Copyright © 2014 K.B. Stevens
I know what you’re thinking; how could you sexually take advantage of an innocent young woman with a developmental disability? You sick bastard! The truth of the matter is the only special needs my differently-abled neighbor Betty had, involved the satisfaction of her oral fixations, and a couple rounds of I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. So who was I to deny her carnal curiosities?
My day started out shitty. Even though we had only been together eight months, it still hurt like hell. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked her to move in so fast. I was playing back the entire relationship in my head. It was like a cheesy romantic comedy movie suddenly turned tragedy without the, happily ever after. I reviewed the part I played, second guessing every word I said, every thing I did, and tried to figure out what went wrong.
“It’s not you Jerry, it’s me. I need to spread my wings and be independent,” Donna says as she takes the last box of her things from our apartment…well, I guess it’s back to being my apartment, and places the front door key in my hand. I did my best to keep a stiff upper lip, and not break down balling in tears at her feet.
“Call me sometime, maybe we can do lunch or something,” I tell her, hoping I don’t sound like a pathetic loser.
Donna shakes her bottle-blonde head, “I don’t think that’s a good idea. You need to move on.”
“Right, of course, I meant strictly as friends.”
“A little advice for you…strictly friend, get a real job,” Donna said, in a way that made me feel like less than a man.
I watched her stride to the end of the long hallway with not a care in the world, and as she turned the corner for the elevator, disappearing from view, my tears overcame me.
I quickly retreated to the privacy of my apartment so I could fall apart like a weepy little bitch all by myself and not have my manhood, or inability to keep a girlfriend, questioned by any of the other tenants of the building.
I cried and cried under the fuzzy blankets of my, too big for one person bed, until my eyes were puffy and red, and I couldn’t cry anymore. So I lied there sobbing, depressed and lonely.
When I heard a dainty knock on my apartment door I harbored the secret fantasy that it would be Donna; begging me to take her back after realizing what a fool she had been. I quickly fixed my hair, wiped my runny nose on my shirt sleeve and rushed to the door.
When I open the door to my apartment I’m instantly bear-hugged by Betty; the young retarded woman who lives across the hall from me.
Betty hugged me longer than what would be considered socially acceptable, while squirming her body and boobs against me in a way that I felt like I just got molested on a crowded city bus.
Finally she releases me from her grasp, and brushes past me into my living room carrying her ever present lime green travel case in her white gloved hands.
Betty and I had never said more than, “hi” or “bye” to each other in the hallways or lobby of our apartment building, so I found it rather presumptuous that she sauntered right into my place without even asking.
“I heard your tears falling, Jerry. When I have tears my mommy gives me fairy floss, hugs and rookies,” Betty says, as she plops down on my couch, sits her case on the coffee table and pops open the lid.
Curiosity gets the better of me. “What’s fairy floss?”
She looks at me like I’m an idiot, and holds up a zip-lock bag full of rainbow colored cotton candy.
“Duh,” Betty says, handing me the bag.
“Oh right, thanks.”
I sit down next to her, open the bag and break off a piece of the hard-as-rock candy. Fortunately it still melted in my mouth even though it had a stale cardboard flavor. Betty scooches super-close to me on the couch, invading my personal space, and hands me a second bag.
“There’s your rookies, Jerry. I made them yesterday when I saw you crying in the lobby.”
I briefly consider refuting her observation with a little white lie about allergies, but it’s not like Betty was judging me; she was simply stating a fact. I sample the rookies…you or I might call them raisin cookies, which thankfully were quite moist, chewy and delicious despite being crumbled into little bits as if trampled by a herd of elephants.
“Can I ask you a question, Betty?”
She turns to me in wide-eyed anticipation, “Sure!”
“Why do you wear white gloves?”
Betty holds up her gloved hands and flutters her fingers like a Las Vegas showgirl. “Everyone thinks it’s on account of my finger sucking, but the truth is, I’m royalty and it’s bad manners for unwashed commoners to touch my noble skin. I wear gloves so as not to break any of the rules of proper etiquette.”
I try my best to keep a straight face, and not laugh at her ridiculous explanation, but I completely lose it when Betty laughs first. We laugh together for some time at her silly joke, when I suddenly realize Betty’s humor, out of date fairy floss, and rookies have indeed lifted my previously sour mood.
“Can I ask you something?” Betty says still laughing.
“Sure,” I say with a smile.
“Can I see your penis?”
“What?” I say, nearly choking on a raisin.
She points to my crotch. “Your pee-pee. I bet you got a nice one.”
“No! Betty, no,” I tell her, springing to my feet.
“I’ll let you see my vagina,” Betty says, hiking up her blue skirt.
“No, Betty stop!”
“You don’t like vagina?”
