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Message-ID: <38900asstr$1035375002@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Father Ignatius" <FatherIgnatius@ANTISPAMananzi.co.za>
NNTP-Posting-Date: 23 Oct 2002 10:08:19 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} "Blowing off Betsy BJs" (Father Ignatius) (MF rom)
Date: Wed, 23 Oct 2002 08:10:02 -0400
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Blowing off Betsy BJs
MF rom <*>

(c)2002 Father Ignatius
FatherIgnatius@ananzi.co.za


This story appears here by kind permission of its official home,
http://www.ruthiesclub.com" where the illustrated version of the story
appears and story first appeared as part of their "Betsy" series.

-----

I reckon a man only has one true love ever. Cindy was mine, and she'd dumped
me.

I finished my drink quickly and left. I do that, as suddenly as possible,
when people in bars start talking to me. I don't go to bars to talk. I don't
go to bars to have strangers telling me their problems, or to hit on women.
Or to have women hit on me.

Or to have the fucking barkeep making conversation. Not that I get that so
much from barmen any more. At the bars I go to, they know me, except for
new-hires now and then, and they soon learn. When someone talks to me at one
bar, I move on to the next, and then the next. In a long evening, I might
even come back, hours later, when I've already gone around all my other
regular bars.

I go to bars to get drunk. I'm good at it. I've had practice. The best way I
know--and I've tried plenty of ways--is straight Scotch with a water jug on
the bar. Don't let them put in the water. They always put in too much,
especially when they think you've drunk enough already. It stops you getting
drunk enough. Fuck that. Time spent in front of a urinal is wasted drinking
time.

Drinking it without water is also not the best because you pass out while
you can still hold more. This is also bad because you mustn't pass out in
bars where you're a regular and want to stay one. Bars like customers who
come early, sit quietly, drink steadily, and stay upright. A valued customer
is one who leaves unassisted at closing time, without making trouble and
without vomiting.

The best way is to add very small amounts of water to your drinks from the
jug as you go along, like touching the brake and accelerator as you drive
down a familiar road. Don't eat anything--no peanuts or pretzels or anything
complimentary. It soaks up the booze. They make a profit out of giving away
free stuff. It's craftily designed to make your precious drunken escape more
expensive. Don't take ice. For some reason, it makes it harder to gauge your
carefully controlled descent into handcrafted oblivion.

With enough practice, you can become remarkably skilled at judging an
evening's drinking just right. Getting it just right is a minor art form.
"Just right" means you can get yourself home and inside your building before
you feel the buzz of approaching blackout. "Just right" also means that you
definitely do feel that buzz before you see the front door of your own
apartment. You don't want to let yourself into your own home without
oblivion comfortingly close by.

When you get it just right, you feel yourself start to lose it as you
carefully climb the stairs to your apartment. Hold firmly to the handrail,
Howard. We don't want to fall over again. You're on the way out at last,
thank God. You must still hang on, though. Keep enough control to get your
key into your keyhole smoothly. There must be no drunken jiggling to make
the neighbors come out and see if there's a burglary in progress, and
realize it's only you, drunk again, and sneer. And look at each other,
revolted, wishing you didn't live in their building. And call the super
again to see if they can get you kicked out.

You must keep enough control, in fact, so you can coherently greet any
neighbors you might pass on the stairway. They mustn't think you're a
pathetic drunk who, even two years later, can't sleep sober.

_Two years_ since Cindy kicked you out for being a drunken loser? Dear God,
will the pain never get less?


* * *

This other drunk in the bar started trying to tell me that his wife didn't
understand him, or some damn thing. I finished my drink quickly and left for
the next bar. The cold air can work both ways when you're trying to drink
yourself home just right. It can keep you going when you've been going too
fast. In this case, it was waking me up too much. I was thinking I'd have to
drink myself back on track in the next warm, stuffy bar when I passed an
alley and saw three punks ganging up on Cindy. They had her up against the
wall. Two of them had her by her wrist and shoulder, pressed against the
brickwork, the third one sneering down on her, spitting hatred, unbuckling
his belt, dodging her kicks, using them to spread her legs, pulling her
skirt up.

