“Ian. You’re here.” I nodded. My body felt heavy and exhausted. I wanted to go inside. She walked up the stairs.
“Are you coming with…?” she began.
“Yeah, okay,” I said.
Of course I had every intention of following her. I’d been waiting out in the rain for nearly an hour now. I wasn’t about to just up and leave. We walked through the door. The building smelled musty and sort of like linoleum. If you live in the city you know that smell. It also smells like food, an undiscernable smell like foreign food but you don’t know where it’s from. We walked up the creaking steps to the seventh floor. It felt like it took forever. It was probably only a minute.
She paused by the door. She was breathing heavily. She pulled a cigarette from the pack with her teeth, which I always find to be extremely hot. She lit it and slid the key into the lock like she knew what was up. She turned the lock and the door flew open.
The apartment was dark. The floors were made of wood. There was a dim light on in the kitchenette. She bit her lip and exhaled. There were maps on the walls, maps of other places. Places I’d never been. Paris, Barcelona, Egypt. The walls were a deep yellow, the tarnished color of a room that had been smoked in for years, centuries. There was peeling wallpaper in the kitchenette.
“I’m trying to pull back this awful wallpaper. There’s a fucking vault of information underneath. Newspapers. They had put newspapers under the wallpaper. They are old. Like very old. From the early immigrant days when people came over from Ellis Island. The days when people still liked a good story….” Her voice trailed off.
I didn’t care about wallpaper or maps anymore. I wanted her. I wanted her legs spread on the bed like a quilt. I wanted to take her in my mouth like a juicy orange, a warm vowel. I wanted to push her tiny body against the wall and grind into her cunt.
“Want a towel?” she asked.
“Okay.”
She went into the bathroom and came out with a small blue towel. First I dried off my hair, then I took off my jacket. I dried my shoulders and then I felt her in back of me. She had grabbed the towel. She was pulling at the pockets of my jeans. She was taking them off. I stood there in boxer briefs and a wifebeater. She leaned over and pulled off her jeans. She was soaking wet. She grabbed the towel and dried her skinny legs, then her hair; then she pulled off her T-shirt. She stood there wearing a bra and panties, shivering. Her body was covered in goose bumps. I thought I saw her smile. I could have been wrong. I was nervous. I was still sore but I wasn’t thinking about that anymore.
I’m in control. I’m in control, I kept telling myself.
She slid onto the bed. She was lying on her back. She was waiting for me. I hesitated before walking over to her. I slid on top of her. We fit like puzzle pieces. She smelled like graham crackers. I bit her bottom lip. It tasted like a mandarin orange. She took my tongue in her mouth. I was ready for her. I tugged at the sides of her panties. They slid off. I fiddled with the back of her bra. I couldn’t get it off. I felt like an amateur. She laughed. She grabbed hold of my hands and helped me take it off. She threw it on the floor. She was shivering and naked and pale. Her lips glistened red like Dorothy’s shoes. I pushed down hard on her pelvis. I felt my body shake. I slid my hand down, rubbed her clit slowly. It felt warm. I licked my first two fingers and slid them into her. I felt the little hills and canyons on her insides. I felt her melt into me, grind onto my hand. I kept fucking her. She was getting wet.
When I moved down to taste her, her pussy glistened like a waterfall. I slid my tongue against her clit and continued to fuck her with my fingers. She slid her hand down, tried to touch my breasts. I had bound them earlier. I moved her hand away. She tried to slide her hand down my boxers but I had forgotten the penis. I moved her hand away. I fucked her furiously with my fingers and tongue; she moaned and purred like a small cat.
“Ian,” she said. “You feel so good.” I smiled.
I rubbed my fingers along her small breasts, moved toward them, licked her nipples, felt my weight shift onto her again. I ground against her. She made a tiny sigh. I felt her wet pussy engulf my fingers like a hungry mouth. She thrusted and ground against them in a frenzy, until, in one smooth shift of energy, she let out a loud moan and her pussy lips quivered. I slid my fingers out of her and rubbed my entire palm against her moving cunt.
