Sam

Sam came over with Kevin and Kaleigh. For various reasons, she started coming over often, and I always made sure to say hi. We would puff together, often my treat, occasionally hers. Sam worked hard. She had a fine muscular but slim body, and a half-hour of makeup and costume change always made her look spectacular. She would often drop by to buff herself up on her way to the strip club where she worked on weeknights. She sometimes stopped again at my house after her shift, always in the wee small hours, because I was easier to engage than the johns at the strip club, and because my roommate sold both up and down. Sam was a delicious sneering Brockton foster kid junkie crack ho chick. She was great company, kept conversations going, could organize an adventure in no time flat, our interchange was fun and easy. I engaged her services on several occasions, when she was carefully balanced—high on cocaine and low on down. A lot of providers prefer this balance to proffer their best services.

Sam wielded a glorious, deeply personal encounter, after a half hour or more of sitting practically atop one another, feeling deliciously comfortable, relaxed, playing cards, reading shit one of us Googled, scrolling through lists on our phones, Sam would check out the music, whatever was playing was fine, we both understood that. We talked, she’d ask questions, all kinds of questions, sexy questions. Our voices found a relaxed and balanced pitch, whispering and sing song, pitched just over the music coming out of the Bose. I called her Sam I Am, and she assured me [of course, because Sam is a consummate bitch] she’d heard that before and I had to be more original than that, so I repeated, in time with the ministrations of her lips against the rocking of my hips, my made-up chant, singing á capélla, and allegro, ma non troppo “Sam I am… I am… I am… I am…,” and my fairy tale princess murmured from her position kneeling naked on the middle of my bed, eyes sparkling when her head tipped to look up at me, and she grinned around her happy mouthful and worked a little harder to acknowledge my made up chant of pleasure and nonsense, and good God, I still feel a deep gratitude, to have enjoyed such exquisite connection with another person, to share such joy.

Sam liked connecting with most of the lights out, so I don’t remember a lot about how she looked while we frolicked, except for her lanky muscularity. Her boyfriend ran a machinery contracting operation, and my dear Sam sometimes wore steel toed boots, zip-front jump suit, drove a log skidder, wielded her mean chainsaw against deciduous foes while dressed in the proto-Mad Max log clearing costume—heavy leather gauntlets, goggles, bandanas, and a greasy orange beast of a Husqvarna with a two-foot tang. I got to check out these images while watching the photos and videos she shared from her phone, but I was able to enjoy watching her use her muscles up close and personal if broadd daylight. She and my roommate moved everything (I mean it! Furniture, boxes, appliances, everything) from my house out and into a UHaul, then off the UHaul into my storage unit.

Sam was strong, helpful, thought things through, and was a stoned junkie crack ho of the highest order, especially because she was so low key. She once borrowed my car, a rental, ostensibly for an hour, and kept it all day—seventeen hours (a long day), never got in touch. I never made a good deal with her, because she was always jockeying for the advantage, the profit; to take a markup on drugs she bought for me, then smoked with me, share a hit of down with my girlfriend, and take all her rigs and cottons. Sam could be a cunt of ginormous proportion, though to be fair, she was always good company, and could be a lovable, munchable, enthusiastic crack ho, a true princess of livid deliciousness. Open-mouthed, tongue tip twiddling, French kissing, tongue-sucking, good humored Sam. Pause, with that slow hissing nose breath, in and out slowly; catch your breath and hold tight, because I am coming, Sam, I am… I am… I am.