by Adam Pelzman
Julian reaches across my body, puts his right hand under my calf and his left hand under my thigh. Gently, he lifts my right leg, and it is from this perspective that I have a good view of it. My leg is pale—paler than my arms, which are more often exposed to the sun. There is a blotch of red on the kneecap, which is where blood seems to gather. I can see my foot—thin, drooping, curved inward. Julian spreads my leg out to the right, maybe ten or twelve inches from center. He lifts my left leg, the one where I had the bedsores last month, and this time I do not look. I do not want to see. Spreading my left leg out the same distance, he repeats the preparation. I extend my arms to the side, so that they are parallel to my shoulders, and I imagine that from above I might look like some sickly Canon of Proportions, one drawn by a novice art student. Or a surrealist.
Before Julian can ask where the lubricant is, I nod over to the nightstand. He removes the cap and squeezes a large amount into his palm. “You know, we would have needed this in fifty years anyway,” he says.
“That’s all I’ll need,” I say. “But you’re going to need a whole lot more in fifty years. Like some pills. And a defibrillator.”
“Good point.” Julian rubs the lubricant over his dick, which has retained its tumescence throughout this clinical process. “That should do it.”
I watch as Julian inserts his penis into me, observing not with the trembling anticipation of my youth, but with a curious, almost zoological interest in his insertion—as if I am watching a nature film documenting the curious mating habits of some rare primate. And where Julian inside me once elicited a glorious range of secretions, contractions, spasms, emotions, orgasms, it now offers nothing of the sort. Still, despite the limitations that we now experience, there is some pleasure I get from this, from surrounding Julian with my flesh. Maybe it is the joy of pleasuring another, albeit in an imperfect manner; or the pleasure of being of service to one we love; of receiving love over the objections of one’s own shame; of re-creating a better past, even though we both know that the re-creation is nothing of the sort—that it is nothing more than nostalgia, a longing for things to be the way they once were.
Because I have no sensation in my vagina, my first inkling that we are having intercourse is when Julian presses his hips into me, drives deep into me and thus moves my body upward, toward the headboard.
“You okay?” he asks, and I hate that he has to ask.
“Yes.”
Julian runs his hand along the band above my hips, and I feel his fingertips on my skin. He then leans down and presses his chest carefully on my breasts. The warmth of his skin activates the supertuned receptors on my nipples, sends a jolt down through my core and into the upper part of my spine.
“Oh, Julian, Julian. That feels good.”
Julian smiles, kisses me on the lips. The heat of his body combines with mine and in no time I start to sweat—not gym sweat or stuck-on-the-subway sweat, but sex sweat—slippery and brackish. I start to forget my self-consciousness, how peculiar my body looks, how limited its range of motion. I kiss Julian, sliding my tongue into his mouth, along the roof of his mouth, then back out and across his lips. I am here with him, cojoined and, yes, content.
The band above my waist flutters, its receptors attempting—unsuccessfully—to replicate an orgasm, getting tantalizingly close but not close enough. Julian makes love to me. Sadly, the days of fucking are over.
“I love you,” he says.
“I love you, too.” I wrap my right arm around his back. “Does it feel good?”
“It feels great, baby.”
“Good,” I say. “You know, you know I wish . . .” Julian places his hand over my mouth, stops me from continuing.
He brushes his fingertips across my nipples, and the sensation is now too much to bear. I shake my head. “Too much, it’s too much.” Julian understands and stops, kisses me on the forehead. I’m feeling tired now, as I no longer have good stamina. My endurance suffers in all areas of my life, including sex, and I can last only about five minutes, ten at the most. And then my body starts to break down. Forced to do all the work, my arms and shoulders will fill with lactic acid and burn. The inner lining of my vagina will begin to lose its lubrication and expose me to tears in the mucous membrane. And although I cannot feel it, I know that the attenuated skin on my upper thighs will begin to chafe and crack from the friction created by Julian’s body; the remnants of bedsores on my left leg will pulsate, redden, and threaten to reemerge. Sex, at this point, is not as a vehicle for reproduction or transcendence—but sex as a path to decay, death.
