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Chapter One
Denise
The fireman is going to make me masturbate tonight, I know it.
It's a good night already. I'm going to leave with about two hundred dollars. I already bought my dinner so that's two-hundred completely clear. I'll put my twenty-percent away and pay for three days of space rental. I'll still have some walking around money for tomorrow and that will make eleven days with the RV Park paid ahead.
This is a great spot.
Oh, I forgot the two bucks it will take to pay for the bus to get me to the RV Park but that's no big deal. All in all, it's a great night, and as I finish up my rendition of “The House of the Rising Sun,” there's a smattering of applause from the people who have gathered and more money goes into my guitar case.
I don't pack up right away because of two hipsters who think they're all that want to buy a couple of CDs. That's fine by me. I even flirt back with the one who's particularly insufferable.
Hey, a girl needs to make a living, and these guys are customers. Cut me a break about being nice to them, okay?
Regardless of how I do tomorrow, I'll only pay one more day ahead at the RV park then. I've already been here for two days and the events that make the cops leave me alone are over in two weeks.
There are a bunch of festivals with plenty of politically charged purposes like women's rights, gay rights, and the like. The cops can't tell easily if I'm part of the festivals. Ultimately, the word on the street is that there will be no vagrancy or street performance enforcement during the festivals. It's too much of a controversy powder keg.
There are other cities that are far more friendly to buskers even without a festival, and I'll make my way toward one of them or even, maybe, to Florida where I can park the RV on a beach and perform pretty much unmolested.
But damn, I wish that fireman would molest me.
I don't know his name, but he's here with a number of others handing out fireworks safety brochures and emergency packets with water, bandages, and that sort of thing for festivalgoers.
He's wearing black slacks and a black tee shirt with Fire Company 417 on the front, and he looks so virile that my heart races just looking at him. His build is muscular but not too bulky, and his facial features are carved handsomely. He sports a bit of scruff on his beard-stubbled chin which gives him an appealing ruggedness, and his eyes seem to sparkle with an inner fire when he surveys the crowd.
He moves with almost catlike grace through the throngs of people, scanning carefully yet appearing to do so casually as if assessing possible emergency scenarios for what seems like an unending amount of time. Even from this distance I can see how his strong arms flex as he shifts position every now and then to get a better view of what's going on in the crowd. I'm sure he must be in his early to mid-forties though he carries himself well, much better than most men half his age do.
I swallow hard at the thought of being touched by such a mature man who already has such experience both in life and love-making behind him. At twenty-two years old I have just begun to experience life to its fullest potential but I am enthralled by the idea of being mentored by someone like him.
When I say mentored, I need to tell you I mean about seventy-five percent mentoring when it comes to enjoying and being enjoyed physically. The other twenty-five percent I guess is less mentoring and more getting romantic experience with someone who's not young like me and stupid (which I guess is probably a little like me, young and stupid, I mean.)
I get the money out of the guitar case and into my purse. I'll count it when I have some privacy but I'm confident I'm closer to three hundred than two hundred, so that's fantastic. It doesn't take long to get completely packed up, and when I do, I feel good. I glance around for the mystery man but the fireman is nowhere to be seen.
Oh well.
As I start to walk, though, I hear a perfect voice say, "You calling it a night?" It's deep and resonant and somehow... I don't know the word. It sounds royal, I guess. I mean, it's like the voice you expect a king or a prince to have. I turn around and it gets even better because the voice belongs to the fireman.
I think my voice squeaks a little as I say, "Yes, I'm done for the day."
He smiles and says, "I'm Curt. Let's make a deal. I see you grabbing the bus every night right about the time I'm done with my work here. I'm new in town. You show me a good place to eat every night, and I'll drive you home and save you the bus ride."
I stare at him for a moment and finally say, "I don't. I don't live here but I know the city."
"Sounds like you meet all the qualifications then, Denise."
"How did you..." I blush as I remember my name is on the little sign that I put in front of myself while I'm playing. "...know I was looking for someone to have dinners with?" I finish lamely.
"Intuition," he says, "and I'll eat anything so you tell me where we're going and you'll get no argument from me."
Man, it's like everything this man says is magic. It's not his words. It's his voice. It's intoxicating.
"Have you ever had authentic Mexican tacos? The kind you get from a hole in the wall place?"
"Never have but it sounds awesome."
I smile, "It is."