"Cindy!" I screamed.

They turned and saw me coming. Young fuckers, young and still fit, amused at
my stumbling, drunken, blubbery charge down the alley. Their young ghetto
smiles say _You can't be serious?_ Young fuckers, suddenly with flick-knives
ready, never mind. Cindy. Cindy in danger. Must help, must help. Oh God,
Cindy, swinging, missing, mocking laughter, kicking awkwardly, hit
something, _Jesus, old man_, I'm not old, I'm thirty-four, I just look this
way, Cindy, are you okay?

Shit, pain, stagger back, sprawl, dustbins, they're coming for me, kicking,
knives, shit, my legs, pain, Christ, what was that? Hurts. Grab dustbin lid,
swing hard. Cold, flabby muscles exerting desperate strength. Crunching
noise, horrible howl of animal pain. Cartilage. _Jesus, old man!_ Sudden
quiet, I can hear Cindy sobbing, it's okay Cindy. Again with the dustbin
lid, bastards, bastards, bastards. I have to step forward as I hit, there's
one down, they're trying to carry him away. They're running for it, catch
them bastards, dustbin lid. Come back, punks. Bastards! Shit-faced... Fuck!
Lost them.

Suddenly weak. Cindy still back down the alley. Must help. Cindy, are you
okay? Are you there? Cindy? You look like shit. Why are you so thin?

It's not Cindy. Cindy was two years gone. Don't you get it, ass-wipe? Cindy
is never, ever coming back. Jesus, I need a drink so very badly...


* * *


"I'm Betsy," she said through chattering teeth. "You were awesome, Howard."

She was scarfing down a doughnut one-handed from the streetside stall. The
coffee was too hot to drink but she was clamping it in her other hand,
against one breast, for warmth. She was half-starved and blue with cold,
covered with bruises both old and new. She was pale, and so thin that her
dark brown eyes stood out waif-like against the translucent, unhealthy blue
and pale skin, like Cindy's had never, please God, been. Her long, straight
brown hair was dirty and matted, like Cindy would never have allowed. When
she looked up at me, though, her straight nose, her full lips, her
everything... When she looked up at me she reminded me painfully of how
Cindy looked when I first met her, the bitch.

I bought Betsy another doughnut, thinking, "Shit, if I'd been sober..."
Never mind that. If I'd been sober, I wouldn't have been wrecking my
reputation by buying a strange young street-waif doughnuts and coffee with
money that could just as well have bought Scotch. And I wouldn't be hurting
all over, like this.

I rubbed my hand absently down the side of my coat and said, "So, Betsy, how
did you manage to get into all that trouble, huh?"

I had trouble listening to her gay, chatty reply. Either I was drunker than
I should have been with all that fresh air, exercise, and adrenalin, or
there was something wrong. I couldn't see clearly. I had to lean on the wall
for a weakness that got worse, instead of better, as I got my breath back.
Her voice seemed to be coming from further and further away and there was
definitely something amiss down the side of my ribcage.

"Hey, buddy," came the _barrista_'s voice, half-joking, concerned, "You're
bleeding all over my pavement."

I pulled my coat open. A gasp stopped Betsy's chatter as she looked at the
solid red, sodden mass that was my shirt and coat lining. My vision was
graying out and I couldn't stand any more. I heard Betsy screaming, felt her
pawing at me, as I slid out of consciousness.


* * *


Door closing. Movement.

_...no, not yet...in here, bitch...oh, yes, oh, yes..._

Scuffling. Furniture scraping. A guilty giggle. What the fuck?

_...no, passed right out...just fucking do it..._

Too difficult. Must sleep now.


