It was only a minor garage fire, easily contained. But the young boy, Evan, whom Jason and his fellow firefighters had evacuated from the attached house, had pleaded with Jason to rescue his dog from the kennel in the garage. Jason loved animals as much as I do, although he was more of a dog person, while I’m more of a cat person (my snowshoe Siamese, Tia, had been my best friend and companion growing up).
So Jason had shaken off his colleagues’ restraining hands and rushed into the burning garage. He just wasn’t the type to turn down a crying child. He’d located the kennel at the rear of the garage through the flames and smoke and unlatched it. And the dog, a six-month-old beagle (Buddy, who showed up at Jason’s funeral), had raced out of the garage and into the jubilant arms of the boy who’d been calling for him. But when Jason had turned to leave, a heavy wooden support beam had come crashing down, crushing my husband, and almost killing me at the same time.
A year passed, and things didn’t get better. In fact, they got worse.
I spent my nights plaintively crying, my days futilely looking for full-time work. Jason’s family tried to be supportive, tried hard. But they had busy lives of their own, and, with my empty life full of memories of Jason, I started to shun them, withdrawing from life. I was retreating back into myself like I had as a child when my parents were killed. I found it harder and harder to get up in the morning and face the harsh, cold, real world. I started drinking again.
And that’s when I ran into Tony, just when I shouldn’t have run into someone like Tony. But just when a weak-willed person with slumping self-confidence would run into someone like Tony. In a seedy bar down by the river on a cool, grey November day quickly fading to night.
I’d just gone through the ordeal of another interview, at the local box factory, and I needed a drink, bad. The nearest bar was Casey’s, on Waterfront Drive. I staggered down the sidewalk through the cutting wind and pushed my way through the heavy wooden door. The familiar beery warmth embraced me, like the devil embraces those who have strayed from God.
The place was dimly lit to hide its dilapidation and dirt, and practically empty. Just a tattered old couple at a booth, and two men leaning against the bar. One of the men was Tony.
I didn’t recognise him at first. I walked over to the short, greasy bar, slid onto a battered stool and ordered a vodka and orange juice.
‘Hey! Angela! Quiet little Angela from eighth grade!’
I took a sip of my drink and then turned my head to look at the man who had called out my name, already ashamed to be recognised in such a place.
‘Tony! Remember? You had a crush on me in junior high.’ He elbowed his companion and then strolled over and jumped onto the stool next to me.
I recognised him up close, all right. Tony. The junior high juvenile delinquent whom I’d sort of hung out with in the eighth grade. Him and his gang of troublemakers and losers. All of whom had either dropped out of school entirely or gone on to different high schools. I’d gotten poor grades in junior high, been suspended a couple of times, and Tony had been a big part of that.
He still had the same dark, curly hair and dark eyes, sensuous mouth and crooked nose. And he was still wearing the same type of torn black leather jacket and dirty black jeans, with the same sneer on his face. But he was a lot heavier than when I’d last seen him, and his skin was the unhealthy colour of someone who didn’t go outside very much, or work very hard. There were dark half-circles under his eyes.
As I sat there clutching my drink and staring at the lowlife, I wondered what I’d ever seen in him in the first place. ‘Oh, hi, Tony,’ I mumbled, looking back down into my glass.
‘Long time, no see, huh?’ He glanced around the desolate bar in an exaggerated manner. ‘So, what’s a nice girl like you doing in a dump like this?’
The bartender, a short, fat, bald man, started to protest. But Tony shot him a menacing glare, forcing the man to swallow his words.
He was waiting for me to say something, ready to pounce. And I gave it to him, so low already I thought I was residing on rock-bottom. ‘I’m, uh, not doing so good, Tony. I’ve been looking for a job. My husband died, and …’
He took it from there, swinging a heavy arm around my small shoulders and clasping me roughly. ‘Hey, lucky you ran into Tony then, huh? I’ll take care of you. Like I did back in junior high. Right, Hi?’
Hi was the other man propping up the bar. A tall, skinny, sandy-haired, vacant-eyed guy who’d been Tony’s sidekick back in school. He was nicknamed ‘Hi’ because of all the marijuana he smoked back then. Judging by his emaciated physique and jerky movements, he had moved onto other, more potent drugs since I’d last seen him.
Tony and I had sex that night, in the dark, cold, filthy alley that ran between the bar and a vacant building. Unprotected sex. I was more than a little drunk, I guess, and full of self-pity along with the alcohol. Tony was more than a little insistent, too, like he’d always been. Just like old times.
He pushed me up against the alley wall and mashed his mouth into mine, pressing his body hard against me. I struggled a little, but not much. His heavy hands clutched my breasts and his thick, wet tongue swarmed into my mouth. I moaned, flailed back with my tongue, undulating my body against Tony’s.
It was sordid, rank, demeaning and disgusting – and I was just in the mood for it.
Tony and I hungrily thrashed our tongues together. And then he dipped his head down and shoved my sweater up, caught my bare tits in his swarthy hands. I moaned again, writhing against the rough wall. Tony flogged one of my nipples with his tongue, then the other one, making me shiver with both cold and heat, my pussy buzzing.
He slammed my tits together and smeared his tongue back and forth over both of my nipples at once. I grabbed onto his greasy hair and clawed at his scalp, thrusting my burning chest into his fleshy face. I felt sick and sexy at the same time, Tony assaulting my tits with his mauling hands and lashing tongue, the stench of garbage all around us assailing my nostrils. The perfect atmosphere for the craven fuck. I could only be thankful the guy didn’t push me right down onto the filthy alley floor and mount me there. Or maybe that actually would’ve been more appropriate.
Tony jammed my tits up and sucked a jutted nipple into his drooling mouth. He pulled on it, bit into it, bruising my nipple with his teeth like he was bruising my breasts with his hands. Then he spat out the one nipple, and gulped up and fed on the other. I tore at his hair, squirming against the wall, in heat with lust, cold for love.
Tony straightened back up, fumbled his fly open and pulled out his hard cock. Even in the dim light, I could see it was short and stubby, bushed with curly black hairs at the base. Good enough. I popped my own jeans open and Tony yanked them down to my knees. Then he hit my slit with his bulbous cockhead, slammed his shaft into my tunnel.
I grabbed onto his thick neck and groaned. He grunted and grabbed my tits again, started pumping his hips, stabbing his cock into my cunt, fucking me up against the grimy alley wall.
It was quick and savage. Tony wildly thrust into me, clasping and kneading my breasts. I bounced off the wall against him, digging my dirty fingernails into the folds of flesh on his neck. He huffed rancid breath into my face. I spat back into his gasping mouth.
Tony jerked, banging me. I felt his cock jump and shoot in my pussy, spurt a load of hot, sticky, soiling sperm. I desperately swallowed back bile and shuddered my own wretched joy, orgasm shocking up from my stuffed cunt and stinging my desolate body. We were united in depravity, Tony and I, two lowdown, down-low animals rutting around in the dirt for any pleasure we could get and take.
I felt terrible about it afterwards, when I woke up in the bed I’d shared with my husband in our apartment, and Tony was snoring, naked, next to me. I spent ten minutes throwing up in the bathroom, then thirty minutes under the hot shower.