The Marine and His Queen (part 2)

...John was an odd fellow, and that’s not to say he wasn't intelligent, because he knew a few things, but in general he was odd. For starters, John would talk to himself constantly. Most people speak out loud to think things through, possibly even to calm themselves while under stress or facing a deadline, but John would have full-blown conversations with himself, all the time.  "Alright man what are you having for dinner tonight? Hmmm lets see in the fridge there's bloody mary mix, mmm a couple rib eye's, but shit I had a rib eye last night, there's uhhh... OH SHIT, OH FUCK YEAH! My chicken, I forgot all about my chicken. I'm gunna rub that shit in some spices and cook it up so good... AAAaaaawwww YYeeeaaahhh!" John would also slam, smash and stomp everything. He would slam the doors and windows, and make it a point to smash the garbage deeper into the trash bin each time he walked by. In the morning John would slam the toilet seat closed, narrate his adventures in toothbrush land and stomp in circles around his tiny room, even though he didn't have anywhere to be.

John was 27 now. It had been two and half years since he moved to California. He had been back to Colorado once, but not to visit his mom. He missed the mountains so he drove up into the Rockies, not far from where he had once hunted, and spent the night in his jeep. He drove back to California the next day and returned to the 180 square foot room he rented in North Hills. On the wall hung a thick, shagged carpet. John was very private and would explain to his roommates that he didn't want them hearing what he did with the girls he brought by. John never brought girls by. He was obsessed with how sound traveled though. One day he went to the dump and found about a hundred squares of soundboard and covered his entire room in it, including the windows. Inside of John's room was a twin mattress that laid limp on the floor, a desk that was empty and awkwardly large for the space, two camping chairs and a dresser with only the 3 bottom drawers in it. This is where John would spend most of his time.

About a year ago, after some failed attempts at meeting women in his nursing classes at the local community college, he decided to follow the lead of Erik and Bill and order himself a bride. He wasn't nervous about the situation at all, in fact the whole process felt very natural. The website reminded him of many of the websites he had bookmarked, and as far as choosing the girl went, he found it to be ridiculously easy. His favorite Porn Star was Jamie Shame. She was petit with naturally blond hair. She was neither curvaceous nor flat; she was just a normal girl. If it wasn't for her hollow eyes, you might have been fooled into thinking she was just another random girl who had some special skills in the sheets. Ultimately, this is the look John sought.

Fitting for the demented fairytale that would become John’s life, a woman appeared, newly posted, upon a refresh of his browser. There she sat in the upper right hand corner of his screen, her head awkwardly kinked to the left. She smiled as an employee smiles at their bosses stories and with her strong eye, the other was a bit lazy, she glared deep into the camera. Her hair was frizzled, but pulled back at the bangs and clipped with a colored pin that no American woman had worn since the 90's. She had an abundance of freckles, and when pixilated by the monitor, gave her the appearance of a sun baked beach bum. Her teeth were slightly yellow and her eyebrows needed plucking, but other than that she was perfect. John saw her as a woman who wouldn't judge him. John saw her as a woman he could command and dominate. John saw her as he saw Jamie Shame.

It took a year for Olga's visa to clear. Or at least that’s what the agency told John. The truth of the matter was that she was still under contract with the company who also moonlighted as an escort service for traveling businessmen. During this time, Olga and John would talk at length on the phone and by video messaging one another, never about the businessmen though. John grew to love Olga.

