Free Don't Shoot! I'm Just the Avon Lady! by Birdie Jaworski

watching us, watched two tall fellows in jeans and black t-shirts saunter our way. They both sported modified mullets, and I could tell with my expert Avon eye that they used some kind of hair gel to give their ‘dos a slightly spikey texture. Wow , I thought. They look really young. Even younger than their photograph .
    Shanna let go of my arm, gave the man with the black hair a big hug, and introduced me to my date, the red-headed mulletman.
    “Birdie, this is Carl, Carl, this is Birdie.” I reached out to shake his hand, wanted to say a kind greeting, but different words fell from my mind.
    “Uh, hi. How old are you?” Carl laughed - which just made him look younger - and grinned. His voice sounded young, too, and as he spoke tiny freckles on his cheeks rose and fell.
    “I’m 22. And I really love older women...”
    He leaned in close, eyes on my strapless dress, tried to wrap his arm around me. I pushed him to the side with both hands, laughed, acted playful, coy, but under the surface I felt ridiculous and old. I walked behind him, behind Shanna and her tall mulletman, to an orange vinyl booth in the darkest corner of the bar.
    I wish I could tell you I danced to Metallica and Ironmaiden. I wish I could tell you I forgot my age, that I felt 20 years old, maybe 18 and that I drank six beers and took that red-headed boy as my lover. But I didn’t. I didn’t even come close to anything fun or fantastic. I sat in the booth and watched the increasing footsies of Shanna and Joel. We drank one beer, then two. Shanna and Joel excused themselves to sneak outside for a smoke. I inched further away from Carl when he attempted to put his hand on my fish-netted thigh.
    “Uh, Carl? So, tell me a little about yourself. What do you do outside of the band?” I have a daughter I never met nearly his age , I thought as I asked the question. I’m old enough to be his mother .
    “Joel and me ride our bikes up the coast sometimes. I like watching TV, you know, those reality shows like Fear Factor. I want to be on that show. I’d eat anything, pig testicles, cow snot, it doesn’t matter. I can eat anything.” Carl continued rattling on and on about reality shows I never knew existed, about the gross and daring dark moments of human entertainment, and I thought again about my age, about the gulf that divided us. His red hair spikes didn’t move, stood straight at attention and I noticed he wore a bottom retainer. Wow, just a kid , I thought again.
    “Cool. Fear Factor. I never saw that before.” I tried to show interest, but my eyes kept wandering to the front door. What happened to Shanna?
    “Heh heh heh.” Carl gave a provocative laugh, placed his hand back on my thigh, inched his butt along the wooden bench. “Is it true what they say about older women?”
    I didn’t even bother rolling my eyes. I lowered my voice to just above a whisper and drew out the spaces between my words with extra breath.
    “Carl. Let me tell you a secret. You want to know about older women? Whatever you heard, just double it. No, triple it. Us women over thirty-five are in our peak sexual prime. We can all have multiple orgasms. Sometimes just by THINKING about sex. Sometimes when someone ELSE thinks about sex. Multiple orgasms, Carl. Every time.” I slanted my eyes like a cat and winked. “And now, I must use the ladies room.”
    I stood, grabbed my purse, and sauntered toward the restrooms. Carl sat and stared, mouth fully open, retainer hanging out, and I saw him adjust his jeans with one hand. Men. Sheesh. A fat biker in a black leather jacket and brown chaps accosted me, swung his arm around my neck and held me tight against his stomach. I could feel his dinner squirming through his clothes, and I started to sweat in fear.
    “Hey honey, where YOU goin’ so fast?” He laughed, sprayed drunken spittle against my hair, and I steadied my feet strong against the floorboards and walloped him with my purse. Thank goodness I still had that