

Damn!

Furious barking from Albert. Sheeni instantly unclinched and pulled down her top, expertly tucking away her incomparable charms. I lurched up and stepped on Albert, who began to howl. Sheeni reached down to comfort him, as I lumbered painfully toward the bathroom, my outthrusting T.E. preceding me by several feet.

From within the tiny, dim bathroom I heard Sheeni greet Mom and Jerry.

“What’s wrong with that damn dog?” asked Jerry.

“I fear it’s separation anxiety,” answered Sheeni.

Jerry did not reply.

“Where’s Nick?” asked Mom.

Coolly Sheeni replied, “Oh, he’s in the bathroom putting on his bathing suit. We’re going to the beach.”

I contemplated my record-setting T.E. Without relief this vast erection would take several months to subside. I couldn’t wait. Nine quick strokes (one for each inch?) and a monumental gusher splattered the walls like milky buckshot. My entire nervous system felt like it was pulsing up through my urethra. If light petting was this intense, could I really live through intercourse? Only time will tell.

After wiping down the walls and ceiling, I quickly changed into my bathing suit, grabbed my beach gear, and calmly walked into the living room. Sheeni was cuddling our love child.

“Mrs. Twisp,” said Sheeni, “Nick has something to ask you.”

Mom assumed a wary parental posture. I flashed a cautionary glance at Sheeni.

“Uh,” I said, thinking fast, “is it OK if Sheeni goes out to dinner with us tonight? It’s our last night together.”

Mom smiled. “Sure, that would be nice. Sheeni, our reservations are at seven.”

“Wear something low-cut,” suggested Jerry with a leer. Mom gave him a dirty look.

“Just kidding, doll,” he said, slapping Mom on the ass. His hand lingered on her shorts. “You people leaving now or what?” he asked.

We left quickly. Sheeni snapped a leash on Albert and the three of us strolled toward the lake in the hot sunshine.

“Sorry I jumped the gun on asking your mother about Albert,” Sheeni said. “There won’t be any problem keeping him, will there?”

“Nothing insurmountable,” I replied. “Of course, a big request like this
requires careful strategic planning. You can’t just waltz in and pop the question. That invites the Big No. And once you get parental ego invested in a ‘no,’ then you have to contrive some convoluted face-saving way for them to say ‘yes.’”

“Well at least, Nickie, you don’t have to deal with constant interference from God. Be thankful for that.”

“I am!”

We passed Mrs. Clarkelson, who was out on her tiny patio folding newspapers into tsetse-fly swatters for the missionaries in Africa. I stuck a finger in my nose.

“Sheeni, why are you holding that boy’s hand?” the old lady demanded.

“I’m taking him to the lake, Mrs. Clarkelson,” replied Sheeni brightly. “It’s for his hydrotherapy.”

“Oh, I see. Well, I suppose that’s all right then.”

I held out my finger. “Want a booger?” I grunted. “I’ve got lots.”

Mrs. Clarkelson shuddered. “No, thank you, young man. That’s filthy and nasty.”

“Be nice, Nickie,” Sheeni scolded, “or I won’t buy you a popsicle.”

I started to slobber and pule, continuing until we were out of sight of Mrs. Clarkelson.

“You do that marvelously well,” said Sheeni.

“Thank you, my dear,” I said. “I hope to study with Stanislavsky someday.”

“That will take some doing,” replied Sheeni. “He’s been dead for 50 years.”

Loving Sheeni, I decided, is at times like being romantically involved with the Encyclopaedia Britannica.

We walked through town. The motel-lined streets were busier now that the weekend was approaching. A slow parade of overheating motor homes, campers, and big pickups towing speedboats inched toward the blue water. Three rednecks leaned out their windows to whistle at Sheeni, and two fat women called out rude comments about the ugliness of our dog. Sheeni and Albert pretended not to notice.

