Jesús and Lola
Jesús and Lola
Jesús's world is turned upside-down when he meets the love of his life, a cross-dressing photographer that goes by the name of Lola.
Jesús and Lola
I stood in the middle of the sidewalk, outside of O’Gradys Bar, next to my then-girlfriend while she screamed at me. And, I was sobbing. I’m usually not a weepy, emotional man. But, a lot of depressing things had happened prior to this moment; I was extremely drunk, and I was also coming down from the “E” I had taken a few hours before.
“How the fuck did you get it, Jesus?”
“I…I don’t know.” I could barely choke out the words.
“Well, dumbass, maybe you got it from all those transvestites you fucked.” Sheila screamed.
“Uh…maybe.” I really didn’t know what to say to that. She was right and at that moment my mind was so clouded with alcohol I couldn’t focus on a proper answer. She looked pissed. I had to think of something.
“Sheila, I didn’t fuck that many, it’s not my fault.” I had only fucked two transvestites. My response was too late. She had already walked away.
XXXXXXXXXX
It’s not that I didn’t love Sheila. I did, I really did. Well, I think I did. Well, to tell you the truth, I most likely didn’t. But, she was nice…kind of. And, she wasn’t that overweight. This is bullshit. Looking back, I know I didn’t love Sheila. She was a cold-hearted bitch. And, she was fat. But, she was useful.
I met Shelia in a bar, actually one very similar to O’Gradys. I had just lost my job and I only had 100 dollars in my savings account. I went home with her that night and I just never left. It was really a sweet deal. I received free housing, food, clothing - all courtesy of Sheila. Yeah, I was freeloading.
I did have a sexual relationship with Sheila. The sex was…adequate. It wasn’t terrible. There was one problem with our sex life. Not the problem you’re thinking of. I have never had a problem with getting it up. Well…except for that one time. The thing is…I kind of have this thing for cock.
I’m not gay. I fuck girls. But, boys are nice too. All of my previous relationships have been with women. But, I have had sex with men, usually one night stands, or fuck-buddies. So, I guess that would make me bisexual.
XXXXXXXXXX
Let’s start this story from the very beginning of. About three months before the infamous street argument, I was visiting a bar, not an unusual occurrence. It was a new bar for me. For the past two weeks I had been trying to avoid my usual hangouts. Sheila was driving me up the fucking wall. Her sister had just got married. Since then all I ever heard was “rings this” and “ceremony that.” I was in desperate need of some “me time.” I walked into the dimly lit building, sat down at the bar and ordered three tequila shots. I went through the shots quickly; I love tequila. After downing my last drink, my bleary eyes searched the room. I was in a gay bar.
I was thinking of ordering another set of shots, when I saw a shock of blonde hair out of the corner of my eye. I turned to examine the blonde. Low-slung hip huggers, a lacey top thing, pale skin, pouty lips, blue eyes, and shoulder-length blonde hair pulled away the eyes with a blue barrette. Pretty.
I had never fucked a cross-dresser before. When I fuck men, I like to fuck men. But this he-she was pretty. I liked her.
“Hey, Blondie,” I yelled across the bar. She smiled and walked over.
“It’s Lola.”
“Lola? Hmm. Well, I’m Jesus.” It came out more like “a-zooz.” I was a bit tipsy.
“Mm. Jesus, our lord and savior,” she pronounced my name with a soft southern accent, “Jee-zus” and gave a slight laugh. I liked her.
XXXXXXXXXX
That was my first encounter with Lola. I went home with her that night. And it was amazing. It was definitely the best sex I had ever had. Later I discovered she wasn’t a full time cross-dresser. She only did it every once in awhile. She said she was “expressing herself.” She was an artistic type. I really didn’t get it. I’ve never understood artists. Her real name was Drew.
I liked Drew. He was smart and funny. His accent was to die for. He was beautiful and kind. I could actually have an intelligent conversation with him, unlike the conversations about “Brad and Jennifer” I had with Sheila. Drew was sexy and sweet; he actually did volunteer work. And, on top of all of that, he was a great cook. He was perfect. Well, except for being a neat freak. But, other than that, Drew was definitely perfect. I spent a lot of time with him. We always had a good time. Whether we were just hanging out at his place or we were at some club and he was Lola for the night.
