blue by j.d. riso
DESCRIPTION
Blue tells the story of Blue Rivers, who, as the offspring of rape and revenge, has one dream - to start her life over. She meets Kevin, a man with a twisted idea of the perfect woman. When he takes an interest in her, she vows to become his dream girl. Blue becomes an exotic dancer at the Pink Palace, a rundown strip joint in an industrial neighborhood of San Diego. Kevin, however, isn't satisfied. When his demands become increasingly hardcore, Blue is forced to choose between his love and her own limits. Blue is a novel that explores the fine line between sexual exploration and exploitation.TRANSCRIPT
BlueBy J.D. Riso
Murphy’s Law Press 2006
© J.D. Riso, 2006All rights reserved
Blue may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher.
ISBN 0-9754308-3-1
Cover Art by Stacy Taylor www.stacytaylor.comPrinted and bound in USA
Published 2006 byMurphy’s Law Press
www.murphyslawpress.com
In memory of Breezy Ryder
Prologue
In an industrial neighborhood of San Diego there is a lonely,
forgotten lot guarded by nothing more than a chain-link fence. Little
remains of the establishment that reigned here once, or of the painted
ladies who once graced its stage.
Stiletto heels protrude from the seared earth like tawdry tombstones.
Sunlight glints off a garden of broken mirrors and scattered rhinestones.
Sparkling apparitions flit about in the breeze. They are specters of the
dancers who have been scattered like some lost tribe of Babylon.
Amid the rubble one thing remains intact: a blue sequined mask.
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Chapter
1
When I was eleven years old, Christine told me the story of how I
came to be. I walked into the living room to find her sitting on the floor,
a faded pink boa around her neck, cabaret music blaring from the stereo.
Clippings, faded costumes, and photos were spread out around her. The
flotsam of a past life I never knew about.
I turned the music down and sat beside her. I wanted to reach out and
pluck the false eyelash that hung precariously from her swollen eyelid,
but I was afraid she’d slap my hand away.
“If irony were a color it would be blue,” she said as she gathered me
to herself. Tequila fumes wafted at me, but I didn’t look away.
I stiffened, unused to her affection. Something was wrong.
“A color so profound can only lead to melancholy,” she said as she
stroked my slumped shoulders. She took my face in her hands. “It’s time
you knew where you came from. You got a right to know. But don’t
never ask me about it again, you hear?”
She picked up a high school yearbook. Swaying a bit, she riffled
through the pages. “Here he is,” she said. “Kip Caruthers, your father.”
I looked at the black and white photo of the man who I was told had
died in Vietnam. He was not what I imagined. He looked like a poster
boy for the Aryan Nation. A frat boy. He wore an ascot in the
photograph, for crying out loud. Be a good boy, Kippy, and fetch mummy
another martini. This man never stepped one foot in Vietnam.
“It was all a lie,” Christine said. “I met him at a spring dance at a
country club in Scottsdale. He saw me dance and, supposedly, that’s
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J.D. Riso
what caused him to approach a girl he wouldn’t have otherwise spit on.
People threw money at me when I danced. That’s how good I was. Are
you surprised?”
“I don’t know.”
“I was going to be a Vegas showgirl after high school. My parents
hated this idea. But they knew better than to hold me back.”
She paused, and took a deep breath. “Kip got me drunk and ended up
forcing himself on me. I fought with everything I had, but it wasn’t
enough. I marched back to the dance all torn and dirty and caused a
scene. I expected help, but all I got were looks of disgust. Only sluts
dreamed of being showgirls. I got what I was asking for.”
I sat silent, stunned. I was the offspring of rape. A vile joke. I didn’t
deserve to live.
Christine took another swig of tequila, “When I started to show, I
stalked Kip. I went to his football practices. I strutted right by those
snotty cheerleaders and took a seat in the bleachers. I’d pat my fat belly
and call out, ‘Little Kippy says hi too’. After a couple of times Daddy
Kip got involved. He paid me to shut my mouth and go away. I had no
choice but to take the money. There was no longer any hope for me to be
a dancer. Abortion was illegal back then and damned if I was going to
ruin my body and give the child away. I know it’s not a pretty story, but
you need to learn how to take honesty if you’re going to survive in this
world,” she said. “Sugar-coated words aren’t worth shit, baby Blue. Look
where they got me.”
