Chapter 1

 

My name is Nancy Livingston. I'm thirty-four years old and I am as dull as dishwater. I admit that even thought it gives me no pleasure to do so.

I was born in a dull little town, with dull parents and dull siblings. I went to dull schools and dully graduated. After high school I took some dull courses at an even duller community college getting an associate's degree that is boring and worthless. I married a dull man and for whatever reason we stayed in that dreary relationship until he couldn't stand it, or me, any longer.

After the marriage failed I got a job with a container company. We package textiles for overseas shipment. Yeah, my job is as dull as my life. Sometimes I get out of my cubicle and go down to the docks and watch the big containers being loaded in huge ships. I try to imagine what will happen once they arrive in some exotic location, but I can't. I try to visualize the country they will go to. I find myself trying to look beyond the horizon.

I'm not unattractive. I have a mirror in my apartment so I know I'm presentable. I have put on a few unwanted pounds, but I still have curves. I'm short even for a woman. I'm exactly five feet tall, but somehow I managed to get large breasts; the largest in my family. My younger sisters complain that I got the allotted boobs and they got none. I have dark red hair and I don't tan very well. Pale skin and red hair equals freckles and I have plenty of them. My thirty-four C breasts look out of place on my small frame, but what can I do?

At work I'm basically just another clerk who fills out the manifests and other paperwork necessary to move the textiles from here to there. Mostly I'm unnoticed by my co-workers. I freely admit I encouraged being ignored. I never wear makeup and I dress in shapeless clothing. I don't participate in break-room antics and I've not made any friends in the two years I've been employed there.

I keep to myself at work and otherwise. My social life consists of a solitary meal in front of my small TV set or reading romance novels. Occasionally I venture out to a movie by myself and then quickly hurry home. I had a cat for a short while, but it ran off. The poor thing couldn't stand me either. My life is bleak and totally uninteresting, even to me.

Then one night it changed. I had just settled in to watch TV when there was a knock at the door. It startled me because no one ever comes to my door. I live on the third floor of a mid-level apartment complex. The elevator is always out of service so even trick or treaters don't come to my door on Halloween. I stood on tiptoes to look through the viewer. I saw a tall blonde woman smiling at the peephole and waiting calmly. I cautiously opened the door after making sure the chain was in place.

"Hi," the woman said giving me a big smile. "I'm your neighbor from down the hall. I live in 3-C. Am I intruding?" I didn't see any threat from her so I closed the door, removed the chain, and allowed her to come in.

"No, you're not intruding," I told her. "I'm Nancy Livingston."

"Yeah, I saw your name on the mailbox," she said sticking out her hand. "I'm Rita Collins. I just moved in yesterday and I need to borrow a condom if you have one to spare. I have a date and I can't find where I packed them." Rita Collins was tall, nearly six feet tall and the lucky thing was really stacked. She had curves everywhere. She was also beautiful. I was shocked speechless by her request. What kind of person asks to borrow a condom? I wordlessly shook my head.

"Oh well it was worth a shot," she said with a grin. "I like it bareback so I guess that's the way I'll get fucked tonight. Thanks anyway." She turned and went out my door. I closed the door and locked it. Then I managed to close my mouth. Later I wondered if I had imagined the visitor.

Over the next few weeks I saw Rita Collins several times in the hall or at the mailboxes. One morning I saw her letting a black man out of her apartment. They were locked in a tight embrace and her robe was open and the man was fondling her breasts. I wasn't too shocked that she was with a black man, but I was shocked that she allowed him to openly grope her.

Except for the early morning fondling episode she was always friendly to me. I suspect she would have been friendly then, except she was occupied. Rita would always wave and smile when we met. I couldn't help but notice that there was a lot of traffic in and out of her apartment. Always men and once a male/female couple. Most of the time the men were black. Everybody always looked happy whether coming or going.

One afternoon as I was returning from work I passed her door and was surprised when she opened it. I was mentally thinking about what I was going to watch on the tube and what I would fix for my solitary dinner.