She leaned into me. Kissed me like it was the last kiss she’d ever have. There was a certain end-of-the-world feeling about the whole thing. I sat up. I surveyed the room. Where had I put my pants, my bag, my bike? I remembered that I had left my bike out in the pouring rain. I hadn’t even locked it up. Someone had probably stolen it by now which was pretty sad as it was the only true material possession I had and my means of earning a living.
Beatrice’s eyes closed. I got up, found my jeans and slid into them, threw my jacket over my shoulders and headed toward the door.
“Where are you going, Ian?” I heard her ask.
“Nowhere,” I said, and then it hit me. I wasn’t going anywhere. I sat back down on the side of the bed, stroked the ends of her damp hair, kissed her lips and looked into her pale face. I wasn’t thinking about Molly, although I didn’t even realize I wasn’t thinking about Molly at the time. I was there and it was where I wanted to be.
ROSEMARY AND EUCALYPTUS
Kyle Walker
My lover gave me an inordinately expensive Christmas present, then broke up with me on January second.
“I knew this was coming…” she told me. “But I didn’t want to ruin the holidays.”
I didn’t know it was coming, but kept the present.
I made the first appointment (of twelve) for a one-hour massage at our local wellness center the second week of January. My lover, I mean my ex, gave good presents. Somewhat numb; well, more like a block of ice, I still felt the cutting wind and curled into myself as I made my way through the icy streets.
It was already dark as I sat in the warm, spice-scented reception area at the second-floor suite. The traffic outside seemed muffled and far away. A dark-haired woman in loose cotton garments offered me a cup of herbal tea. I accepted and inhaled its steam as I filled out the form: Check yes or no: Back problems? Allergies? Heart problems? No, no, and no, unless you counted broken hearts. The woman took the clipboard from me.
“This looks fine,” she said. “Do you have any problem areas I should know about? Or anything special you want me to work on? I’m Marlena, I’ll be working with you today.” I wanted to explain that I needed to be taken apart and put back together as a better-functioning, more desirable person. Preferably one with a better income and a smaller ass.
“My shoulder is sore sometimes from too much computer work,” I told her instead. “And my lower back.”
“Modern life, huh?” she said with a wry smile, as she opened the door to the treatment room. “Too complicated, right?” I nodded in agreement.
I turned away as I disrobed, folding my clothes, tucking my watch and ring into my shoes. I instinctively reached for the other ring, the one I got for Christmas two years ago, but remembered I wasn’t wearing it anymore.
I draped myself over the massage table, and noted gratefully that Marlena had a heated pad under the sheet. This winter, the cold had been getting in my bones in a fierce, awful way. I fit my face into the cradle and she gently laid the sheet over me.
“I like to start with a little aromatherapy,” she said. “Is there a scent you prefer?”
“Do you have eucalyptus?” Years ago, I went to Australia, and the Blue Mountains were the coolest place I ever saw. They smelled so good, and there was that blue haze created by millions of eucalyptus trees and the koalas eating them all day and getting high. Yes, I love the smell of eucalyptus. And I suck on Halls lozenges all winter, as much for the memory as the head-clearing.
I heard her rub her hands together and then she held them under my face and the scent of mountains on a faraway continent started relaxing my muscles before she even to
uched me. Which she then did, letting one hand rest on the middle of my back. My breath got slower and deeper, and the ice in my bones started to melt.
I’m not much of a talker during massages; I like to dissolve and let my mind go where it wants. But a first massage is like a first date; you have to get to know each other, tell the masseuse where to go and what you like. Hmm. That’s not quite what I meant. Maybe a first massage is like the first time you make love with someone. Except you have to pay for it… Oh wait. This metaphor is really headed in an awkward direction. Sorry. The thing is, you have to tell the person how deep and how hard and how soft and where it hurts and where it feels good… Oh well. That’s not even a metaphor.
