by Retha Powers
“That’s for fucking sure.” After licking his fingers, he pulls out a pen and his datebook and quickly writes down his response to his first taste of the donut, the bright sunlight of midday, and the urgent need to remember. He’s overwhelmed with remembrances. “There’s this joke my dad always told about this woman who bites into a donut and, somehow, jelly shoots up both her nostrils. Don’t ask me how she did it, Pop probably exaggerated the whole thing, but that guy, that same old fart in the donut shop, tried to revive her, give her CPR or something, he was in such a panic, and a slug of jelly flew right out of her nose and into his mouth and all he could do was swallow it.”
She grimaces. “That’s gross.”
“Isn’t it? My father used to tell stories like that all the time. Over and over again. And I’d be down on the ground laughing every time.”
“When’d your dad die?”
“He’s not dead. It’s just—” he starts, but doesn’t know how to continue. He doesn’t want to talk about his father losing his mind. Dementia. Some unknown form of senility. Not Alzheimer’s but something like it, he thinks to himself. He doesn’t want to explain. He doesn’t want to talk about his mother’s death or having to leave school to take care of everything. He doesn’t want to feel like his world has fallen apart anymore. Right now he wants to experience some new things, to find some new raw material to replace all the old memories. Hesitantly, he continues his story. “I’d be on the ground rolling, thinking about some guy swallowing jelly shot out of a lady’s nostril.”
“All that from a donut.”
“Oh yeah. I’ve probably been going to this donut shop longer than you’ve been living.” Roy’s sugar high has peaked and he’s trying to make his thoughts slow down; he wants to take his story back and keep his father to himself. “I’m sorry. I sound like one of those old heads that’s always talking about how everything used to be so much better, like, back in the day and shit, as if that weren’t a couple of months ago. I’m sorry. Roy,” he says and extends his hand.
She takes his hand in both of hers. “Nice to meet you. Again. No more sugar for you, okay?” A flash of silver white light disappears in her mouth again when she laughs.
“What’s that? What’s that in your mouth?”
“Oh, I got my tongue pierced this summer. It’s fun,” she says, and flicks her thin pointy tongue at him.
“Ouch,” he says, even though it bumps his sugar high to a different level, his crotch.
“Doesn’t hurt. Anymore. You just play with it. Oral gratification. Helped me quit smoking. It’s like attached worry beads.”
“Yeah, back at school, my friend Rupa has one. Pierced tongue, pierced nose and eyebrow, and earrings all around her ear. Her face looks like a constellation, like it’s stuck full of silver shrapnel.”
It’s as if by frowning she’s saying, Too much detail, too much sugar. They start walking in the direction of Roy’s street, but they’re really not headed anywhere in particular. “So what were you writing in that little book?”
“Things. I just write down little things. Notes to myself. If I’m thinking of something, I write it down. I usually can’t read my own writing afterward, but then I remember what it was I was thinking. Things I hear people say. Things I read. Whatever.”
“Like?”
“Poems. Pieces of stories. Ideas. Good quotes. Things I want to remember. I write these things that are like somewhere between a poem and a story and a novel. Like Bataille.”
“Like a good song that tells a story but if you read it, it doesn’t make sense.”
Even though her guess isn’t what he was thinking about, Roy wasn’t expecting her to be so smart, but he should have, considering who her parents are. He was thinking more like sex as art. “I guess. Bataille wrote these little nasty stories. The Story of the Eye. It’s all about sex but’s all about everything. Ecstasy. Obsession. The way people have to live. It’s not a novel, really, but it’s more than a story.”
“I saw a movie like that.” Roy doesn’t see any need to compare books to movies but, out of politeness, he lets her continue. “Did you see that movie, The Lover? I love that movie.”
“Uh-uh.”
“The book’s better than the movie. For some reason my teacher told me I should read this book about growing up in China. No, Vietnam. That’s right. So I rented the movie first. It’s about this French girl who has a Chinese lover and they fuck like crazy but her family has to leave and go back to France.”