“It’s not that, Betty, you shouldn’t-“
She cuts me off, telling me, “It’s okay if you like boys; I learned about homosexuals in Sex-Ed class.”
“I’m not gay.”
“Good, cuz I like to touch myself and imagine you’re the one sexing me when I lay in bed at night with my eyes closed real tight and my legs spread wide and loose.”
I stood there with my mouth agape; shocked at her admission.
“Thanks for the cookies and cotton candy, but I think you should head back to your place now,” I say, as I usher her to my front door.
“He didn’t have any tools!” Betty blurts out.
“That’s how I knew she was lying.”
“Who was lying?”
Annoyed, I ask her, “What was she lying about?”
“I might be slow but I’m not stupid. She told me he was a plumber…I bet he parked his Equus ferus caballus around the corner.”
“His horse! Don’t you ever read the dictionary, Jerry? I love reading the dictionary; big words help me sound less challenged.”
I was starting to think Betty’s head was full of nothing more than fluffy fairy floss. “What in the world are you talking about?”
Betty points to the heat vent in the floor. “I could hear them sexing, and she always called him cowboy; that’s how I knew he wasn’t a plumber.”
“You heard Donna, and a man?”
“Yeppers! Every Tuesday and Thursday night, just like a clock working. She was always telling him to, ride her rough,” Betty says, “what does that mean, Jerry? Do you think he was hitting her with one of those riding crops, cuz I heard a lot of slapping and spanking going on.”
As I thought of my weekly Tuesday and Thursday night creative writing classes at the local community college, Betty suddenly seemed a lot less challenged.
“How long has this been going on?” I ask Betty.
“Since Cupid’s day, February past.”
I can feel my face tensing in anger, “That nasty slutty whore! I can’t believe it.”
“Now can I see your penis?”
“It’s because I’m slow, right? I wish I was smart like Einstein, then you’d want to sex me for sure.”
“You’re a very nice girl, Betty, but I just got dumped by my girlfriend, and now I find out she was cheating on me! This is not a good time.”
“You wanna see my breast?”
I wave her off, but I’m too late; Betty already has her shirt and bra pulled up to her neck. I feel like a total pervert when I realize I’m fixated on her enormously beautiful tits with perky pink nipples.
“My momma makes me wear a sports bra cuz she says my breast will draw too much of the wrong kind of attention. Can you give me the right kind of attention, Jerry?”
“Pull your shirt down, Betty.”
“Are you sure you’re not homosexual?”
“I like girls.”
“Good, cuz I’m DTF.”
“Down to fuck.”
“Betty! Oh my god, don’t talk like that!”
“Why not? They say it on Jersey Shore.”
“It’s not proper…for royalty such as yourself,” I explain quite logically.
“I want you to pop my cherry, shred my V card, I’m down to get down,” Betty says, shaking her giant boobs like a stripper, “tell me when it’s a good time.”
“Do me a favor; cut back on the MTV, okay? Thanks, bye-bye now.”
I use the door to gently push her into the hallway, but Betty is still talking to me.
“You want another hug?” she says from the other side of the door.
“I’m good, Betty. Thanks.”
I jump back startled when I look down and realize Betty’s gloved fingers are tickling my bare foot from the gap under the door.
“I live across the hall in case you change your mind!” Betty says, with her hand waving good-bye under the door.
I lock the door and pick my iPad off the kitchen table. I open Google in a window and type, is it okay to have sex with a retarded woman?
I quickly discover two things: the word retarded is highly frowned upon when referring to the intellectually disabled; it’s use being highly offensive akin to the word nigger or faggot. Secondly I learned that it’s natural for adults with intellectual disabilities to have the same desires as everyone else. However it didn’t say whether it was lawfully permissible for a non-challenged person to have sexual relations with a challenged individual. Wait a minute; am I seriously considering acting on Betty’s advances?
“That’s seriously fucked-up, man!” Malcolm says, as he adjust the brakes on a kid’s BMX bicycle. “What’s wrong with working at a bike shop?”
“Yeah, and she fed me a crock of shit about needing to be independent and spread her wings, but all she really wanted to do was spread her legs when I wasn’t around.”
Malcolm shakes his head. “I never trusted that scandalous tramp.”
I thought bitching about Donna would distract me from the Betty situation, but I couldn’t seem to get my special neighbor out of my head, no matter how hard I tried. Even the mountain of work that needed to be completed on customer bicycles at the shop was no help.
I dithered back and forth on whether or not to broach the subject with Malcolm. He’s my best friend in the world, but he could be a bit of a jokester. And Malcolm had a bad habit of never letting you live anything down…ever. He still teases me about the time in 2nd grade when I dropped the chalk at the blackboard in Ms. Osborne’s Algebra class and my pants split open leaving my tighty-whities flapping in the breeze.