At any rate, we exchanged the usual information; what I do (a nonprofit thing), where she trained (Swedish Institute, got out about ten years ago); I hold my tension in the lower left calf; yes to caffeine and meat; I don’t get enough sleep, take vitamins, don’t exercise nearly enough. Spend a lot of time lately wrapped up in a blanket, rocking back and forth. And I don’t even own a rocking chair.
“The holidays can be very stressful,” she told me.
“You don’t know the half of it,” I replied as she dug at the knots in my right shoulder. As she worked at them with strong, probing fingers, and even applied her elbow, I could feel myself letting go, and at that moment, that wasn’t a good thing. I started crying, shaking with heavy sobs.
“That happens,” she said soothingly. “Better to let it go than hold it in.” The digging in my shoulder changed to light, soothing pats. No doubt I drooled and snotted on the floor, but she didn’t say anything as I eventually cried myself out. She asked me to turn over, then worked up my legs and my arms, enveloping my hands in hers and pulling on the fingers, popping the joints.
She rubbed my scalp and I could both feel and hear my hair rubbing against her hands. I’d had most of it (my hair) cut off the week before, and the ends slipped through her fingers easily. She rubbed my forehead, working her thumb in the “third eye,” then pressing under my cheekbones, as I worked my jaw and breathed deeper and deeper.
“Do you need a little something to clear your head before we finish?” Marlena asked. “A different scent? Something refreshing?”
“What do you recommend?” I was sad the massage was almost over.
“I could put a little rosemary on. That’s very invigorating,” she told me. So I said she could, and she stroked the oil on my temples, and I inexplicably craved chicken.
She said “Thank you,” and left me alone to dress. I put my clothes back on, slowly, feeling their texture as they moved across my skin, feeling my muscles slide over bone, feeling a dull ache inside, emerging from the ice as it dripped, dripped, dripped. I looked at my watch and realized she’d worked on me for well over an hour.
“Thanks for that,” I told her when I emerged from the room. “If you’d like, I can pay for your additional time.”
“No thanks, on the house today,” she told me. She had a kindness to her that almost brought me to tears again. “You want to schedule another appointment?”
“Oh yes!” I agreed. I wouldn’t have minded a massage a day until I used up the certificate, but I had to ration them. Had to get used to living on a reduced budget. When these ran out, it would be hard to pay for more. I scheduled another session for two weeks later. Two a month would take me til June, which seemed like a magical, imaginary place from here in the second week of January. She gave me one of her cards. “Marlena O’Reilly? You don’t look Irish,” I feebly joked. She had long black hair and light brown skin; not tall, but well-upholstered with large breasts and rounded hips.
“I’m Dominican,” she said. “O’Reilly was my husband. My daughter’s Irish, though. Consuela O’Reilly.”
“Only in New York,” I clichéd back at her. “See you in two weeks.”
O’Reilly hadn’t been on the scene in a number of years, I found out at our next session. “Oh, really?” I remarked, and to her credit, she didn’t pinch or poke me. He’d split when Consuela was young, and Marlena, who’d been working as a secretary, decided to get her massage certificate, so she could have more flexible hours to take care of her child.
“Turned out to be a great decision,” she told me as she ground the heel of her hand into that right shoulder. I whimpered and shed a few tears. “I found out this is something I really like, and care about. Being a secretary, working in an office, wearing those clothes, stuffing into the subway with a zillion other people. So boring. So terrible. Oh. I don’t mean to insult you….”
“No, I understand,” I grunted. “You have to do what fulfills you. Not just what brings in the money. Believe it or not, I actually have a law degree. I could be one of those downtown assholes making a ton of dough, but I like my nonprofit thing. Makes me feel like I’m doing more than taking up space.”
“Exactly!” she said.
“I wouldn’t mind a ton of dough, though,” I said wistfully.
“Eh…you have enough for what you need, I guess,” she told me. “I don’t know you, but you seem all right. Except for being so sad right now.”
The goddamn groundhog saw his shadow. Winter would never end. I went out for dinner with some friends and it turned out to be a fix-up, which I wasn’t remotely ready for, and I got quite drunk and had a terrible time.
