Sex & Polish
Once I fucked a woman I met in a nail polish factory as her towheaded toddler ran around the bed yelling, “Daddy, Daddy.”
Awkward can’t begin to describe the situation. More so because the whole event took place with me, on my back, staring at the tips of my white athletic socks, while a woman blessed with pendulous breasts writhed back and forth until a moan escaped her in a climax. At least how my memory recalls the events. Right before I sprinted from the house.
In life, we land awkward at times. This is not an uncommon occurrence for me. In the summer of eighty-six, I landed on the doorstep of an Armenian nail polish factory in the heart of the city. A young teen serving a court ordered work program for a testosterone-fueled assault charge. To this point, my life existed upon a thin film of social transgressions.
For six months I worked the seedy underbelly of nail polish. A world peppered with Armenian rants, assembly line malfunctions and a learning curve much steeper than imaginable. Nail polish bottles changed my life.
With curiosity aside, we need to explore. Imagine a warehouse. Squat heavy, and smelling of wet, damp cardboard. Dark in daylight. In the heart of the dilapidated structure, a long serpentine conveyor belt snaked from one end to other.
Now let me explain how the relevance of this plays into my near demise. Along the metallic snake, a dozen women and I worked laborious days. Spaced six on either side about 4-5 feet apart. The day begins with a loud horn, and the tiny uncapped bottles flowed like blood from a sliced vein. By hand, and at an impossible speed, each bottle moved down the line until capped by fingers flickering in and out like pale fireflies. The metal rollers cried click-click-click-clack until an error occurred and a low-buttoned bare-chested Armenian tossed a projectile at your head. This summarized the job, twelve hours a day, five days a week. The group of us capped nail polish bottles. Other, less important nuances escaping my memory or ejected due to real discontent. The general outline should be clear.
From here, life gets interesting.
After a week, the line produced blisters on your fingers so swollen and painful. The process of unbuttoning your pants became impossible. A thousand capped nail polish bottles a day will cause this to happen. This created a curious dilemma for the eleven women and myself who, almost hourly took turns freeing each other to find relief in desperate sprints to the bathroom. These are not exaggerations. The not polite to talk about accidents happened, a frequent an uncomfortable occurrence. Enter Mrs. Robinson and I note your smirk, yes her real name.
One day, Mrs. Robinson tucked her fingers a little deeper than the rest when unbuttoning my pants. To a teenage boy, the imagination stirs. The exploration of her long slender fingers pushed a button to the unstoppable. Dressed in my best leather and doused in cheap cologne, I found myself perched on her couch only days later. Here is where I met the towheaded toddler.
My introduction to sex with Mrs. Robinson happened in a particular way. Open and nurturing is idealistic and not the word I would use, but flawed and improper is accurate. What Mrs. Robinson added to the equation is a gaggle of kids. Kids prone to running wild through the house regardless of the activities. The time I speak with fondness is the time she stripped me naked, tossed me on the bed and rode me until she exhausted herself. Sheer bewilderment and terror kept me hard long beyond necessity. The toddlers, demanding to be acknowledged, unnerved the horniest part of me.
In summary, this situation would be a teenager’s dream. For some yes, until the point I realized the towheaded toddler yelling “Daddy, Daddy,” as he circled the bed, and his mother’s breasts slapped against her skin like slabs of steak, meant Daddy’s home.
At this point, life moves at a quicker pace. Evident by the crossbow mounted above the front door and many animal heads pinned to the wall, Mr. Robinson is an avid hunter. Let’s say; Mrs. Robinson is equal the hunter. So in the flurry of breasts slapping and toddlers toddling, Mr. Robinson enters the bedroom. The troubled man takes one glance at me, another at her, and races towards the door. The possibility my slight torso frightened him off is minimal. Unsure of my next move, I froze beneath his wife, until the first arrow thwacked the headboard inches from my face. In a volume not matching my panic, Mrs. Robinson snapped her head toward the assault and muttered something.
My cue to leave defined by her words, “Donny, what are you doing! Are you trying to kill the poor boy?”
Still hard, I sprinted from the room, not being prone to flaccid moments under many circumstances at sixteen. Another two more thwacks from the crossbow struck the door and nearby sheetrock. By this point, I pick up my life is in jeopardy speed, palming the forehead of one toddler as I hurdle another with the skill of OJ Simpson. The noise in the house grew in the meantime, but not the Daddy’s going to kill this poor boy noise, more a general ruckus over the unfolding events, something similar to a wild raccoon running loose in the house. The idea struck me; this occurred with regularity in the Robinson household.
The backdoor met my panic in full scamper with my arms and legs moving at speeds incompatible with my level of coordination. By a small miracle, I cleared the door, the porch and the back steps in seconds wearing only my white athletic socks. Another arrow striking the door frame a half second before crossing all three. My feet hit the lawn in full stride, my toes grabbing mud in clumps, as I dug into the earth, never looking back.
From an open window, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy chirps from the mouth of the towheaded toddler. Fuck my life I thought to myself, disappearing into the woods, bare ass naked, landing awkward in a place I never imagined. The accumulating mud, grass, and briers clinging to me in epic proportion.
R.E Hengsterman is a writer and film photographer who deconstructs the human experience through photographic images and words. He currently lives and writes in North Carolina. You can see more of his work at http://www.REHengsterman.com and find him on Twitter at @rehengsterman