Ma's right, Celandine. I always loved men. Men and freedom, nobody telling me what to do. Why, I'd run away every night if I could. I love that moment when you take off, just getting out of here. You've got no idea where you're going, or how, or if you've got enough money. You never take a suitcase to slow you down, just a big purse with lipstick, comb, underpants, Tampax and condoms, because probably you'll end up in some guy's bed.
You'll meet him in a 7-11 over by the Doritos. He'll be big and shaggy and kinda nasty-looking, with a cigarette or a toothpick hanging out of the side of his mouth. He'll look you over and just say, "C'mon, Babe," and you'll think he could of murdered his mother an hour ago and I should stay right here. But even thinking that gets you so excited, you follow him like a magnet out to his Harley, and the two of you go screeching down the Arizona highway to his shack in the mountains. He hands you a beer, but before you can drink it, he's got you up against the wall and you fuck like crazy animals. After you've done it everywhere in his tiny shack and you're oily wet and wiped out, you get the giggles because you feel so free. And he says, "Wanna stay?" but you say no.
So you finish your beers, and he drives you all the way home just so you can run away the next night and meet a married schoolteacher in the supermarket. You do it with him in the back seat of his Saab in the parking lot while all the people are walking by and he's whispering Shakespeare in your ear that makes you come about fifty times.
Next night you run away you meet a lawyer in a bar, and he takes you to the bridal suite in Howard Johnson's. He orders room service--champagne, caviar and snails. Which makes you feel nauseated but fancy. He wants you to dance for him, naked, in your sparkling heels. You do, and suddenly he's all over you and showing you stuff you only heard about. When he takes you home, your whole idea about fucking is rearranged and you can hardly wait to run away again.