Hunger Point

by Jillian Medoff

  I wrench my hand away and try to stand up on my Jell-O legs. “I don’t think this is such a good idea,” I tell him.

  “Wait, please. Don’t go.” He reaches over and his T-shirt sleeve hikes up. His arm is muscular and hard. It would feel nice to have his arms around me. Really nice. And he’s so handsome, with those sexy, sexy dark black eyes. Woozy, I sit back down. I want to slide to the floor into a puddle of myself. I clutch the edge of the table for support.

  “Want another?” He points to my glass.

  “One more and I won’t be able to get myself home.” I giggle and Bryan grins. “I’ll be happy to take you home.”

  I consider it, feeling myself slip away. “I live out in Long Island. It’s a long drive.”

  “I didn’t mean to your house.”

  “Oh. Well.”

  Bryan leans over. “I know I fucked up the first time,” he whispers, “but give me another chance.” His face is against mine, so close I can feel the warmth of his mouth. He trails my arm with his finger. “Come home with me, Frannie.” I smooth his hair away from his face. It’s soft, like baby hair. Aching, I sit up. I can’t hear anything except the rush in my head. I run my finger down my arm to feel what Bryan felt when he touched me.

  I wonder if he’s telling the truth; if this is a new beginning; if he’ll call me every day just to say hi; if he’ll want to be my boyfriend; if he’ll turn to me one day when we’re in the kitchen and tell me that he loves me; if, when he says it, he’ll mean it.

  Bryan looks at me. “Do you want to?” he asks softly. When he smiles at me, I feel the ache of desire. I imagine us in bed, his body covering mine, his hands on my face, on my neck, whispering sweet things in the dark. I imagine my legs wrapped around him, letting him inside me, so deeply inside he becomes part of me.

  I grab my backpack. “No needles?”

  He shakes his head. “No needles.”

  Back at his apartment, I lie on the couch. “You can stay over if you want,” Bryan tells me, holding my head in his lap, playing with my hair.

  “I have to be somewhere tomorrow,” I say. “I have my car here.” I hear myself refer to Shelly’s car as mine. I called it my car. I feel a slight chill, the faint stirring of a memory fading.

  “It’s up to you.” Holding my chin, Bryan pushes my bottom lip with his thumb. “I love your mouth,” he says quietly. “When you’re excited, your lower lip trembles. It’s unbelievably erotic.” He leans over and kisses me, a long soulful kiss, and I reach up and put my arms around him and kiss him back for what seems like forever.

  He runs his hands over my breasts, caresses me as if I’m the most beautiful woman in the world. I’m with him at first. When he tells me how good he feels, how much he’s wanted this, I feel myself ache for the moment he’ll be inside me. He rips open a condom package with his teeth and puts on the condom with one hand, murmuring how good this will be, just wait, Frannie, he says, just wait. But when he moves inside me and we find a rhythm, he stops talking. And something inside me shifts.

  He hangs over me, his eyes glazed, his mouth open, as if unaware I’m beneath him. I get cold. In my head, I see him slide the needle into my arm, toss the tube with my blood as if it were a dirty tissue, snap off the light and roll over. Completely disengaged now, I watch the top of his head as he bends it to lick my breasts, and for a split second, he’s a teenage boy, bony and clumsy, laughing as he sticks his fingers inside me. I clutch the sheets. Get the fuck OFF me, I scream silently. Get OFF. Then I lose all my thoughts as he trembles and jerks and comes in spasms inside me. Finally, I push him away, feeling dirty and empty, and absolutely alone.

  I gather my clothes. “I have to go,” I tell him, my voice edged with rage. He nestles my head against his shoulder and tells me how great it was, how good it felt, how much he wants to do it again. “I’ll call you,” he tells me. “I’ll call you.”

  Later, when I’m alone in my bed, I wrap my arms around a pillow and hold it against my chest. When we were kids, Shelly would climb in my bed and we’d describe the husbands we’d have and what our marriages would be like.

  “Do you think we’ll end up like Mommy and Daddy?” Shelly asked. “Will we sit across from our husbands at dinner with nothing to say?” And I was so sure back then, so positive that we’d never end up like them, that I said no way. “Our husbands will be rich and famous. They’ll treat us like queens.”

