But it turned out he’d stolen the computer and broken into the motel, so to avoid charges or the mental hospital he needed to radically upgrade his meds. Which he happily did; once the euphoria wore off he was terrified and mortified. He was much more balanced with the new regime, able to take the stable job at Starwalk, able to function so much better in so many ways.
We sacrificed things though. Our sex life disappeared into nothing. I blamed my continuing weight gain but he swore it wasn’t that. He just lost all interest and even with his willing attempts, letting me fondle or suck him, he couldn’t get hard.
But we were happy. We were successful, well off, had a comfortable home, good jobs and each other. For his sanity and my sobriety? It was a small price to pay.
“I think I’ll go to bed,” he says as he drops the linen dinner napkins into the laundry chute. “I want to listen to this Ted talk on microprocessors.”
For a moment, as he looks at me, I panic, thinking that he might just shake my hand, like we’re colleagues rather than a married couple. But he leans forward and kisses me softly on my cheek before padding down the stone tiled hallway to our bedroom.
I could follow, climb into bed and curl up beside him as he listens to his talk. I could wrap my fingers around his cock and stroke it, hoping maybe some memory of our past passion might awake the neurons somehow. But I’ve tried these things. He tolerates them stoically and his apologies feel sincere. But now I think that the failures hurt me more than him. He is resigned to it; and anyway he’s lost his desire as well as his ability. I have all the desire for him I ever had, all the need.
If there was a drug to make me lose my desire too I might take it.
I sigh, giving the kitchen and dining room a final once over. Satisfied with the tidiness I slip down the stairs to the lower level and into the garage. The Triumph gleams in the bright florescent lights. Looking the inner door behind me I bend to flick on the portable CD player. Motley Crue blasts out. Hard rock is not Rory’s favorite but it reminds me of my younger days, things that maybe I should be ashamed of, like stripping to Dr. Feelgood in a little nurse’s costume that came apart with dozens of little lace-ups. On a wild night I would mix a Kamikaze shooter in a test tube I held in my pussy. There would always be some pervert prepared to pay a hundred bucks to drink it too.
The memory makes me both embarrassed and aroused. I climb up on my bike leaning back to reach into the inside pocket of my leather jacket, slung over the back of the seat. There I find a tiny vibrator, hand sized, shaped and curved precisely to provide clitoral and external vaginal stimulation. I feel that a penetrating vibrator, a dildo would be like cheating on the man who saved my life. But this little toy is very feminine, really just an extension of my fingers. Surely that’s all right. It’s all I need.
Clutching the small pink device I unbutton and slip my hand into the front of my jeans, finding the right position for…
“Ahh…” I can’t withhold the low whimper of relief as the vibrations work their magic on the intense need inside me. I think of Rory and the way things used to be and my eyes fill with tears. And because there’s nothing worse than crying while you masturbate I shake my head, shake the nostalgia for something I’ll never get back right out of my brain, and think of the boy with the blue hair instead.
Chapter Three
“Non-fiction is it, today?”
Boy Blue grins up at me from the reading chair, stretching languidly. As he yawns I see his tongue is pierced too. “The mind thrives on change,” he says. “And anyway, most of those mysteries aren’t very mysterious in the end.”
“And Anne of Green Gables is?” I ask. He has the slim hardcover tucked down beside him again. For the first time his bravado cracks a bit. He pulls the book into his lap, his fingers curled around it protectively, his gaze growing defiant.
“The first time you read it, did you think Matthew and Marilla were married?” he asks. “I mean it’s easy to skip over the parts where they are described as brother and sister. Or did you wonder why the author hadn’t just made them a married couple?”
Suddenly I’m flustered and I don’t even know why. Sure, Boy Blue is as beautiful, as alluring as ever, but maybe it’s his question that unnerves me. “I don’t know what you mean,” I say. Though I do, all too well.
“I suppose in the mind of a child, there’s not much difference is there? Between siblings and spouses.”
I feel a sudden urge to snatch the book away and slap him with it. How dare he infiltrate my personal life like that? How dare he get to the heart of my marital problems so acutely? Rory and I love each other like siblings now. There is affection but no passion. I turn my head away, staring down the row of books until the stinging behind my eyes relents.
“You know you can check that book out and take it home if it means that much to you.”
“I don’t have a card,” he says. I think he probably doesn’t have a home either, but I keep that thought to myself.
“So get a card,” I say. “All you need is two pieces of ID.”
My librarian face is armor. A librarian is a kind of social worker, a kind of teacher, but one who always holds you at a comfortable reading distance.
