by Saskia Vogel
Wet panties. Yes. Wet white cotton panties. All the women. Thick ones with large breasts that jiggle when they laugh. Thin ones who titter. Uninterested blonds who barely crack a smile. And this one, his raven-haired queen laughing at him. Pointing and laughing until he’s nothing. Yes. Nothing. Because he’s not worth her attention. And she won’t let him forget it. She has him, and won’t let him go until she’s good and ready.
‘Oh you like that, do you? You like thinking about all those women. Laughing at your dicklet? You’re a sissy with an itty-bitty clitty.’
Yes.
‘Think of all the women who’d be let down by that itty-bitty clitty. All those women who expected a real man, but instead they got you. A sissy bitch.’
All of them. Every single one.
He sullies the tip of her stiletto. He didn’t mean to but he likes it so much he’s leaking.
‘Pathetic. You should be holding that in until I tell you to come. Clean it up…’
‘No, with your tongue.’
‘Good. No one wants to see that from you…Or that.’
She points at his erection, straining for her. And all her friends. Yes. The size queens hungry for more. No less than nine inches will do. Disappointed by his dicklet. His itty-bitty clitty. The look on their faces, the blonds. The thin ones. The thick ones. The first and only other one who’d seen his cock straining. Her face.
Hers.
The chills.
Her.
Lizzie, disappointed. Again and again. The man he couldn’t be. The tears come. They don’t stop.
‘There, there.’
And then she waits.
Impatiently.
Waiting.
‘You’ve been adequately entertaining, but if you keep on like this – ’
Wet eyes, tears on the carpet. He senses her disgust.
They’re done.
She’s not the one. She’s a woman, and he’s a problem. A naked stranger curled up on the carpet. Deaf to her demands. The party guest overstaying his welcome. Immovable and aware. Aware of each hair on his skin. His sex dangling. His saggy tits. A little sissy bitch. Not enough hands to cover up.
Stop thinking about your nipples. Breathe. This is your body. This is where you are right now. Be grateful you have your body to carry you out of here.
Underwear first, then shirt. Pants socks shoes.
Step by step. In silence. Past the man in the kitchen who watches him walk out and locks the door behind him.
And there he is: in the hallway of an apartment complex all alone. Where to go? Where to take these feelings? He’s been punished enough. He thought she was going to care. He pounds her door, a single solid thud. Bam, he doesn’t want to be left out. Bam, he checks his watch, yes this is still his hour. And he has needs that she has not met. Bam. This wasn’t what he was paying for. But no one answers. He presses his ear to the door; nothing. There will be no refund. No customer service complaint. No police report. No business here. He’s trespassing.
Alone in someone else’s hallway.
Surrounded by locked doors.
Inside him, the thing is pounding.
Be still, he wishes.
Be still.
ANOTHER ROUND.
‘On me.’
The voice pulled him out of darkness, just enough so he could see.
‘You don’t have to do that.’
‘I take care of the good ones,’ Makena said. She poured herself one, too, and they drank. The whiskey and the kindness stilled the quaking inside, but it moved to his eyes again. He was tired and sore from crying.
‘I’m one of the good ones, huh?’
‘You always have cash. You never ask the girls if they like to floss when they suck. And you never wear shorts.’
‘Hah,’ he said. It was as close to laughing as he could get.
Makena took out a fresh bowl of nuts just for him, ones that hadn’t been sitting out on the bar for god knows how long. She stood there, looking at him looking at his glass, and when he didn’t look up she went back to reading her newspaper. He couldn’t bear a woman’s kindness right now, their sweet attention was not enough. This kind of attention he had no shortage of. Women liked him. He liked that they liked being friends, even though he could tell when knowing about his kink meant they stopped thinking of him as sexual. He knew well enough by now that there was no point pursuing something where it wasn’t wanted. But today, he wanted something to go his way, one smooth transaction. That’s it. And it was going to be easy, dammit. All he had to do was ask.