  “But I don’t want someone rich and famous,” she said. “I just want someone to talk to.” At the time, I thought she was so stupid, that at eight years old, she’d already given up.

  My fingers smell of sex, even though I washed them. I run them through my curls, slowly, tenderly, as if they are Bryan’s. I feel so lonely. I am reminded of the way I felt with the original Rat Boy in my junior year at Syracuse. He was a poet—pale and scrawny with underdeveloped arms, a blurry tattoo of Zeus on his bicep, watery brown eyes, and a face like a rat (hence the name). He was in graduate school so he was older than me and I thought he was the most romantic boy I’d ever met. He talked about Kant, Nietzsche, and Kierkegaard, people I’d never heard of. He was so smart, he didn’t think modern art looks like Spirograph, he understood things about the world. And he wanted to fuck me. I was spellbound.

  He told me he didn’t want a relationship, that he didn’t have those types of feelings for me. Deeply wounded, I was incapable of speech. But the more he said it, the more I craved him. I fantasized about him; I waited for the phone to ring; I was constantly irritable, moody, and depressed. But I couldn’t help myself. I wanted him to want me, I wanted to be the love of his life, I wanted to be the one woman he couldn’t live without.

  Instead, I became his beck-and-call girl. Whenever he wanted to see me, I’d be there, even if it meant skipping classes or breaking plans. He took other girls out for dinner, then called me just to have sex. Sometimes he’d show up in the middle of the night, come over, fuck me, then ignore me the next day. Of all the things Rat Boy did, his refusal to acknowledge me in public—like I was a dirty, shameful secret—was the worst.

  After a few months, I started to notice things about him. He talked about himself all the time, he wasn’t particularly insightful, he was really insecure, and, I’m no expert, but I’d heard better poetry from Bazooka Joe. Also, despite the fact that I moaned when he touched me, Rat Boy was a terrible lover, even for a twenty-five-year-old. He tweaked my nipples like a kid, flattened my breasts like pancakes, and rubbed my body as if he were using it to wipe his hands. He wanted to tie me up, slather me in oil, get me down on all fours. He had a habit of pulling out just as he was about to come. It was frustrating, God, it was frustrating. At first I thought it was some technique he’d misunderstood in Playboy. After a few very disappointing encounters, I asked him what he was doing. He said he was preserving his chi.

  “It’s not good to spill my chi,” he told me, “my seed. You know, like a boxer. Boxers can’t fuck before a fight because they have to stay focused. I need to do the same thing for my Art.”

  At first I thought he was kidding but when I realized he was serious, rage grew inside me, crystal-clear and voracious. Not only was this guy the lousiest lover I’d ever had, but he actually believed he was Robert Frost. GET OVER YOURSELF, I wanted to howl. YOU ARE A FUCKING JOKE. Instead, I faked an orgasm, and made him feel like he had the biggest dick on the planet.

  I cringe, thinking of Rat Boy. I still hate myself for that, especially since I had no right to be angry. I had a choice. He didn’t force himself on me. All I had to do was say no, but I didn’t. I didn’t say anything.

  As I lie in bed, haunted by my lack of voice, I think about Rat Boy, Bryan, and Shelly, and slowly, slowly, I make a connection. “Shelly,” I tell her—or maybe it’s myself I’m telling—“I understand now. Whether your story is true or not doesn’t matter. What’s true is Hannah, the girl in the story, and the feelings she had about herself; her need to have a voice and her inability to find it.”

  I
get an itchy feeling between my legs, as if Bryan’s fingers, or Rat Boy’s fingers, or all the fingers of all the guys I’ve fucked, are poking me. I scratch myself until I’m raw and bleeding, until I can feel pieces of my flesh underneath my fingernails. I jab myself with my thumbnail so hard it hurts. I want to yank my cunt right out of my body so that I can’t use it anymore to damage myself.

  I turn over. My vagina aches. To soothe it, I wet my fingers and softly stroke myself. “I’m sorry,” I tell myself, and softly cup my hands. My pubic hair is matted and wet. I continue to stroke myself until I tingle, until I can’t stop, until it feels so good, I close my eyes and the tingles become ripples and the ripples become waves, and the waves keep coming and coming and flood me with delicious heat, delivering me, gasping, all the way home. When it’s over, I’m pulsating with warmth and exhaustion. Then, as if it will help me to sleep without sorrow, I put my fingers in my mouth and suck them like I’m a little girl.

