Wallbanger (The Cocktail Series Book 1)
Wallbanger: Chapter 2

THE NEXT MORNING, my first official morning in my new place, found me sipping a cup of coffee and munching a leftover donut from yesterday’s moving-in party.

I wasn’t quite as awake as I’d hoped to begin unpackingpalooza, and I silently cursed last night’s antics next door. The girl was plowed, spanked, she came, she slept. The same for Simon. I assumed his name was Simon, as that was what the girl who liked to be spanked kept calling him. And really, if she was making up a name there were hotter ones than Simon to be screaming out in the throes.

The throes…God, I missed the throes.

“Still nothing, huh, O?” I sighed, looking down. During month four of The Missing O, I’d started to talk to my O as though she were an actual entity. She felt real enough when she was rocking my world back in the day, but sadly, now that O had abandoned me, I wasn’t sure I’d recognize her if she saw her. ’Tis a sad, sad day when a girl doesn’t even know her own orgasm, I thought, looking wistfully out the window at the San Francisco skyline.

I unfolded my legs and padded to the sink to rinse out my coffee mug. Placing it in the sink to drain, I pushed my light blond hair back into a sloppy ponytail and surveyed the chaos that surrounded me. No matter how well I planned, no matter how well I labeled those boxes, no matter how often I told that idiot moving guy that if it said KITCHEN it did not belong in the BATHROOM, it still was a mess.

“What do you think, Clive? Should we start in here or the living room?” He was curled up on one of the deep windowsills. Admittedly, when I was scouting new places to live, I always looked at the windowsills. Clive was fond of looking out on the world, and it was nice seeing him waiting for me when I came home.

Right now he looked at me, and then seemed to nod toward the living room.

“Okay, living room it is,” I said, realizing I’d only spoken three times since waking up this morning, and every word uttered had been directed at a pussy. Ahem…

About twenty minutes later Clive had started a stare-off with a pigeon and I was sorting DVDs when I heard voices in the hallway. My noisy neighbors! I ran to the door, almost tripping over a box, and pressed an eye to the peephole only to see the doorway across the hall. What a pervert I am, honestly. But I made no attempt to stop peeping.

I couldn’t see very clearly, but I could hear their conversation: the man’s voice low and soothing, followed by unmistakable sighing from his companion.

“Mmm, Simon, last night was fantastic.”

“I thought this morning was fantastic too,” he said, planting what sounded like one helluva kiss on her.

Huh. They must have been in another room this morning. I hadn’t heard a thing. I pressed my eye back to the peephole. Dirty pervert.

“Yes, it was. Call me soon?” she asked, leaning in for another kiss.

“Of course, I’ll call you when I’m back in town,” he promised, swatting her on her bottom as she giggled again and turned away.

It seemed she was on the short side. Bye-bye, Spanx. The angle was wrong for me to see this Simon, and he was back in his apartment before I could get any sort of sense of him. Interesting. So this girl does not live with him.

I hadn’t heard any “I love yous” when she left, but they did seem very comfortable. I chewed absently on my ponytail. They’d have to be, what with the spanking and all.

Pushing thoughts of spanking and Simon from my mind, I went back to my DVDs. Spanking Simon. What a great name for a band…I moved on to the Hs.

An hour later I was just placing Wizard of Oz after Willy Wonka when I heard a knock. There was scuffling in the hallway as I approached the door, and I stifled a grin.

“Don’t drop it, you idiot,” a sultry voice chided.

“Oh, shut up. Don’t be so damn bossy,” a second voice snapped back.

Rolling my eyes, I opened the door to replace my two best friends, Sophia and Mimi, holding a large box. “No fighting, ladies. You’re both pretty.” I laughed, raising an eyebrow at them.

“Ha ha. Funny,” Mimi answered, staggering inside.

“What the hell is that? I can’t believe you guys carried it up four flights of stairs!” My girls did not do manual labor when they could get someone else to do it.

“Believe me, we waited outside in the cab for someone to walk by, but no luck. So we schlepped it ourselves. Happy housewarming!” Sophia said. They set it down, and Sophia fell into the easy chair by the fireplace.

“Yeah, quit moving so much. We’re tired of buying you stuff.” Mimi laughed, lying down on the couch and placing her arms over her face dramatically.

I poked at the box with my toe and asked, “So what is it? And I never said you had to buy me anything. The Jack LaLanne Juicer was not necessary last year, truly.”

“Don’t be ungrateful. Just open it,” Sophia instructed, pointing at the box with her middle finger, which she then turned upright and displayed in my general direction.