Boy Blue stands, slinging his messenger bag over his shoulder. “I don’t have any ID. I don’t exist.”
He pushes past me and I can see his normally affable cheeky demeanor has been chafed a bit. We both of us have gotten too close without meaning too. But as he strides away I find I can’t resist his darkness, the air of pathos that wafts behind him. He’s like an enflamed sliver under the skin that needs to be excised.
“In your trusty bag you don’t have a wallet and ID? What do you keep in there?”
He turns as he departs, walking backwards, and there’s a hint of menace in his voice as he replies. “Condoms and lube, baby,” he says with a smirk, and disappears beyond the end of the row before I even have time to blush.
The after image of his slender frame lingers in my mind all day. I find myself drifting into not exactly daydreams about him, more like theories, narratives. I’m constructing a backstory to fill up the blank spaces, a romantic, tragic backstory about loss and betrayal. As the day wears on it grows quite far-fetched and far from entertaining me during the quiet weekday hours, begins to annoy me.
“He’s just a drug addict,” I mutter as I fight with the copier for the tenth time.
“Pardon me?” says the elderly patron I’m helping with her genealogy project.
“N-nothing,” I stammer. “Just thinking aloud.”
I scurry away as the copier starts to purr through the reams of pages.
By the time my shift ends, I’m flustered, distracted, furious with myself. I slam things around my desk as I pack up my things.
“Are you all right?” my colleague, Dina says.
“Fine.” I sigh. “The usual patron problems. Street kids and crazy people, you know.”
“I hear ya.”
I pull on my leather jacket as Dina leaves, zipping it up so angrily that I nearly catch the skin of my neck.
He’s the street kid, I’m the crazy person, I think as I push through the security door into the parking lot stairwell.
Minutes later I’m on my bike, in the open air with buildings and sky blurring past me, and I can think. Traffic seems light for some reason, so instead of heading my usual way to the bridge, using a clever careful route to avoid the worse snarls, I cruise up through the hilly city, admiring the architecture and enjoying the challenge of weaving among the taxis and pedestrians. When I reach Chinatown, instead of heading west, I turn back south, rolling downhill with the clutch engaged, letting the feel of the road guide me, and soon I find myself back in the slummy Tenderloin.
Slummy is probably too strong a word. It’s not as bad as it used to be, but the street life is still evident, especially at this time, as day melts into night and the homeless converge, having come up for air in search of whatever it is the homeless search for
. Drugs. Money. Attention.
As I pull to a stop at a red light, an ancient person of unknown gender gazes at me, giving me and/or my bike an appreciative once over.
“Nice wheels,” they say. I can only see their mouth move over the sounds of the city and my rumbling engine, but I get the meaning. I nod politely, and turn my head to the opposite corner to avoid further engagement.
And there he is. Boy Blue. He leans against a light pole, cigarette hanging from the corner of his lip, his head turned into the thin stream of setting sun, which makes his blue faux-hawk glow like a neon sign. The light changes and the car behind me honks, almost as though the driver is pushing me into a place I should never go, I tap my foot down on the gear shift, release the clutch gently and roll into the intersection, flicking my left turn signal on. The driver behind me is not happy about this and honks again as they pull around me.
This makes Boy Blue turn in my direction. As our eyes meet he smiles knowingly. He drops his cigarette onto the sidewalk and steps on it, then calmly strolls through the oncoming traffic as though he is invincible. Several cars screech to a stop, with more honking of horns and swearing but he pays no mind. Reaching me, he doesn’t even speak, instead swinging his leg over and taking the pillion seat behind me. I’m too shocked to speak.
As the light turns yellow I make the left turn onto a quieter road, riding a few blocks until I find somewhere to pull over.
“Well?” he says after a second goes by.
“There’s another helmet under the seat.”
He hops off, making me tempted to ride away. But I don’t. I wait as he extracts the half-helmet and mashes it on over his spiky hair, clipping and adjusting the strap carefully. When he remounts he presses against my back, resting his hands on the tops of my thighs as I kick the bike into gear.
I steer out of town and up towards the Golden Gate, keeping the bike at a leisurely, law-abiding speed. I’ve had my fair share of speeding tickets—everyone with a bike has—but I have a feeling my passenger might be packing several illegal substances in that messenger bag slung over his back. I could probably wiggle out of that situation but I wouldn’t say the same for him.
As we cross the bridge a thin veil of fog is settling over the girders and the sky is cooling to a grey steel color. The ride beyond the bridge and up into Marin is cold. Boy Blue curls his bare hands into fists on my thighs.
