by Amy Yamada
I turned the radio on and lit a cigarette, screwing up the empty red |
packet and throwing it on the floor. I knew that D.C. would pick it up I and put it in the wastebasket later.
I looked down from the window and could see azaleas blooming in the flowerbed below. They were so crowded together down there that they looked like they were growing on top of one another. Both the air and the flowers were perfectly still. But then, as I watched, the warm sun on the bushes seemed to make the flowers sway a little from side to side.
Strange. I stared a little harder and saw that it wasn't the sun after all.
A man was in the bushes. He was gently pulling the bright pink flowers from their stems. He deftly removed the blossoms one by one with his large fingers and then sucked the nectar from the narrow end of the trumpet-shaped petals. The way he placed each flower to his big, thick lips made him look like some kind of carnivorous plant drinking cherry brandy. He raised his eyebrows and gazed skyward. He still had one of the flowers in his mouth. Suddenly, I realized that the flower was exactly the same color my toenails had been two years earlier.
That was the time he had knelt down in front of me and clumsily tried to paint my toenails with that vivid, shocking-pink nail polish. He had gazed at the nails so lovingly, but he just couldn't wait for them to t h e p i a n o p l a y e r ' s f i n g e r s j i dry before putting them in his mouth, and it had all stuck to his lips like sticky slime. I just couldn't stop laughing—he had looked like a little boy who had eaten too many grapes. He stared down at my feet, almost in tears. He could see the imprint that his lips had left in the nail polish, and he obviously realized that he would have to start all over again from the beginning, first taking off the old nail polish, and then repainting my nails.
I looked outside again to see if the guy sucking nectar from the flowers had any traces of nail polish on his lips.
But he had gone. The flowers were once again motionless. I wondered if it had been a dream, but I knew it wasn't. I knew that the still-sweet-smelling blossoms were there, strewn naked and dying on the ground under the azaleas.
"What are you looking at?"
D.C. was standing behind me. He was big, like a bear, but he always looked so awkward, like he was embarrassed or ashamed of his size. I really felt sorry for him when he had that vulnerable look on his face, felt kind of motherly, I guess, but at the same time like I wanted to hurt him, too, so that later I could console him. You see, I liked to keep him guessing, to keep him on his toes. Sometimes I would show him all the love in the world, and then other times I would punish him, really hurt him. He was always so desperate to make me happy, but I took a lot of pleasure in destroying all his efforts, like trampling him in high heels.
It had been the same with my last boyfriend, too.
I was going over it again in my mind, dredging up old memories from the past, and the guy sucking nectar down in the azalea bushes seemed to be a part of it all. Those memories from two years earlier were much stronger than I had realized.
I always went for the same kind of guy. I liked my men big and pathetic—the kind of men I could control, the kind of men I could 10 4 AMY YAMADA
make deliriously happy or desperately miserable with a single glance They were difficult to find, but once our eyes had met there was no need for conversation—they would just come running to me, sniffing around me like dogs, and they'd be only too willing to fall at my feet and place me high on a pedestal. They were the kind of men who knew that I was the only one who could make them happy.
It was two years ago that I first discovered the pleasure of owning them.
D.C. interrupted my thoughts. "Hey, Ruiko. Why don't we go to Great Fats for dinner tonight?"
"Huh? I don't want to go there The meat is always so tough. And anyway, there's a new restaurant just a little further down from Fats, isn't there?"
"There is?"
"You don't know anything, do you? I want to go to the new place, okay? They have seafood."
I could tell D.C. was already trying to figure out what to wear to the new restaurant that would please me, and I went back to daydreaming about my affair two years before. He'd been crazy about me, too; he let me treat him like a slave.
Just then, the telephone rang, and I answered in a cheerful voice.
"Hey, Ruiko, have you heard?" It was a friend of mine.
"Heard what?"
"Leroy's back!"
"Oh yeah?"
I was surprised, but I tried not to give that away in my voice.
