by Finas, A. G.
Suddenly, Gina the perpetual devil on Allie's shoulder is beside her, shouting into her ear. “ You'll never have this chance again!”
“I know but...fine, whatever. But only because you made me,” Allie says.
She squirms and plays with his penis to the beat of the music, feels it lengthen and stiffen in her hand. She considers it her farewell waltz with strange penises. Something to file away and fantasize about from time to time, she thinks before kissing the fireman on the cheek.
“I'm engaged!” She proclaims. She feels very guilty about playing with him but feels a little better when she sees the activity on the couch. April, who is married and has two kids is giving the milkman the blow job of his life. One of the priests reaches down April's shirt as she strokes his hard cock.
“I've always admired her ability to multitask,” Gina says to Allie. Gina then snaps a picture of the scene. Shit. A camera. Allie's stomach sinks.
“You didn't take a picture of me searching for muffins, did you?” Allie asks. Gina flashes a smile, then kisses Allie on the cheek. “Let me see it!” Allie demands. Gina moves the camera away just in time to avoid Allie's swipe.
“ You worry too much!” Gina says before slapping a priest or the milkman on the ass- Allie can't tell them apart anymore.
“You have to erase it. Tell me you'll erase it,” Allie says. “You know how jealous Nick gets!”
“Hold that look!” Gina snaps a picture of Allie's wide eyed and incredulous face. She turns to snap another photo of the growing tangle of bodies and limbs on the couch. “So funny!” she shouts.
Okay so maybe this is payback for what happened freshman year. But just because she took the picture doesn't mean she's going to show it to Nick. She just wants to see me sweat. Right?
Allie finds a chair away from the commotion- a serious, high backed leather piece that seems like a good one in which to rationalize away her fears. Even if Nick finds out, was what she did really that bad? It was only a few tugs on a stripper's cock- nothing more. Urologists probably did more than that when greeting their patients. She hadn't gotten much- if any pleasure out of it- only guilt.
Yes, her party is turning into a orgy but from here on, Allie vows to be on her best behavior, which means no more drinking. And the penis touching? That was her playing the role of concerned den mother by making sure that the stripper's cock was safe and sturdy and wouldn't snap in the line of duty. Splinters from a broken penis are the worst.
Yes. Even if Nick finds out, I can explain myself. I can make him understand. Oh god, I hope I can make him understand.
Gina approaches Allie with a drink. “There you are! Why are you stewing here all by yourself? This is supposed to be your party!”
“I don't trust you not to show Nick that picture and tell him about tonight!” Allie says. “I'm sorry, I just don't.”
Gina leans in, wraps her arm around Allie's shoulder and whispers into her ear. “I wouldn't either,” she says. “But 'cmon, let's go! It's a party!”
Nick
Allie is astonished that Nick is still awake. He had just sat through all 173 minutes of Beaucoup De Petites Morts (Allie's selection) with a six pack and nearly a fifth of whiskey sloshing through him. Allie liked the film even though the title was misleading. There were few Petites Morts and what had led to them was anything but graphic. No kind of sleeping pill could have worked better on Kevin and yet, here he is- still grunting and drinking on the cusp of midnight. Even sober, staying awake for the duration of any movie at all is a notable accomplishment for Nick. She's worried. As far as she knows, the only force powerful enough to keep him awake through all that is jealousy. Gina and her damn camera. But it's almost sweeps week and he's a first year station manager. Hopefully it's that. Yes, probably that.
“I really wanted Jacques to come back, even though he was kind of a dirt bag. Then again, I kind of go for the dirt bags, right?” No reaction. “So really, what did you think?”
He looks at her as though he hadn't known she was sitting next to him, then blinks. He grunts and frowns and takes another pull from his bottle.
“I see. That's a good point. Well... I'm going to bed. You coming?” Allie asks.
Nick grunts and his eyelids droop. Allie wonders if he is finally passing out.
She carefully kisses him on the forehead. His eyes pop wide open at this.
“You sure you're going to be okay?” She asks.
Nick is looking away but nodding. It is a firm nod. Allie hopes this means that whatever sort of volcanic activity is percolating inside him will dissipate soon enough.
Nick appears behind Allie as she is drying her face in their bathroom. He embraces her. Allie exhales in relief. It's not me, it's sweeps week. Life will be so much better after it.
Allie loves his giant teddy bear hugs. She appreciates this one especially, even if his boozy breath makes her nose crinkle. This is the Nick she knows and loves. She tilts her head up to kiss the bottom of his chin. He kisses her head before clearing his throat. “You still want to get married?” he asks.
Allie gulps. “ Why would you ask that?”
And then the pressure from his arms begins to increase and he presses her hard into the sink counter. “Nick, what are you doing?” Nick latches onto her throat and squeezes, turning her scream into froth. His body eclipses her slender figure- almost swallows her in its folds. Her hands- doll hands in comparison to his- claw and scratch helplessly at the one on her throat. She notices their faces in the mirror- his face red and swollen with welling eyes and hers the same only on a smaller scale. They are in the same position as they were in the photograph they had sent to announce their engagement.
