Matt Cowper - The Clerk

“It hasn’t felt like it. But I guess that’s because I’ve been busy.”

“You always are. There’s always something on your plate.”

She ignored his sarcasm, if she even detected it. “Yes, there is. And you don’t want to date, so…”

As usual, the “d” word made Thomas sweat. He’d been very careful, very precise, in his dealings with Kara. The first night she’d come back to his apartment, Thomas had made it clear, in between foreplay, that he was not looking for a girlfriend, nor was he going to be some girl’s sugar daddy. He wanted a friend-with-benefits, nothing more. (Actually, he wouldn’t mind having a girlfriend, but he’d never date a single mom — he told himself.) Kara, fumbling and slurred of speech from the Stolichnaya she’d guzzled, had said that was fine, and then she’d gone down on him. Thomas felt like a king as he watched Kara’s mouth slide along his penis. He would get sex from this woman whenever he wanted, and not be burdened by an actual relationship or see his bank account depleted.

But the king’s castle was soon besieged. Kara would want to go out to eat, and then she’d manipulate him into paying the bill: “Do you mind? I just had to buy Grayson some new clothes.” Thomas soon nixed that activity, reiterating that he was not a meal ticket. He was also embarrassed to be with her in public, since she always looked so sloppy and always treated servers, sales associates, cashiers, and other low-tier workers with scornful abruptness. (She didn’t seem to consider that she was also a low-tier worker.) Kara had possibly pouted when Thomas had put his foot down, but it was hard to tell. Her emotions were sometimes difficult to analyze; it was like trying to distinguish between the bricks on the side of a building.

She didn’t “pout” for long, though. Next, she started asking for commitment instead of money, though Thomas suspected money would be asked for once commitment was obtained. She floated the “d” word around: “If we date, I can fit you into my life easier, because I know you’re there for me. Not like now, when we’re… whatever we are.” Thomas reminded her that they’d agreed to just be friends-with-benefits. Kara said that things changed. Thomas said he wasn’t going to raise another man’s child. Kara said she didn’t expect him to, but it would be nice if he could babysit from time to time. Her mom babysat Grayson all the time; wouldn’t it be nice to give her a break? Thomas said he would never babysit any child — ever. Kara said he was being mean and irresponsible. Thomas asked her why he should be responsible for other people’s children… and so it went.

But the castle’s walls held. Thomas was proud of himself. In earlier years, he would’ve succumbed to every blandishment a sex-dispensing female threw at him, but he’d become tougher over the years — to a degree.

Instead of continuing the siege, Kara had withdrawn her forces and sought out other castles to plunder. Apparently she’d found some. She made herself frequently unavailable, and Thomas felt like their non-relationship was fizzling. Still, if he could get with her a few more times…

“No,” he replied, “I don’t want to date. I’ve made that clear, yet you keep bringing it up.”

“Well, we can’t go on like this.”

“Why not?”

“Because we can’t.”

“Nice reasoning.”

“Look, Thomas, it was fun for a while, but I’ve got a lot on my plate. I need a man in my life who’s willing to help me. You just want to make love to me.”

“You just wanted sex, too. We agreed about all this the first night we hooked up.”

“Yeah, well, things change.”

The conversation bored him. It was the same argument, even the same words. He looked to the east, to the Cape Lookout lighthouse shooting bravely into the night. He looked out at the black ocean, so vast and mysterious. The beach cottages sat there, empty and content. The sea buoys seemed to be bobbing guideposts to some strange, enchanting island kingdom. And here he was, forty years old, trying to get sex from a chubby girl with the personality of a rock. The lighthouse beam rolled by again, and this time it seemed to pause a moment, like a cyclopean god fixing him with a disapproving eye.

Thomas sighed, but there was a weary sort of happiness mixed in with the exasperation.

“Alright then,” he said. “I’ll see you around.”

He hung up before Kara could reply, and stuffed his phone back into his pocket. It buzzed once after a few seconds, meaning he’d received a text message. It was likely a poorly-spelled missive from Kara trying to convince him to get back on the hamster wheel. He ignored it, and gazed out into the night.

“Wat r u up to today??” read the text message from Reggie. It was a Tuesday morning, and Thomas, since it was his day off, had slept in. It was now 9:45, and he was just getting to breakfast. As he munched on his Reese’s Peanut Butter Puffs and sipped his fruit juice, he composed a reply message. Since Reggie had texted him this early, it meant he was off work as well, and wanted to hang out. Thomas sent back “Off today. Want to do something?” and within twenty seconds Reggie replied with “Yeah man. Come on over.”

Thomas continued eating, thinking about their friendship. He assumed it was a friendship, but perhaps it was just an acquaintanceship, or some other term the sociologists had dreamed up. He couldn’t quite comprehend how he and Reggie Willis were buddies now. Yes, they’d been in the same class in school, but they’d each belonged to different social strata. Thomas was sort of in the middle tier, a good-looking, occasionally witty guy who was neither a jock, a nerd, a goth, or a hippie. Reggie was far above him: he was darkly handsome, brawny, and he never said anything dull. He belonged to the surfing clique — though he wasn’t much of a surfer himself — and no one looked cooler in sandals and baggy shorts. He always had a girlfriend, until summer rolled around. Then he chucked whoever he was dating and went after tourist girls with abandon. These thin, fresh teenagers succumbed to his seductions with panting willingness. Even college girls, who believed him when he told them he was eighteen, gladly let him fuck them.

All through high school, Reggie had mated for his father aboard the Faust , and his swashbuckling demeanor had earned him large tips and the admiration of any females who happened to come out on a charter. He fucked many of them once they got back to land, to the consternation of many parents, who were never actually certain that their daughter(s) was/were having intercourse with that brash, salty young man, but they had a strong intimation — a very strong intimation. It seemed obvious to continue mating after graduation: the money was good, the pussy was good, and he got along with his father fairly well.

But Reggie became bored. He’d gotten laid so much, by age twenty, that it was no longer exciting. There had been ditsy gigglers, caustic bitches, silent poets, and pseudo-dominatrixes, and they all thought they were unique, they all thought they were complicated sexual puzzles that few men could solve, but he’d solved them all easily. He began to handicap himself in various ways when talking to a prospect: he would claim he was “mostly into guys right now,” or he’d only speak in monosyllables. This deterred many woman, but not all. He still got laid with regularity.

Next, he created sexual-attainment Challenges for himself, and used all of his energies on a single one at a time. He’d never had sex with a woman over forty, so that was a Challenge, one he completed in two months. He’d never had sex with a woman over two hundred pounds, so that was a Challenge, one he completed in two days. (He’d thought it would be grotesque, but it was surprisingly fun. The girl certainly enjoyed it.) He’d never had sex with a tourist girl in her parents’ vacation cottage while the parents were home, so that was a Challenge — one that finally undid him.