Late afternoon. The place was dead. The girls were keeping themselves occupied. He had enough cash. An advance on next month’s fun money; he’d just about be able to make rent if he stuck to oatmeal and noodles. He had a good shot. And maybe an hour tops to make it happen, about an hour before the after-work crowd rolled in. Men who blew off steam. Men who had no qualms about commanding erotic attention, who felt entitled to it. Men who weren’t given to worship, men who didn’t need to knock to be let in.
He took his drink to the front row by the stage in the corner. Cool air streamed from the ceiling vents. He had to switch seats a few times before he found the right spot. Not too hot, not too cold. At just the right angle so he didn’t have to see his own reflection in the mirrored wall or the man slumping against the stage and who seemed to be sleeping. No competition.
Roxie was running her routine like a rehearsal. Slow and acrobatic. She was rusty. Not quite as strong. Rumour had it a regular bought her those breasts, and she’d holed up in his place on Stone Canyon while recovering. Another girl said she’d seen Roxie in the parking lot of a strip mall in the Valley loaded up with bags, accompanied by someone who was definitely not Mr. Stone Canyon. It didn’t matter, everyone said she liked playing wifey for men who had enough cash to hold her attention, and the girls liked to talk. He couldn’t afford to be one of those guys. She cottoned on to that real quick. By ignoring him, she had grown inside his mind into something extraordinary. He ascribed intent to each time she failed to meet his eye. Each time she brushed past him. Her sugary perfume. It was all a tease. A tease. And on a dead day like this, at a time like this, maybe she could be the one. He was ready for it.
He settled in and followed the flick of her wrist, the curve of her spine. The shapes she made, the music flowing up through her high heels, twining itself around her thighs. Thrust and pulse, all woman. She did not need his eyes, but she invited them to rest on her. Some days this was enough. Being allowed to look, to partake in her beauty. Some days this was all it took for him to feel human, worthy of attention and love.
Roxie swung her feet up and wrapped her ankles around the pole. Her top hand had a twisted grip. Slowly, she piked her legs and steady steady steady stretched out into an X, but after the sha-boogie-bop she began to shake. Veins rippling. Hips and legs twisting to the ground, she landed with control. He whooped.
She flipped her hair and looked over her shoulder, holding his gaze as she walked away from him. As if she knew he had been waiting, as if she had been waiting for this, too. A different yearning began to rise. To see her smile. To be the cause of her smile.
He looked at the money in his wallet. Most of the dollar bills had gone fuzzy with age. One still had a newly minted sheen. Perfect.
Roxie walked past him in her clear platforms. He watched those shoes fly into the air as her legs twisted up and around the pole, spreading into something that made him think of Cupid. She grabbed the stiletto heel. He wanted it in his mouth. She slid to the floor and clapped her shoes together. The smack. He wanted her to clap them again and again and again.
His hands worked quickly, folding the crisp dollar bill this way and that, tucking it here, pulling it out there. A few adjustments. Yep, almost. Almost. OK. Fan it out and voila. A butterfly. He was known for his origami. The ladies liked it. They liked being surprised.
He held up his butterfly and Roxie made him wait before she came over. She offered him the elasti
c of her silver booty shorts. He shook his head ‘no.’ She offered him her cleavage. No. The bikini strap lying across her clavicle. No. The nape of her neck where the halter was fastened, lifting up her hair, a glance over the shoulder. Her muscular back. No. She ground down, writhed in front of him, and when her feet were within reach, he sat up in his chair. All he could hear was bass. A clear plastic strap fogged with sweat held her foot in place and made the skin glassy. He slid the abdomen of the butterfly between her first and second toes. It was tight in there.
Those majestic legs, towering, putting him in his place, where things were clear and safe.
This is it. He could feel it. He said the words to himself and said them again. So, the thing had a language, he marvelled as he spoke, each word a bright pearl. The words seemed so simple now. How had it taken him so long to find them? Looking up at her from the foot of the stage, he waited for his yes.
But it didn’t come.
Roxie said: ‘No, sweetie, no. That’s not what I’m here for,’ and laughed as if it were nothing.