“You are very dehydrated today,” Marlena scolded me as I dragged in the next day, still wondering whether it would ever be light out when I showed up for my six o’clock appointments. She made me drink a large mug of herbal tea before she got me on the table, and later pressed a couple of teabags into my hands as I left feeling revived, if not quite alive.
Her daughter was waiting for her when we finished the next time. I recognized her as Marlena’s child, though she was tall and had red hair. She had Marlena’s eyes and carriage. I knew she was in the ninth grade at one of the more competitive high schools in the city, and that she was very good at science. Marlena greeted her with a hug and kiss, and proudly introduced her to me. Consuela wasn’t embarrassed, the way a lot of kids might have been (if my mother had kissed me in public? Forget it…). We walked out together, and they headed off to dinner, arm in arm.
March came in with another snowstorm, but it melted very quickly, and I leapt from the street to the curb past the overflowing storm drains. The air smelled wet, not cold, and theoretically, spring was coming.
Marlena had to cancel our first appointment that month because she got a flu that was going around. When she called to reschedule, I teased her that her healthy diet and lifestyle hadn’t kept her from getting sick as a dog.
“It’s you…” she said through a stopped-up nose. “You are the sick ones. And then I put my hands on you and the next thing you know, I am sick as one of you office people with the windows that don’t open and the artificial light!” I begged her pardon, and asked if there was anything I could do. She told me her friends were helping her out and Consuela was a good girl who took care of her mama. Of course she has friends, I thought. We rescheduled for the following week.
I brought her a jar of chicken soup when I saw her.
“Not from the store,” I told her. “My mother’s recipe.”
“In that case, I’ll take it home and have it,” she said. “Mother medicine is very powerful.” I shrugged.
“She’s not really that much of a cook,” I said. “But it’s good when it’s hot.”
I saw Marlena again the next week, and it was a treat to have two massages in just over a week. I fantasized about being rich enough to afford one…or more! a week. I think that’s the first thing I’d do if I hit the lottery: hire a full-time massage therapist. I’d do good works the very next thing.
Maybe it was because the temperature was creeping up and the leaves were unfolding and I was starting to get spring allergies, but I started having sex dreams again. They were rather comforting, not just because they were sex dreams, but because I was feeling less like a tossed-out shoe
or paper bag, and the prospect of touching someone, having her touch me, was something I’d not dreamed of in a long time. I’d stopped having erotic dreams a few months before the breakup, I realized. Maybe I had known something.
That April was one of those months when New York makes you fall in love with it all over again: daffodils down the middle of Park Avenue; little kids driving their Big Wheels around and around in my neighborhood (What? You think I can afford to live in Manhattan?); the first of ten million repetitions of the tinkling song of the ice-cream trucks as they start to prowl the neighborhoods; big guys in muscle T-shirts walking their pit bulls. I wouldn’t live anywhere else.
I opened my eyes during our next session. I usually kept them shut during a massage, but I chanced to look up and saw Marlena’s breasts as she stroked my forehead. They were really large and beautiful, and they swayed as she worked, and I became hypnotized by them. My mouth began to water.
I dreamed about her. She was massaging me, and we were both naked. She rubbed her breasts against mine, then held them up to my face. I suckled first one, then the other. In my dream, I tasted eucalyptus.
“Did you pay your taxes?” she asked me during our next session.
“Huh?” I astutely replied, jerked from a guilty memory of what was becoming a recurring dream. “What? Yeah…back in February. What about you? Have you filed?”
“My accountant retired,” she told me. “I’ve been looking for a new one. I was so used to him, we were so comfortable with each other, that I’ve been putting it off. That’s very bad for me. When it’s over, it’s over, you know? I need to move on.” I recommended my accountant, who also works with a lot of freelancers.
“You have to file quarterly,” I told her.
“I know,” she said with a sigh. “I wouldn’t care about it, let the government go to hell, but when Consuela goes to college, she’s gonna need loans and stuff. They can’t have me down as not paying my taxes.”
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