Dealing Flesh (4 page)

Vicki and I wait until things calm down before we sneak downstairs. Down in the living room, we find Mother sitting on the couch, crying in hysteria. In between each sob, swear words fall from her mouth. Once her emotional outburst lifts, I scrape together as many pennies as I can locate and rush over to the bakery at the end of the block where I buy myself the richest, creamiest piece of pie on display. I slam down the whole slice within seconds.

In the weeks to follow, the ruthless craving for sugar grows to such an extent that I feel inclined to raid Mother’s purse for cash. This habit turns into an almost daily affair.

Ragelina:
If they raise my puny two Deutsch Mark bi-weekly allowance, I won’t have to go to such length.

Somehow though, I enjoy the rush to my head that hits me when I get away with stealing.

Weeks zoom by and with that, the guilt increases. About to go through Mother’s wallet again this morning, I am overcome with fear of getting caught and decide right after taking several coins from her purse to be done with it now and forever. And so it is.

~~~

I’m stretched out in my lounge chair reading when Vicki bursts unannounced into my room. She walks right up and batters down on me with her fists without warning. Overcome by mortal terror, I immediately put my hands on top of my head. My heart races faster than I can remember from any other time in the past. I hear Mother’s strong voice from below. The creaking of the stairs tells me she’s on the way. Vicki realizes this, too. She lets go of me at once and hurriedly proceeds to her quarters.

Scaredy Cat:
You cannot
trust anyone in this house, no matter what.

Doubt Cloud:
They have it out for you. Watch your back at all times.

CHAPTER 3

The Groupie

A groupie is someone who gets a fix from dealing herself to a person of fame. The celebrity, in turn, deals himself to the fan, inducing that person’s high by allowing her to use him as her drug. The payoff for the famous person comes in the form of scoring a hit from taking advantage of the groupie’s admiration for him, getting both parties loaded on that invigorating cocktail of being the drug, the dealer and the user. Cheers.

Martina, who is fourteen just like me, lives a few blocks from me. I envy her shiny, long, black hair, emerald green eyes, and tall curvy figure. She says she can get us free front row tickets to one of my favorite rock groups in concert at the
Lagerhaus
downtown.

“Oh, ja…and by the way…we are going to head backstage afterward,” she proclaims with sly demeanor, making me a bit nervous.

Scaredy Cat:
I am not cut out for that.

Blushetta:
I’d say.

Miss Vanity:
Of course,
I’ll go. Let’s see. What am I gonna wear? I certainly can’t have anyone pass me by, overlook me, or label me a plain gray mouse.

The day to check out the rock stars arrives. Super jazzed but anxious at the same time, I pull a pair of black satin pants that fits me like a second skin off the hanger and slip into it. I cover my torso with a rhinestone-embellished classy white cotton top. The next five minutes I spend staring into the mirror inside my room, greatly intrigued by the enticing way the shirt hugs the contours of my barely existing boobs. I pile a bunch of make-up onto my visage, perfect it with a double layer of baby blue eye shadow, and
voila
, it’s a wrap.

~~~

We arrive at the packed stadium. I closely tailgate Martina while she scrambles through hundreds of emotionally-charged fans. Some of the people hold banners over their heads saying “I Love You.”

Miss Vanity:
Hey. Heeeyy, folks…. Look at me. Aren’t I something? Isn’t this a bitchin’ denim jacket I’m wearing? Look at it, dammit. Loook. It has golden palettes in various places. You must admit…I’m ‘bad assed,’ ain’t I?

Multi-colored lasers pierce through the white smoke that fills the otherwise dark stage, closely followed by the first electric guitar solo. Trying to keep my excitement wrapped, I keep my eyes on Martina who clears the way towards the front row seats she’d promised.

I feel the masses move in excitement, get pulled in by their thundering rustle as the sounds of the lead singer’s distinct manly voice crank out some of the vocals of one of the band’s most famous songs. I look at the stage and spot him standing on top of an elevated shiny platform, wearing brown skintight leather pants and a white transparent satin shirt.

Martina wrangles me in next to her as we reach the stage. The seats are all taken, but I really don’t feel like sitting anyway.

“I can barely see!” I yell into her ear.

“Follow me,” she says.

Within seconds, both of us step up onto the lowest of the horizontal metal bars of the fence that separates the fans from the band.

“Much better.”

