My Pussy Skipped Town and All I Got Was This Postcard.

“Jesus died for somebody’s sins but not mine. Meltin’ in a pot of thieves, wild card up my sleeve, thick heart of stone, my sins my own, they belong to me, me! People say “beware!” but I don’t care, the words are just rules and regulations to me, me…” ~ Gloria by Patti Smith

My pussy rented a bike and skipped town. Apparently not just any bike, but a Dyna Super Glide Custom in Black Cherry. $1,250?! I didn’t know she was gone ’til my Visa bill showed up with $1,800 worth of charges from Kelly’s House of Harley’s.

Skull cooler $45; chrome plated solo luggage rack $195; women’s Cycle Diva Performance Eyewear $210; a lace back Eagle tank $45; Women’s mesh cami & thong set?? $55.

I feigned outrage, but really, I got it. She was sick of me, us… it.

This wasn’t the first time she’d taken off, her disregard for consequences set the first time I heard Patti Smith’s “Horses”. I was startled and secretly thrilled as I ran over to shut my bedroom door, then back again to lower the volume. I stood there frozen, silent. Listening to see if anyone could hear.

Slowly I turned the knob and fell back onto my bed, legs crossed and still. My left hand over my mouth, my right burrowed into my pants. I didn’t know what was happening, but it felt like some lost part of me was calling out the only way it knew how, through the music. It was beautiful, uncontained and defiant, and I was none of those things.

Kitty went missing for a long time after that, showing up years later in the middle of a party at Sharon Kessler’s house. Sharon had the greatest collection of rock albums ever, most of them belonging to her brother Mike, but he was a narc pig so we considered them ours. It was funny to me that he looked so cool. Nice hair, mustache, awesome body… especially in those cords, but he was definitely a narc. He turned Sharon in twice for smoking and her mom was someone you didn’t want to mess with.

We sat in the basement on her dad’s discarded vinyl furniture listening to Led Zeppelin, Aerosmith and The Who. Her younger brother Mark sang to me as he lit up his alien head bong…“Leaves are falling all around, time I was on my way”. The addictive John Paul Jones bass lines soaked my brain and I was gone. Gone until Mike showed up with Charlie Gordon and Paul Carrelli.

“Sharon, what the hell?” Mike whined, tearing the cigarette and ashtray from her hands. “Kill yourself with this shit why don’t you”. Charlie stood awkwardly quiet. Sharon was cool, popular and terribly beautiful. “Why don’t you fuck off and leave your friends for me to play with?” she shot back.

Paul walked over to her, handed her a Winston and struck a match. “Don’t be a hardass Mike, these girls aren’t causing any trouble. Except maybe this one”. He looked at me and winked. Paul Carrelli. I was wrecked and trying unsuccessfully to bring myself down as he sat on the arm of my chair. “I see you’re into The Who” he said, picking up the worn out album cover on my lap. “Meaty Beaty Big & Bouncy…right on.”.

“My Generation” blasted through the four foot Pioneer speakers. Everyone was up dancing, smiling and singing, me loudest of all. We finished half a bottle of Jamison’s before that record was through and Paul kissed me hard. I kissed him back harder. He pulled me into the laundry room and sat me on top of the washer. His hands and lips prowled, then hesitated as he looked up, smiled me the sweetest smile and pulled me into him. It was the kind of sex that left you with bruises.

In my early twenties, Pooter made a practice of bar hopping in Chelsea, Charlestown and Revere. Places I wouldn’t go to in the daytime, let alone at night…in a bar…in Chelsea!? Back then she’d telephone around 2:00AM just after last call. I’d pick up the phone. It was Van Morrison. “Hark now hear the sailors cry, smell the sea and feel the sky, let your soul and spirit fly into the Mystic”. “ Doot… doot…do, do, do…do doo…” she’d sing into the receiver.

I’d cry myself to sleep. I didn’t know my box could just take a hike like that. I never told anyone. Not even my best friend Edie. Years went by without incident. I had a few boyfriends. No one amazing, but no real jerks either. Except Jerry. I try not to think about him. I thought it was all behind me ’til the Visa bill showed up today.

I wondered what prompted the latest escapade, then remembered my involuntary groans last week in front of the bathroom mirror. A conspicuously, conspiring, gray pubic hair. A moocher of my youth, on my muff.

I drank three glasses of pinot and made a call.

My friend Kate listened to every ridiculous excuse I ever had for not dating, for drinking too much and for still sneaking cigarettes even though I lived alone. “Get a pen”, she said, “I’m giving you a number”. I wrote it down, fingering the corner of the post-it note through one more glass of wine, then I dialed.

“Lonni’s Punani” came a voice over the phone.

Silence.

“Who is this?” I croaked.

“Lonni’s Punani — Keeping Ladies Smooth One Pussy at a Time.”. I hung up.

“Shit.” I swore as I stumbled from the kitchen making a mental note to call back in the morning. I began to slip into unconsciousness on the couch and smiled. Maybe she’d stick around longer if I didn’t think of her as ‘my box’, or ‘pooter’ and gave her a new name to go with a fresh new face.

She seemed happy at the prospect and we began singing a familiar song from back in ‘75…

“and her name is G —L — O — R — I I I I I I …”

“G-L-O-R-I-A, Gloria!”

“G-L-O-R-I-A, Gloria…”

“G-L-O-R-I-A, Gloria…”

“G-L-O-R-I-A, Gloria…”

© Mary Lonergan