Page 1 of Baby Girl

ERIK. “Two colors, are you fucking serious, just two?”

“Yes, Erik, that’s all we’ve got right now, the black and the silver,” the salesman responded.

“Well Christ, Darwin. Every car I have purchased in the last five years has been black. I’m sick and damned tired of black cars,” I said, walking away from the silver BMW, and back toward the black one.

“Erik, the black just fits you. The silver, well…it is too conservative. The black is more, well, you,” he stated as he hurried to catch up with me, trying not to look as if he was running.

“Slow down, Darwin, I am not going to escape,” I said, looking over my shoulder.

“I will take the black one, but I will give you one twenty, that’s it, don’t counter offer. Don’t bicker. One twenty, and that’s it. A cent more, I will go get a Benz.”

“Alright, come inside, we’ll do the paperwork,” he said, attempting to hide the look of satisfaction from making a sale.

Growing up, I never knew the extent of my mother’s wealth. We lived a fairly simple life, and lived in very modest home. I attended a public school, and appeared on the surface, as well as in my mind, the same as any other kid that was raised in the Midwest.

My father had passed away when I was three of a brain aneurysm. I had no real recollection of him ever existing. I tried remembering through my childhood, and when I was in middle school I developed some false memories of him. I even recall telling some stories about him, all false. Growing older, I came to terms with the fact that he was gone, and that he was not going to ever be a part of my life. At that time, the false memories, stories, and hopes vanished. My mother raised me with a stern hand and a set of rules and regulations that were not negotiable.

It would be impossible to know for sure, but I suspect something to do with being raised by a stern mother, and having no father figure in the home attributed to my odd sexual nature, my sexual desires, and my inability to ever commit to a woman. My psychosexual development attributed to the remainder. At thirty-six years old, I had been in no less than a dozen relationships, had never been married, and had yet to have a girlfriend last longer than six months. Between relationships, I enjoyed having one of my female friends spend time with me-one that was sure of her place, and that a relationship was never going to materialize.

“So, is that new work on your arm, Erik?” Darwin asked, pointing to my right arm.

“New work? Where did you hear that phrase? That doesn’t sound like something a sixty year old car salesman would say,” I said as I lifted my arm.

“Well, the younger kids that work here all have tattoos. They always describe their new tattoo as ‘getting work done’, or look at my new ‘work’. I was just trying to sound like I knew what I was talking about,” he said from his desk, smiling.

“Well, as a matter of fact, it is new. I got this sleeve completed since I was in here the last time. It’s an Asian theme. A dragon, some cherry blossoms, and wind bars,” I said as I held my arm in front of his face.

As he admired the color and detail in my forearm tattoo, he began to speak, “So, how bad does it actually…”

“Holy shit, Darwin, who is that?” I asked, nudging my head to the left side, motioning to the door.

Looking up from my arm and lowering his reading glasses, Darwin looked toward the door, squinting.

“Erik…no. That’s Gene’s daughter. You know, the owner. She’s barely out of college, and here for the summer working as a receptionist. She’s probably twenty-two years old or so…definitely too damned young for you.”

“Darwin, I know someone your age doesn’t necessarily agree, but there are new rules. Half your age, plus seven years is what everyone says now. I don’t totally buy into all that, but fine. So, half thirty-six, plus seven. Twenty-five. Twenty-five years old is the age that’s socially acceptable for me,” I said as I watched her walk by.

She may have been twenty-two, but she looked to be about thirty. She was tall, appeared athletic, and had straight black hair. Her skin was fairly pale for this time of summer, but extremely smooth and blemish free. Dressed in black slacks, a red top, and conservative two inch heels, she walked as if she was real sure of who she was and where she was headed in life. Her chin held high, and looking straight ahead, she took each step with authority. Her walk had purpose.

I would settle for nothing less than owning her. I had every intent of doing to her what I had done to everyone else I had ever been with sexually. I would provide her, sexually, with a degree of satisfaction she had never seen or ever knew existed. I would continue this level of sexual satisfaction to and for her, making certain that she knew the value of it. I would rub her face in it, and make her well aware of what she was receiving.

As soon as I was sure she was falling deeply for me, I would cut her completely off. Within a few days to a week, she would know what I had already known. That she was ruined. That she could find nowhere else what she had found with me. Complete sexual satisfaction. At that moment, I would own her; she would live her remaining life using me as a sexual standard that all other men would be compared to. Compared to and held to compete with. To compete and fail.

“Does BMW offer a convertible hard top in any of their models?” I asked, turning back and forth, alternating glances between the black haired girl and the salesman.

“Well, we have the M3, Erik. It’s a retractable hard top, why?”

“In black?”

“Yes, we have a black one, why?”

“I want it.”

“In addition to the seven series?” the salesman asked wishfully.

“No, Darwin, I am not going to spend two hundred grand today on cars. In lieu of, Darwin. In lieu of,” I responded.

“Well, uhhm. Well, yes, I suppose so. It’s considerably less than the seven series. Let me look,” he said as he began to shuffle his mouse across the desk and intently look at his computer monitor.