Things were going great for me for a while. I was living with Shelia and I was meeting up with Drew almost everyday. We did a lot together. We went out to dinner, had picnics, took walks in the park, went to bars and clubs, went shopping, saw plays, visited museums. We did everything. So if our relationship was a movie this would be the little montage with cheesy music. Everything was perfect.
XXXXXXXXXX
So, about two months after our first meeting I went to Drew’s place, something I did very often. He had given me a key a couple weeks prior. When I walked into the apartment, I could hear the shower running. Over the sound of pounding water “Santa Baby” in a voice several octaves too high and completely out of tune could be heard. I turned on the Price is Right and waited for him to finish. The show was just ending as Drew walked into the living room in a pair of sweats, his wet blonde hair was pulled back with a black hair band.
“Hey, baby.” He always called me baby. He said he couldn’t just call “any ol’ person” Jesus, his lord and savior. I laughed when he told me that. Drew isn’t religious at all. He hadn’t been to church in over 20 years.
“Hey, I can’t stay too long. Shelia wants to take me to dinner with her parents.” His smile quickly disappeared.
“Why are you still with her?” He asked in a conversational tone.
“What do you mean?”
“Why are you still with her? I mean, I know you don’t love her.”
“I might.”
“Bullshit. She’s a fat slob,” he muttered under his breath. Someone was jealous.
“Are you jealous Drew?” That was definitely the wrong thing to say.
“Fuck you, Jesus.” He used my name. I hated it when he used my name. He only used it when he was really serious, or really angry.
“Calm down, Drew.”
“Do you want us to be together or not?” I had no idea where that question came from. I liked how things were between us at that moment. Okay, maybe I’m a bit dense. Looking back, I know exactly where the question came from. We had been seeing eachother for a couple of months. We spent more time together than apart. We were definitely a couple. I don’t know what the fuck I was doing with Sheila. But, hey, hindsight is 20/20 right?
“Whoa, when did ‘you and me’ become ‘us’? We’re not a couple Drew.”
“Of course we’re not a fucking couple. You’re living with that pig.”
“What? Would you rather me live here?” I asked him with a laugh. It was just out of the question.
“What the fuck is so funny about that?” He was pissed. I sighed as I ran my fingers through my dark hair. My brown eyes met his blue.
“Drew, we’re not a couple. We fuck. We hang out. That’s it.”
“Just leave, Jesus.” His voice was devoid of emotion.
XXXXXXXXXX
I couldn’t believe he just kicked me out like that. For a week, I waited around for a phone call. I was so sure he would call and tell me the argument was stupid and all was forgiven. I never received that phone call. About two weeks after the fight, I was in a record store looking for some music to mope around to when I saw a shock of blonde hair out of the corner of my eye. It was Lola. And some dude. Some gross, fat, little, ugly guy was talking to Lola. She laughed at some dumb joke he made.
I just walked out of the store. I was so pissed. It was so irrational for me to mad though. We weren’t together. Fuck, I was still living with Shelia and Lola and I weren’t even fucking anymore. Lola was allowed to do whatever and whomever she wanted. I still didn’t want that grease-ball touching her.
That night I went a seedy little bar. I just walked in, sat at the bar and started downing shots. After my fifth shot, I started looking around the bar. This man was eyeing me from the end of the bar. He had a blonde wig on. A cross-dresser. An ugly cross-dresser. I stumbled over to him.
“Hey, you.”
“What are you up for, big guy?” That has got to be the cheesiest line ever. Definitely a prostitute. I contemplated the question for a few minutes.
“I don’t know, a full night?”
“Sure, I can do that.”
“How much?”
“250.”
There was a sleazy hotel across the street. I spent the night with a prostitute, a cross-dresser. Lola could be replaced…bullshit.
About a week after the prostitute incident, I started having some problems. You know, down there. I went to see the doctor and it turns out I had Chlamydia. I knew I got it from that prostitute. I practice safe sex. But, that night I was drunk. I mean, really drunk. I know I used a condom, but shit happens, condoms break, etc, etc.