“Girls always read. I wish I was reading all that time when I was watching TV and playing Nintendo. Where you go to school?”
“The Academy for Social Change. In Williamsburg. I skipped ahead a few grades.” He knows she’s trying to impress him now; and he is impressed. “It’s sort of alternative. We, like, study our community and how it relates to things like oppression, colonialism, and revolution. We read things like All Quiet on the Western Front. The Wretched of the Earth. The Declaration of Independence. Articles about Haiti’s revolt against the French. Survival in Auschwitz. We watched the Million Man March on TV. Did you go? It’s about ending oppression right now, right here. In Brooklyn. In the city.” Her genuine way of saying this excites him even more. A baby activist. She adds, “It’s more than a school, it’s like a community center. People from the neighborhood come in and stuff.” She smiles, then quickly looks away, across the street, biting on her lower lip.
Was that a signal? Is there something there? Someone over there? He wants to tell her his left side’s aching, his heart’s palpitating, he wants her, he wants to say anything so they can stop wasting time and already know each other. Teasing takes too long. He always wants to be honest with girls but he gets afraid, doesn’t know what they’ll do. What if he scares them off? But right now, all he knows now is this: Like a plant leaning toward the sun, every muscle in his body is stretching toward her, pulling his joints, organs, all the electrons in his body, tugged by some kind of energy coming from somewhere inside of her, pulling him to her and her to him. “Cool. I’ve got to check this out. They didn’t have schools like that back in the day.” He can’t help but try to make himself sound older than her, impress her, even though they’re maybe four years apart. What’s four, five years? he asks himself as he looks down at that band of exposed thigh—honey in a leg-shaped bottle, with black knee-high socks and ruby-red combat boots.
He can’t get over how there’s hardly any whites in her eyes, the irises are so big, like blossoms. “Want to hang out for a while?” He buys a newspaper at the corner store.
“Oh, I don’t know.” She squints and looks into his eyes.
“Come on. We can watch a movie or something. And I have to go look after my dad, he sort of has something like Alzheimer’s but it’s not. It’s different. And the nurse is getting off soon.”
She doesn’t say no and she doesn’t say yes. So, with his newspaper under his arm and his bag of donuts in his hand and the cute girl beside him, he pushes forward toward home.
Inside, it takes a while for his eyes to adjust. The checkerboard of morning light in the living room has faded and it looks as if Fami has straightened up a bit and gone home. He takes Reefah’s coat and hangs it up, offers her something to drink, a glass of milk to go with her donuts. They settle down on the couch and watch TV. The reception’s bad. Meteor showers of interference race across the screen; he tries to fix it first with the remote and then by playing with the cable box and jiggling the wires in the back. When he sits back down he’s a little closer to Reefah. Nothing harmful in that. It’s going to take a while to close the gap between them. Like a planet, moon, or satellite in orbit, he feels as if he’s set on a predetermined course. To reach for the remote. To show her the photo albums he’s been looking at night after night, black-and-white pictures of old Harlem streets and distant relatives from his mother’s side of the family. He tells her about his mother’s death and his father’s slow deterioration and then decides talk like that’s not going
to turn anyone on but doesn’t know what else to say.
Then he becomes aware of something that was already there, as soft and warm as his favorite comforter. Is her thigh rubbing against his? Has she leaned against him too long? Too hard? Her hand drifts down his stomach then hesitates and settles on his belt. He doesn’t know if he likes it, the pressure of her hand near his crotch. Can he wait? Is she going too fast? His pants are too tight and unyielding. He needs to shift everything to one side instead of letting his hard-on point down and rub against his thigh; it feels too good, too soft touching his own skin, too hot and sweaty. Can he move? Should he take control? As she places her hand right there, right on target, she looks him directly in the eye and sighs. It looks as if her eyes are filled with shining black oil that spills down her cheeks. Is she crying? Is he forcing her? Roy opens himself, his arms and his legs and his lungs to make sure he’s still breathing, and with a quick turn and strategic pivot, she pours herself into the space he’s created; she straddles him, hip to hip, face to face, his whole body now filled with her. He pushes his hands up under her shirt and rubs her hard nipples, spreads his fingers to touch more of her, cover more of her, feel more of her, know more of her, be in control of her. She’s got to slow down. He squirms. Her skin is too hot.