I sighed and sat on the floor in front of it. I knew it was from Williams Sonoma, as it had the telltale ribbon with the tiny pineapple tied to it. The box was heavy, whatever it was.

“Oh, no. What did you two do?” I asked, catching a wink from Mimi to Sophia. Pulling at the ribbon and opening the box, I was pleased as punch with what I found. “You guys, this is too much!”

“We know how much you miss your old one,” Mimi laughed, smiling at me.

Years before, I’d been given an old KitchenAid mixer from a great aunt who passed away. It was over forty years old, but still worked great. Those things were built to last, by God, and it had lasted until just a few months ago, when it finally bit it in a big way. It smoked and went wonky one afternoon while mixing a batch of zucchini bread, and as much as I hated to do it, I tossed it out.

Now as I stared into the box, a shiny, new, stainless steel KitchenAid stand mixer staring back at me, visions of cookies and pies began dancing in my head.

“You guys, it’s beautiful,” I breathed, gazing with delight at my new baby. I lifted it out gently to admire. Running my hands over it, splaying my fingers to feel the smooth lines, I delighted in the cold metal against my skin. I sighed gently and actually hugged it.

“Do you two want to be alone?” Sophia asked.

“No, it’s okay. I want you to be here to witness our love. Besides, this is the only mechanical instrument that will likely bring me any pleasure in the near future. Thanks, guys. It’s too expensive, but I really appreciate it,” I said.

Clive came over, sniffed the mixer, and promptly jumped into the empty box.

“Just promise to bring us yummy treats, and it’s all worth it, dear.” Mimi sat up, looking at me expectantly.

“What?” I asked warily.

“Caroline, can I please start on your drawers now?” she asked, stutter-stepping her way toward the bedroom.

“Can you start doing what to my drawers?” I answered, pulling my drawstring a little tighter around my waist.

“Your kitchen! I’m dying to start placing everything!” she exclaimed, running in place now.

“Oh, hell yes. Have at it! Merry Christmas, freakshow,” I called as Mimi ran triumphantly into the other room.

Mimi was a professional organizer. She’d driven us crazy when we were all at Berkley together—with her OCD tendencies and her insane attention to detail. One day Sophia suggested she become a professional organizer, and after graduation, she did just that. She now worked all over the Bay Area helping families get their shit together. The design firm I worked for sometimes had her consult, and she’d even appeared on a few HGTV shows filming in the city. The job suited her to perfection.

So I just let Mimi do her thing, knowing my stuff would be so perfectly arranged I’d be astounded. Sophia and I continued to putz in the living room, laughing over DVDs we’d watched throughout the years. We paused over each and every Brat Pack movie from the eighties, debating whether Bender ended up with Claire once they all went back to school on Monday. I voted no, and I further bet she never got that earring back…

Later that night, after my friends left, I settled on the couch in the living room with Clive to watch reruns of The Barefoot Contessa on the Food Network. While dreaming of the creations I’d be whipping up with my new mixer—and how one day I wanted a kitchen like Ina Garten’s—I heard footsteps on the landing outside my door, and two voices. I narrowed my eyes at Clive. Spanx must be back.

Springing from the couch, I pressed my eye against the peephole once more, trying to get a look at my neighbor. I missed him again, only seeing his back as he entered his apartment behind a very tall woman with long, brown hair.

Interesting. Two different women in as many days. Manwhore.

I saw the door swing shut and felt Clive curl around my legs, purring.

“No, you can’t go out there, silly boy,” I cooed, bending down and scooping him up. I rubbed his silky fur against my cheek, smiling as he lay back in my arms. Clive was the manwhore around here. He would lie down for anyone who rubbed his belly.

Returning to the couch, I watched as Barefoot Contessa taught us all how to host a dinner party in the Hamptons with simple elegance—and a Hamptons-size bank account.

A few hours later, with the imprint of the couch cushion pressed firmly into my forehead, I made my way back to my bedroom to go to sleep. Mimi had organized my closet so efficiently that all I had left to do was to hang pictures and arrange a few odds and ends. I quite deliberately removed the pictures from the shelf above my bed. I was taking no chances tonight. I stood in the center of the room, listening for sounds from next door. All quiet on the western front. So far, so good. Maybe last night was a one-time thing.

As I got ready for bed, I looked at the framed pictures of my family and friends: my parents and I skiing in Tahoe; my girls and I at Coit Tower. Sophia loved to take pictures next to anything phallic. She played the cello with the San Francisco Orchestra, and even though she’d been around musical instruments all her life, she could never pass up a joke when she saw a flute. She was twisted.

