The Homeless Millionaire

She was dressed in a tight black leather jacket that ended at her waist. To compensate, it had a big collar. Jane wore it turned up: the spiky ends curled to point at the famous mobile lips. I had the feeling this had been carefully arranged in front of a mirror. It worked like a picture frame: just look at those lips.

She sat down and had a sip of her martini and became very chatty. She began with standard stuff—work, Christmas, weather. I managed to deflect most of her questions by asking questions of my own. Apparently she'd spent Christmas with her family, meaning parents and siblings. Then she started to talk about painting, or more specifically—her painting.

That was when she started doing some fancy stuff with the olive. I excused myself and went to the bar counter and got a fourth pint. I knew I was in for a difficult time. When I sat down again, she told me she was feeling constantly inspired to paint something. She was so busy and it was so difficult to find the time and it was her dream to somehow work things out so that she could do nothing but paint and draw.

This was a load of crap. When you really wanted to do something, you did it. It became a priority. When someone started blabbing about how much they wanted to do something, but just couldn't find the time to do it—it was just so much bullshit. Life basically consisted of a certain amount of time. How you spent it, how you set your priorities was up to you.

Halfway through my fourth pint, I entered a state where Jane could have started reciting poetry in Swahili and I wouldn't give a fuck. I didn't offer to buy her a fresh drink when she finished her martini, but she didn't seem to mind. She got up and went to the bar counter to get a drink and was gone for a fucking long time.

She returned bearing a double or even a triple martini: her new olive was jumbo-sized. While they were picking it off the tree and pickling it and shipping it overseas, she'd paid a visit to the ladies' room. I noticed her new makeup was skillfully done. Maybe she did have a graphic talent, after all.

By that time I was drifting in an alcoholic haze, saying something from time to time on automatic. I managed not to slur words when I spoke and what I said made sense, at least to me. I tried to drink my beer as slowly as possible but inevitably, after a while it was gone.

I excused myself and ordered a fifth pint and hit the can. While washing my hands, I looked at the mirror. I was drunk. I could see it in my face. Other people were sure to see it, too. Fuck! It was only nearing half past four. I needed to survive in there for another hour and a half.

I washed my face with cold water and it didn't help. I washed it again, and that actually seemed to make things worse. I slapped myself a few times, and this did improve things a little. Maybe pain was good after all, what the fuck did I know.

I left the can and collected my pint, noting that it had been waiting for me for a while: the foam was gone. Jane wasn't, she was still sitting at my table. She either hadn't touched her family-sized martini or she'd ordered a fresh one. Yes, it was a fresh one: it contained two olives. I had the feeling I would see some interesting stuff.

I sat down and smiled at Jane by way of apology for being away for so long. My smile must've been perceived as a drunken leer because she seemed shocked. Not much, and not unpleasantly, but still shocked. She said:

"Are you wearing makeup?"

It fucking floored me. I didn't what to say. Eventually I asked:

"Does it look like I do?"

She took that question seriously and examined my face like a dermatologist evaluating a new skin disease. She said:

"I'm sorry. You have those shadows around your eyes that look like mine in the morning, when I haven't washed my face before going to bed."

I had the feeling she made up all this makeup business just in order to include the phrase 'go to bed'. She wanted to get laid. Her guy hadn't shown up. I was on her shortlist, thanks to Birgit.

I could see all that in her eyes. I forced myself to look away because otherwise we'd have started necking in the fucking pub.

She knew why I looked away. When she spoke, she was purring like a cat. She said:

"I really should reciprocate for that fantastic smoke you brought when I was over at your house."

"You should what?"

"Reciprocate."

I was so drunk by then that I actually thought she'd said 'procreate'. This had to be my last pint, even if later this made me throw myself into the bay in desperation.

"Yes, of course. Reciprocate," I said, speaking slowly and clearly and distinctly. I thought for a moment, and asked:

"What exactly do you have in mind?"

"Going to my place to smoke a joint," she told me.

"That sounds good," I said, against my better judgment. "And where is your place?"

"Not far. A five-minute walk."

It was more than that, it was closer to ten minutes, but maybe that was because we walked slowly. By the time we reached her place, I had my arm around her ribcage and she had her arm around my hips.

Her place was on the second floor of a small apartment block, no elevator. I let her go first when we climbed the stairs. She was wearing tight jeans and she had a beautiful ass, like a round apple upside down. I wanted a piece of that apple.

She really seemed to be into cowboy stuff. Her place was furnished like a Wild West homestead. She even had a wooden rocking chair in front of the TV. It was set on the wooden floor, away from the rug that consisted of a fur ripped from the body of some unfortunate animal. It could have been an overweight beaver, or a baby bear. I wasn't sure. All I could think of was Jane's cunt.

We didn't smoke the promised joint. We were necking like crazy the moment I hung up my fucking outdoor jacket. I had the thought I should really buy something a little more elegant than that jacket, when I was hanging it up. It was the last good, coherent thought I had that evening.

We were in her bedroom a moment later. There was no time to waste. Mobile lip Jane had great legs and a fantastic ass, but her tits were really disappointing. They reminded me of used teabags. They looked a hell of a lot better when she was wearing her lace bra. I understood, now, the reluctance with which she let me take it off. I said:

"Can you put on your bra, Jane? It turns me on."

She grinned. It seemed to be a delighted grin, but I wasn't sure. I was drunk.

"How about rubber?" she said. I misconstrued that. I said:

"I haven't got any. I'm sorry, I didn't expect—listen, we'll just make sure there's no chance of making a baby, okay? There are ways and means."

She liked that a lot. She rolled off the bed and went to her dresser and started rummaging in the bottom drawer. I looked at the dress mirror standing across the room. It was a magnifying mirror, everything was twice as large. Jane said:

"How do you like this?"

I looked. Her tits were encased in shiny black material with holes cut out for the nipples. They looked very sexy and I understood what she'd meant by rubber.

I didn't need to say anything. My dick did it for me. I was lying on my back on Jane's bed and it began doing its best to point at the ceiling.

Jane was pulling on a long, black rubber glove. She said:

"We're going to have a great time."