The First Bad Man

by Miranda July

  I squinted at the photograph on the screen. Kirsten was short with broad shoulders and chin-length dirty-blond hair that was either damp with massage oil or just naturally very stringy. She wore glasses with circular John Lennon–style frames and karate pants with a big white T-shirt that had a picture of a dancing alligator on it. The alligator had green, black, and red dreadlocks and was saying MSC ROCKS, MON. Her smile was enormous and hopeful, full of spitty gums. Her small eyes strained open and her arms were extended like an uncertain opera singer. Or a teenager. She was even less attractive than I had been at the same age.

  When I looked up Clee was gone. I went outside, and she wasn’t there either. She was probably in some car doing something with someone. I rubbed the side of my head; a pinging. Maybe I was dying or drunk. I walked into the middle of the street and then down the block. On foot it was hard to remember which house it was until I saw the toddlers in the window. Just their silhouettes through a yellow curtain. Because they were twins everything they did was mirrored like inkblots, a symmetrical butterfly, spilled milk, a cow’s skull. I could still hear the low part of the beat but otherwise it was quiet when I dialed.

  Phillip answered immediately.

  “Cheryl?”

  “I’ve decided,” I said, my eyes on the yellow curtain.

  He exhaled a tight little laugh. “I’m afraid I’ve been harassing you.”

  “Yes, definitely, but I’ve come to my conclusion.”

  “Some of those texts were pretty inappropriate.”

  “All of them were.”

  “I wasn’t sure if you got them all.”

  “I did.”

  “Because you didn’t always write back. I kept telling Kirsten how busy you are.”

  “I’m not that busy.”

  “Well, sure, you don’t fill your life up with meaningless activity like the rest of us.”

  “I just didn’t have an answer yet.”

  “Which is what I told Kirsten. Did you get the one I just sent? The picture?”

  “I got it.”

  He was quiet. The light in their bedroom snapped off; the yellow curtain went dark.

  “Should I say my decision now?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Do it.”

  When I got back Clee and four other people were standing on the couch singing a song that didn’t seem to be in English. The part everyone liked the best went jiddy jiddy jiddy rah rah. Phillip was already having intercourse with Kirsten, I could feel it—from his point of view. I was in him, in her. Each time Clee sang jiddy jiddy jiddy rah rah she pumped her pelvis forward to the beat and her bosom bounced. Dear God, look at those jugs, Phillip panted. I whispered the word.

  “Jugs.”

  He wanted to rub her through her jeans. Jiddy jiddy jiddy rah rah. And cream in her mouth. Mutual soaping. Jiddy jiddy jiddy rah rah. My member was stiff. The song was nearing its peak, she and the other girls, the ugly girls, were jumping faster and faster, and the men were screaming at the top of their lungs, not even to the song anymore, just releasing howls because it felt good.

  I went into my room, locked the door, took off her purple bra with its shiny, shiny straps, and pressed my balding head into her jugs. My big, hairy hand worked itself down the front of her jeans and my fingers, with their thick blocky fingernails, slid into her puss. She was wet and whimpering. “Phillip,” she moaned. “Put it in.” So I quietly, forcefully, made love to her mouth. This was the kind of young woman he deserved—a bombshell, not a rat-faced little girl.

  After such a long buildup the release was immediate and incredible. When I creamed it was a huge mess, semen everywhere. Not just on her hair and jugs and face but all over my duvet cover and the throw rug. A rope of semen even hit the top of the dresser, splattering across my hairbrush, my earring box, and the picture of my mother as a young woman.

  THEY DIDN’T HELP CLEAN UP. They pretended to—at around noon Kate picked up some beer bottles and asked where the trash was, but when I said, “Those are recyclables,” she looked overwhelmed and sat down. Clee wandered around groggily in boxer shorts and a tank top, her hair matted in the back. They were both very hungover.

  At first I thought it might have been a onetime thing that had a lot to do with the punch. But as I vacuumed and mopped and sponged and wiped down the walls, I had to glance down repeatedly to be sure I wasn’t visibly pulsing or swelling, because there was so much energy vibrating in my groin. It was a new experience for me. When Clee parted her legs so I could wipe off the coffee table between them I had to put the sponge down and walk myself to my bedroom. I kept my hand over Clee’s moaning mouth so Kate wouldn’t hear. Not my hand—Phillip’s. He thrust so hard his tufty ears shook.

  At dusk Kate ordered a pizza.

  “It’s a thank-you pizza,” she said. “Thank you.”

  Clee dug in and I nibbled at a narrow slice.

  “My dad is remarried now, by the way,” Kate said, chewing behind her polite hand.

  I smiled and nodded. I could barely recall what he looked like but it would be rude to say that. “We had a good time, but it was just one date.”

  “Do you remember what you wore?” Kate asked.

  Clee gave her a sharp look.

  “No,” I laughed. “It was a long time ago.”

  Kate took a sip of soda and cleared her throat.

  “My dad said—ow!” She paused to inspect the spot where Clee had just kicked her. “My dad said you were dressed like a lesbian.”

  I smiled. Mark Kwon making a big show out of my failure to attract him was not hard to picture; that’s just what he was like. Clee turned her head away as if this conversation was too boring to endure.