Euphoria smacks me, which I blame solely on the now bare-chested singer who just seconds ago tore his shirt off of his torso, and who, off and on, gives me a look that makes me believe he is totally one hundred percent singing just for me.

The concert ends. I reach for Martina, but she’s no longer by my side. My eyes dive into the sea of people. I ultimately spot her talking to one of the bouncers on stage several feet away. I see her hand signaling me to come over. I elbow my way through a bunch of screaming females and unite with her.

“
Komm mit
. He is taking us backstage,” she shouts, almost blowing out my eardrum while simultaneously pointing at the tall, intimidating bodyguard above us. Within seconds, the muscle-packed dude in the black suit, who in all earnestness reminds me of an FBI agent with the many communication devices stuck to his body, lifts both of us up onto the upper surface while a couple of other guards fend off the rest of the girls who are desperately trying to get in on the action.

“Are you ready to meet the band, gals?”

Scaredy Cat:
Hilfe. Nooo.

“
Ja klar!
” my friend and I yell out almost simultaneously.

“Follow me closely and quickly, please.”

He leads us through a brightly lit sterile-looking plywood tunnel with lots of twists and turns.

Big Shot Mama:
Look at me…I’m V.I.P.…Ha-ha.

But no matter how important I feel this moment, my heart races, and I sense a pit in my stomach. The more distance that grows between the crowd and us, the tighter I clamp onto Martina’s jacket.

Doubt Cloud:
They aren’t’ going to be satisfied with you. Turn around.

Hot Shot:
Hush. You are not going to ruin my fun this time.

We keep moving forward. By now, the stage seems miles away – noise and turmoil no longer audible. All I hear is the clicking sound of our heels. My stomach churns as we enter the men’s private room. The space shows a large lounge area with several sofas positioned in an L-shape on the hardwood floor. I notice a buffet table with refreshments to my right. The long wall to my left holds several side-by side windows whose shades are drawn. Overall, this place reminds me a bit of the sterility inside a corporate conference chamber.

Wafts of healthy smelling sweat, deodorant, and masculinity fertilize the air. I pick up yappy chatter around me as some of the band members walk around carefree in their underpants; others lazily hog the cushiony furniture. The lead singer approaches us.

Blushetta:
I feel faint.

His naked, pale complexioned upper body looks neither muscular, nor wimpy. He still wears the tight brown leather pants that so greatly flatter his butt.

“How do you do?” he asks in his thick British accent, a streak of his curly brown hair dangling across his face. His spunkiness that I connect with the sound of his proper Oxford English almost has me bust out laughing.

“Great,” I say, holding out my hand, but he refuses to touch it. Instead, he pulls me close into his embrace, simultaneously placing a smack on my cheek. I don’t know what to say. My eyes nervously scan the room trying to get a better grasp of what else may be in store for me. At this time, Mr. Singer Man takes my hand and leads me to the band members, introducing each by first name.

Feeling somewhat abandoned by Martina who busily converses with the drummer on the other side of the room, I nervously clasp my hand around the glass of my wine cooler, not sure if I should be holding it with one or both.

“I’m sure glad they let you through to see me,” my charming friend says, while gently massaging my shoulders. The rock star offers me anything on the menu, but I decline because I cannot find my appetite. With the sedating properties of the wine finally kicking in, my tension dissipates.

Hot Shot:
I believe I can handle this now.

Romy:
I feel out of place. It’s not like these guys are interested in marrying me, want to be labeled my boyfriend, or hunger for my intellect.

As I am trying to determine if I shall stay or leave, I witness Martina vanish in the hallway with Drummer Boy.

Scaredy Cat:
Yikes, I know I’ll be next.

Sure enough a few seconds later, the lead singer catches up with me, escorting me to the same hallway Martina disappeared in. He pins me against the wall, holds my arms above my head while covetously jamming his tongue down my throat. He releases his hold on my arms, using his hands to wander to diverse parts of my body. His skin tastes salty, but not in a bad way. I watch how he lifts my shirt, proceeding to greedily suck on my nipples. I feel nothing. I stand there frozen realizing that I am not at all attracted to him.

Big Shot Mama:
Try focusing on his big time status. That will make ya’ be able to stand it more.

I do, but his fingers now reach for the
Secret Grotto
.

Romy:
That’s it. I’m so not going to lose my virginity to groupie-hood, or someone I don’t dig.

Firmly but gently, I push the singer away from me.

“I am sorry but I just remembered I gotta be somewhere.”

