A smart young girl - long brown hair, no makeup - sits at a table, at a café - half reading. The girl wears a thrift store score sweater - sand colored, men's, LL Bean - and dark jeans. It would appear that she is not alone. There is a boy there, slightly older, sitting across from her. He is smiling. The boy is equal parts horny, chatty and over caffeinated - a Barista. Neither has bathed. They are talking about - get this - JD Salinger(her) and Borges(him.) Get this - they go to school together and both want to be writers.
One week ago, on campus, they bonded over the theory that a Thesaurus can "destroy the writer's original intention." Overlooking his bed head hair and bus card, she had thought, "Soul Mate." Noticing the overflow in the cleavage of her tank top, he had thought "Titty Fuck."
After finishing their Ethiopian pour-overs, they decide to make love on her futon back at her apartment. Upon their arrival, the girl's cat, Woolf (yes, after Virginia) watches the two coeds undress(her - American Apparel bra and panties, him - Target flannel boxers.) The girl feels nothing once the boy's naked body is presented to her; she is not even conscious of her own body being naked. Where did her blush go? The girl longs to be shocked by a boy - clothes off - or even better - clothes on; maybe even just from the sound of his voice.
Desperate for attention, Woolf feigns drowning herself - multiple times - in her water bowl - even purring loudly - but is ignored. Mid-thrust, the girl warns the boy be careful not to burn yourself on the space heater! The boy does graze it as his long legs extend over the foot of the bed. The girl does not know the boy has kept his socks on. Woolf - always suicidal and melodramatic - meows angrily - while sitting on the window sill intermittently judging and licking her Persian white fur. Ignoring both the cat and the girl's sounds, the boy's inner voice yells - Her tits are so big...her tits are so big...so...big! Oh, fuck, I'm going to cum now, aren't I? An imminent explosion(for him, not her) makes the boy kiss the girl roughly - she'll tell her girlfriend later it was - passionately.
The boy is awfully quick(emphasis on the awful) but the girl is too young to know any better and she makes loud noises thinking that's what she's supposed to do. The girl has never had an orgasm. She has only been told by her eye rolling girlfriends - Trust me...you'll...know it when it happens...there's...no mistaking it. The boy does tell the girl she is pretty at least(he thinks she is pretty - yes.) Later, he will be too scared to ask her out again because she is too nice and too smart and too generous for him and, well...he's known at school as a "Broke."
Before the indie pop song "Young Folks" finishes - they're all done. In fact, there are still a few bars left to whistle along to. They both just smile and stare up at the ceiling, catching their breath with rosy cheeks and wonder how they will capture this moment on their Mac laptops as soon as they have the chance. The girl will ponder how maybe you can express yourself artistically in one way...but...not... in another? How maybe connecting is...overrated??? She will ask herself - how...or...when...do you know...when a moment has meaning...to both of you?Like...at the same time? When do you hear the description...beautiful...about you - the girl - and not about a book or a passage or a beat or a lyric or in a frame or in a David Lean long shot with a steady cam from before you were born? When is the girl -(me) - the only girl?
How ashamed the girl is since saying you've slept with less than a handful of men can be taken away from you in an instant when you get excited by a bearded boy from school who quotes Borges and has read and analyzed the same JD Salinger short story as you. And now when you are asked how many boys you've slept with? you can't say less than a handful anymore, and how that makes you feel guilty and kind of mad and uncomfortable and regretful and sad for getting older even though you are still only 22 and a college student and a writer with an apartment and a cool cat and a space heater and...pretty American Apparel underwear.
Although you(the girl) are not on any meds(though your parents kind of wish you were,) you want someone to know how you suffer silently while questioning the authenticity of people - just like the fictional character Franny from JD Salinger's Franny and Zooey. You want someone to know that you might never trust anyone like ever - like, seriously, LISTEN TO ME - never. This angry, repetitive thought, scares the girl. It's her least fictional thought of the day.
The girl refers to this time when speaking to her ADD parents as her "Blue Period." She wishes she could finally meet a boy at a coffeehouse while writing the Great American Novel who GOT HER. But today isn't that day. I'm Franny, I'm Franny! the girl's inner voice screams - still lying on her futon, watching paint peel from the ceiling; hearing both her front door slam and her cool cat destroy the kitty litter box in the closet.
A Pool Hustler's Daughter grows up in subterranean America. She dreams big, hustles daily and loves her Daddy. With empathy, fascination and grace she navigates and inhabits every tier of society; sees beauty and hope and magic in all things; respects and lives by the "mitzvah."
A Pool Hustler's Daughter calculates the trifecta payout at the racetrack, hides money on three parts of her body, has an arsenal of "Uncles," and keeps a baseball bat by the front door. She values friendship, loyalty and experiences over "things." Like her father, she seeks to learn "The secrets of the universe" and believes "Life ain't on the square." She applauds the self-made and those who learn to "overcome" their circumstances. Her door is always open for a sofa to sleep on, a hot meal, or an eager listener for a life story.