All three of us were unattached at the moment, something rare. Usually at least one of us was dating someone, but since Sophia had broken up with her last boyfriend a few months ago, we’d all been in a dry spell. Luckily for my friends, their spell wasn’t quite as dry as mine. As far as I knew they were still on speaking terms with their Os.

I thought back with a shudder to the night when O and I had parted ways. I’d had a series of bad first dates and was so sexually frustrated that I allowed myself to go back to the apartment of a guy I had no intention of ever seeing again. Not that I was averse to the one-night stand. I’d made the walk of shame many a morning. But this guy? I should have known better. Cory Weinstein, blah blah blah. His family owned a chain of pizza parlors up and down the West Coast. Great on paper, right? Only on paper. He was nice enough, but boring. But I hadn’t been with a man in a while, and after several martinis and a pep talk in the car on the way, I relented and let Cory “have his way with me.”

Now, up until this point in my life, I’d shared that old theory that sex was like pizza. Even when it’s bad, it’s still pretty good. I now hated pizza. For several reasons.

This was the worst kind of sex. This was machine-gun style: fast, fast, fast. This was thirty seconds on the tits, sixty seconds on something that was about an inch above where he should have been, and then in. And out. And in. And out. And in. And out.

But at least it was over quick, right? Hell, no. This horribleness went on for months. Well, no. But for almost thirty minutes. Of in. And out. And in. And out. My poor hoohah felt like it had been sandblasted.

By the time it was over, and he yelled, “So good!” before collapsing on top of me, I had mentally rearranged all my spices and was starting on the cleaning supplies under the sink. I dressed, which didn’t take that long as I was still almost fully clothed, and departed.

The next night, after letting Lower Caroline recover, I decided to treat her to a nice long session of self-love, accented by everyone’s favorite fantasy lover, George Clooney, aka Dr. Ross. But to my great regret, O had left the building. I shrugged it off, thinking maybe she just needed a night away, still experiencing a little PTSD from Pizza Parlor Cory.

But the next night? No O. No sign of her that week, or the next. As the weeks became a month, and the months stretched on and on, I developed a deep, seething hatred for Cory Weinstein. That machine-gun fucker…

I shook my head, clearing my O thoughts as I crawled into bed. Clive waited until I was situated before snuggling into the space behind my knees. He let out one last purr as I turned out the lights.

“’Night, Mr. Clive,” I whispered and fell right to sleep.

Thump.

“Oh, God.”

Thump Thump.

“Oh, God.”

Unbelievable…

I woke up faster this time, because I knew what I was hearing. I sat up in bed, glaring behind me. The bed was still pulled safely away from the wall, so I felt no movement, but there was sure as hell something moving over there.

Then I heard…hissing?

I looked down at Clive, whose tail was at full puff. He arched his back and paced back and forth at the foot of the bed.

“Hey, mister. It’s cool. We just got a noisy neighbor, that’s all,” I soothed, stretching my hand out to him. That’s when I heard it.

“Meow.”

I cocked my head sideways, listening more intently. I studied Clive, who looked back as if to say, “T’weren’t me.”

“Meow! Oh, God. Me-yow!”

The girl next door was meowing. What in the world was my neighbor packing to make that happen?

Clive, at this point, went utterly bonkers and launched himself at the wall. He was literally climbing it, trying to get to where the noise was coming from, and adding his own meows to the chorus.

“Oooh yes, just like that, Simon…Mmmm…meow, meow, meow!”

Sweet Lord, there were out-of-control pussies on both sides of this wall tonight. The woman had an accent, although I couldn’t quite place it. Eastern European for sure. Czech? Polish? Was I seriously awake at, let’s see, one sixteen a.m. and attempting to discern the national origin of the woman getting plowed next door?

I tried to get a hold of Clive and calm him down. No luck. He was neutered, but he was still a boy, and he wanted what was on the other side of that wall. He continued to caterwaul, his meows mixing with hers until it was all I could to do to not to cry at the hilarity of this moment. My life had become theater of the absurd with a cat chorus.

I pulled myself together because I could now hear Simon moaning. His voice was low and thick, and while the woman and Clive continued to call to each other, I listened solely to him. He groaned, and the wall banging began. He was bringing it home.

The woman meowed louder and louder as she undoubtedly climbed toward her climax. Her meows turned into nonsensical screaming, and she finally yelled out, “Da! Da! Da!”

Ah. She was Russian. For the love of St. Petersburg.

One last thump, one last groan—and one last meow. Then all was blessedly silent. Except for Clive. He continued to pine for his lost love until four mother-loving a.m.

The cold war was back on…