In the end I decided to risk it, because I was going ape-shit keeping it penned up inside of me.
“Hey Mal, you ever been with a girl who wasn’t that smart?”
Malcolm looks at me funny, “Those are the only girls dumb enough to date me.”
“No, Mal. I’m talking about a girl who was maybe…a little slow.”
Malcolm wipes his hands on a shop rag. “Are you fishing from the short bus?”
“How’s the booty? Is she a phat ass white girl?”
“What’s with you black guys and butts?”
“What’s with you white boys and blondes?”
Malcolm looks serious. “Come on, man; how does she look?”
“She’s not drop dead gorgeous-
“You ain’t Brad Pitt.”
“-but she’s super-cute; she’s got long brown hair down to her belly button, she’s sweet, and she’s got enormous tits; I’m talking double D’s.”
Malcolm throws up his hands. “That’s a wrap right there, son! Check please! Does she have a sister?”
“I’m torn, Mal. She’s got her own place, she works, I don’t think she’s that, you know…challenged, but she’s definitely special.”
“Then what’s the big deal?”
“I kind of like her; does that make me a sexual deviant? Am I gonna have to register myself as some kind of sex offender if we hook-up?”
“You’re stupid. Go ahead player, get your Forrest Gump on. I won’t talk bad about you…at least not to your face!” Malcolm says, laughing loudly.
“I knew I shouldn’t have told you.”
Malcolm slaps me on the back. “I’m just messing with you Jerry. But seriously, are you gonna have a telethon or something?”
“You’re a dick.”
“It was too easy, I couldn’t help myself!”
“Forget about it,” I tell Malcolm, as I march out the back door of the bike shop for some fresh summer air.
Malcolm follows me outside like a lost puppy.
“I’m sorry, Jerry. We still good?” he asks, as he gives me a one-armed, ‘man hug’.
Malcolm gives me a knowing look. “You’re worried about what people are going to think, aren’t you?”
“Can you love someone who’s not as smart as you?”
Malcolm shrugs. “I love my dog, and he’s no rocket scientist. That mangy mutt licks his wiener all day long and uses his tongue for toilet paper.”
“She’s not a pet.”
“Someone’s always smarter.”
“If this was a game of chess it’d be Harvard vs. the strip-mall beauty school; it’s not even the same league.”
“There’s your answer right there, bro,” Malcolm says.
“All those Ivy leaguers got bomb-ass trophy wives. You think they married them because they’re good at chess? I think not. Men don’t care about brains, we’re looking for eye-candy…and a big booty.”
“She had brains enough to know Donna was fucking around on me, and I was clue-less.”
Malcolm waves a scolding finger at me. “You were the one riding the short bus with that Donna thing; I tried to warn you.”
“Whatever, I’m not going to stress about it. She’ll probably be stalking somebody else next week anyway.”
Malcolm looks at me sideways. “She’s stalking you? Run Forrest!“
I tip-toe up the stairs of my apartment building to the 3rd floor, and sneak down the empty hall to my front door. I quietly slide the key into my lock, hoping to stealthily enter without any need to deal with the Betty situation, but Betty’s door suddenly springs open.
“That’s him!” Betty proclaims loudly, pointing a white gloved finger accusingly in my direction. A scary looking line-backer of a black man comes out of her apartment door, nearly hitting his head on the top of the door frame.
“Go easy on him, Sam,” Betty tells him.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of him,” he tells her ominously, before striding across the hall and towering over me.
Betty giggles and closes her door.
I should have run away from the certain beat-down that was about to take place, I mean god only knows what she told him…probably something about me staring at her tits. However I was frozen solid like a deer in the headlights.
Sam offers a burly hand, so I extend my own. “So, you’re Jerry,” Sam says while shaking my hand a little too firmly, “why don’t we talk inside your place.”
I wondered if Betty would be listening by the heating vent while Sam rearranged the apartment with my face.
“Betty has told me quite a lot about you,” Sam says, with a poker face, as he cracks his thick knuckles loudly.
“Oh, really?” I say clearing the lump in my throat.
In a stern voice, he reveals, “I’m Betty’s case worker. She tells me everything.”
“You look like a bouncer, no offense.”
“I did some of that back in college,” Sam admits with a mischievous and nostalgic grin.
“Am I in trouble?” I ask, as my squeaky voice cracks with anxiety.
“I haven’t done this since junior high school; it’s kind of awkward,” Sam says.
Immediately my mind races, filling-in the blanks:
Sam hasn’t killed a man since junior high…
Sam hasn’t hidden a dead body since junior high…
Sam hasn’t gone to prison since junior high…