Her hands tug and pull his belt open, his fly open. Because he doesn’t have underwear on, his hard-on leaps out of his pants. She takes his cock in her hand and, as if in approval, as if in response to hold him, her mouth becomes a black-filled O. Her hands move fast and assured, tugging his pants down, feeling what she can’t see. What’s she doing down there, measuring his cock with her fingers? She giggles and sighs as she rubs the head to the base of his hard cock, and then guides him inside her. He begins anew, to stretch, up his spine, his neck, to the top of his head and down his pelvis, his legs, to the tips of his toes, lifting him up off the couch, pushing his face into her covered breast. They kiss for the first time with such force that their teeth click. Or was it her pierced tongue? It hurts. “You okay?” he asks but her answer is to bite his lower lip, which forces him to open his eyes—he remembered that he could open his eyes—and he sees her as if for the first time, not the pretty girl, not his friend Luna’s daughter, but he sees in her shining black eyes nothing less than the endless sky filled with radiant stars.
It feels really good. Fucking good. The silver bead on her tongue leaving trails, from his ear to neck, chin, and nose. He leans back on the couch and slides his hands up her thighs to where her legs join her torso. He really wants to see her, her pubic hair, her tight pussy, her tender clit and folded lips; he wants to make sure that this is true, that this is really happening, and he’s fucking her the way she wants to be fucked. He tries to pull her skirt up but she pushes her weight down on him harder, keeping him in check. With his thumbs, he searches for her clit and rubs, hardly touching the head, until she begins to shudder and quake, and her sighs turn to low moans that she doesn’t want to let out, it seems. “Oh yeah,” he responds and rubs faster. He’s there but he’s not ready, not yet, he’s got to hold on, but he can’t. Constellations contract. Stars implode. And the rocket, man, doesn’t wait for the countdown to reach zero.
“Okay? You okay?” he asks after a few moments, not expecting an answer.
“No.”
He’s alarmed. He’s hurt her. “What’s wrong?”
“Pull out. Take it out. Now.”
It’s awkward and takes all the strength he has to scootch back on the couch and sit up with Reefah sitting on his lap. With both hands he pulls his cock out of her and is surprised to feel plastic, a condom. “Hey, when’d that happen?”
“What?”
“The condom.”
“What?”
“When’d you put the rubber on?”
“Who cares? It was on, wasn’t it? What do you think I am?”
He’s scared by her sarcasm but feels relieved about something he hadn’t even thought about: safe sex. “You’re amazing. Really.”
“None of that. Okay?” she says, silencing him.
Behind him, he hears a cough and clearing of the throat. Then, “Mr. Williams. I’m ready to go now.”
It’s Fami.
“Shit,” he says under his breath, but doesn’t look back to see Fami standing on the stairs, trying not to look at him and that girl. He’s back on earth. “Okay.” He wants to make an excuse, to say, I thought you were gone, really; but, with a girl straddling him on the couch, he doesn’t want to start a conversation, and he hears Fami go back upstairs.
“I better go,” Reefah says, swinging herself off of him and back on the couch. “An old head like you has a lot of things to do.” Does an orgasm bring out all the sarcasm in this girl? She pulls her panties on and stands up; the elastic pop feels like a gunshot in his left side. She tugs and twists everything back into place, smoothing down her skirt and blouse with measured strokes, carefully, the same way she must have rolled the condom on him.
“So why don’t I give you a call later.” Roy carefully pulls the condom off so as not to spill its contents, stands, and buttons his pants. He doesn’t know what to do with the used condom and Reefah doesn’t answer. “Let me give you my number… I’m just going to be hanging out here. If you want. You can stay too. We can polish off the rest of those donuts.”