They got her saggy tits, stretch marks, and me. And I got Kip’s
blonde blandness. Every time she looked at me she saw him.
She stumbled down the hall to her room.
I sat amid the tattered remnants of her dream. I fished out a pair of
white gloves and a rhinestone choker. I modeled them in the mirror, but
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Blue
couldn’t bring myself to meet my own gaze. Why didn’t I somehow
abort myself and make it easier on everyone? Clenched within that
claustrophobic scarlet cocoon, I was toxic. That’s what she should have
named me: Scarlet. The color of blood boiling rage.
But some part of me knew that I was destined for great things. I
knew that someday someone would see the spark hidden inside me and
nurture it to flame. It made me want to live as revenge on her revenge,
but I was never able to muster up as much rage as she did. I was born
seeing scarlet, yet my tendencies deepened into blue.
I made it a point to disappear from Christine’s radar. We wandered
ghostly through each other’s lives like two phantoms trapped in adjacent
realities. Most of the memories from my youth are as faded as the desert
in the noonday sun. I know that I was an honor student. I won gold stars
for perfect attendance. I was unseen, not even interesting enough to be
picked on. I was a nice, quiet girl who didn’t make waves. The girl
nobody remembered.
I awoke one morning when I was seventeen to find a strange man
sitting at our kitchen table drinking coffee while Christine made
scrambled eggs and bacon. I stood in the doorway, unsure if I should
enter.
“Oh, hi honey,” Christine said. “I made you some breakfast, too.
George, this is my baby Blue.”
I slid into the seat opposite George. His eyes lit up when he saw me.
He had short black hair with a long, skinny braid that curled up under his
collar like a rat’s tail. I shuddered.
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J.D. Riso
“I’m what you’d call an optimistic fatalist,” he said and flashed a
crooked smile.
“George has a degree in Psychology,” Christine said as she set his
plate before him. She sat beside him, beaming at each mouthful he ate.
“I’m planning on going into Psychology,” I said, trying to make
conversation. “Right now we’re studying the philosophies of Freud. You
know, the Id, the Ego, and the Superego. It’s fascinating.”
His face was seized by panic, and then he brushed my words aside
with a sneer. “As if any of these theories make a difference in the grand
scheme of things.” He had no idea what I was talking about.
He wasn’t blatantly insulting, but I would have preferred that to his
self-righteous arrogance. It took all my will to be polite. If he stopped
coming around because of me, There’d be hell to pay.
I was in the final weeks of high school. Close to freedom from both
school and Christine.
“Once you’re eighteen you’re out the door,” she had said so many
times, as if she’d have to force me to leave.
I had a job as a waitress at a coffee shop. It was a dismal little place
on Main Street. The customers were year-round desert rats who had
nothing better to do than to blame me for their withering lives. I saved
every cent toward my escape. I was fed up with living in a place where
people came to die. All the trailer parks and wheezing geriatrics.
When Belinda Black walked into my life, I knew that my life was
about to dramatically change. One day, she was there at the counter, a
dazzling jewel amid the dusty fossils. Her green gaze was as direct and
piercing as a cobra’s. Her dark skin and those shimmering eyes paralyzed
me.
“My mother is Haitian,” she said, as if reading my thoughts. “You
get some strange genetic combinations down there.”
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Blue
I stared at her, coffeepot poised in mid pour. She had spoken to me!
With a quick glance around at the other customers, I refilled her cup and
set the pot down. The dinner rush was over and I deserved a break.
“You go to my high school,” she continued. “I’ve seen you around. I
don’t talk to anyone there. They’re a bunch of flatliners, but you’ve got a
real spark in you. We should go out sometime.”