He stood up fast. Salt in his eyes. Chest tight. An inner revolt. Everything around him reeling. Bar, woman, lights. The sick-sweet smell of old beer. The chair he’d missed, so he was crouched on the floor. Head to knee. The thing inside him squirming, he knew its language now, and it demanded to be heard. And the pearls, they kept rising. Clustering in place of air. Retch. Clenched teeth. Keep it in. Choke it back down.
Just when he didn’t think he could hold it in anymore, she appeared.
A pair of hands, cupped.
A voice that said:
‘Go ahead. Spill.’
And he did. He let everything rising roll out, each perfect pearl, they poured into her palms. No matter how many there were, Orly could hold them.
T H E L O V E R S
IDROVE AWAY FROM the art centre, as if I could leave it all behind. I drove and drove. So many miles. I drove up the 110. I texted the musician; he told me to come on over. I took the exit for the 405.
The further away from the peninsula I was, the better I felt. Hurtling along the city shallows, night in neon, the twinkling towers, I exited and took the street that led through the gates and wound up the hills, past a pink hotel hidden by palm trees where the musician kept saying he wanted to take me to try the lavender crème brûlée but never did. It was the thought that counted to him; he was thoughtless, but I didn’t mind. Counting the streets past the hotel. I missed the turn almost every time. Counting. I could never remember the street name. Miravista. Loma Linda. Altamira. But I found it. A narrow street with smaller houses, modest family homes, wood siding and shingles, houses left over from a time when wealth meant something else, but my lover was further on. You’d miss it if you didn’t know it was there. Mistake it for a fire road. The long driveway unfurled, a cat’s tongue along a wall holding the land in place. Freshly waxed cars, curves and chrome in the moonlight. Los Angeles cascaded from the edge, a pitch-black shore, a sea of lights, the entire city, stretching out and out, bright, bright and far. Where I was from was only a shadow interrupting the horizon line. He had left the door open for me. I took off my shoes in the entryway and sank into the thick white carpet.
The air in his room was stale. He never opened the window, and every surface was heavy with items displaced from a house he no longer had in the ‘arty’ part of town he still called home – vintage vases, velvet paintings, piles of beads and fabric swatches. Since we’d left the basement bar where we first met last spring, he’d been saying that he was only staying at his parents’ house for a little while. We’d danced until they turned on the lights, and as we walked through the alley to his four-wheel drive, he made it clear he wasn’t looking for anything serious. Perfect, I said. Neither am I.
He didn’t look up when I walked in. He lay on the bed, concentrating on the glow of his laptop. Something, maybe a bat, tripped the security light outside his window and he winced.
He stopped typing and took off his headphones. ‘I’ve been working with a new drummer. He toured with Iggy Pop. Listen.’
I was happy to be here with him, where I knew how to be and no one else knew where I was. Where men like Moradi would never find me.
I put on his headphones.
‘The hook. It’s like…’ I pumped my fists, arms close to my chest, the music reminded me of that new song on the radio. The one everyone knew the moves to. I found the footwork, the swish of my hips. I curled my hands into claws. ‘…this song, you know? But with piano instead of a synth,’ I said, swinging my claw-hands to the left and right.
He glared at me and turned off the music.
‘What?’
‘She stole my hook.’
I didn’t know who he was talking about.
‘Yeah. We used to play together. On that piano.’ He pointed toward his parents’ living room, which seemed to be forever expecting company. ‘And this.’ With a sweeping gesture that took in his entire body. ‘Latex outfits. The “Sirocco Rococo” look. That’s me. Those are my words.’ He turned his hands into claws and shook his head. I hadn’t ever bothered googling him, so I only knew what he told me and that no one I knew had heard of him or his band.
He shut his laptop and rubbed his slim face. He groaned into his hands and jumped to his feet. ‘But fuck it.’ He paced around the room, managing not to trip on the clothing and trinkets scattered on the mauve carpet.
I leaned against a sliver of bare wall and listened.
‘My attorney says I have a case, but this isn’t about winning the battle. She may have – ’ He did the claws again. ‘But she doesn’t have this.’ He pointed to his head. ‘I’ve got a new drummer. I’m talking with an investor about my clothing line. I’m gonna blow up.’