  “Did he say that?”

  “Yeah. What were you wearing?”

  “I don’t remember.” But now that she asked I suddenly did remember.

  “Was it something like what you’re wearing right now?” She pointed at my pants and tucked-in T-shirt.

  “No, this is just to clean in. No, I think it was a long green dress with many buttons down the front. Corduroy.” I still had it.

  For some reason this was hilarious to Kate; she laughed and looked at Clee with a gaping mouth until Clee finally smiled.

  KATE HAD SUCH A GREAT TIME. Kate didn’t need her Tupperware back. Kate would text Clee about Kevin and Zack. Kate had trouble loading up the mini ATV. Kate wanted to know where the nearest gas station was. Kate needed to use the bathroom one more time. Kate sat in her truck looking at her phone. Kate finally, finally left.

  Clee shut the door and looked right at me—squinting. For a moment I thought she knew what I’d been up to. Then she simply slapped me, as if the whole visit was my fault and could have been avoided. “Fighting from Inside Cars” began with a (simulated) slap, so we continued with that scenario. “Come here, sugar-pie,” she recited dourly.

  We were back, except it was too late—I was playing something else now. I mimed knee thrusts and elbow jabs, awkwardly wheeling around a phantom erection. At the end I limped to my room, throbbing; shut the door; and slapped her cheek with my giant hairy hand. Just moments after I creamed in her mouth, my phone rang. If it was him I would ask what he did to Kirsten and then I’d do that to Clee. It was just another roiling corner of our journey together; I felt what he felt and it was staggering, tremendous.

  But it was Dr. Broyard’s office, calling to confirm my upcoming appointment on Tuesday, June 19. I imagined telling him my globus was gone and then trying to explain the cure by referencing his relationship with Ruth-Anne. I could hear her breathing.

  “Ruth-Anne?”

  “If you need to cancel, please call forty-eight hours in advance.”

  It was definitely her.

  “Would it be possible to talk now? A phoner? I’m in the midst of some complicated new feelings.”
>
  She was silent.

  “I guess I can wait until tomorrow.”

  “We’ll see you Thursday the nineteenth,” she said.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I described tapping into Phillip’s lust, his overwhelming appetites and aggressive explosions that convulsed through me. Ruth-Anne seemed unsurprised, as if I were late to my own party.

  “Right. And perhaps we don’t even need to call it Phillip’s lust? Maybe it’s just lust.”

  “Well, it’s not mine. These just aren’t the kinds of things I would think about, on my own, without him.”

  “So you don’t find it arousing when she attacks you?”

  “Everything she does to me, I pretend I’m doing to her, as Phillip.”

  “I see. And how does Cheryl Glickman feel?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, what do you feel?”

  Me, I thought. Me. Me. Me. Nothing specific came to mind.

  “Are you masturbating yourself to orgasm?”

  I smiled at the floor. “Yes?”

  “Are you asking me?”

  “Yes. I am. But that’s just, you know, behind the scenes.”

  Ruth-Anne nodded as if I had just said something very astute. Maybe I had. I wondered if I was her favorite patient, or at least the only one who could talk on her level.

  “Can I ask you something that’s a little bit related to this?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “Remember when you called yesterday, about my appointment with Dr. Broyard?”

  Her face changed.

  “Well, I’m not sure I should keep seeing him—it might feel funny now.”

  “Funny how?”

  “Not funny, more like uncomfortable. To see you in your receptionist role. And him. Now that I know.”

  She stared at me for a long time and I wondered if I was her least-favorite patient.

  “Well, it’s up to you,” she said finally. “But I believe you’ve missed the forty-eight-hour cancellation window.”

  CLEE THOUGHT HER PINK BOXERS covered her but they didn’t. If she was sitting cross-legged I could see the edge of her dark blond pubic hair and sometimes more. One morning I saw a flash of labia, pink and hanging loose. Not the tidy, concealed meat that I had been imagining. With this new information Phillip had to go back and redo all the sex he had already done. He really wanted to see her anus, though he wouldn’t have called it that. I reread all his texts but didn’t find a word for it. I went with pucker. I’LL ADMIT IT, he might have written, I WANT TO RAM MY STIFF MEMBER INTO HER PUCKER.

  When he was mentioned at work, usually in terms of fundraising, I felt a shiver of invisibility—not that I was him, but it was strange to hear him talked about so freely.

  “Phil Bettelheim’s donation was on the smaller side this year,” said Jim, “but it’s only June, he might give again. Has anyone walked him through the high-risk outreach initiative?”

  We hadn’t spoken since I gave him my blessing; I guessed he was busy actually doing all the things I was pretending he was. The thought gave me a sad ache, and even this ache was arousing. I felt so close to him. It could never be proven, but I suspected we were becoming stiff at the same time, possibly even ejaculating in unison, the way women’s menstrual periods sometimes become synchronized. I wondered where Clee was in her cycle.

  “Cheryl.” I looked up. A face so like and unlike hers. “How’s my daughter? Is she behaving?”

  “Oh yes,” I said, too quickly. “Absolutely.” Suzanne crossed her arms, waiting. She knew everything.

