Fun Dip
Once more there are three little heads in my rear view mirror. This time they’re all girls and two I’ve only just met today. My Brit is riding in the passenger seat, both of us rocking aviators and messy buns. I’m cruising, and I love it, but I can’t wait to see them again. I’m caught in the memory of Z’s face getting to ride to the camp in the truck and it nearly makes me gasp. How can I miss them this much already?
***
I’ve spent the weekend as a celebrity. Fire department chiefs shake my hand, praise me for my support, and offer station tours next year. I’ve jumped from two to five and possibly more.
The lighted truck contest saw my friends return to defend their champion status. Of course Scott, the owner of said truck, swears he won’t win. Of course I tell him he will. There’s trash talk, there’s cockiness. Men ask me what they’ll get when I lose. I tell them I’ll accept their groveling when he wins.
He wins the truck division, thanks to my screaming and coercing men around me to shout. Trophy in hand he walks over to me and laughing. “Ok, ok, but I won’t win best overall.” I tell him to put his money where his mouth is. He promises if he wins, I can drive his truck in the parade to follow.
It takes me maybe five minutes to round up a fresh batch of men to cheer. He wins. I drive the truck. “Weren’t you the girl driving the winning truck?” Follows me the rest of the festival. Scott never again doubts me, and I become Lee Twp’s Lucky Charm.
Later in the barn, Scott’s brother Doug tries to make everyone think we’re together. He touches the small of my back to usher me to a seat, he sits close and leans in a lot. I consider it a fair trade for half an hour. Scott’s victory lent me some glory, I can let Doug feel like one of the pretty girls in the room has given him some.
But I don’t let that slide for long, and so I go and hug the bass player in the band who gives me a dip like he’s going to plant a huge kiss on me and instead covers my face in little kisses and we laugh. Not long after, I’ve flirted and shamelessly leaned on several other men and made it clear I’m not here with anyone.
Then come the offers. Some jokingly, others more serious. Usually in the form of “Your boyfriend must be one lucky man” or some other comment on a partner to find out if I have one or not. Most years I shrug or parry with “He is, and my girlfriend thinks so too” more for the puzzled looks and then the laughter. This year I say “I’m the lucky one”, and when they try to pry and find out what I mean, I suddenly remembered I needed to give someone money and pardon me but I really must get it to her before I forget.
I make lots of new friends, shake a lot of hands and cleverly slip out of offers for more. I match wits with seasoned men who think they can trip me up. I leave them speechless with innuendo and wit until they throw hands up and yell “Damn it! You can’t be real!”
Oh I am. And they’re not as witty as they think they are when they’re drunk.
***
I’m wearing his shirt to bed. I’ve put it on this afternoon for all the driving I had to do and now I can’t bear to take it off. I hug myself tightly and imagine his arms. How did I get so lucky to meet him? I’ve disgusted everyone with talking about him. They know how we met. Our first date. That he’s the one to call me Juicy J.
“Doesn’t it sound like they’re saying Fun Dip in the background?” I laugh. I ruined the song for Brit on the drive up. She’s ruining it for the three in the back. It spreads. He’s here. They groan and say they will never unhear it.
I’d give a fortune to hear his laughter and see his amused face. The way his lips part and he smiles, and I find myself addicted. I long to hold his face and kiss him like I haven’t seen him in years. I thought time away would help cool this strong desire to at least somewhat less consuming and sickening levels. It’s only made it worse.
***
The lieutenant is standing in front of me, grinning at me. He’s walked me to my tent to make sure I don’t get accosted by anyone on the way. He’s turned an innocuous comment into a flirt, and I laugh. He’s pretty. A year ago I would have dragged him off and had him. Tonight he’s hoping that my leaning against him and letting him buy my drinks means more.
He offers to keep me warm and for a moment I’m watching his face. Sure, it’d be fun. I could use the heat. But then his face swims up in my mind. His body. The way he feels against me. The man in front of me could be a warm body, but the fun leaves the idea. I crave T. Insatiable NRE with only one focus. This man in front of me won’t do, and even though I suspect he’d be more than happy to be used, I can’t do it. The drive to has abandoned me. I don’t have to love this man, but it can’t just be completely meaningless.
I hug him goodnight and turn my back on his perplexed face as I crawl into my tent. He doesn’t follow, he doesn’t try to make his case. I hear him turn and walk back to the barn while I dive under covers and pull T’s shirt to my face. Maybe next year the game will resume. Maybe it never will again. Maybe I’ve completely lost my mind and body and it’s replaced with thoughts of him.
