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  • Writer's pictureCindy Marabito

Let's Get It On

from Jules, the Truth Finder

“The way you make love is the way God will be with you.”

Rumi Jalalud-Din

I will never as long as I live forget that night. Sam’d even been inside Paris’s before and I don’t think I noticed the smell until we went in together. The odor alone was enough to bowl you over. Paris had this little dog, but even the dog had run off and left. There was still poop on the floor. I didn’t have much, just my work uniform and school books. There weren’t a lot of clothes since I mainly wore jeans and cutoffs. And my record al- bums.

We carried everything down in two loads and next thing, we were at Sam’s place. I didn’t even mind looking at Lori’s belongings in the bathroom and closet for once. I took a hot shower to try was off the grime of the past. Sam put on one of my favorite records and turned it up real loud. Marvin Gaye. He stepped into the bath and covered me in soap. He completely took charge of me and it felt good. I remember the wet silk of his skin against mine that night and it felt like what true love feels like. When he lay me down on the bed, he ignored my usual protests and went down on me. I was nervous. I didn’t want it to be like that time with Vernon Haskell, but Sam knew what he was doing. He kissed me and told me my pussy smelled like wildflowers.

I love Marvin Gaye, but this night he was on a whole other stratosphere. When he got to the part about all of us being sensitive people, I began to cry. I let myself feel things, because I knew I finally could. That night, Sam taught me how to receive pleasure and made me feel cherished. He showed me oh so tenderly what my body was made for. How could a street girl like me get by without knowing such intimacy? It was the best night of my life as I discovered what all the other girls had been talking about.

Sam found me the place. It was a tiny apartment over off 6th Street and North. The big house was owned by an old couple, the Girards. My new home was a perfect little garden apartment. Everything was painted pale green and it came completely furnished. There was plenty of light with a long sunken living room. It had a comfy sofa and easy chair with floor to ceiling windows all the way around. It even had an old console stereo that I could play my records on. The bedroom had its own big double bed and adjoining tile bath from the 1950’s. The little kitchen was furnished with pots, pans, dishes and even silverware. There was a wrought iron table in the middle of the room. The surface was inlaid with floral designed tile with most adorable round seats that swung out to sit on.

Mr. Girard said he had one hard and fast rule. He’d had a bad experience with a previous female tenant with too many boyfriends. He could barely contain himself when he spit the word out of his white thin lips. He stared hard over at Sam as he said it. Sam told him he didn’t have anything to worry about, that he was my big brother. It was hard to keep a straight face and I couldn’t look at him. I knew if I did, I’d crack up laughing, so I just stared at the floor and tried to keep my mind occupied. We signed the lease and Sam gave him cash money for the deposit and first month’s rent.

I wanted to do something special for Sam. I didn’t have much, but I had a little plan. It was fun to shop for groceries. I’d never found it to be enjoyable before, just another chore, but now it was different. Picking out vegetables and healthy things to cook was fun at the Weingarten’s. I roamed up and down the aisles pretending I was married to Sam and daydreaming about the fancy dishes I’d prepare for him to eat. It was my secret fantasy. I cooked him a big farm boy breakfast. Scrambled eggs, juicy, fat strawberries, French toast and sausage. I squeezed the orange juice and brewed a pot of French coffee to go with the toast, served up with real cream. We ate just like people in an Eric Rohmer film.

Mr. Girard was outside mowing his yard. He kept passing by the kitchen window and looking inside at us. That little patch of grass got a good close trim that morning. It probably looked odd for a girl in panties sitting in the kitchen her big brother, him in his Hanes brief. Sam and I thought it was real funny. Sam didn’t hold much regard for the Girards. They subscribed to U.S. News and World Report, a conservative magazine. Sam would roll his eyes and call them right-wingers. He had no respect anyone with a close-minded world view.

That morning was like many mornings we’d and drink our coffee at the little table. I still see the imbedded broken tile mosaic in my mind's eye and feel the warm sunshine flooding through the room, listening to the records we loved. “Pancho and Lefty,” “Luxury Liner” and “Lido.” Those songs are hard to hear today. The Sam songs. Our songs.

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