by Oblimo
Dee slammed the front door behind him, cracking the frame and ruining the lock.
"You're just becoming more you," Galatea whispered.
It's been one week since you looked at me,
Dropped your arms to your sides and said, "I'm sorry."
Five days since I laughed at you
And said, "You just did just
What I thought you were gonna do."
Three days since the living room.
We realized we're both to blame,
But what could we do?
Yesterday, you just smiled at me,
'Cause it'll still be two days till we say we're sorry.
—Bare Naked Ladies, One Week
Interlude: She'll Sho'Nuff Show You
The bulky, express mail package waited outside Bee's front door. "Always thinking ahead," Bee muttered, fumbling his keys into the lock. Plastic grocery bags bulging with boxes of gelatin dangled from his left thumb. He pitched the bags through the door and made a grab for the package, but a sharp spark of pain from his wrist floored him. Too heavy. He kicked the box into his apartment, shuffled in on his knees, and bumped the door closed with his butt.
Bee found the box cutter in the kitchen. A green water stain spread over the ceiling but nothing leaked through like it did in the bedroom. Bee knelt over the package and carved it up with the box cutter, spilling Styrofoam peanuts across the floor. A stainless steel, sixteen gauge, sixty quart mixing bowl rolled out of the wreckage. "I'm such a badass eBay sniper."
Bee piled the Jell-O boxes onto the kitchen table before pinning the cauldron between his forearms. "Brilliant, grasshopper," he said and brought the bowl crashing down onto the stove. "Okay, let's see. I've got about 30 packets. One packet needs, what," Bee pondered, squinting at the instructions on the back of a Jell-O box, "one cup of boiling water, then one cup of cold water. That's sixty cups…aw, fuck, only 15 quarts? I spent four hundred bucks on this damn thing!" He punched the mixing bowl and promptly passed out from the pain, whacking his face against the metal rim on the way down.
A quarter hour later, Bee, his splint reset and a cold compress tied over his blackened left eye with an ace bandage, poured almost eight quarts of tap water into the mixing bowl. He cranked a dial on the stove past 10 to HI. The coils under the bowl reddened with heat. "Oh, Christ, this is going to take forever." I could add salt to speed things up, he thought, but salty cherry? What kind of honey nymph would that make? Maybe I'd wind up with a dick girl like that freak at SRU. Too risky. Stick to cherry. Lots and lots of cherry.
Opening all thirty boxes and emptying their packets into a measuring cup proved to be a long nightmare of sharp pain and clumsy failure. His one good eye blurred with tears as he relieved the last few boxes of their contents. All of this is your damn fault, Dee. Well, screw you. Fuck you.
The water boiled. The powdered gelatin went in. Bee stirred, watching the clock for two minutes, before adding another eight quarts of tap water. Better use a double dose of nanomek, just in case I screwed the proportions up. He tipped a few teaspoons of nanomek from the SRU tin into the cauldron. Is that really a double dose? He checked the instructions on the bottom of the tin. Yes it is. He shook the tin. Jesus, there's so much left, I could make dozens more. And Dee gave it all up for that pushy green bitch? What an idiot.
Bee pulled out all the shelving and threw out half the food in the fridge just to make the mixing bowl fit. He set the refrigerating unit to maximum before slumping at the kitchen table, listening to the clock tick. It's ten o'clock already and I haven't slept more than a few hours in the past three days. But it's all over. In four hours I'll have my Cherry. I did it. I beat Dee…
A clattering racket startled Bee awake. Empty boxes of Jell-O tumbled off the kitchen table as he sat back. The cold compress fell away but the eye beneath was swollen shut, giving him a two dimensional view of the world and halving his peripheral vision. His one good eye glanced up. Twelve o'clock already? Christ, I thought I just closed my eyes for a second. After one more loud bang, the refrigerator door swung open. Holy shit. Bee stood. It's time. It's finally my time.
A slender, cherry-red foot slid toward the floor beneath the refrigerator door but hesitated an inch above the linoleum tile. Toes wriggled and the foot plumped out into a platform Mary Jane clog. Another clog joined the first and Bee's creation pussyfooted into view.
