And Carl was SO right about makeup sex - especially if you try it on the bed, in the shower, on the kitchen table, and every surface you can find.
August 1995
Cleveland, Ohio
The Diary of the Chaplain at MetroGen to be
Igotthejob.I’m moving home to Cleveland! I’ve got so much to do. I’m gonna buy bear repellent and so many Browns clothes. 1995 is our year!
Chapter 9
LeslieMcClunisdidthreemore pull-ups on the bar hanging from the ceiling in her studio apartment. How dare Captain Cordova tell her she wasn’t fitting in because she didn’t exhibit feminine culture? As if he’d even know feminine if it bit him.
God, she missed her old station with her friend Jennifer. Captain Mondragon had never suggested the two of them were lesbians or needed to be more feminine.
Her arms were screaming from the pullups, but she dropped to the ground and kicked up into a handstand. Years of discipline automatically made her tighten her core and hold it. Then she did a slow pirouette on her hands. She rolled down to the floor and came up, striking a pose.
Bet none of the jerks at her firehouse could do that.
From her handstand, she’d noticed an abandoned men’s sock on the floor. She was fairly certain it was from her hook-up a few weeks ago with police officer guy. It had almost been a relief to go to the hospital rather than see him again on the scene of the bear attack.
Definitely the last time she picked up a guy at Throckmorton’s whom she might have to see again. Those two weeks it took him to figure out she didn’t want to see him again had been annoying.
News Flash—if a woman picks you up in a bar and doesn’t ask you for your last name, it is a sign she doesn’t want to know who you are either.
Tossing the sock in the trash, she gauged her elevated level of bitchiness. Yep, higher than usual, which meant it was time for a new guy.
And not one who worked for MetroGen, Cleveland Police, or Cleveland Fire.
Fortunately, there were other options close at hand. The neighborhood was under construction for new hospital housing, but as she walked the ten blocks toward MetroGen, more businesses popped up. Leslie’s personal favorite was the dive bar near the art studio with its supply of easy men. Plenty of construction workers needed companionship after a hard day laying bricks or whatever they did.
Come to think of it, the art studio had advertisements for classes. Art might be acceptable as ‘feminine.’
Cooking was not her strong suit, and it would be a cold day in hell before she discussed any type of dancing with her new teammates.
She leafed through thePlain Dealerfor local events. For kicks, she crumpled up the sports section. Fuck the firefighters who only cared about the Cleveland Browns. She couldn’t even name a single player. There might have been a Kozar… Kosar… Corsiar or something on the team at some point.
She’d been in New York for almost a decade and still didn’t care about football. Even in NYC they had the Jets… or was it the Giants? Or both? The Mets might have played something—basketball? The only Met she’d cared about was the Metropolitan Museum of Art back when she’d had to circulate there, and even that was fading since she’d moved back to Cleveland.
Skimming the Arts and Life section, she found what she was looking for. The art studio was having a Bob Ross art class tonight.
She could do this. She could take a stupid art class and talk about it like she was a real lady. It would also be a source for new blood to tie to her bed and have a good time.
Okay, she didn’t tie them to her bed, but the type of guys she liked probably would have enjoyed it.
Leslie had a type for sure. Big, tall, and ready to ride. She rarely invited anybody who clocked in less than six feet tall.
As a grown woman, she could have a short girl complex, because it was no one else’s business. It was her life to do with what she wanted and no man, woman, or escaped bear could tell her differently.
***
Mr. McRib himself, Browns defensive end Trevor Hampton checked the address on the paper. This appeared to be the place—a Bob Ross art class.
He adjusted his vest and sighed. Life would be easier if he could be like the other guys on the team, who spent their preseason neck deep in wine and women.
Not Trevor. He hadn’t become the highest paid defensive end in the NFL by shooting his load prematurely.
After he paid his entrance fee and entered the room of many easels, he waited for the normal reaction.
