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I went to the window, peered through the curtains—the parking lot was dark and still. Maybe so, but I was just that bored and lonely enough to play along."Well," I said. We made these shirts for our rec-league basketball team. Not that I was opposed to it—it was just one of those things that never came up. I'm pumping in and out of you, like, well…well, like an oil derrick! I'm the sword, baby, and you're the scabbard! We burned from one city to the next in a 1999 Dodge van we'd bought on e Bay."I've got on gray mesh basketball shorts with, let's see, three thin white stripes down each side, and a Bell's Pizza T-shirt." I was quiet for a second, then rushed to fill the silence. I guess it had always seemed sort of strange and silly to me. And in times when that was hard to come by, well, that's what the stack of Victoria's Secret catalogs crammed behind the books on my bookshelf was for, along with a 1988 Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition with Elle Macpherson on the cover and battered VHS copies of 9 ½ Weeks and Basic Instinct (my good stash had been lost in a move). "Finally, I grew less bashful and got into it for real, and in a few minutes there was a happy ending. The basketball game on the TV had ended long before, and I had no idea who'd won. Mostly, we crashed on sofas and floors at friends' houses or stayed with folks we'd met that night at our show, though sometimes we'd take turns driving through till dawn while the other slept in the backseat, which folded down into a bed. She said her roommates were sleeping in the next room.It had to be the old Pakistani guy down in the motel office, I figured, or else my little brother, Peter, whom I was traveling with; he'd gone out walking down the service road, looking for better reception on his cellie so he could call his girlfriend. "There was a stirring in my gray mesh basketball shorts with the three thin white stripes down each side. "A few months earlier, in May 2004, I'd published a book called Found and hit the road with Peter for an eight-month, 136-city tour.After the third ring, I picked up."I'm Nicole." I could hear the push of her breath on the other end of the line, as though her mouth was pressed close to the receiver. Nicole explained that she'd hit the bars all night with her friends, and that now they were drunk and passed out and she was bored. "I want to tell you what we would do."I'd never had phone sex before. " I was about to hang up, but then, remembering our little moment a few hours before, I softened. At each event, I read from my book and Peter played guitar and sang.Nicole was a great listener, willing to indulge each tangent of every story she was told.She was as curious about my life as I was about hers."), and then other times, I performed in the voice of a black comedian making fun of the way white people talk, over-pronouncing each word ("Oh yes, baby, golly gee, keep licking my penis, that just feels absolutely stupendous! Only irony could distance me from the sad truth of what I was really doing: jacking off in the back of my van in a Taco Bell parking lot in Jefferson City, Missouri, while talking on my headset to someone who was possibly a man.
Three nights later, in Oklahoma City, I was getting ready for bed out in the van when my cell phone rang. The next few times we talked, she was still whispering, which was starting to seem a little suspicious.
All the funny and sad stories she'd told me about working at the nursing home flooded my mind, along with her reminiscences of her mom, and I got the urge to track her down and meet her, find out who the fuck she was. I pulled into the parking lot at eight; this was one of those grim, anonymous commercial strips where Americans carry out their ordinary lives that appear on MSNBC after, say, a sniper shooting or a child abduction. He ordered a Long Island iced tea; I ordered two whiskeys. Each steamy moment Nicole and I had shared over the phone flickered through my mind like a porno on fast-forward.
I knew she might be 400 pounds or my grandma's age, or a guy, but there was also a possibility that she was, well, hot. Nicole knew what I looked like—I'd directed her to my picture on the Found Web site—but I had no idea whom to be looking for other than somebody sitting alone. ""Actually, I'm looking for a friend." I walked past her into the restaurant. "At another table, sitting by himself and halfheartedly watching the game, was a skinny Eminem-looking kid in a white Spurs hoodie who couldn't have been out of high school. Then I saw her, perched on a red stool at the bar, toying with her cell phone—a curvy Latina maybe 24 years old. But now, in each frame, I had to replace Fiona Apple with this—HOLY FUCK! What kind of deranged motherfucker pulls stunts like this?
She refused, and for the next week I wouldn't answer her calls. One time I even asked a girl I met at one of the Found readings for details of what happens on the visit to the gynecologist, then asked Nicole the same thing. "They come at you with that speculum—it's like a medieval torture device." I pressed her to continue, but she wasn't going to pay these games with me. Ten out of ten male friends I polled had no idea what that was. Sometimes we'd talk for half an hour before phone sex.
Out in my van after a long night in Phoenix or Des Moines, I'd be lonely, drunk, and depressed, and tell her about my problems.