I nodded, dumbfounded. And there our friendship began.
“I haven’t lived at home in three years—since I was fifteen,” Belinda
said as she put the finishing touches on my makeup. We were going to a
high school party, something she would normally never do, but she
wanted me to try out the man catching skills that she had painstakingly
taught me. “Too many rules and not enough rewards. I’m out of here
after graduation. Off to LA. Why don’t you come along? We’ll make our
fortune in Hollywood.”
“Ok, I guess,” I said, trying to hide how thrilled I was. It wasn’t like
I had any other plans besides to get away from Mesa. I was sick to death
of looking at five hundred shades of brown. I wanted to be somewhere
green, where things blossomed. California sounded so full of
possibilities.
“Voilà, you’re finished, my dear,” she said as she turned me toward
the mirror. “See how good you look with just a light touch of makeup?
You don’t need a lot, but you do need a little help. You’re too plain
without it.” I nodded, grateful for her attention.
“I’m going to be a movie producer,” she said as we pulled up to the
party. Push It by Salt ’N’ Pepa blared out of the house. A boy barfed in
the front hedge as we approached the front door. “I know I’m beautiful
enough to be a star, but I want to work behind the scenes. I’m going to be
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J.D. Riso
the one that recognizes the talent hidden inside an unknown. I’m going to
nurture it and make it shine. And grow filthy rich.”
Belinda was the only female I knew who smoked cigars and drank
Armagnac. She conversed on topics such as stock options and world
dictatorships.
“An educated woman who can also fuck like a whore is a gem,” she
said as we made a circuit through the house. “She can name her price.”
I watched her work the room, scoping out the most promising
conquests. The jocks pretended not to notice her; they rough housed and
made fun of each other to hide their nervousness. What would it be like
being worshipped like that? Women like her always get what they want, I
thought. They’re all so sure of themselves too: Oh, I’m every guy’s type.
When I tried it, it came across as desperate.
“Over there,” Belinda said with a tilt of her chin. It was Brett Banks.
He was one of those boys who fit into every group and none at all. And
for that every girl wanted him.
“Can’t we try with someone less intimidating?” I begged.
“He’s looking over here. At you, not me,” Belinda insisted. “Go on.
Remember, just stare deep into his eyes and pretend that anything he
says is the most fascinating thing you’ve ever heard.” She gave me a
little push.
I did what she said and it was working. We had just begun to make
out when Belinda turned around and snatched him right from under my
nose.
“Almost, but not quite,” she said with a patronizing smile as she led
Brett away from me, toward a vacant back bedroom.
My heart wilted. I settled for the dorky friend, a boy with a face and
name I didn’t know. I willingly laid down for him as I had for so many
others. There was really no reason not to, and the boys all seemed to
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Blue
want it so badly. I didn’t see what the fuss was about. The contorted
faces and strangled moans. It was all I could do to keep from laughing.
But, at least someone got some satisfaction out of it. All I got out of
it was soreness and disappointment.
Boys were nothing more than amusement for Belinda. Diversions.
She always had at least two flings going at once, usually with rich old
men from the various country clubs in Scottsdale.
“You always gotta have at least two,” she said. “That way they sense
that something’s up. It keeps them interested.”
She knew about my father and thought it would be a hoot to nab him.
She never got a chance to penetrate Kip’s inner circle of cronies,
however. My home life shattered for good, and Belinda was there to
gather me up and whisk me away.
I should have paid heed to the unease that I felt whenever I was
alone with George.
I came home from work one night to find him on our couch, whisky
in hand, his flabby arm outstretched, inviting me to dance.
What the hell? I thought. Maybe I’d been too hard on the guy.
“Have a drink to celebrate your graduation,” he said. “Soon we
won’t get to see your pretty face around here anymore.”
He fixed me a drink. I downed it in one swallow.
“That’s a girl,” he laughed. He scratched his hairy belly and lurched
toward me.
I backed away, already feeling woozy. “Thanks for the drink. I’m
going to my room.”