Seemingly disappointed, he presses a swift peck on my cheek and, like a reprimanded puppy, disappears in the other room.

Romy:
With groupies a ‘dime a dozen’, no doubt, your replacement is already on the way.

I hear Martina’s voice from somewhere around the many corners, but can’t pinpoint its origin. Uneasy to look for her because of the possibility of catching her in a compromising situation, I yell out that I am about ready to depart.

“Go on without me. I’ll phone you later,” she replies from apparently not too far away, her voice sounding too happy to cut her ties just yet. I briskly proceed toward the exit at the end of the hallway and hurry down the stairs, eventually coming out at street level at the backside of the building. I inhale deeply, recapping on the happenings of the evening. At any rate, the groupie world has seen the last of me, unless, of course,
Leif Garrett,
or the lead singer of the
Bay City Rollers
was to ask me to meet.

Hot Shot:
The important thing is I have enough mojo to bedazzle a world-famous rock star.

Virginally Yours

My heart beats fast, pushing against the door of the
Rote Taverne,
the happening nightclub in this part of town. The song
Now That We Found Love
blasts from the speakers. The discotheque looks deserted.

“Give it an hour and this joint will be bubbling over with night flies,” Martina promises. Not wanting to look out of place, I immediately latch onto her. She brings me to a room where plush dimly lit booths outline the silvery square dance floor. I anxiously suck on my cigarette while holding a bottle of wheat-brew in the other hand.

Klaus, the charming brown-haired fellow Martina introduced me to yesterday, stands across the room. He spots me in this moment. I pick up definite delight in his grin, glad that I took him up on his offer to drop by the club for a visit.

Three years my senior, Klaus’ experienced demeanor and sex appeal send a jolt of welcome electricity through me. Romy freaks out now that he is coming my way. I nervously pull on the seam of my shimmering purple blouse, trying to keep it from looking wrinkled. Klaus arrives. I feel his muscular arms clasp my waist. He pulls me straight onto the dance floor. I let him lead. His six-foot-one, broad-shouldered physique moves me across the floor in ways that make me feel tingly all over, particularly the part when his leg seeks the space between mine.

Romy:
I want HIM to rid me of my virginity.

The next day comes. I give Martina a call.

“I totally have the hots for Klaus. He’s so manly,” I rave. “Do you know how old he is?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe nineteen or something? But listen. I just got done speaking with him. He is wondering if we both would care to show up at his pad for strip poker this Friday. Are you game?” she asks.

Scaredy Cat:
No way.

I gulp.

Martina promises to bring Mario, her love interest, along.

“That changes things. Of course, I’ll be there. I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

Friday comes. Charged with ample excitement, I can barely sit still. Each minute that passes feels like an hour to me. Finally, it is time to leave, and I make my way over to Klaus’ place. It’s still bright out and sticky-hot on this humid night.

Timidly, I knock on the door to his fourth floor residence. My heart races when Martina answers, immediately motioning me to step inside. The room is small but cozy, furnished with a bed, a table, and a couple of sofas and chairs around it. A sweet scent of perfume hangs in the air along with that of refreshing aftershave and the smell of exotic drinks.

“Will you make me licorice schnapps with orange juice?” I ask Klaus who is beginning to make me nervous with his incessant stare.

“Of course, hon’…whatever you want,” he says with an alluring grin.

I voraciously take several swigs of the cocktail he hands me. The poker game starts.

Five minutes pass. By now I am on my second drink. With each new round, I rid myself of an additional piece of clothing. Being the novice that I am, I lose at each one of my turns. All that is left to cover me now is my bra and panties. My gaze swerves outside the small window to my right. It’s no longer bright out. The soothing sound of chirping crickets travels to my ears. At once, I divert my attention back to the table.

Romy (pouting):
I really don’t give a damn about poker. I want Klaus to love me now.

Everyone is intoxicated and laughing like crazy. I lose again in this round. The others urge me to remove the last garment, my underwear, calling me a party pooper upon my refusal. I insistently but politely stick to my resignation.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see that Mario and Martina are getting it on. A few flickering candles illuminate the otherwise dim space.

Klaus waves me over to the loveseat he’s sitting in. Feeling more confident than a beauty queen, I set out to meet him. In my silly stupor, I fall halfway on top of him, but his strong contractor’s arms instantly lift me up with the ease of someone who’s picking up a piece of paper.