“You can come now, babe,” I say.
“Okay,” he responds, trying to hide his disappointment.
Julian’s thrusts grow deeper, quicker, more decisive. I await his release. I’ve been with this man long enough to know when he’s close. A few more, I think, and Julian will reach orgasm. Prior to climax, there will first be that exaggerated curl of the lower lip and a squint of the eyes. Then his face will go flat and serene, as if he is floating—a moment of quietude before ejaculation. And then the spasm of ecstasy that every woman loves to see in the man she loves: a mad grimace, as if he is lifting some heavy object, the primal groan, the convulsion, his hands tightening around my arms. And finally, the surrender, the fusion—the full weight of his body falling on to mine, into mine.
“Come, babe,” I whisper.
“I’m close.”
And then it happens. At first, there is the smell—vile and disturbing. My paralyzed body always expels a blast of noxious gas prior to defecation. I guess it is God’s way of sending up a warning flare. I notice it first, a split second before Julian. I pray that my body will behave, that it will allow Julian to finish before I soil myself. Prompted by the smell, Julian picks up the pace, thrusting faster and harder. But then the sounds follow: the rumbling of my bowels, the rush of feces through me.
“Hurry, babe,” I implore.
“I’m trying,” he responds, exasperated.
And then the final indignity. An awful sound interrupts our lovemaking—a splatter followed by a gurgling, and then a prolonged hiss. Julian stops and looks down. He sees that the bed is covered in shit, that we are covered in shit—a hot, viscous fecal stew.
My tears are immediate. My rage is immediate. My self-loathing is permanent, etched now into my genetic code.
But rather than withdraw from me, Julian stays inside. He falls back onto my chest, drapes the full weight of his body back onto mine. Here we lie, in my shit—in our shit. And as we hold each other, something odd happens. The olfactory receptors in my brain start the process of remapping, refusing to accept painful stimuli, converting them not yet into pleasurable stimuli but into neutral ones. I inhale deeply, searching for the smell of my crap. But I smell nothing other than Julian, the candles and the brackish sex sweat.
Julian strokes my hair. “I love you,” he whispers.
“I love you, too.” I tighten my weakened arms around his back—and there we lie.
“I’m going to get some towels,” he says after a few minutes, “clean you up.” Julian pulls out of me and stands to the side of the bed. I turn away, careful not to observe the dark mess on his skin.
“Don’t you go anywhere, I’ll be right back.”
“Where the fuck do you expect me to go?” I ask and give Julian a wink.
I use my arms to turn myself over onto my right side. Given my disability and the fatigue of intercourse, I struggle but succeed. On the bedside table is a photograph of us from before the accident. Julian and I are on a sailboat in the Peconic Bay, in the choppy waters between Shelter Island and Greenport. The wind whips in from the south, and you can make out a dark cloud in the background hell-bent for the North Fork. Julian slips on the wet deck. He loses his sense of direction and stands just as the boom shoots across the boat, cracking him across the cheekbone.
I lean a few inc
hes closer to the photograph to get a better look. He’s got blood running down the side of his face. He’s not badly hurt, just a short, shallow gash on the cheekbone that will require eight stitches. But it’s his ego, not his face, that takes the brunt of the blow. I’ve got my arm around his shoulder, kissing him on the cheek. I’m laughing because it’s a relief to see this man finally make a mistake. In the corner of the photograph, just above Julian’s head, Roger mockingly holds out a live lobster—its claws grasping wildly for Julian’s ear. Julian’s got a sheepish look, and, relieved to be fallible, he touches his fingers to the wound.
I use my right arm, push and return to my back. I inhale, hoping to detect nothing. I am not disappointed. The brain remapping; I smile and close my eyes.