"What am I?" she murmured, her voice breathy and bashful.
Bee ogled. Perfect. Other than the thick clogs elevating her to average height, the scarlet girl wore only the come-and-get-it grin of a baby-faced coquette. Perfect. The bangs of her pageboy haircut fell in occluded angles as she inclined her head to look up at him through lush lashes and thick eyebrows. Perfect. She noticed where he was staring and draped an arm over her pert, full breasts in a seemingly shy gesture that gave her the opportunity to tweak her nipples erect and left nothing to the imagination. He glanced down and she covered her cleft with her other hand, taking care to press her middle and ring fingers deep into her sex so the folds of her labia peeked around them. "Perfect," Bee said aloud.
"I am perfection," the scarlet girl said, sounding satisfied with his answer, and unfolded her wings.
Bee took a step back. Her webbed wingspan filled the width of the kitchen with the colors of black shadow and crimson flame. She's cherry, he thought, and you made her. That makes her yours, so start acting like a man. "I am your master," he told her.
Her smile widened. "I have a master."
She's got to know I'm in charge here. "You will serve me," Bee said, "You live to please me, whether you like it or not."
"I will serve my master," she said, stepping closer. "I live to serve him and please him, like it or not."
"You will do anything, any sick, twisted, perverted thing, I want," Bee said, "and I want to do everything."
"I want to do every sick, perverted, and twisted thing with my master," she said, slinking over to the kitchen table and encircling Bee with batwings. She tilted her head and a second pair of wings, tiny twins of the first, fanned out from behind her ears.
That didn't sound right. And what's with the wings? That's the sort of stupid shit Dee's into. "I'm not Dee!" Bee shouted. This is all going wrong. I'm too tired and hurt to think straight. He massaged his temples with his good hand. Not realizing he was speaking aloud, he said, "All of this is your damn fault, Dee. Well, screw you. Fuck you. I beat you."
"Screw Dee. Fuck Dee. Beat Dee." the scarlet girl agreed, resting a sympathetic arm on Bee's left shoulder. She fingered through the pile of empty Jell-O boxes on the kitchen table. "You used so much," she whispered. "You've made me so strong." Warm wings enfolded him in a crushing, full-body embrace from head to toe. "How shall I thank you?"
"You need cum now," Bee wheezed as the scarlet girl squeezed. "My cum. To keep you…cohesive. Without it, you'll melt. Fall apart."
She stood on tiptoe to mash her mons against his crotch. "My master should be my first, shouldn’t he?"
Bee gazed into the obsidian, abyssal black of the scarlet girl's eyes. "I'm your master," he pled as she reached out with both hands to cup his face. "I'm your only master."
She pressed her forehead against his. "I have a master," she whispered, and kissed him. Her lips were cool and firm but her aggressive tongue was creamy, bittersweet, and scalding, like a freshly baked chocolate chip cookie still gooey and piping hot from the oven.
When she broke the soul kiss, Bee said, "You taste like…like a cupcake."
"Mm," the scarlet girl purred, nibbling Bee's bottom lip, "and you taste like collagen." She picked something off the table. "I have a master," she said, and pushed it into Bee's hand. "Only one master." Bee looked down. She had given him an open Jell-O box, its coloring different from the rest. Frowning, he turned it over.
Jell-O Instant Pudding: Devil's Food
"And his name is Dee," Black Cherry said, broke Bee's neck, and tore off his head.
The castle started spinn
ing
Or maybe it was my brain
I can't tell you what she did to me
But my body will never be the same
Her lovin' will kick your behind
(Oh, she'll show you no mercy)
But she'll sho'nuff, sho'nuff show you how to grind
—Prince, Darling Nikki
Act 3
Chapter One: The Dark Side's Light
"Dee? Dee! Is that you? What are you doing here?"
Dee glanced up at the tall, lean blond man threading his way through the crowd. "Hello, Yves."
"Hey," Yves greeted, kicking away a stool and reclining backward against the bar, elbows propped up on the mahogany countertop. "How are you? You look—"
"Drunk?" Dee brushed a few strands straying from Yves' low, long ponytail away from his whiskey glass.