“ I saw your emails,” he whispers acidly into her ear. “Some guy you used to fuck, yeah?” Allie struggles to register what he's talking about. Since they'd met, she hadn't been with anyone but Nick. Then she remembers the email an old flame had sent her a few weeks ago.
It was innocent enough, Allie thought. A few replies were exchanged. The tone was friendly; nothing forward or even flirtatious, really. He suggested they meet to catch up over coffee and Allie agreed but they never got around to it. She was going to mention the emails but kept forgetting.
Nick won't let up and Allie feels on the verge of losing consciousness.
“Listen you bitch,” Nick presses into her harder. “Some day. Could be tomorrow. Could be five years from now. Could be at the church before we walk down the aisle- someday I'm going to violate you. Hard. And you're going to wish you had never met that little fuck. Don't you ever, ever, go behind my back again. You hear me?” They are both hyperventilating when he releases her. Allie exhales and crumples to the floor.
“I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry,” she repeats over and over through waves of sobs.
Sure, she knew Nick had a jealous side but not, she thought, one that was prone to violence. At bars when Nick would leave her side, he would often return to find men talking to her. Nick would insinuate himself into the conversation, give the man a firm handshake and wrap his arm around her while giving the man a death stare. It was a joke between she and Nick, or so she thought. She would enjoy watching the men squirm and choose their exit. She would look forward to laughing about it later on. But aside from dislocating the jaw of a strange man who accosted her in a parking lot on a dark evening, Allie had never known Nick to get physical. If Nick would go berserk and almost squeeze the life out of her over a few innocuous emails, Allie wondered what he would do if he saw the picture from her bachelorette party...
When her crying subsides, she crawls to the bathroom door and peeks out. Nick had returned to the living room. She goes to bed trembling, her mind reeling with terror and regret over the the emails. This morphs into an unusual sense of excitement over the thought of being taken in this way, which quickly turns into shame. What the hell is wrong with me?
She had known a few rape victims whom she had met through Gina- a rape victim herself- and could only imagine the he
ll they had gone through.
Her imagination won't let her sleep and she reels with possibilities. She thinks about a goading him into getting it over with. Or waiting for the the time to come and then just laying back and taking it with a defiant smile. Or sneaking up on him and slitting his throat in the middle of the night. Or sitting back and watching him eat food she'd poisoned. Eat up, fucker.
At three in the morning, Allie is almost certain of what she has to do. To bolster her confidence, she goes into the bathroom, turns on the shower and calls Gina. Gina agrees but tells Allie to pursue a swifter timetable. She could hide at her place.
Allie surprises him with a breakfast of pancakes, bacon, eggs and orange juice and watches him eat in silence. She watches as he cleans and dries the dishes. He never does this, so Allie figures this is his version of reconciliation. She kisses him on the cheek and tells him she is going to pick something up at the mall. Instead, she goes to the courthouse to file a temporary restraining order.
Packing
Allie lies in bed, depleted. The energy of her decision to leave Nick is gone. She would rather stay here and sleep until the restraining order wears off. She will wake up in a better mood and with an improved sense of perspective. Gina is rattling through her closet, helping her pack. Allie tells her to stop. “Put everything back,” she says.
Allie explains to Gina that she loves him, after all. Enough to have agreed to spend the rest of her life with him. Leaving him feels like a stupid, rash move on her part. He was probably just making a hollow threat- not starting a pattern but making an anomalous, drunken indiscretion, she tells Gina. She feels hollow. Flaky.
But Gina is ready for this and reaffirms Allie's decision. She emerges from Allie's closet waving a hanger at Allie. “ If he did what you described, he'll probably do it again- but probably worse for an even lesser offense. No, you did the right thing to get out. Guilt and depression are normal but you have to rise above that. And you are! And let's face it- No one wants to admit it- I certainly didn't- but the waiting game, the unpredictability keeps things exciting. Could he snap today? Tomorrow? A month from now? It's like a drug. And when it finally happens and you are bleeding on the floor, the crazy thing is that you can't help but feel sorry for him! And you feel even more guilty about whatever minor thing you think you did to set him off. So you rationalize. You think he's just misunderstood- you run to him, thinking that you can save him. But then he does it again- perpetuating the cycle and tightening the chain around your neck. No. There's no going back to him, dear. Sorry. Not while I'm alive.”
Allie wipes away her tears and motions for a hug. “Why can't you be my husband?”
Gina leans back coolly and lowers her voice to affect a masculine rasp. “I'd be way too much man for you, sweetheart. And look what I found!” Gina scrambles to the closet and comes out with the tote bag from the scavenger hunt. Gina holds it with an outstretched arm like David clenching Goliath's severed head. She spills its contents onto the bed and then moves back to the closet.
