 Cooper Austin makes his home in Florida, where he sometimes tends bar and sometimes works as a social worker. He writes because he believes we are stories ourselves, and writing allows him to live many lives, other than his own. "When it's going well, writing is the best medicine in the world, when it is going very bad, it is the worst sort of addiction you can think of. It is work nonetheless." Email Cooper Austin.
A Purchase and a Sale Knocks on my door and through the peephole I can see that she's a very cute girl who is going to try and sell me something that I neither want or need, but I open the door anyway and she starts in on her pitch telling me what organization is sponsoring her and how many points she needs to win some trip to whoknowswhere and I'm not really listening because I'm just thinking about getting her into bed, if only in my imagination. Young impish looking girl, bellbottom jeans and paisley shirt, Birkenstocks. Recycled hippie. Patchouli. A bit chunky in an I don't care how society views me sort of way. I smile. She asks if she can come in because it is a bit nippy out and perhaps it is also because this is part of the technique to sell. Come on, I say, make yourself comfortable, something to drink, a cup of tea perhaps. Says she's fine, sees my Pink Floyd poster and my Matisse, says that I've got a pretty cool place and I say thank you very much and she leans forward and smiles and I see she has this gap between her two front teeth and this reminds me of a girl I once had a crush on who had this same dental flaw and though she had a boyfriend I talked to her every chance I had, yet nothing happened and now she is only this memory that has now been imagined in this girl who sits before me who is afraid to make eye contact with me for one reason or another. She tells me again that if I buy a few magazines from her she will be that much closer to winning that trip, to Cancun she now tells me. I tell her to hold on for one second and I press play on the system and I ask her if she likes Radiohead and she says she loves Radiohead and then song one begins and she says, You're pretty cool, how old are you? And I tell her I'm thirty and that seems to surprise her since I look much younger and she adds that I look more like twenty five if anything, so of course I thank her for that. Which leads me to ask her age, nineteen she says, which leads into her telling me she's a college student studying, what else, political science, and I say I remember nineteen. She smiles, says it wasn't that long ago, and I say, it feels like it, enjoy your youth, do things you would never think you would do and live for the experience and then you will only have tiny regrets. She then hands me a list of the magazines that I can subscribe to if I wish and I've seen these lists before and the choices are very limited and inflated and I don't really want to buy what she is selling but I do very much enjoy her company. And I don't know what gets into me except to say that when you are thirty and you have regrets that make you wish things were very different and you get a girl like this sitting in your living room it is only going to make your imagination think the sort of things that could get you into trouble, but I cannot tell you the last time I was with a woman and so I ask her how bad she wants to sell me some magazines and I can tell she's heard this before from some other guy, just by the way she smiles without looking at me. And she then looks me in the face and this is the first time we have had solid eye contact and she asks me how bad I want her to take her shirt off. Bingo, I smile and she smiles and this can go in any number of directions but I say to her, at least we are on the same page. Perhaps, she says, running a few strands of hair behind her ears. How many magazines would you like? she asks. Why don't you come over here and sit next to me? She comes over and sits down and we start making out and she tastes like peppermint and her hair smells like green apples and she smells wildly of patchouli and she is kissing my neck and my ears and I certainly cannot believe this is happening to me and then she pulls away. How would you like to pay? she asks, cash or check? Check, I say. Which ones? This is the game we must play I think, so I go through the list, pick three magazines and spend eighty five dollars, for which she now pulls her shirt off revealing a black tattoo of a flaming sun and I start sucking on her tits and she pulls my shirt off and then stands up and pulls down her jeans and she is not wearing anything underneath and I slide my finger inside her and she lets out a small sigh of pleasure but tells me to hold on a sec. She goes to her purse and pulls out a strip of condoms, tears one off, tears the packet open and slides one on me and kisses me and adjust herself and we start fucking and I want to hold her tighter and kiss her longer and touch her and feel her and stay inside of her for as long as I can, but I come quickly. I try to stay inside of her longer but she says she has to go and pulls the condom off me and asks where the bathroom is. I point, and get mad at myself for not being able to hold out longer and for spending eighty five dollars for magazines. Before I know it she says goodbye and I say thank you in some pitiful way and I feel relieved and guilty and low, but I got what I wanted, unexpected, and she got what she wanted and I guess the price doesn't really matter after all. Copyright © 2000 Cooper Austin. All rights reserved. Do not copy or post. 
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