"Hi, Nancy Livingston," she said smiling at me. "You look like you could use a drink. Come on in and wrap yourself around a margarita. I just made some and I have more than I should drink by myself." I was still shaking my head no when she pulled me into her apartment.

Inside I was assaulted by colors. It was apparent that Rita had been busy with a roller and paintbrush. Red, blue, orange, purple and almost every hue I could think of. Even her furniture was loudly colored. I was still trying to absorb the riot of color when she shoved a glass in my hand.

"Did you do this...ah, decorating yourself?" I asked taking a sip of the drink. Except for the rare bottle of beer I seldom drank any kind of alcohol beverage.

"I did," she affirmed. "Do you like it?"

"I'm not sure," I answered honestly. She took my free hand and pulled me to the bedrooms. Like my apartment there were two bedrooms. One of her bedroom walls was painted red with black squares and circles. In the middle of the room was a large waterbed with a black spread and purple and pink pillows. Rita took me to the next bedroom.

"This is my main playroom," she said with a giggle. Looking inside, I was speechless. The room was mostly mirrors. Mirrors on four walls and even on the ceiling. Behind the mirrors the walls were a bright orange. "I wasn't sure about the paint for the ceiling," she said. "I wanted to go with Lavender, but I thought it would clash. What do you think?" I didn't know if she was joking or not. The apartment was one giant clash.

"I think it looks like a paint store threw up all over your apartment," I answered without thinking. My critical comment didn't seemed to bother her at all. She just laughed.

"Yeah, I'm kind of unconventional when it comes to paint," she said. "Come on and let's recharge your glass."

I hadn't noticed that I had finished the drink and I let her take me back to the living room/dining room combination. I started to protest when she filled my glass again, but I didn't for some strange reason. She steered me to a long blue and green leather sofa and instructed me to sit. I did so.

"Thanks, Rita," I said. "What do you do? For a living, I mean."

"I'm a whore," she candidly answered without a trace of shame. At first I thought she might be kidding me until I remembered the steady stream of male traffic in and out of her apartment. "Actually I prefer call-girl, but it hardly makes any difference, does it?' She didn't wait for a response. "A whore is a whore is a whore and it doesn't matter what cute label you put on it."

"Oh," I managed to utter. "A...really?"

"Yeah, I just moved here from upstate so I don't have many clients yet. It takes a while to get established and I don't use a pimp so it takes even longer. What do you do?"

I almost told her I was a whore also; one that whored out her mind instead of her body. A sexless whore with health insurance. Instead I told her I was a shipping clerk at a container company.

"How interesting," she gushed. I didn't comment on that even though we both knew that was a load of crap. There was not one interesting thing about it. "You want another one?"

I was surprised to see that I had finished the second Margarita. I told Rita that I needed to get on home. I was also surprised to discover I had a little bit of trouble getting up and walking.

Over the next couple of months it became a routine for me to stop in for drinks. Rita told me she had briefly worked as a bartender and I never knew what she would me mixing for us. Sometimes the drinks didn't have a name, but they were all good. During this time I developed a fair tolerance for booze and didn't stagger home...much.

Without a doubt, Rita was the most interesting person I had ever met. Interesting and a little bit frightening. She said whatever crossed her mind and if her stories could be believed, did whatever crossed her mind. Her favorite word was fuck.

In a matter of a few days I learned a brand new vocabulary. Fuck, cock, and cunt just to name a few. All words that were not part of my vocabulary before meeting Rita. It didn't seem to matter what question I asked her she was willing and even anxious to answer it.

"You said you didn't have a pimp," I said one day. I had drank enough of some exotic concoction to be forward. "Why is that? I mean, I thought it was a rule or something."

"Naw, no rules about it," she said laughing. "I had a pimp once. Actually two pimps at different times. The first one was my husband and he was okay I guess. The second and last one was a mean son of a bitch. The cocksucker was taking almost all of my money until I wised up and got rid of him."

"Your husband was your pimp?" I stammered. I was shocked nearly speechless.

"Yeah, Billy, my hubby, got me started and the funny thing was I didn't even realize it," she said with a short laugh. "Talk about dumb. I was so fucking dumb I should have been let out by myself." I pressed her for details.