The small room John occupied seemed to grow smaller by the day. More sound proofing, more mud on his boots, more phone conversations and video messaging with Olga. Her expected date of delivery was not far off and John had many preparations to make. He didn't see the mess in his room, but he saw the flaws in everything around him. The shared kitchen was too messy, the bathroom not fit for a girl. He even went as far as painting his own Pollock on the hallway wall. His taste was undeniably modern, in the 80's. Slowly he transformed the shanty house into slightly less so and by the first night in November he had settled. Tonight was the night; he was to meet Olga at 10:25 pm outside of the Tom Bradley terminal. John showed up early, wearing his favorite pair of running shorts. As he stood amongst those coming and going, the LA sun dropped into the smog and didn't show itself again until John saw it kissing the end of the 10. Twilight had come and gone and there John sat, with only 30 more minutes to go. His hands were sweaty and his stomach tightened. His face turned red and the tips of his ears burned at the very thought of Olga. He had been thinking of the elk he had killed as a child, remembering its gloss black eye in which he saw his own reflection. It was in this moment that he felt a hand come to rest on his shoulder. Instinctively he swatted it away and in one fluid motion had grabbed the hand by its arms, and pulled the arm's body into his own. He held the body close, feeling it pant wondering why the enemy’s hair smelled so good. He slowly loosened his grip and allowed the body to fall away from his. Terrified, yet submissive, she turned to John and introduced herself as Olga.

The car ride was awkward to say the least. John, embarrassed of his actions, felt as if his pattern with woman was unbreakable. He was certain the first chance Olga got she would be gone like the rest. He drove at ten and two with his eyes on the road, purposefully avoiding the passenger seat. Olga could feel his distance and knowing that it was her job to make him happy, she began to rub the inside of his thigh. The businessmen she was accustomed to entertaining would enjoy this move and John did too. He began to loosen up a little, mumbling that he was sorry. Olga allowed her hand to liberally move across his lap. By the time they hit the 118 John was ready to assert his dominance. He sped into the driveway, side swiping his roommates car in the process and ran with Olga into his room. He threw her onto the bed and proceeded to get his money's worth. John fell asleep, and Olga shortly after. They didn't wake until 5am.

John rolled out of bed, feeling slightly better than usual, yet it was difficult for him to figure out why.  There was no Olga, there was no one. To his side rested a  soiled pair of navy blue boxers.  He walked into the bathroom to take his morning shit and while sitting there with the door swung wide open he heard the sizzle of eggs. He finished up, walked into the kitchen, and standing there in pair of dingy white cotton shorts was Olga. She had quietly snuck out of the room before John awakened to prepare him breakfast. "Gewdmorneng Hawnyee. I am cooking you the pork and eggs." Stunned that she was still around John slowly approached her. He opened the oven and savored the smell of the pork, astounded he was in the presence of a woman who enjoyed meat as much as him. "I hawp you enjoey the pork and eggs, hawnyee." It was hard for him to understand her and in order to compensate for that he would scream back his responses. "YEAH BABY, THIS ALL SMELLS GREAT BABY. LAST NIGHT, GOD LAST NIGHT WAS SO FUCKING GOOD BABY.” The lopsidedness of their conversation woke his roommates. They returned to his room with plates of shredded pork, broken egg yolks and applesauce to enjoy the meal while seated Indian style on his mattress. John pulled his laptop between them and asked Olga if she wanted to see videos of his marine buddies launching mortars into the vastness of Kabul. Without waiting for a response he had started the video, commenting on how the pulse of the cannon would send vibrations deep into his body. After that he exhibited how well his computer could stream HD porn. They had sex once more and then went to the garage.

Inside John had a surprise for her. During one of their conversations it came up that Olga had played piano as a young girl. An out of tune Baldwin sat tucked away in the corner; its ivory keys had yellowed from its time in the elements. Dark and damp, dusty and decrepit, John sat her upon the bench confident that she would be pleased. Unfortunately he didn't understand the dynamics the 88 ivory keys had played in her life. First forced into playing by her abusive father, and then prodded to play by the pimp her father sold her to, the piano had become an instrument of pain. Every hammer that hit every string bellowed the melody of girl who hated who she was. But, to please the man who had purchased her, she would sit with impeccable posture and play. She knew what it took to make a guy feel special and in this case it was the war ballads of her countrymen. John's favorite quickly became Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture. Originally written to commemorate the successful defense of Moscow against an invading Napoleon, John internalized the song, in his boxer briefs, as the anthem to his unrequited love for Olga. It was passionate, it was sexy, it was dominant. John had no idea Tchaikovsky was a homosexual...