“Thanks. But I’ve got to get home, and I’m going to a show tonight.”
“Oh, really.” He puts the soppy condom in his pants pocket. “Maybe I can get a ticket.”
“With my parents. My mom and dad. You know my dad, don’t you? Luna? Luis Rodriguez?”
“Well, ummmm.”
“He’s cool, as far as dads are concerned. They’re cool. They’re like into the here and now, being in every moment and shit. So, thanks, Roy. It was great. Really hot. I’ll call you tomorrow or something and we can get together for some cream-filled donuts.” She walks over to the front door, puts on her coat, and checks herself out in the mirror, never once glancing back at Roy standing behind her dumbfounded.
“’Bye.”
Standing, hands in pockets, he feels something wet, cold and wet. A spilled drink. A melted Popsicle. Wet, thick, and gooey. Jelly that’s oozed out of a donut. And then he remembers where he put the condom.
Even with the sarcasm he might have chased after her if she hadn’t thrown in his face the fact that she knew she was fucking her father’s friend all along. How old was she anyway? He doesn’t want to calculate. What was she really doing? Retaliating? Rebelling? Going through a phase? What the hell was he thinking, bringing her back her to his house while his father waited, motionless, for nothing in particular? All his fears and anxieties had disappeared for just a little while. Or had his anxieties completely taken over? He’d fallen for her as soon as he saw her in the donut shop. Reefah. The girl’s no joke, putting her panties on and leaving without even a kiss or a handshake, while upstairs, Roy imagines, sweet old Fami waiting in his father’s room, trying not to listen to what’s going on downstairs.
The Blue Globes
_________________
by Thomas Glave
But first beginning with their secret. That of the blue globes.
Which are always blue, as
they always were. In the beginning. When he was thirteen years old. When I was twelve
years old. When we were
sixteen
years old
:
But yes. Beginning with their secret. That of the blue globes, their secret, and his secret, which was also mine. The secret of “Smell,” he said, smiling down. “I want you to—” “Smell,” I said. Smiling up. My jaw feeling the (but yes). My face moving toward what he wanted me to smell. Toward what was his, and his alone, until I made it mine. Until I breathed it in. About which I said I would never tell. “I’ll never tell,” I said. Said to him. To his face. His laughing, smiling face. His face that smiled as (in darkness, in light) the blue globes descended, came closer and closer and “Smell
it,” he said. “Just like that. Now. That way,” he said. And laughed. Both of us laughing, laughing now, as no one will ever know.
I breathed in. Am breathing in. But he has not yet danced. Danced over my “Face,” he will say. “So that you can look up, even in the darkness, and see them. The globes. As I dance. Dance over your face. The globes, that will be blue, as you look up and call my name. My name,” he will say, reaching down to pull that part of me closer to his (yes).
I am calling
his name. I am looking up and calling
his name. I am calling his name as he looks down at me and then
“Oh, Jesus!” I say. Yes. As he pulls that part of me closer to his (yes) and
I
am O I am and I am and O.
He wants me to breathe. To inhale. He always wanted me to breathe, to inhale. To take in all of it and carry it “to your dreams,” he would always say. “I want you to smell me in your dreams.” But yes.
If they had ever known—any of them, the ones who were never there when we, the ones who never heard when we in that time or this one—if any of them had ever known, “They would have laughed,” I said. “They would have said—” “Uhhuh,” he said. “They would have thought—” “Of course,” I said. “They would have—” “Exactly,” you said. “And we wouldn’t be—” “No,” I said.
And so they who were we
will never tell. I will never. You will not. And no.
Years later, they will look back. Both of them. They will see themselves holding
each other. See themselves smelling
each other (yes, and laughing). See themselves
doing those things that require a little assistance
with each other. Moving groceries, starting a car, or “Do that to me,” he said. You said.
“Like that.” Dusting off furniture in the secret place they kept, the place no one ever knew