TAP, TAP, PAUSE
This time, the first time since I met him, Julian actually calls me before he comes down. Sure enough, I’m in the mall one day with my girlfriend. Rebekah’s her name and she’s what I call a Juban, a Jewish girl from Cuba. Yup they exist, but there’s not many of them left. She’s real smart, studying to be a lawyer at UM and just got through her first year, which they say is the hardest. I’m so proud of her ’cause she’s one of my girls from the neighborhood and she’s had it just as hard as me. Came here when she was real young and lost her dad too, who was a secret rabbi in Havana, and it’s just her and her mom now. And she’s my only friend who knows I’ve been stripping, and I love her ’cause there’s no judgment from her, just pure love. She even came to see me dance one night and the look on her face when I hit the pole was something I’ll never forget. She could barely look and almost fell off the chair she was laughing so hard. After I got off the stage, she said guys pay you for that? No wonder you’re broke!
Anyway, we’re looking for some cute sandals, me and Rebekah, ’cause that’s what we love to do when we want some retail therapy but don’t want to spend too much money. Just then, I get a call on my phone and it’s a number I don’t recognize. Normally, I’m not answering a call like that ’cause who knows who’s on the other line. Maybe a bill collector or an ex-boyfriend or some girl from the club who wants me to cover her shift. And I don’t want any of those calls.
But something makes me take that call and who’s on the other line but Julian, and boy, am I surprised to get a call from him, and that’s exactly what I tell him. Boy, am I surprised to get a call from you. And he says I’m surprised I’m calling you, so that makes two of us. You calling ’cause you want to marry me someday? I ask, all joking, but only half joking, I guess, ’cause sometimes I really do have feelings for the man. There’s silence on the phone. Or you in town and just want to get laid? There’s more silence, so I repeat you want to get laid? Still nothing, then he says yes. All right, then, now we’re getting somewhere, and I’m having a good time with him ’cause he’s real fun to tease. Same hotel, same room? I want to know. Yes, again. Am I getting a burger and a ginger ale in exchange for having sex with you? Well, not in exchange, really, but yes, he says. And how about fries? Sweet potato fries? Another yes from Julian. Then I’ll see you there at eight.
Rebekah wants to know who it is and I tell her it’s the guy from New York. She knows all about Julian, ’cause I told her about him that very first night when he made me come and I fell asleep for a few seconds on his shoulder. Now, most girlfriends would say Perla, don’t you spend one second thinking about that man, but Rebekah listens to me describe how he touched me and how good it felt, and she knows how rare that is. She’s more of a romantic than I am, maybe ’cause I dance for a living and she doesn’t, so she just gives me a big hug and says happy for you girl, that sounds real nice.
Rebekah and I say good-bye, waving our new sandals in the air. I get in my car and figure I’ve got a couple hours to go home, have a shower, put on some nice clothes and then get up to the hotel, which is a good hour from our place. But as I’m pulling on to A1A, I get a call from my mom and she sounds all frantic and overwhelmed and I say what’s wrong? Turns out she got a burn on her hand at work, spilled some water in a frying pan by mistake and the cooking oil shot up and hit her wrist, not too bad but real painful. They got it all bandaged up and she’ll be fine to work in a couple of days, but still that’s two days without work and the diner won’t pay you if you don’t work. No paid sick days or worker’s comp at the diner.
My mom’s been providing for me and her for so long, she’s so proud and self-reliant since my dad died, that anything that keeps her away from work—anything that maybe gives someone else a chance to take her job—anything like that makes her real afraid and nervous, stirs up tons of fear and she gets seriously emotional. And that’s not all, Perlita, she says, ’cause we got no water, something’s wrong with the pipes and it’s a few days until we can use the shower, the toilet, the sink.
Great, I’m thinking. My mom’s hurt and that makes it hard for me to leave her and go enjoy a few hours with Julian. And also we don’t have any water, which makes showering pretty damn hard. Impossible. And ’cause I’m all sweaty from walking around the mall with Rebekah, I don’t know how the hell I’m gonna be ready to get into bed with that man. Fuck it, I think, I’m just gonna cancel Julian, go home and help my mom, tell her everything’s fine and we’ll be okay.
When I get to the house, Mom’s on the couch and she’s drinking a cold beer, which she almost never does, and she smiles when she sees me and says oh, baby, it’s been a bad day, one of the worst. So I plop right down next to her, lift up her burned arm and look at the white bandage around the wrist and say girl, what the hell were you doing within even five feet of a frying pan? She shrugs her shoulders in a damned if I know way and points to a bottle of aspirin on the table and a couple of Latin gossip magazines with pretty Colombians and Venezuelans from the telenovelas.