  “Be honest. I know how she is.” She looked me dead in the eye.

  “She watches a lot of TV,” I whispered.

  Suzanne sighed. “She takes after Carl’s mother—not a ton up here.” She tapped her forehead. For an uncomfortable moment I felt almost protective of Clee.

  “She’s more instinctual,” I said.

  She rolled her eyes. “But thank you. Carl and I are thinking of some way to repay you. Not—I don’t mean money.”

  HER COWLIKE VACUOUSNESS DIDN’T REALLY bother me anymore. Or it didn’t matter—her personality was just a little piece of parsley decorating warm tawny haunches. Clee was bouncing up and down on Phillip’s stiff member every day, many times a day, and at first it seemed he would never get tired of creaming in her puss winged by the dark blond pubic hair. But now, ten days later, I had a problem. He wanted it just as much, even more, but it took longer and longer to get there—sometimes as many as thirty minutes. Sometimes never. I tried unusual positions, new locations. One fantasy involved Ruth-Anne observing the intercourse, admiring and applauding with clinical approval. It was so unlikely that it worked, for a short time. But the smallest thing could stymie Phillip’s release.

  Clee’s foot smell. Before it was the least of my problems; now it was a real turnoff. Phillip sometimes put plastic bags on her feet, trapping in the smell with rubber bands just so he could become stiff.

  Cream in my puss, she begged. In me! In me! her puss whined, through aching mushy lips.

  Not until you get your feet taken care of, he barked. I know a chromotherapist who specializes in this, best on the west side. Tell him I sent you.

  I waited for a neutral moment to bring it up, then I plopped down on the arm of the couch. She was slurping ramen from a cup.

  “Good stuff?” She stopped eating and frowned distrustfully. We hadn’t exchanged unscripted dialogue since Kate’s visit. “First of all: peace. Okay?”

  She furrowed her brow and looked at the V my fingers were making. I had no idea what I was doing.

  “Okay,” I continued. “We live together, we are sometimes . . . physically close?” My voice rose to a question here; it was an insane thing to say given that I plowed her many times a day as Phillip. But I meant the fight scenarios. She nodded, putting her soup down. She was listening with an almost disconcerting level of attentiveness. I fingered the Post-it in my back pocket.

  “Look, I don’t want to be too forward here, or say something that you’re going to take offense to.” Clee shook her head like No, no, I won’t be offended.

  “I can speak candidly, then?”

  She actually laughed, and her mouth broke into a smile, a real smile. I’d never seen that before. Her teeth were huge.

  “I’ve been hoping that you would,” she said, now pressing her lips together as if there was an ocean of other smiles and more laughter on the other side and she was trying to hold it back for just a few more seconds. She nodded for me to go ahead, to say it.

  My hand had been waiting for its cue and I watched with a distant horror as it came forward with the Post-it. She peeled it off my palm and studied Dr. Broyard’s address and the date of my appointment with soft, quizzical eyes. Thursday, June 19, tomorrow. There was nothing to do but continue with the plan.

  “The situation with your feet—the odor, I mean—”

  I’d never seen a face change shape like that. It dropped: every feature fell. I hurried on.

  “My friend Phillip swears by Dr. Broyard for athlete’s foot. When you get there, tell the receptionist I sent you—I’m giving you my appointment.” I pointed at the paper.

  Now her face was red, about to explode. Her eyes were watering. Then she took a breath and all at once she was perfectly calm. More than calm—blank.

  THE LAST THING I EXPECTED was that she would go. But Friday morning there was a sundrop crystal hanging from the lock on the bathroom window and a tiny glass bottle next to her toothbrush. WHITE. Was that even a color? But I could see it just looking at the back of her blond head; she was subtly but utterly different. It was impossible to put a name on it. Not happier or sadder or less foul-smelling. Just whiter. Paler. I couldn’t wait for therapy; Ruth-Anne had actually seen her now. Which maybe was the whole point.

  I leaned
back in the leather couch. “So. What did you think of Clee?”

  “She seemed young.”

  I nodded encouragingly. Ideally she would say “shapely” or “curvaceous” in a clinically approving way. But Ruth-Anne seemed finished with her appraisal.

  “Would you say she’s what you pictured?”

  “More or less, yes.”

  “Any man would become stiff looking at her, right?” I had hoped I would be brave enough to use one of Phillip’s words in front of Ruth-Anne, and I was. It was working; my groin felt warm and full of cream. As soon as I got home I would use the Ruth-Anne–watching fantasy.

  Suddenly Ruth-Anne stood up.

  “No,” she barked, slapping her hands together violently. “Stop immediately.”

  My blood went cold. “What? What?”

  She crossed her arms, walked once around her chair, then sat again.

  “Not okay. Not okay to do with me. Okay with Phillip, okay with a janitor, or a fireman or a waiter. Not okay with me.”

  She was talking to me like I didn’t understand English. I felt like a gorilla. My finger went to my eye; maybe she had made me cry. No, she hadn’t.

  “I don’t want to be a part of it.” Her voice was a little softer now; she gestured toward the window. “There’s a whole world of people you can use, but not me. Do you understand?”