* * *


I spent a long time waking up and didn't even open my eyes. I felt like
shit. I lifted my arm. It was curiously difficult to do it. I was like a
marionette with no strings. I smelled hospital smells. I had tubes in my
arms, up my nose and God knows where else, and pain all over, including a
pounding headache. But, more than anything, I was thirsty, thirsty, thirsty.

I heard footsteps and swish, swish, swish.

"Who do I have to fuck to get a drink around here?" I said, not opening my
eyes.

"Oh, God, don't you start," said a brisk, authoritative voice right close
my. My eyes snapped open and I took in a big, solid, middle-aged, black
nursing sister. She was looking at me quizzically, half concerned and half
amused.

"What?" I said, all groggy. My voice was hoarse and unused.

"Your little friend has got all that covered," she said, "so don't worry
your pretty little head about that."

"What?"

"I'll get you a drink. If you're a good child I'll sneak a Popsicle from
Oncology. I heard one of their patients died in the night."

"What?"

Time to sleep again.


* * *


I heard movement in the room again and opened my eyes, hoping for something
to drink. What I saw wasn't the black sister, though, it was a young male
nurse. He had his back to me. His pants were round his calves and Betsy was
giving him a blow job.

_...oh, shit, oh, shit, yes..._

_Plop!_

_Shut the fuck up. You'll wake him._

 _Nah. He's out forever. But when he comes round he'll get as much to drink
as he wants. Promise. Now suck, Betsy, I'm begging ya..._

_Slurp! Slurp!_

 _...oh, shit, oh, shit, yes..._


* * *


Some sound woke me again. When I opened my eyes, there were several drinks
on my bedside table, none of them the plain water I really wanted. Including
some sort of melted sundae thing. The sister was standing looking at them,
exasperated.

"What's going on?" I asked.

"Oh, you're back in the land of the living, are you? I'll tell you what's
going on. Your little pal Betsy is what's going on. Baby, you are going to
be getting the best nursing anyone ever had. If you're lucky, the attention
won't kill you."

I saw she was joking but she could see I had no idea what she meant.

"Let me explain," she said. "You know you're in hospital, right?"

"I'd got that far, yes."

"Does anything strike you as strange about that?"

"Well, I got in this fight you see..."

"Yes, I know that. What I don't know is who you are or where you live or
anything about your medical insurance. In these enlightened days of modern
medicine, baby, that means you're not_ in hospital. Officially."

Her mouth curled a little. I could see she was somewhat bitter about modern
medicine in these enlightened days.

"But you _are_ in hospital, right?" she continued.

"Right."

"So, what happened?"

"What happened?"

"Your little pal Betsy happened, is what. When the cab dropped you off,
bleeding everywhere and like to die in our nice, clean, corporate reception
area,"--again with the little disparaging curl of the lips--"your little pal
managed to get you admitted and treated super-fast. No ID, no nothing. In
fact, it's amazing how fast you can get treated if you by-pass the
form-filling." Yet again, the curl.

"Good for her. I'm glad she did it. How did she manage it, though?"

"Blow jobs."

"What?" I said, stupidly.

"I thought you just said 'blow jobs.'"

"I did. She was out there offering BJs left, right and center. The cab
driver got one. There wasn't enough money on the pair of you for the fare.
The housemen and the male nurses were queuing up, but she was trading, not
giving away. And she was offering all the way up to the Administrator and
the Registrar."

"Shit."

"No shit, Howard. She's known around these parts as 'Betsy BJs.' She even
offered to get me off."

"No shit?"

"No shit."

"Shit."

"I told her, 'No offense, but when my old man can't get me off any more,
I'll get me a young man. And somewhere along the way, by the way, she traded
you into here. And now"--briskly--"I gotta take your details."

At that point, Betsy appeared in the doorway and saw me awake. In a flash,
she was by my side, tears streaming down her face.

"Howard! I thought you'd die!"