  19

  Your mother called,” my dad tells me at breakfast a few days later. “She wants you to call her. Frannie? I’m talking to you.”

  “I heard you.” For something new and different, I’m depressed. Bryan didn’t call me. Deep down, I knew he wouldn’t call, but it would have been nice. I can’t fucking believe he’s in my head again.

  I find the wedding announcements in the New York Times and pick out a husband. After discarding Blake Harrison Tweeter, Schlomo Blatstein, and Reginald Lloyd III, I find him. The dark and swarthy Pepe Alvarez Mantilla Garcia. Bond trader. Harvard undergrad. Wharton grad. Father a diplomat, grandfather a Spanish politician.

  “You want some eggs?” My father pulls out a frying pan. “I have Havarti and chives.” I shake my head. There’s a piece of unbuttered toast on my plate. “You ate already?”

  The interrogation has begun. He’s been on my back to eat for the past few months, and I keep telling him I’m not trying to lose weight. I’m just not hungry. Especially the past few days, after fucking Bryan. I just don’t have an appetite. Studying Pepe Alvarez Mantilla Garcia, I imagine my own wedding announcement.

  Frannie Hunter graduated from Syracuse University prepared to do absolutely nothing, which she now does with aplomb. Her estranged parents, Marsha Swartzberg Hunter, real estate agent, and David Hunter, giftware salesman extraordinaire, give kudos to the Garcia clan for finally moving her out of their home. Since the Hunters are footing the bill, the couple will honeymoon in Frannie’s bedroom and take a weekend trip to the Poconos Twinkle Lake Motel. Donations for the wedding may be sent to the Jewish Home in Lindsey Point, where the reception is being held, c/o Max Swartzberg, wedding coordinator and menu adviser. Frannie’s dress will be a Donna Karan knock-off discovered in a fit of panic in the Back Room at Loehmann’s. Invitations by Collette. Hair by Freddie.

  My father cracks two eggs over a bowl and throws the shells into the sink. He turns on the burner and spoons margarine into the pan. “This is your brain,” he mutters. Then he pours on the runny egg mix. “And this is your brain on drugs.” The eggs sizzle as they hit the heat. I look at my father and try to imagine the honorable Juan Alvarez Mantilla Garcia, Pepe’s padre, cooking eggs. “You want some, Frannie?”

  “You asked me already. I said no.”

  “Okey-dokey.” He bustles through the kitchen like Donna Reed. He arranges his silverware, pours juice and a mega mug of coffee, and places margarine and three jelly jars on the table. He sticks two pieces of bread in the toaster and glances at me. “Toast?”

  “No, Daddy.” I lie. “I ate already. I have to meet Abby. We’re going shopping.” I ignore the growling in my stomach. I like my hunger, the emptiness. “Daddy?” I ask as he settles down with his eggs. “Do you think I’ll ever get married?”

  He looks down at the paper. “If you put your mind to it, of course you will.”

  “But what if I never find the right person? What if I’m alone forever?” I tug on his sleeve. “Daddy, what if I die a virgin?” I try not to laugh as he gulps his coffee. I hear it gurgle in his throat. Finally he says, “Frannie, you worry too much. You’ll meet someone when you least expect it. You can’t look for love.”

  “How can you say that? You put in a personal ad!”

  He doesn’t answer. With the edge of his knife, he slowly cuts his toast into four perfect squares and spreads them with jelly. The sound of his scraping drives me mad. I fold the paper and get up from the table. “See ya, Daddy.”

  “Frannie, wait.” He chews thoughtfully, swallows dramatically. “I’ve shared your situation in group.” He looks up. “Love, people said, is locational. You can’t expect the boys to come to you. Go where the boys are.” He chuckles. “Location, location, location.” Fatherly wisdom imparted, he stretches with a flourish and hunches over his paper.

  I try not to think about Bryan, but I can’t shake him. It’s like Rat Boy all over again. I know he’s wrong for me. I mean, I don’t even like the guy, but once again, he’s lodged in my head like a tumor. I can’t believe I fucked him. I simply can’t believe it.

  “I can’t, either,” Abby says in the car on the way to the mall. “What the hell were you thinking?”

  “I just thought it might work out, you know, we could start over.”