He grabbed me by the waist. ‘You see my world, Echo.’ He pressed his palms together, still, finally. ‘I’m going bring beauty to the people. I’m going to show them what the internet is for.’ He stared into my eyes. His vision of the future was all that ever really got him hard. It was baroque. He needed to picture it, and then he needed a witness. He smiled, baring his goofy teeth. They never failed to charm me.
‘I want you,’ he said.
He fell to his knees and pushed up my T-shirt dress. His tongue, his fingers slipped in. He threw me on the bed. ‘I’ve been taking these steroids for my allergies,’ he said. ‘I did weights last week and boom.’
We looked at his arms. They did look bigger. How hard he fought to be fey, his body conspiring against him, building muscle and bulk as soon he was anything but idle, pronouncing itself a man, masculine, male, in spite of his objections. He put my hand on his biceps.
‘You feel that? I gotta watch what I eat or I won’t fit into my vortex suit.’
He lubed me up in silence. He took his time, as one should. Relaxing the muscle, as one should. I focused on the sweet stretch and ache and let go, emptied my head, and he fucked me with devotion, stroking my hair and mumbling. I kept my body angled so he wouldn’t put his weight on my tender side, the reminder of that pain. I think I was still in shock, carrying on as though everything were normal. When we found our rhythm, I reached between my legs. He finished too quickly for me to come, and I wasn’t prepared for the disappointment, but it didn’t last long because he didn’t stop. He made a show of flipping me over with his big new muscles, which we both found funny. I remembered why I kept coming back. His touch was curious and sincere, intuitive in ways his narrative self was not.
He started to work his fingers inside me. One, two, three. The sensation was not of hand and cunt, but of diving in the dark. Unbearable, wonderful tension. Four, five. Until he could make a fist. Large and slippery inside. I ached, and he put his mouth to me and rested one hand on my chest. Tender. The waves of pleasure were warm swells at first. My mind let go and, through my half-shut eyes, his hand became Orly’s. It was a different kind of ache, and I didn’t fight it. I wanted to know where it would go, and there was no safer place to dream than here. As my he
art sped up, racing, racing like when it had last raced, racing against Dr. Moradi’s forearm, it whipped up a storm.
The musician read this as pleasure. In a way it was. I was also remembering her. He ground into me, moved his tongue faster. My heart, my breath, took me back to the panic, the mouth and the fist. Alongside my orgasm, sorrow and fear coursed through me. Slammed me against a car. Left. Everyone always leaving. Leaving me alone. I nudged him away from me, like I did when even the softest touch was too much.
He pulled his hand slowly out from me and flexed his arm. He grinned at his biceps, his hair in ropes, and he stretched out his hand for me to see and said, ‘Everyone needs to be fucked like a lesbian once in a while.’ Only then did he notice I was crying.
‘Are you OK? Was it OK to do that?’ He wiped the tears from my face with his dry hand and cradled my head. ‘Babe, it’s OK.’
I nodded and I let him pull me into his arms and told him that there was something with my heart. Its beating had felt more like danger than desire…it wanted out. I sobbed into his chest, comforted by his green scent, the way his hair tangled in my hands when I grabbed at his back. ‘I just want you to hold me,’ I said, thinking of how rested I felt waking up on Orly’s sofa. Falling asleep without waves crashing inside my skull. I breathed him in until my breath was even again.
‘You can always turn to me. I got you,’ he said, wrapping his arms around me.
I didn’t want to talk, so I kept quiet.
‘You can’t do this for as long as we have…as intensely as we have…’ He was squeezing me too tight. ‘…And not start feeling things.’
I wrung myself out of his grip. ‘That’s not what we agreed,’ I said.
He shook his head at me, like I was a child mispronouncing ‘spaghetti.’
‘You don’t want to be tied down right now. I get it. I can be patient for you. You’ve been AWOL for weeks, and I didn’t even text you. That has to count for something. And, I mean, I wasn’t reading you my lyrics for nothing, right? I don’t just tell people my plans.’