She was truly distressed. I hadn't expected that, but Sister Stevens didn't
seem surprised at all. The bottom line was that Betsy got my address and
front-door key and Sister Stevens sent her off to my apartment to collect my
ID and Medicaid details to make me belatedly official.

When she came back, Betsy said matter-of-factly, "You gave me the key to
your apartment but not to the building."

"Shit. Sorry. How did you get past the super?"

"I blew him."

"Ah." Embarrassed. "I've heard about your, um, methods."

"Yeah." Sardonically. "Word gets around, huh?"

She flicked her hair dismissively over her shoulder. "Whatever gets
results," she said. And shrugged. And got back to business.

She moved over and sat on the chair next to my bed. "I was worried about
you." She put her hand on my thigh.

I was uncomfortable about how intense she was. Shees. We only just met.

"I just want you to know, Howard, that I'm very, very grateful for what you
did. And I'm going to make it up to you."

"Look, Betsy, you're making too much of this. Anybody would've..."

"Oh, no, they wouldn't."

And her hand slipped under the blanket. I twitched as I felt her fingers
moving over my thigh, groping for my dick.

"Betsy, no. Please..."

"Shit! What's this?"

"Ow!"

Whereupon Sister Stevens appeared, and said, "Not yet, Betsy. He's lost a
lot of fluids. He can't."

"But, Sister..."

"Let me give you a little hospital advice, kiddo. Don't argue with the one
who gets to take out the catheter, okay?"

"Yes, Sister."

"Ow!"


* * *


In the fullness of time, the catheter came out. After a decent interval,
Betsy checked to see if I'd caught up properly with my fluid intake. I had.
Once she had my throbbing hard-on in her hand, she pulled back the blankets
and stooped over my crotch. Her hair tickled my belly and thighs as she
breathed hot, and cold, and hot, on me, before sucking me gently down into
her throat. But I didn't want a BJ from Betsy BJs.

"Betsy," I said, tugging at her hair, "Make love to me."

She clambered up onto the bed and kissed me. She struggled out of her
clothes and then straddled me. Gripping me by the shoulders, she stared at
the wall above my head as she slipped onto me. Her eyes met mine again, and
she smiled.

"You just lie still, there," she said, "and mind your stitches."

And she slowly, gently, began to ride me like a rocking horse.

Oh, God, it was wonderful.

"Oh, God," she said, "this is wonderful."

When it was over, she lay on top of me, and kissed me gently. There were
tears in her eyes.

"Thank God that's over," said Sister Stevens's voice from the corridor, "At
last. Now we can all carry on with our lives."


* * *


The day I was released from hospital, Betsy took me home in a cab. By then,
she had brought my ATM card from home so I could draw cash and pay the cab
driver in money. Maybe it didn't have the same style as a BJ, but it sure
was quicker.

Betsy helped me solicitously up the stairs. It wasn't that bad, I'm not a
grandfather, but it was kind of cute, all the same.

"Ta-da!" she said, throwing open the door of my apartment.

She had snuck in and cleaned up and readied the apartment for my return. Her
housekeeping wasn't up to her BJs. The windows were kind of smeary and I
could see grimy cloth marks on the sink. The linen on the bed was fresh, but
not ironed, and her specialist exposure to hospital life hadn't introduced
her to hospital corners. The food she'd got--I didn't want to think too much
about how she'd got it--ran to cupcakes and candies. I could see myself
yearning for savories. But she'd really, really tried.

It really was kind of cute.

She led me into the bedroom, gently put me to bed, and gave me the sweetest
BJ that any man ever had. Afterwards, she wiped me down with toilet paper.
It was pink and floral.

"Now, you just lie back and rest," she said as I dozed off. "I'll be back in
a while with your dinner."

And she was. Dinner was pizza. I heard her answer the door to the delivery
man.

"I haven't got any money," I heard her saying, "but..."