"I wonder if he came back to see you?"
"No way," I said offhandedly.
But as we chatted, I began to consider the potential in the situation—sure, there were plenty of things I would find annoying about him being around again. At the same time there was also plenty to look forward to—and when I put down the phone I could almost taste the excitement.
The needle jumped on the Billie Holiday record I was listening to, but I didn't even feel like shouting at D . C I just repeated to myself what my girlfriend had told me.
Leroy Jones is back.
The first time I met Leroy was two years ago at a party. He was sitting behind some of my friends. They were all dressed up, but he blended into the background like part of the furniture.
Compared with everyone else there—the women, who had obviously spent most of the day deciding what outfit to wear, and the gay men, determined to look their best in their sharp, well-made suits, Leroy was camouflaged—he stood out no more than the table napkins or someone's jacket casually draped over a chair.
Every now and then I stole a glance in his direction. He was sitting behind a really talkative guy I knew called T-Baby, smoking cigarettes and listening to the music with his eyes closed. Everyone at the party knew one another, but no one seemed to know where anyone else worked or what he did. The fact was, we weren't connected by our daily lives at all, only through parties—and we lived for them.
I was interested in Leroy because I couldn't understand how he came to be a part of our scene—he didn't seem to fit in with us party animals.
It wasn't so much his dark skin or his extraordinarily thick lips that set him apart from the rest of us, but the hideous clothes he was wearing—
his suit was a serious "World's Worst" contender. But even more striking AMY Y A M A D A
than that, he was unshaven and kept looking around nervously. Every thing about him said hick. And we hated people like that- he just wasn't sophisticated enough to be one or us.
When Leroy got up from his seat, I struck up a conversation with T-Baby.
"Why's he so quiet?" I asked.
"Who, Leroy? He talks with a long, Southern drawl, that's why."
So that was it. Listening to the sharp, snappy conversations everyone else was having, their fast-paced city talk laced with one-liners, it must have seemed like a foreign language to him.
Personally I kind of liked the way Southerners talked, although sometimes I couldn't understand a word of what they said because of the slow drawl of the accent. But I found it strangely erotic, as if those long, lazy words were long, lazy fingers, softly stroking my skin, gently caressing me.
"Hey, everybody, Ruiko likes Leroy!"
1 squirmed with embarrassment, blushing as I tried to deny the accusation, but my protests were drowned in a frenzied sea of cheers and whistles.
Suddenly all the noise and excitement died—Leroy was back in the room. Despite the excited chatter about us—someone had even suggested cracking open a bottle of champagne to celebrate—no one seriously imagined we would get together.
After that, people kept winking at me and smiling knowingly, making sure that Leroy was looking the other way first so he wouldn't notice. Despite the sudden interest, however, no one paid any attention to him directly. Just because of the way he was dressed, no one wanted to allow him to become part of our group.
I felt a little ashamed to be part of such a stuck-up crowd, and I moved my c
hair over to where he was sitting. And as I did so, the topic of conversation changed to music and clothes; they soon forgot Leroy and me.
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Leroy just sat there, his socks drooping down around his ankles. I was in quite a mischievous mood anyway, so, instead of starting up a conversation, I reached out with one of my red stilettos and hooked a long, sharp heel into the top of one of his socks, and gendy pushed it down as far as it would go—till I could see his ankle. He looked taken aback for a few moments. Then he seemed to come to his senses and reached down quickly to pull his sock up.
I pulled it down again, the same way. After I'd done it to him four or five times, Leroy finally turned to face me squarely.
I thought that his eyes would be angry, but they were clear and un-troubled.
"Why don't we go out and grab some breakfast together?" he asked calmly.
His question took me by surprise and I looked around to see if anyone else had heard him.
Or would you say it's too early?" He paused and looked down, then looked up at me again and said, "Why don't you come over here and sit down next to me?"
So I did.