  “You start over with a drink and a good-night kiss. You don’t start over in bed. You know that better than anyone.”

  “Since when did you join the Moral Majority? You’re like the biggest slut I know.”

  She sneers. “I’m trying to give you advice, Frannie. And I’m a reformed slut. And now I’m allowed to be self-righteous.”

  “Well, keep it to yourself. I liked you much more when you’d fuck anyone.”

  An hour later, she studies me in front of a three-way mirror at Ann Taylor as I try on suits for my first day of work. “I don’t know. It hangs wrong.” She hands me another one. “Here, try this.”

  In the dressing room, I take off my clothes and stare at myself in the mirror. I see a girl in a black bra and faded underwear. I focus on the underwear so I don’t have to see the body. Reluctantly, I look up. The girl in the mirror traces her ribs, which are visible underneath the tight skin. Her flat stomach moves in and out with the rhythm of breathing. Her waist is pinched, her hips stick out like knobs, and her calves are thin with a muscle the size of an orange. The girl in the mirror is skinny, but she’s not me. I feel a current of anxiety work its way through my system as I stare at this stranger. I realize that the girl is smiling mischievously, like she has a secret.

  I take off my bra and underwear and stare at the naked body. I cup the little breasts, arch the back. You are so beautiful. Bryan’s voice echoes in my head like a call down a canyon. I trace the leg, marveling at the long taut muscle. I feel myself floating. As I stroke the stomach, it rumbles, soothing me like the rocking of waves. My heart races and I feel a glimmer of glee. I’m skinny. This is me. Ha. This is my body. My hunger lifts me. My head rushes as if from a strong drunk and I feel myself reeling. My thoughts collide. I can get thinner, I think, even thinner, I can cut it all off, I can wear low-slung Levi’s and cropped tops and long, straight dresses like willowy models, and I gasp with the breathlessness of being airborne.

  Then I look up. The girl in the mirror kneads her skin, detached, as if her hands don’t belong to her. I suddenly see Shelly, skeletal and ashen, dead in a hospital bed. I glance away. When I look back, I see myself, me, Frannie, staring, wide-eyed with terror.

  I dress quickly, but the girl’s eyes, my eyes, haunt me. I backtrack through the past few months, wondering when I got so skinny. I’ve been lonely, I tell myself, I’ve been depressed. I look again at the girl in the mirror. I promise myself that I will make her go away, but that moment of taking flight, that easy freedom, lingers like a sweet tang on my tongue. “Jesus, Shelly,” I say out loud. “I never realized just how easy it was.”

  I don’t notice the wrapped gift until I am on the highway. I can’t open it because I have to fumble with change fo
r the toll, so I slide it into my new portfolio. I’m on my way to my new job. To work. Heigh-Ho, Heigh-Ho. I try to whistle, but all I get is a spray of saliva.

  I open the present before I go upstairs. I laugh when I see my father’s face. It’s a Glamour Shot. In the picture, he’s wearing a sailor’s uniform, complete with epaulets and a row of medals across the right breast. He’s saluting. I open the card.

  Ahoy from your loving Captain. Good luck on your first day. Love, Dad.

  The fun never ends. And in five short days, I’ll be forced to deal with this face-to-face. My father informed me that he has a date with Eleanor, the pistol-packin’ mama looking for a rootin’-tootin’ good time. He wants me to meet her for a drink. Get to know her. I can’t get a date to save my life and my father’s already involved. I get into the elevator. I can’t believe my father’s dating. And I can’t believe Bryan hasn’t called.

  “Vicky isn’t here yet,” the receptionist says. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “No,” I say, thanking her.

  Minutes later, Vicky strolls in wearing a gorgeous burgundy suit. “You’re here!” We walk through the office and I trail behind and look around.

  Rows of offices line the outer corridor, all of which have windows overlooking 47th Street. Outside every two offices is a secretary’s desk. The inner offices are smaller, but they’re just as nice. They have desks and chairs, lamps and pictures. I remember the scene in Working Girl when Melanie Griffith unknowingly sits in her secretary’s desk. Not wanting to make the same mistake, I continue standing, clutching my portfolio.

  “This is you,” Vicky says. She has her hands on the small desk outside her office. It’s a secretary’s desk, complete with computer terminal, typewriter, and telephone. On the front of the desk is a nameplate with frannie hunter written on it.