_Slurp! Slurp!_

_...oh, shit, oh, shit, yes..._

"Salami," she remarked a few minutes later, climbing into bed with me. "And
olives, and garlic. Eat quickly. It's not as hot as it was. I thought I'd
never get him off. Shall I microwave it?"

"Nah. Makes it soggy."

"No shit?"


* * *


I taught Betsy how to clean, and she cleaned for me. I taught her how I
wanted her to shop, and she shopped for me. I taught her how to cook, and
she cooked for me. And then, Betsy asked, "Why don't you work?"

"I don't know. Don't want to."

"Everyone has to work. What was you work before you quit?"

"Accountant."

"No shit?"

She didn't argue the point but, a few days later, she announced, "I've got
you a job."

It was a shelf-packer job at the local corner store, a family business. It
paid almost nothing and the owner never used anyone outside the family
before. I tried not to think what had motivated him to offer me an opening.
And I also tried to notice that we always had more groceries than I could
afford.

But I went and did it, to please Betsy. It was kind of therapeutic, doing
the same actions over and over, all day. I kind of got into it. The owner
never saw me drunk and, truth to tell, I got drunk less. I had less to get
drunk about and more not to get drunk for. When I was drunk, Betsy wouldn't
give me BJs. She wouldn't fight or anything. In fact, she wouldn't be there
at all when I finally staggered home. I would have to go to bed alone, and I
found I'd rather go sober to bed with Betsy.

I became aware that the store owner struggled with his books. He wasn't a
lettered man. I mentioned this to Betsy and, the next day she dropped in at
the store while I was working.

"Did you know that Howard's really an accountant?" she said to the owner. He
can get money back from the tax man for you."

The owner grunted non-commitally but he was in the hands--mouth--of Betsy
BJs. It was a foregone conclusion. In a little while, I was moved into the
back office, giving the owner tutorials on exaggerating his stock losses for
tax purposes--I got a sudden insight into our grocery situation at home--and
showing him how to claim rebates for this and that.

This impressed him enough for him to mention me to his brother-in-law. Betsy
had nothing to do with that. Over time, word spread and eventually I wound
up with a small _clientele_ of small businessmen in the 'hood.

Betsy was proud of me.

I began to get my hair cut, and then styled. I dressed better, and then
dressed well. I got a credit rating back and, such is the nature of
capitalism, I very soon found myself in a position to borrow more money than
I really thought I could afford. The small _clientele_ grew into a big one
spreading over a quarter of the city. I had to hire an office, a
receptionist, and associates. I didn't have time to drink any more.

Betsy was very proud of me.

Around the time I started getting manicures, I got a BMW as well. I began to
lunch with bigger clients, and that's how come I ran into Cindy again. We
hadn't seen each other in years but seeing her was like running into a
snowplow. I reckon a man only has one true love ever, and Cindy was mine.

She appraised my suit, my hair, the BMW I was getting into.

"Hello, Howard," she said.

"Hello, Cindy," I said. I almost said _Long time, no see_, but I didn't.

We chatted a while. We went back inside for a coffee. This turned into a
drink, and more coffee. And a few phone calls over the next few days, and a
date.

"Where have you been?" said Betsy when I came home not-drunk.

"Out," I said.


* * *


In the end, I had to arrange for Betsy to catch us in bed. I had Cindy come
over to borrow a book, one thing led to another, as I knew it would. When
Betsy came home, Cindy and I were in bed together, trying to look guilty.

"Um. This is Cindy," I said. It sounded a dopey thing to say.

"I always wondered who Cindy was," said Betsy, and walked out of my life.


* * *


I feel badly about Betsy sometimes, when I'm awake in the dark at 3 a.m. But
I reckon a man only has one true love ever, and Cindy is mine.



-----

- Thanks to DrSpin for the advice and encouragement, and to Ruthie for
editing.

- I would be pleased to hear from you, at FatherIgnatius@ananzi.co.za, about
whether or not you liked it, and why.

- Thank you for reading me.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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