He didn't talk much, but when he tried to say something and couldn't find the right words, he'd just stop and gaze at me with those gentle eyes again. I was somehow more touched by what I saw in them—straightforward admiration—than I ever was by the flirty games of hard-to-get that our crowd loved to play.
My hair was touching his shoulder the whole time we sat together, and I felt as if each strand were alive and sucking up the sweat from his body. Leroy was smoking Marlboros and that was just something else to add to the list of things which made him look out of place: all the other black guys at the party were smoking menthols.
Leroy was terrible at making conversation, and the look on his face betrayed worry that I might be bored. But I wasn't bored at all—far I
j 8 a m y Y A M A D A
from it. For one thing, I could just see the neckline of his undershirt and I was fascinated by how white it was. He noticed that I was staring at it and in a flush of embarrassment, he pushed it back down under his shir collar to hide it. But I didn't like that—he hadn't asked for my permission first—so I leaned forward and pulled it back out again. As I did so I caught his scent. It was the first time I had been so aware of how a man smelled, and I christened it Southern Black Gospel Singer. I told him, and he replied shyly, "You know, I used to be a gospel singer."
His Southern accent suddenly got the better of me—I just couldn't hold back any longer—so I leaned forward again, put both my arms around his neck, and pulled him toward me, kissing him hard on the lips.
Near dawn, I began turning over in bed, intentionally brushing against him and tempting him while I pretended to be asleep.
In the end we hadn't bothered with breakfast. We left the club and my noisy friends behind and walked through the grassy park. I was in the mood for love. Leroy was about to light another cigarette, but I pursed my lips and blew the match out before he had the chance. Then I half lay down on the ground, and as I did so, the heavy dew on the grass soaked through my silk stockings. I started to take them off but they stuck to my skin, and as I tore at them it felt as though I were peeling freshly burned skin off my legs. Finally, I pulled my skirt right up above my waist.
"Put your matches away and come over here and light my fire."
He spread his wrinkled jacket on the grass for us to lie on. As he made love to me, my eyes never once left his face—I wanted to see his expression change as he reached the heights of passion. From time to time he opened his eyes and saw me staring at him, but that just made him hold me tighter. I remember how he seemed excited by my body, and that just made me want him more.
t h e p i a n o p l a y e r ' s f i n g e r s i i j I didn't reach orgasm on that first occasion, but I writhed around passionately on the grass to make him come hard, though it didn't seem necessary to make the usual faces of agonized ecstasy that I did with other men. My skin was drenched with the sweet scent of wet grass, the slippery wetness adding to our pleasure as he sucked and sipped his way over my body. Each time he let out a moan of pleasure, a wave of satisfaction came over me. I knew I held him right in the palm of my hand, and it felt good.
There was no heavy sigh of relief when he finished. I lay in silence beneath him, the only sound the distant, somehow comforting noise of the party. His body, almost darker than the night itself, seemed to blend into the midnight air, and I felt sure that if anyone had noticed us, it would be because he'd caught the moving whites of Leroy's eyes.
When Leroy finally loosened his grip on me, I reached out my finger and touched it to his sweat-soaked body, then drew it back to my lips and licked my tongue along its length, long and slow. He shook his head in surprise, almost moved to tears. Then I wrapped my arms around the thick trunk of his neck, and pulling him close, I ran the tip of my tongue slowly around the edges of his nostrils.
"Help me up," I whispered.
My hot breath caressed his nose, and Leroy screwed up his face like a small animal just before it sneezes. He looked so funny I burst out laughing.
We hurriedly dressed each other, and headed straight for his apartment, leaving my silk stockings and Leroy s book of matches behind in the grass. The stockings were covered with sperm stains and the matches had both our fingerprints on them, so it was only a matter of time before everyone would know about us.
After we got back to his place, we made love over and over, and each time after I came, I fell into a light sleep. But as I dozed, I pulled on his chest hair so Leroy really had no chance to sleep himself. Then sud-
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denly my eyes would open and I would see him quietly watching over me, protecting me. And I felt so happy to know he was there, guarding me—so happy that I wanted him to make love to me all over again.