Usually words soothe me but tonight there’s nothing for it. I’m cursing every mile between us. I need him. I feel like my soul is on fire with his name.
***
I’ve spent the weekend as a celebrity. Fire department chiefs shake my hand, praise me for my support, and offer station tours next year. I’ve jumped from two to five and possibly more.
The lighted truck contest saw my friends return to defend their champion status. Of course Scott, the owner of said truck, swears he won’t win. Of course I tell him he will. There’s trash talk, there’s cockiness. Men ask me what they’ll get when I lose. I tell them I’ll accept their groveling when he wins.
He wins the truck division, thanks to my screaming and coercing men around me to shout. Trophy in hand he walks over to me and laughing. “Ok, ok, but I won’t win best overall.” I tell him to put his money where his mouth is. He promises if he wins, I can drive his truck in the parade to follow.
It takes me maybe five minutes to round up a fresh batch of men to cheer. He wins. I drive the truck. “Weren’t you the girl driving the winning truck?” Follows me the rest of the festival. Scott never again doubts me, and I become Lee Twp’s Lucky Charm.
Later in the barn, Scott’s brother Doug tries to make everyone think we’re together. He touches the small of my back to usher me to a seat, he sits close and leans in a lot. I consider it a fair trade for half an hour. Scott’s victory lent me some glory, I can let Doug feel like one of the pretty girls in the room has given him some.
But I don’t let that slide for long, and so I go and hug the bass player in the band who gives me a dip like he’s going to plant a huge kiss on me and instead covers my face in little kisses and we laugh. Not long after, I’ve flirted and shamelessly leaned on several other men and made it clear I’m not here with anyone.
Then come the offers. Some jokingly, others more serious. Usually in the form of “Your boyfriend must be one lucky man” or some other comment on a partner to find out if I have one or not. Most years I shrug or parry with “He is, and my girlfriend thinks so too” more for the puzzled looks and then the laughter. This year I say “I’m the lucky one”, and when they try to pry and find out what I mean, I suddenly remembered I needed to give someone money and pardon me but I really must get it to her before I forget.
I make lots of new friends, shake a lot of hands and cleverly slip out of offers for more. I match wits with seasoned men who think they can trip me up. I leave them speechless with innuendo and wit until they throw hands up and yell “Damn it! You can’t be real!”
Oh I am. And they’re not as witty as they think they are when they’re drunk.
***
I’m wearing his shirt to bed. I’ve put it on this afternoon for all the driving I had to do and now I can’t bear to take it off. I hug myself tightly and imagine his arms. How did I get so lucky to meet him? I’ve disgusted everyone with talking about him. They know how we met. Our first date. That he’s the one to call me Juicy J.
“Doesn’t it sound like they’re saying Fun Dip in the background?” I laugh. I ruined the song for Brit on the drive up. She’s ruining it for the three in the back. It spreads. He’s here. They groan and say they will never unhear it.
I’d give a fortune to hear his laughter and see his amused face. The way his lips part and he smiles, and I find myself addicted. I long to hold his face and kiss him like I haven’t seen him in years. I thought time away would help cool this strong desire to at least somewhat less consuming and sickening levels. It’s only made it worse.
***
The lieutenant is standing in front of me, grinning at me. He’s walked me to my tent to make sure I don’t get accosted by anyone on the way. He’s turned an innocuous comment into a flirt, and I laugh. He’s pretty. A year ago I would have dragged him off and had him. Tonight he’s hoping that my leaning against him and letting him buy my drinks means more.
He offers to keep me warm and for a moment I’m watching his face. Sure, it’d be fun. I could use the heat. But then his face swims up in my mind. His body. The way he feels against me. The man in front of me could be a warm body, but the fun leaves the idea. I crave T. Insatiable NRE with only one focus. This man in front of me won’t do, and even though I suspect he’d be more than happy to be used, I can’t do it. The drive to has abandoned me. I don’t have to love this man, but it can’t just be completely meaningless.
I hug him goodnight and turn my back on his perplexed face as I crawl into my tent. He doesn’t follow, he doesn’t try to make his case. I hear him turn and walk back to the barn while I dive under covers and pull T’s shirt to my face. Maybe next year the game will resume. Maybe it never will again. Maybe I’ve completely lost my mind and body and it’s replaced with thoughts of him.
Usually words soothe me but tonight there’s nothing for it. I’m cursing every mile between us. I need him. I feel like my soul is on fire with his name.
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