XXXXXXXXXX
So that brings me to the little confrontation with Sheila. The day I was diagnosed, I was really depressed. I hadn’t seen Lola/Drew in about a month, I had just found out I had an STD, and I knew I had to tell Sheila about it. So, before Sheila and I went out, I took something for a little chemical assistance.
The night was going good. The drinks were good. Sheila and I were good. I was really high. And, the lights at the bar were really pretty and fascinating. Things were perfect for awhile. Somehow during the night I became high/drunk enough that words were just falling out of my mouth. And, before I knew it, words like, “Yo, Shelia, I got Chlamydia” were said. I’m not a genius or anything, but even I knew that was probably not the best way to let her know.
And, that is where the argument began. Sheila attacked. She started yelling. Apparently she “just knew” I was fucking around on her. Some of her nosy friends had seen me around with Lola and that prostitute. Fucking spies, couldn’t mind their own fucking business. The argument escalated. I wasn’t really able contribute much to the fight; I was too far gone. Suddenly the night wasn’t so perfect. I could feel my high wearing off. It was just another thing to add to the long list of things that were depressing at that moment. All I could think of was Lola and the fucking Chlamydia. I was mourning the loss of my incredible high. And, Sheila was yelling at me. So, sue me. I started to cry. We were making a spectacle of ourselves. Everyone was staring. Soon after the crying ensued we were kicked out of the bar. Just another reason to be depressed, I really liked that bar.
“How the fuck did you get it, Jesus?”
“I…I don’t know.” I could barely choke out the words.
“Well, dumbass, maybe you got it from all those transvestites you fucked.” Sheila screamed.
“Uh…maybe.” I really didn’t know what to say to that. She was right and at that moment my mind was so clouded with alcohol I couldn’t focus on a proper answer. She looked pissed. I had to think of something.
“Sheila, I didn’t fuck that many, it’s not my fault.” I had only fucked two transvestites. My response was too late. She had already walked away.
XXXXXXXXXX
So, that brings me to the present. I’ve taken all of my antibiotics and the Chlamydia has cleared up. I recently got a job. I work in the mailroom of this big office building. The job isn’t terrible and the pay is high enough that I can afford my own place. I have an apartment; it’s actually only a few miles from Drew’s place. Things have been going well. I haven’t been visiting the bars that much. I’ve actually been doing a lot of reading, some writing too. I haven’t seen Drew/Lola or Sheila since the breakup outside of O’Gradys. I’m kind of happy Shelia left me. I didn’t love her and I shouldn’t have been with her.
I’m looking around in this bookstore for a book a co-worker recommended me when I see a shock of blonde hair out of the corner of my eye. It’s Lola. I turn to the left, and there she is. She hasn’t seen me yet. I’m glued to the spot. So many thoughts are running through my mind. Should I talk to her? Should I leave? What should I say? Will she talk to me? She glances up from the book she was flipping through. Our eyes connect. She walks over.
“Hey, Jesus.” I hate it when she says my name.
“Hi, Lola.”
“How’s…Shannon, was that her name?” She knows damned well what her name is.
“Shelia.”
“Ah, yes. How is Shelia?” She says it with a frown.
“I have no idea. We broke up a couple of months ago.” Her eyes widen at that statement.
“Oh, I’m sorry, that’s too bad.” She doesn’t sound sorry at all.
“Well, I’m not...I didn’t love her.” My eyes meet hers.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” A smile spreads across her face.
“Would you like to grab a coffee with me, Jesus?”
“Uh, sure. Um…Lola?”
“Yes?”
“Could you…uh…call me baby.”
“Sure, baby.”
the sequel
--
Author's Notes: This story was inspired by a comment made on www.overheardinnewyork.com on July 21, 2005:
That’s Only Half Cheating, Right?
Fat White drunk woman: Maybe you got it from someone in our building, or all those transvestites you fucked.
Sobbing Hispanic man: But baby, I didn't fuck that many, it's not my fault!
Fordham Rd, the Bronx.