It was easy to get used to. All the pleasure and all the protection, for me alone.
he next day everyone knew about us, thanks to my friends at the party we'd run out on the night before. And everyone referred to Leroy as "poor Leroy, Ruiko's new toy." I had never really used anyone before, but they seemed to have seen through my fa-cade and caught sight of the real me underneath.
But to be honest, I didn't care what they said. I just loved being with Leroy.
We stayed at his place the whole next day.
I didn't like going out with him much because we looked like such an odd couple. First, people would look at me admiringly, and then they'd look over at Leroy and their expression would change to one ot surprise, and it made me feel impatient with him. The problem was that he just didn't look sophisticated enough to be with me. I had always been able to turn heads, but not like this, so whenever we went out together I felt so uncomfortable, I'd break out in a cold sweat. Fortunately, he usually seemed to notice and took me home so that we could be alone together.
After we'd been out, 1 was always in a bad mood, so I'd kick my 1 0 4 A M Y Y A M A D A
shoes down the length of the hallway to his apartment, then order him to go and pick them up. I would wait for him to go and get them, lean ing my head back against the wall with my chin stuck out, and like a loyal hound, Leroy would fetch them. Then, stretching out my legs one at a time, I would imperiously wait for him to put them back on.
After that I would usually feel a little better, and we'd start looking for the key to the door, and as soon as we were inside and alone together, Leroy could relax again. And because we were alone I was able to love him again.
That sort of thing happened a lot, so after a while we came to the conclusion that we preferred to stay in the apartment.
One day we were drinking pina coladas and watching soap operas on TV. Leroy was sitting cross-legged on the floor and I sat leaning against him, using him as a couch, but each time I moved, my elbows dug into him and he jumped—sometimes when we were
together he behaved just like a little kid. He seemed to have no experience with women at all.
One thing was for sure, he had certainly never come across a woman like me before.
I knew he wanted me—Leroy always wanted me—but I just ignored him and kept watching the TV. Then I sensed something strange and suddenly I turned around to see what he was doing—he had some of my hair in his hand and he was kissing it. He saw me staring at him and looked down, embarrassed. And I knew how much he truly loved me.
I loved certain parts of Leroy. Like the Leroy I knew in bed. I loved the thought of his tough, shiny black body drowning in my pussy. And I loved the miserable expression on his face when he was jealous. Of course, his eyes and his mouth were the same eyes and mouth in the photograph on his driver's license, but when Leroy was unhappy, a mask of sadness dropped down over his face, and his bright eyes became dull and his breathing got shallow and jerky. After a while I learned THE PIANO PLAYER'S FINGERS 8
how to recognize how he was feeling from even the tiniest changes in his expression.
Leroy treated me like a princess, and I loved feeling like that. To him I was fragile and precious, something to be treasured, and more than anything, that was what I wanted.
He was always so gentle with me, and when we made love he was careful to lean his weight on his elbows so as not to crush me—there was always a gap between my body and his. The gap was a very warm, comfortable space that enveloped my body. It was a quiet, relaxed place where I could rest, and I felt safe there, perfectly protected from the world outside by Leroy's body.
He worshiped me. It was so easy to control him. Somehow he managed to get some rest while I was sleeping, but I'm sure that if I had stuck false eyes on my pussy and laid there with my legs apart, he would never have been able to get any sleep.
I really used Leroy. I suppose he might have mistaken that for love, but the truth was that whenever I saw him I was consumed with a passionate rage, the same sort of feeling I had when I came across something beautiful that I could make my own: my first reaction was to destroy it. I used to smash my beautiful crystal perfume bottles on the floor. And one day I threw my rabbit-fur muffler in the bath. But when it came to my beautiful, black cat, I could never really have hurt him—I was afraid of what he might do to me in return. Maybe he would wreak some horrible revenge on me like the cat in the Edgar Allen Poe story.
