The way I met Cassie Mae was a goddamn wonder, a miracle almost. I was driving into the heart of the late-August summer afternoon, taking secondary roads back to my friend Ernest’s house in Standish, where I planned to stay for the next week, coming back from checking my storage unit in Westbrook. It was a gorgeous summer day, and I happened to drive by the jail in Windham. Make no mistake, I was driving in the boonies, the pucker-brush, off the beaten path.
one look at her animated grin and her wild eyes… I knew she would be my sexual partner that day.
I looked and felt every one of my 64 years; mostly old, but feeling a guarded enthusiasm for what felt like a positive new direction for my life. I slowed to make the turn onto the main road, and saw walking there on the side of the road a good-looking woman in her early 20’s with an unruly blonde mop of hair. She was almost miraculously pretty, and her eyes and her smile seemed to sparkle. I slowed the car, cocked my head around to see her through my side window (she was across the road). She had turned around to face me full on, and with one look at her animated grin and her wild eyes—the way she was dressed and carried herself— I knew she would be my sexual partner that day.
This was a first for me, finding a stoned junkie crack ho out here on route 112 in the middle of the day in the middle of nowhere, with nothing on her face but yes. I pulled over a short way down the road, turned around, and drove back to pick her up. She was all inquisitive smiles, it occurred to me she could be high. I told her I was headed to Gorham and then Standish, but I’d take her anywhere she wanted, and she hopped right in. She seemed genuinely charmed.
She saw my pack of cigarettes on the console, asked if she could smoke. I said no, because the car’s a rental and they’re strict about not smoking cigarettes, but would she like to smoke some cocaine instead? I pulled my stem out of the ashtray for her, and she beamed a grinning yes, turned to face me, pulled back her hair, and laughed out loud. “What’s your name again?” she asked. We both laughed. I didn’t remember her name either. Woo hoo! I felt like the magician at this girl’s party. We pulled over and puffed and laughed, drove some more, puffed more, then drove to Ernest’s. Within an hour, my dick was enjoying a brisk, exquisite lip massage from Cassie Mae, and we spent every minute of the next three days together.
Cassie was as surprised and delighted by our encounter as I was and she expressed some enthusiasm that our story be written down. I humbly hope this vignette captures some of the magic and mojo that went down when Cassie Mae and I crossed paths.
Over three days I managed to get to know much more about Cassie Mae and the ways her life worked. Her Dad’s a stoned junkie, and he’s younger than me. Through his daughter, I fronted him for down, and he fucked her (and hence me) over, so of course because I am an unevolved proto-human domestic abuser, I went off on Cassie Mae, called her a “cunt” which is as likely as the “N” word to initiate raised voices and an unwinnable argument, and I ended up dropping her off at some house off Forest Avenue. The last time I saw her, about a week later, I had dropped her off and was running over her stolen clothes, makeup, and glass stems I’d strewn across Spring Street in front of the trap house she’d decided to stay at. Twenty minutes earlier, after I refused to smoke the rest of my rock with her, and she’d actually walked around my car, opened the driver’s side door (where I sat) and grabbed my stash and the new stems I’d just bought us, out of the door compartment, in front of me, while we were parked at the Super Walmart in Scarborough. Then she got back into the car and basically dared me to do anything about it. She knew she was taking a chance and she was showing her “hard bitch” and I fucking hated her. It’s a grave risk to steal someone’s rock cocaine in front of them. Shit with this bitch got really complicated. I was close to homicidal. She could be a death obsessed freak.
I’d still love to see her. I know for certain, if she’s still hitting heroin, she’s still too freaking complicated. And dangerous. Love the woman, hate the addict.
Bitchez 