Junkfood Sexlife. Jessamyn Violet
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as his first cup of coffee. He’d never follow through, though, because that was wasting his energy when he needed it most. He’d finish himself off later at siesta time or right before he went to sleep, if there wasn’t a female companion over.
Auggie never left himself hanging.
Then, he’d get out of bed and get a pot of real coffee going. Fresh ground beans in a French press with a dash of cinnamon and cayenne. French vanilla creamer. He knew he knew how to make damn good coffee. None of that pop-a-plastic-sealed-thimble-in-a-machine-made convenience crap. One woman he’d dated for a while actually admitted that his coffee was the reason she’d stay the night instead of heading home after sex. And that was OK with Auggie because then he’d get to collect on the most-excellent morning sex. It was a win for both of them.
Stevia didn’t drink coffee, so his talents in that department went to waste on her and she never stayed the night.
He’d pour his first glorious cup into his army-issued thermos and grab the old chewed-up leash from the counter. Alerted by the jingle, Rusty would begin wagging his tail and panting because he’d know it was time for his favorite part of the day: The morning walk.
Auggie had moved to Venice when the world had seemed too bleak for anything else. He’d never taken pharmaceutical drugs, they were definitely a conspiracy. This was it: Venice was his Prozac. It seemed the sun shined on Venice in a different way than anywhere else he’d been, and Auggie had been an army brat, and then in the army, so he’d sure as hell been around. Venice boosted his mood like nothing besides sex with a beautiful woman, the one conspiracy he would never deny himself the pleasure of falling victim to, time and time again. The sunshine was playful and positive as it poured over the canals, fun and free-spirited as it filtered through the canopy of the overgrown walk street trees, and beautifying and bright as it bounced off of the incredible array of succulents that accented the modern landscaping.
Then there was the beach, the endless fireworks of colorful graffiti everywhere, and the parade of characters with their custom transportation inventions: Goofy guy on a tripped-out hoverboard, check. Dude on a long board with a pitbull between his legs, tongue flapping in the wind, check. The creepy 8-ft unicycle clown, shudder, check. The woman on roller skates in a hot pink mini skirt blowing bubbles, smile, check. Skaters of all ages taking risk after risk in the skate bowl, continually wrecking themselves but getting right back up, brushing off the hurt, throwing a cloak of whatever-dom over their collisions, check.
Auggie loved the leathered, weathered vendors on the boardwalk selling their oddball art: Cut-up soda can airplanes with spinning propellers, ornately painted skulls, psychedelic paintings on knotted slabs of wood, bits of rocks wrapped in wire on cords… It all somehow seemed sellable to them, and therefore, it did seem to sell.
The fishermen at the pier were the ultimate favorite, though—in particular, a Filipino man named John, who would always let Auggie sample a piece of his catch that he’d BBQ right there at the end of the pier on his own little portable grill. John would palm Rusty scraps as well, rasping, “Poor blind bastard,” as he’d scratch behind the dog’s ears. Auggie knew the fish were probably contaminated with a million terrible things, but also felt it was important to eat local, in small amounts. Like ingesting a little bit of poison so that eventually you become immune to it.
They were all vital to Auggie’s mental stability, though they didn’t know it—as was his local business of operating the ultimate party bus, The Zebra. He’d been doing it for eight years now, and it never ceased to amaze him how it continued to provide for his lifestyle. Auggie remembered thinking of the plan way back when he’d first gotten his drivers license – all people want is a safe place to party and a designated driver. It was so simple and yet it had actually worked. The Zebra kept him feeling cool and forced him to be social when he felt like a hermit most of the time.
Perhaps that was what Auggie loved about Venice the most: Even a weirdo, misfit hermit like himself could feel included in the community. Auggie would purposefully do or say things with no filter, and hardly ever did they have much of an effect. Venice was virtually shock-proof. In Arizona, he’d felt haters everywhere. Women and men snubbed him because of his ripped cargo shorts, his frizzy ponytail hair, his loose anti-government talk at the bar, and most especially for his addiction to prostitutes. Now he didn’t even need to pay to have sex with beautiful women. Why wouldn’t he want to call it home?
A bicyclist sped by as they turned the corner onto Speedway, an alley just behind the boardwalk. Auggie thought it looked like the back of his therapist’s head. That reminded him that he had an appointment that day. He would have forgotten, as he often did, possibly purposefully. He figured paying the guy for the missed sessions counted for something, though he wasn’t sure what.
“Good morning, Griselda,” he said, smiling a broad smile as he stepped into his favorite juice shop.
“Auggie! You are looking so fit today!”
Auggie shrugged and Griselda laughed. She was a blonde German woman with an uncanny ability to tell just by looking at Auggie if he’d had sex the night before. Sometimes Auggie would do jumping jacks or push-ups before walking in, just to see if he could trick her, but it seemed he could do nothing to thwart her 100% accuracy.
“Nailed it again, G,” he said sheepishly.
“Maybe nail you some day,” she said, smiling suggestively and startling Auggie. She’d never made that kind of suggestion before.
“Don’t you have a boyfriend?” he asked sheepishly.
“No,” she said. “What makes you think that?”
“I don’t know, I just did.”
“You never asked me. Looks like your intuition is as bad as mine is good.”
He laughed. “You’re probably right about that.
Griselda raised an eyebrow. “I’m always right. Remember?”
She began to make his green juice without another word. He watched her strong shoulders shove the cucumbers straight down into the whirring juicer, then the apples, then the inevitable struggle with the spinach and kale. He knew everything about her lean arms and back muscles already. It would be strange to sleep with her. Rarely had he studied a woman’s physique for so long before engaging in bedroom behavior. He wondered for the 900th time how it was possible that he was considered in such a way by gorgeous females here in the land of gorgeous people in general, when back in Arizona, he was basically considered a grungy psycho who had to pay for sex.
“I still haven’t taken you out for a spin in The Zebra, have I?” he asked as soon as she switched the machine off.
“I think I would remember such an event, and I’d hope you would, too,” she answered with a dry smile, squirting a generous amount of ginger juice into the green mixture. She knew Auggie liked it spicy.
“Let me rephrase: Would you like to accompany me for an evening of debauchery in The Zebra sometime?”
Griselda placed the plastic cup of frothy, brilliant green juice down in front of Auggie and put her hands on her aproned hips. “We would go out, like, with a party on this party bus I’ve heard so much about?”
“Yes,” Auggie said, taking a tiny sip of the green froth on top. “It’s nice to have a co-pilot sometimes, and you seem like you’d be a fun one.”
“OK,” she said, nodding. She picked up a towel and began to wipe everything down.
“OK!” Auggie took another sip. “I’m picking up a party tomorrow night. A bunch of kids who just graduated.”
“Do I have to dress up?”
Auggie couldn’t help but grin. “Do I look like someone who dresses up? Ever? For anything?”
“Good point. You can pick me up here, then. I’m off at 6.”
Auggie glanced at the clock and realized his whole morning had gotten off to a slow start. If he was ever going to make