Allie smiles as she sifts through the items and flips through the notepad she had used to write down the addresses of the houses they had stolen from. She intended to return the items or pay someone else to do it, so technically she would only be guilty of borrowing without asking. Someday, she thinks.
One place she definitely won't be going back to is thirty-three Cranberry Lane- the house with the crazy mother and drug dealing son. Sorry, 'human potential pioneering' son, if you're listening, Tommy. She inspects the desk calculator Tommy gave her. There is a piece of tape over the battery compartment that she hadn't noticed before. Allie peels it off and removes the cover. A small neatly folded rectangle of paper with “Allie" written on it in pen falls out. Allie shivers as she stares at it, unsure if she can take the creepiness that surely lies inside. In the end, curiosity gets the best of her, and she opens it. A small baggie falls out with two tiny round pills in it. A note is scrawled on the paper.
Take one pill with water after waking up in the morning, then go back to sleep. Congratulations on taking a big step toward becoming a great artist.
-Tommy
“What are you doing?” Gina asks.
Allie covers up the pills and note. “Just thinking,” Allie says.
“Remember this?” Gina asks. Gina is holding the vibrator she'd given Allie in college. It's still in its original packaging.
“Guess I'll be putting that to use now,” Allie says, but she can't possibly fathom when, since her sex drive is dead and buried, thanks to Nick.
Spare Bedroom or Studio
Allie wanted the opposite of Nick and thought she found him in Kevin, a one-time love interest of Gina's from grad school. He had an easy, disarming smile, didn't brood or drink to excess and was practically a eunuch. Like Allie after Nick, his feelings about sex lived in the spectrum between ambivalence and fear, which was the main reason his romantic involvement with Gina was short lived. Gina warned her.
“I don't know, Allie. I mean, he won't even share a bed or a bedroom with anyone. Ever.”
“Then he's perfect!”
They would get a multi-decade jump on the inevitable. They would prove that a sexless marriage between people in the prime of their lives didn't have to be a joyless, cobwebbed pit of despair. In fact, it would be better than a typical marriage. It would be less complicated and more honest. Sexual passion? That was a relic of another age, the province of the less evolved. Allie and Nick would tour the world extolling the benefits and virtues of a sexless marriage. The dust jackets on their coauthored books would have pictures of them in matching outfits doing things like walking together on beaches during sunsets and riding tandem bicycles. She could imagine their photo on the cover of a Sunday newspaper magazine insert under the following headline:
Romance Without Sex: How One Attractive Young Couple Does it. (Or Not.)
She remembers this and chuckles to herself on a Sunday morning when sprawled out on the couch with one of these inserts. Kevin is out of town on business. It's their first weekend apart since they'd gotten married.
Allie looks up from the insert to the three by eight foot oil painting that dominates their east living room wall. And it looks back at her. She titled it Horus Revisited- a rendering of the Egyptian deity's eye in angry slathers of yellow, orange and black. The painting took her a week and a half from conception to completion. It's good – not great but very good, Allie thinks. Far better than I could do now.
An ophthalmologist’s offer of five thousand in cash for the original took her by surprise. But Nick pointed out that he was probably just hoping to get into her pants. She told the doctor that it wasn't for sale, and that he would have to wait for her next painting. That would be more than worth his money. But then Nick assaulted her and she fell into a creative dormancy from which she has yet to emerge.
She realizes now under the gaze of her own creation that Nick's trembling hands had never really left her throat. Allie feels her anger rising- not only at Nick but also at herself. She had let him get the best of her. Deep down, she knew the notion that her lack of sexual interest somehow made her more evolved was a delusion.
And what does she really want?
First, she knows what she doesn't want. She doesn't want to be an economist for the rest of her working life like her father or be an evangelist for abstinence who poses for tacky photos, and she certainly doesn't want to be back with Nick. The wealth and fame of being a great artist isn't even that appealing. No, all she wants is to have her heart back- or at least enough of it to rediscover her passion for creation. To create with abandon! She wants to get lost in the process- the lifestyle -but fully submersed this time in its flow. At its worst, she would make progress and learn. At its best, it would be a joyful, more meaningful existence, one that she had only sampled.
Spare bedroom or studio.
She told Kevin that this would be the weekend that she would decide what to do with the room she'd set up as a painting s
tudio and then abandoned without ever lifting a pencil or paintbrush in it. The natural lighting from three directions was a major reason why they'd chosen the house but now the room is almost a source of shame. She has long insisted that the room remain closed.
Her thoughts wander to the pills. She visits them in her bathroom where they are taped to the cabinet frame under the sink. Two little pills. Holding them in her palm, she knows the time has come: either flush them now or try one. Otherwise, why keep them around at all?
Spare bedroom or studio. Tony Robins is a nice guy. What's the worst that can happen? Studio!