"Well, yeah, a little. But I was going to say 'great.'" Yves waved at someone across the room. "No one's seen you at work for days," he told Dee. "We were all sorry to hear about your grandmother."
"She'll get over it."
Yves blinked. "Uh, okay. So, Dee, why are you here?"
Dee nursed his drink. "To get drunk and to get away from my girlfriend."
"Well, you came to the right place, then," Yves said. A man in a business suit approached but Yves shooed him off with a shy, polite smile. "On both counts. I didn't think you were seeing anyone, Dee. It's been almost a year since your last breakup, hasn't it? Who is she?"
"Galatea. I made her last Sunday."
"Jesus, Dee, that's a crude thing to say," Yves said.
Dee squinted up at him. "What are you doing here, Yves? This place is full of swingers on Thursdays, and that's not your scene. You're more…what's that dumb phrase you use? 'Serial monogamist?'"
"Existential monogamist." Yves shrugged, whipcord muscles rolling against the tight, tan, sleeveless tee he wore beneath an unbuttoned white dress shirt. "Friday is single's night, and that's no fun. On weekends, this place is full of kids."
"If you weren't six-foot-four, Y, I'd think you were twelve," Dee grumbled.
"You're a mean drunk. I'm glad you don't drink often."
"I'm not a mean drunk. I'm a stupid drunk. I told Galatea I needed some time alone, some time to 'be me,' and here I am, in a bar, drinking bourbon." Dee rolled the tall whiskey snifter over his fingers. The jigger of amber alcohol crawled up the glass.
"You're drinking it like a pro."
"But I hate bars." Dee took a tentative sip of whisky. "And I hate bourbon."
"Then why are you here? Did you two have a fight?"
Dee contemplated his half-empty snifter. "Sort of."
Yves leaned in. "What about?"
"My girlfriend thinks I'm a god."
Yves shook his head, chuckling. "I thought that's what all guys like you wanted."
"Maybe." Dee made a sour face. "But this is different. If Galatea thinks you’re a god, she makes you a god."
"Okay, you are a stupid drunk." Yves leaned back, arms folded. "But that still doesn't explain why you're here."
"I told you already."
"No, Dee." Yves rapped a knuckle on the mahogany bar. "I mean why are you here, in a gay bar?"
Dee surveyed the clusters of men around the bar and high tables. "It's safe."
"I beg your pardon?"
"It doesn't work with men," Dee said. "Or maybe it does, but I can control it better, because I understand men." He emptied the snifter in a single toss. "But I don't understand women," he coughed.
Yves eyes rolled. "I can't believe it. A drunk and bitter Deiter Detwiler. I never thought I'd see the day. C'mon, let me drive you home."
Dee slid the snifter across the countertop. "You don't believe me."
"It's more like I haven't understood a single thing you've said. You're absolutely crapulous, as my mother likes to say."
Dee tapped the snifter with a fingernail. "How many women are in here, Yves?"
Yves took stock of the crowded barroom. "About three or four."
"Notice anything about them?" Dee asked, not taking his eyes off the snifter.
"All right, I'll indulge you." Yves twisted around, surveying. "Well, now that I've made a jackass of myself," he said, frowning, "they're staring at me."
"Guess again," Dee muttered, but Yves was already speaking.
"Wait a minute." Yves frown deepened. "They're all staring at you. What's up with that? It's not like you’re the only cute guy in here. Or the only straight guy, for that matter."
"Watch them." Dee pushed himself away from the bar. "And then watch me."
Dee strolled across the room. Three pairs of eyes swiveled to watch his every move. The bartender licked her lip and dropped a shot glass. A woman in a booth in the corner scissored her legs, squirming in her seat. The girl by the payphone broke into a sweat, downed her beer, and retreated to the restroom.
"What the fuck?" Yves muttered.
Yves watched Dee bear down on a coed clad in a little black evening dress. She boggled, a deer in headlights, as Dee approached, ignoring the quizzical glares of the two men at her table. Dee stood opposite her, nonchalant, and said something. The coed clambered up onto the table, knocking over wine glasses and kneeling in a platter of tapas. Her two friends jerked back in shock.
Yves jumped away from the bar. "What the fuck?"