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J.D. Riso
The last thing I remember is walking down the hall, George on my
heels, his clammy hand upon my arm. I tried to shrug it away as
everything faded.
I don’t know how long I was under. Sometimes I wish I had stayed
under forever. But consciousness gradually returned. When the shadows
came into focus George was on top of me, slick with sweat, pumping
away.
“Oh no!” I wailed. “Get off of me!”
“What, baby? You were digging it a minute ago. Let’s have some
good sex. Your mommy doesn’t need to find out.”
“Oh, oh God,” I sobbed. I got up and ran into the hall. Streaks and
sparks whizzed in front of my eyes. The Grateful Dead music that had
once sounded sensual now seemed sinister. I nearly passed out again. I
huddled on the floor of the bathroom sick with shame. How could I have
allowed this to happen to me? Especially after I knew what had happened
to Christine. I should have seen the signs.
Then Christine came home. Her harsh voice bounced up the stairs
and down the hall toward me, edgy as shattered glass.
I took off my window screen and climbed into the garden. She would
never believe me. It was best to just leave. I threw on my work clothes
that smelled of grease and sweat. Whatever drug he had given me wore
off and I felt like filth. I didn’t have time to grab my shoes.
I went to Belinda. There was no place else to go.
“God, nasty old George,” she said. “He must have slipped you that
date rape drug. Well, at least he didn’t come in you. Did he?”
“No, I’m pretty sure he didn’t. But you know what the worst thing
is? When I didn’t know it was him, it felt good.” I shuddered.
“You give him too much power. All he did was stick his dick in you.
Breaking your nose is worse. Think about it.”
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Blue
I could have sworn she looked secretly pleased that I had nowhere
else to go.
She continued, “Well, I guess we have no excuse to stick around
these parts anymore. First thing we gotta do is go get your stuff.”
My work shoes were on the front porch when we arrived. They were
lined up neatly, the toes pointed away from the door. Next to them a
suitcase, my clothes folded neatly inside. Christine had even put my
favorite stuffed animal, a pink bunny, next to the suitcase. That touch of
finality, most of all, made my heart wrench. I sat on the steps and
sobbed. It hadn’t been much of a home, but I could never again go back
to it.
One evening, soon after, Belinda set me up with one of her country
club connections. “You have to be practical. You have no money. You
have to use what God gave you to survive. Anyway, it’s just a couple of
times and then we can split for LA.”
The man, Alan, was seventy and made his fortune with high-quality
hair products. When I met him he was wearing spandex bike shorts and a
tank top.
“I was just making a protein smoothie. Want one?”
I nodded and settled back onto the couch. Pump up the Jams by
Technotronic blared from the speakers. He danced toward me, smoothies
in hand. His flabby, gray-haired breasts swayed. I sighed with
resignation and leaned my head against the back of the couch.
He made small talk, but I just wanted to get it over with. I took a
deep breath and gave him a kiss. His mouth was wet and soggy. As
appetizing as a fallen soufflé. I got up and walked into his bedroom. It
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J.D. Riso
was decorated like a lair. Animal prints, foliage, and in one corner there
were giant plumes in a floor vase.
He rubbed his stiff weenie against me and bleated, “Oh, Blue, please
hold me.”
I undressed and stretched out on the leopard-print sheets. He pumped
away on me, watching us in the wall mirrors, while I clenched my teeth
against the pain. Just a few more times, I thought. Just this one man. I
tried to remember what Belinda had told me: I gave the physical act too
much power. Nothing could defile me without my permission, and so on.
I ended up crying silently, wishing he’d just finish.
He mistook my sobs for shudders of ecstasy, “Oh yeah, you like that
don’t you baby? No young man can hold out as long as I can.”
As if that were something I should cherish: a whiny old man fucking
me until the end of time.
“Adios, all you losers,” Belinda sang as we drove away from Mesa
for the last time. The wad of cash from my visits with Alan was stuffed
into the bottom of my backpack.
As we left the desert behind I vowed to forget my past. All of it. My
life begins now, I thought.
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