I look at my watch, six thirty-five, and think about Julian. I stare off into the distance, through the window and out to the mango tree outside, to the house where Old Pepe lives, just looking out at those mangoes and thinking about Julian and the club and that bitch Lopez, then Jade and her big old hips and on to my dad. And I’m wondering what the hell kind of life I made for myself?
It’s like some sick joke, where you start out in Cuba, not even enough food to eat half the time, but there’s great music and dancing and lots of love from your family. So there’s misery and there’s ecstasy, and you really do get used to the misery, don’t even know it’s all around you, up to your knees, under your fingernails, in your hair. It’s everywhere, so it’s really nowhere. And then you get over here and all you’re supposed to get is the ecstasy without the misery, that’s the propaganda that the States tells the world or that the world tells about the States, or a bit of both. But the truth is there’s just as much misery here, but a different kind.
The misery here is worse ’cause it’s relative. There’s enough people here who aren’t struggling that you can’t go half a day without being reminded how bad you got it. It’s not like that in Cuba, where everyone’s got the same. Nothing. And the funny thing about the States is the highs aren’t as high as I thought they’d be. I’m still dancing like I used to. Not salsa and merengue with my dad, but a different sort of dancing, joyless and mercenary. Mercenary. That’s a word my dad taught me, and if I used it with Julian or Roger, those bastards would raise their eyebrows all surprised. Julian’s a condescending fuck sometimes, but boy, does he make me feel good.
My mom pops an aspirin and says don’t you worry about me, Perlita, my hand’s gonna be fine and I think I’ll just stay at Felipe’s until the water comes back, maybe a bit longer. I’d invite you to come stay with us, she says, but Felipe’s got a small place and his cousins staying with him for the month. I guess I look sad, and when she sees that my feelings are a little hurt, she says Perlita, you can probably come over and use the shower if you need. I tell her it’s all right, thanks for the offer, but I can go shower at Rebekah’s or Carolina’s until the water comes back.
&
nbsp; Felipe is my mom’s boyfriend. They’ve been together now for a few months and she’s been staying at his place two or three nights a week, so I haven’t been seeing her as much lately. For years, it’s been just me and her, so this is a real hard adjustment for me. And having her separate a bit like this is bringing up all sorts of feelings, none of them good, and making me miss my dad even more. Anyway, this Felipe’s a Cuban guy and compared to the other guys she’s been dating since my dad died, he’s not half bad. He’s got a repair shop in Little Havana, car rims, tires, mufflers, that sort of thing. Best thing is that Felipe doesn’t seem to get too drunk and he’s not asking Mom for any money. Most of the other men she dates are either abusive or drunk or gambling all their money away. They’re out chasing girls, sometimes leering at me like they want to fuck me. But this one’s fine, just a regular nice guy. Nothing like my father, who was real special and smart, with a smile that made you feel like he was the happiest man in the world—which I think he was.
Now, Julian’s all the way up in Lauderdale, so it’s a long drive up 95 and I better move fast if I’m gonna make it by eight. I got lots of failings, but being late isn’t one of them. I’m a punctual girl, always have been, always will be. When I have a shift that starts at one, I’m there at ten of and never a second after. That’s one of the things my dad taught me—that one of the most respectful things you can do for another person is be on time. ’Cause what’s more valuable than one single minute in a human being’s life? Time is finite, he used to say, the most precious and limited resource.
Speaking of precious and limited resources, there’s no water in the house, so I figure my only option is to shower at the hotel. I jump in my Mini, put on a salsa station I love and they’re playing one of my favorites by the Fania All Stars. I’m tapping a beat on the steering wheel, thinking about dancing to “Ella Fue” when I was a little girl, the whole family dancing and laughing in the backyard. I get on 95, there’s hardly any traffic for a change and I’m up at Sunrise in no time. Once I’m off the exit, I head east toward the beach, green lights all the way for maybe the first time in my entire life.