Large signs at the beach proclaimed “No Dogs Allowed,” but Sheeni blithely ignored them. We spread our towels in the hot sand and worked on our tans. Albert quickly went to sleep in the shade under Sheeni’s overturned straw basket—snoring noisily through his pushed-in snout. I oiled up my date and got a T.E. you could spot three miles offshore.

“Maybe, honey, you should have your pituitary checked,” Sheeni said. “I’ve never seen anyone with such overactive hormones.”

I assured her the treatment I required was a simple in-home procedure that could be performed without medical supervision.

“Soon,” said Sheeni. “Be patient, Nickie. I’ll figure out some way to come down to see Albert and you.”

“God, I hope so!”

The rest of the afternoon (the last with Sheeni until who knows when) passed in a warm haze. I remember the smells of suntan lotion and hot dogs, the heat of the sun on my back, the inch-by-inch shock of cold water, the taste of lake water on sweet lips, the touch of a hand slipping into my trunks under murky green water, the mystery of a soft cleft felt only for an instant through thin wet spandex.

When, tired and sunbaked, we got back to Sheeni’s trailer, she paused to remove the mail. One letter, I could see, was addressed to her in a bold masculine hand.

“Shall I tear that up for you, honey?” I asked.

“Why no, darling. That wouldn’t be quite fair to the sender, would it?”

“I am not interested in fairness toward that person,” I replied.

“Why not?” she demanded.

Because he has kissed you and fondled you and God knows what else with you! “Because I am not,” I said. “I hope you will respect my feelings on this matter.”

“I don’t see what your feelings have to do with destroying U.S. mail,” said Sheeni obdurately. “Vandalism under any pretext is inexcusable. Besides, I have never asked you to tear up a letter from Martha.”

“I don’t get letters from Martha,” I said. “And you know it!”

“Well, when you do, sweetheart,” said Sheeni, turning in at her gate and handing me the leash, “bring them by and we’ll make confetti of our love letters together.” She leaned across the gate and kissed me. “See you at 6:30, lover. Bye-bye, Albert!” Clutching the offensive envelope, she disappeared into the multi-story trailer. Whimpering, Albert tugged at the leash to follow.

I turned away angrily and pulled him along. Albert skidded behind me like a small ugly dog trying to water-ski on asphalt. Finally, I picked up the reluctant canine and carried him home.

Mom, still looking flushed from an afternoon of truck-driver wrestling, was standing in bra and slip in the tiny bathroom, putting on her face. From what I could observe, the small bottles of goop multiplied exponentially for each year past 35.

“Oh, there you are,” she said. “Better get ready. And what are you doing with that dog?”

“Sheeni asked me to watch him while she dressed,” I lied. “Where’s Jerry?”

With great concentration, Mom painted on an artificial eyebrow. “He’s taking a shower. Do you need one?”

I had a vision of the ever-lurking naked porcine minister. “No, I got clean in the lake,” I said. I closed the meager privacy curtain that separated my room from the front of the trailer and pulled down my still-clammy trunks. My damp, sandy member had shriveled to the size of a small, unshelled peanut. Hard to believe this was the same robust organ a feminine hand had been fondling underwater only hours before. Knowing my privacy was transient, I dressed quickly. Albert lay on the linoleum and watched me sullenly.

When I finished and pushed back the curtain, Mom was still applying layers to her face. She gave me a quick once-over.

“Oh, you look nice, Nick.” She always says this. I could have 47 draining boils on my face (and probably will someday), and as long as my pants were pressed, Mom would say I “looked nice.”

“Thanks, Mom. You do too,” I lied. I decided to do some preliminary dog adoption spadework. “I found out what kind of dog Albert is,” I said casually.

“Oh. What kind?” Mom was brushing on a top-coat sealer that looked like shellac.

“The man in the pet store in town says he’s a purebred Spanish Tonzello.” Albert looked up skeptically.

“Tonzello? Never heard of it.”

“Sheeni hadn’t either. So we went to the library and looked it up. Turns out that’s Spain’s famous sports dog.”