The coed clawed her way up Dee's denim shirt and dragged him into a clinching lip-lock. Dee backpedaled, arms windmilling, but the coed just hummed and squeaked and clung to him as he fell over backward. The bolted-down table stood fast while the coed in the tapas platter slid forward before both she and Dee hit the floor. She lay astraddle over him for a few more seconds before finishing off the kiss with a delirious, happy squeal. "Oh, wow! Um. Hi!"
"What the fucking fuck?" cried Yves, the only other sound in the barroom.
The coed looked up, noticed that everyone gawking at her, blushed redder than a beet, leapt to her feet, and fled out the front door. Her two stunned friends moved to help Dee up but he said, "I'm fine, I'm fine. God, I'm sorry, I didn't think—Look, just go after her and make sure she's all right, okay? Go, go!"
Dee stood and made his way back to the bar. The carousers slowly got back into the swing of things. Yves looked everywhere but the other three women had vanished. Dee bellied up to the bar, daubing tapas off his pants with a napkin. "What the fuck did you say to her?" Yves hissed.
"I said, 'Hi'," Dee sighed. "Just 'Hi.' It's getting stronger. Or maybe the less I say, the more powerful it gets?" He laughed. "That would fit. It would also mean the only way to control it is to yak my head off."
"Control what?" Yves asked.
Dee's eyes narrowed at the whiskey snifter. "My voice," he said in a deep register carrying strange harmonics and rattling all the glasses on the countertop.
Yves heard a few muffled cries from the women's restroom. "Okay, Dee." Yves swung his legs over a stool. "You've got my attention now."
Dee signaled to the remaining bald and beaded bartender for a refill. "I had a rehearsed hissy fit," he told Yves. "Bitch-bitch-bitch, walk out the door. You know what I mean."
"Famously," Yves agreed darkly.
"Anyway," Dee said, "I just wanted to go out for a walk. I circled the complex a couple of times and then headed north on Route Four."
Yves nodded. "I've been your neighbor for three years and I've carpooled with you for two. I know your routine."
"I'm flattered." Bourbon swirled in Dee's snifter. "So I'm walking up the bicycle lane on the side of the road, but every once and a while a car will slow down and honk at me. A few even pull over. After about half an hour, well…" Dee pulled a wad of crumpled post-its, chewing gum wrappers, receipts, and notepapers from a pants pocket. "About twenty women had gotten out of their cars—on the throughway—just to give me their phone numbers."
Yves fanned the papers scrawled with names and numbers over the countertop, examining each one in turn. "Huh."
"I didn't realize anyt
hing weird was happening—I've had much, much weirder things happen to me today, weird like you wouldn't believe—that is, until…" Dee sighed, and dropped two twisty sickles of dull steel onto the countertop.
"What are those," Yves said, "bent can openers?"
"Look closer," Dee said, warming the snifter between his palms.
"They're handcuffs," Yves observed.
"Correction: they were handcuffs."
Yves scrutinized the ruined cuffs. The chain between them had snapped, the hinges of the manacles torn and useless. "I don't get it."
"A couple of cops, female state troopers, pulled over," Dee said. "They told me they were looking for a suspect that had fled the scene of a domestic disturbance. I matched his description, they said. I was in such a funk I just followed directions, lying down on my stomach with my hands against my back, until they locked those handcuffs around my wrists, rolled me over, ripped off the tops their uniforms, and announced I was under arrest for 'public fuckability'."
"I don't believe it."
"Neither did I, until they yanked my pants down around my ankles. Now that I think about it, they were acting lot like that girl who just jumped me. I was answering all their questions and following their instructions with either a quick 'Yes ma'am' or a 'No ma'am.' The less I talk, the stronger it gets."
"So what the Hell happened?"
Dee stared down the barrel of his glass. "One rode my face while the other attempted an ambush blowjob. Which itself is no big deal. I had about twenty of those yesterday. But I'm in love with Galatea, and the two cops were maniac, out of control. So I broke out of the cuffs, pulled the psycho off my face and plopped her down over the cop on my cock. That brought them around. They were mortified. One of them was married. They broke the patrol car's concealed camcorder and drove off. What are you looking at me like that for?"
