Meg Holmes

I was twenty-one and single when I met her on a United flight out of Denver.  She was working as a flight attendant. 

(Helen and I were on hiatus, one of the several breaks that inevitably riddle a young seven-year relationship.)

Meg spoke with clean vowels and a subtle smile during the pre-flight presentation.  When she told us to look fore and aft for the nearest emergency exit, it was with full compliance that we did as told.  It took four glasses of red wine for me to gather the courage to slip her a note inquiring about her whereabouts after we all landed.  She slipped a note back to me, agreeing to meet me after her post-flight obligations. 

During the conversation between the airport and her apartment Meg disclosed the contents of her overnight bag.  Handcuffs, flavored lotions, a leather mask, a cat-o-nine-tails (‘Just for dramatic effect’), two cans of peaches, a camcorder, a can opener, glow-in-the-dark condoms, a copy of the Kama Sutra with liner notes, nineteen forms of legal and illegal substance, Altoids, a vibrator, several phallic substitutes, a photograph of her parents, various assorted lingerie, a video camera, a toothbrush, and two changes of clothes—one for the nightlife and one for the day.

We were both single, living in the Bay Area, and looking for a spring fling.  Or so I thought.  Turns out Meg’s definition of fling was different than mine.  She was a purist.  I quickly became an emasculated wimp.  As much as I wanted no commitment and other options, I could only manage Meg.  Meg managed a lot more than just me. 

‘How many other dudes this week?’


‘Besides me or including me?’

‘Besides you.’

‘Do I ever get to meet these fellows, maybe gang-bang?’

‘If you want.’  She lay naked on her back.  I felt warm and adequate beside her, which seemed like a position of strength from which to address this subject. 

‘What is it you’re looking for from me?’  she said.

‘Control.  Complete and absolute control.’  I was kidding.  Mostly.

Meg was a narcissist.  ‘There’s nothing more amazing than watching me cum,’ she once told me.  She’d started experimenting with film long before meeting me.  If she wasn’t reviewing a past encounter, she was capturing an evening for all posterity.  I liked the idea of it but wasn’t pleased with the reality. 

‘I don’t like watching you bone other guys.’

‘Why not?  Doesn’t it make you horny?’

‘It just makes me insecure.’

‘You’re much better in bed when you’re jealous.’ 

I couldn’t argue.  My performance was more important than any emotional baggage. 

After she dumped me I would call in the middle of the night, write terrible poems chock-full of painful adverbs, stand in the rain outside her apartment looking up at her window, hoping to restore my smoldering manliness.   (The reflection of a television cast pale light about her apartment—more video).  The pathetic longing carried on until one final telephone call. 

‘Hello?’ she answered.

‘It’s me.’

‘Jackson—long time no see.  Oh wait, never mind—I saw you last night, staking out my apartment again.’

‘Look, I’m sorry, but-‘

‘No, you look, creep.  I’m fucking a 49er this week and I don’t want you to mess it up.’  I paused before replying. 

‘Which 49er?’

‘He’s not a starter, don’t worry.  But he’s got a big dick.  Leave me alone and don’t ever call me again, or I’ll have him sic the entire defensive line on you.’  I didn’t call again.  I hadn’t seen her since.


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