Vamp is what I named her, my Suzuki scooter. Mechanically speaking, Vamp is not a motorcycle. She’s a single-cylinder, sporty thing with a seat that fits my bum and painted in my favorite color, think dried blood meets dark purple. She coordinates with my short nails.
Whenever I’d beg Daddy to buy me a motorcycle for my eighteenth birthday, he’d reply, “Baby girl your mother and I will get you a new set of wheels after we see your first semester’s grades at Columbia. ‘B’ or higher on all subjects. We clear?”
Please let my first semester go well.
Pretty cray-cray considering how messed up my folks were to be projecting academic righteousness. I’m not their Pollyanna Voodoo Doll, although I’d grown used to it. Those who can’t do, preach.
After Vamp, my dream bike was the Honda VFR400. Birdie had hers custom made in Japan and nicknamed it after her vibrator, The Pocket Rocket. I rode her as often as I could. I’m talking about the bike, not my mom. Ugh, totally gross!
Oh…that throttled feel, such a heady mix of power and diesel fuel pumping through the engine, between my legs, purring at my innocence. After I’ve lost my virginity, Lady V, I imagine future sex with Kelle will be similar to riding The Pocket Rocket. Hopefully minus the constant stop and go between traffic lights.
Back to Kelle—I admit that, when one looks as yummy as him, he could peddle a pink Huffy bike along the West Side Highway and get away with it. So I’m sure he’ll be fine in his Ferrari.
Vive always jokes, “Lex, your Kelle is total gorgeousness! Give ‘em your Lady V already. Or Blake will snatch Kelle’s juicy booty from behind and I’ll take his ding-a-ling from the front.”
And according to The Manhattanite Times, Kelle was the hottest teenager to have hailed from an American political family. Granted, most of the boys I’d met over the years, who’d been born into politics had not…been attractive.
I’ve dreamt of, lusted after, kissed on, and doted over Kelle Sterling Dolley since I was like fourteen.
Wouldn’t it be nice if Kelle felt the same way about me? He didn’t. I was working hard to change that. Take this gum, for example. The more I chew, the more I lose, and then the more I’ll win at l’amour with Kelle.
“That’s it. Right there. Tap it hard. Ah-huh. Harder,” Birdie shouted in her drunk or high voice.
Usually, I could tell the difference. Today? Not so much. That meant she was probably a mix of both.
Unzipping my bag I took out a piece of that gum, popped it in my mouth and rolled the wrapper between my fingers. The directions had clearly stated not to chomp all day. So I’d spit it out in a few.
Aside from the excess salivating, that made me appear to be Cujo, the rabid dog, followed by bloating—which I corrected with Gas-X and a spritz of Diorama perfume—the gum wasn’t half bad. Shhh. I didn’t read the second half of the warning label where it had listed the other flu-like symptoms. Seriously, I can’t freak myself out about chewing this stuff. It’s mind over matter and right now my mind was focused on getting skinny and getting laid.
Plus what I jonesed for wasn’t cigarettes. I wanted sweets.
Clothing designer Ralph Lauren’s daughter, Dylan, had opened up a candy shop on the Upper East Side near Vive’s apartment called Dylan’s Candy Bar.
The world’s largest sugar shop served over 5,000 goodies. You go gurl! I effin’ double-hearted that place. Hungry for gummy bears and Sour Patch Kids, I craved a sugary zing like twenty-four-seven. Probably the same way Mom did her cocaine.
Please universe, make my apple fall far away from Birdie’s tree.
“My, my, my.” Birdie moaned, “Now I know what my daughter sees in you, Kelle.”
What?
Un-frickin’-believable! Did Mom just say his name from her bedroom? I nearly peed. True story, I crossed my legs while standing, to brace myself from the utter horrid shock.
“Such a hot MILF.” He grunted like a pig.
A soon to be dead pig—FYI.
In a huff, I tossed my purse to the foyer table. With a thud, it smacked the white marble floor—echoing a boom.
Crap on a yard stick. I’d missed.
Frozen, I stood still and listened to see if Birdie and Kelle had heard me.
“No hands.” Mother bossed.
“Whatever you say, Mrs. Easton.”
Squeaky noises started. Then skin-smacking sounds. All of it picked up speed, getting louder and faster. Dirty talk too. And then came what must’ve been spanking.
Grossarama!
A lump swelled in my throat, and it wasn’t from the gum. I wanted to call 911. What would I say?
“Operator, this is Lex Easton. I live at 245 Spring Street. My famous mother is screwing my hawt boyfriend. Can you send a policeman to make them stop?”
Not!
I bet the operator’s first response wouldn’t be to see if I was okay. Oh no. It’d be all, “I love Birdie Easton’s music. Her song “Lucifer’s Mistress” has a special place in my heart.” That’s what she’d probably say.
I hated that song. The lyrics were about doing the nasty with the devil.
Ready to bust it up, I marched across the penthouse, pulling my blonde hair into a ponytail. The gold buckles on my motorcycle boots clanged, bringing to my attention that this was gonna be a smack down. Easton style!
I thought about what I’d say, who I’d tell off first. Birdie was one heck of a fighter. She has the restraining orders to prove it. And Kelle, he stood at six-foot-three and has the body of an NBA Knicks player. Weighing over two hundred pounds, he’d often bragged he could do a thirty-five inch vertical jump and a three-cone drill in 6.5 seconds.
Either way, I’d already lost.
At the end of the brocade wallpapered hall, I spotted the door with its brassy handle wide open, and their ass’s wide out. I stepped closer and watched. I know! Shoot me now.
Magnetic and forceful, their sex pulled me in as some kind of touristy street brawl. One normally witnessed in the Meat Packing District around 3 am on Thursday nights.
You know, with the teens that come in from New Jersey acting all cool-n-craptastic till a Manhattanite bops ‘em on the back of their head with a champagne bottle to remind them to get the heck off our island. Posers!
I must observe this ridiculousness for myself.
Of course Birdie Easton, my Grammy Award-winning, Grey Goose drinking, Oxycodone-popping mother was riding Kelle Sterling Dolley like an Arabian horse charging out of the stables.