“Nearly there,” I shout back. He doesn’t reply, or ask where “there” is. Maybe he doesn’t care. His hands move again, sliding around my waist and tucking under the waistband of my jacket. I feel him press his chest into my back. More than anything else, it feels affectionate, with an intimacy that feels friendly more than sexual. I have a weird maternal feeling for a moment, before my body processes his closeness properly. Despite the cold, my face warms as I turn off the freeway down the winding road to our neighborhood.
The house is dark when we pull up. Rory won’t be home for about half an hour. I have no idea what I think I can accomplish in that time, whether I have some kind of plan for Boy Blue or he has some kind of plan for me than can be carried out quickly, leaving no evidence. And then what? I shove him out the door before Rory comes home?
What the hell am I thinking?
I pause in the driveway as the garage door opens. Boy Blue tugs his hands out from my jacket and rubs them together. Once inside the garage I nudge the kickstand down, letting the weight of the bike lean to the side.
“Hop off,” I say, turning.
Boy Blue slides off, and unclips his helmet, handing it to me.
“Nice ride,” he says with a grin. “I need gloves though. My hands are freezing.”
“Why don’t you wash them in warm water?”
I let him into the house and show him the powder room just off the back stairs, leaving him there as I continue into the kitchen. I stand in the silence for a few seconds, listening to the water run in the bathroom, heart pounding. What have I done? This kid could be a drug dealer, a pervert, a thief. Suddenly I wish Rory was here. He’s large and impressive looking, even though he’s a gentle as a lamb, I’d feel safer if he was here.
But wasn’t I thinking of things that didn’t involve him?
Boy Blue appears just as I think to put the kettle on. He slings his bag onto the table.
“Would you like a nice cup of hot tea?” I say, filling the kettle and plugging it in.
“Do you have anything stronger?”
“No. I…” I turn to him, drawn by his easy smile, his intense eyes. “I don’t drink. Neither does my husband so…”
“Tea is fine then, I guess,” he says. I can tell he’s a bit disappointed.
“Aren’t you too young to drink anyway?”
He chuckles. “Depends where I am. I could drink in Australia.”
“So you’re eighteen?”
He nods. “What’s your name?” he asks.
“Desi,” I say. “Desiree, actually. But everyone calls me Desi.”
“Desiree is a pretty name. It suits you.”
I can feel myself blush. The kettle starts to whistle. “What’s your name?”
He leans back on the counter, crossing his lanky arms across his chest. “What do you want it to be?”
I pause over the tea bags. Suddenly the choice between chamomile and mint seems so inconsequential as to be funny. I almost laugh. Mint will freshen his breath, I think, counter the smell of cigarettes. I drop a bag into each cup and pour the boiling water carefully.
“Is that how it is?” I ask. “I can choose your name?”
“You can choose everything.” He takes his tea, curling his fingers around the hot cup gratefully and blowing on the tea. “For a price.”
“What is the price?”
“Depends,” he says. “You’re married, right? Will your husband be joining in the fun?”
I don’t know how I’ve gotten this far into the conversation with him. All I wanted to know was his name, suddenly I’m negotiating a price with a bisexual male prostitute. I stare at my own tea, unable to speak suddenly, unable to move.
He must sense my unease because he steps forward, putting his hand on my wrist, lightly, stilling the shakes that threaten to spill the tea all over me.
“Jesse,” he says. “My name is Jesse. And I can go if you want. No hard feelings. Nothing owing. Or I can stay and we can just hang out. Nothing weird, just company. But I need to be paid if I stay.”
“H-how much?” It’s as though someone else is speaking through my mouth. Of course I should ask him to leave, but apparently I’m not going to.
“Two hundred, just to stay and hang out. Later if you want something else, we can talk about it.”
“In advance?”
“I’m afraid so.” He lets his hand drop, taking a deferential step back. “Please don’t feel pressured or scared. I’ll leave right now if you ask me to, I promise. I’m not here to rob you. That’s not my style.”
“But you thought I wanted to buy sex with you?”
He leans back against the counter again, and resumes his crossed arm stance. Easy smile. A little gleam in his eye. He knows how difficult he is to resist.
“I hoped,” he says to my surprise. “But if you think your husband will like me more, that’s cool too. A bit disappointing though.”
My face must be the color of a strawberry. I sip my tea, trying to hide behind the steam rising from the cup. I hold the hot liquid in my mouth for a second before swallowing, feeling the heat spreading through my throat. And I make a decision. A crazy decision.
“Let me get my purse,” I say.
Chapter Four
Jesse and I are out on the deck enjoying the unusually warm evening when I hear Rory come in.
“Out here!” I call out. “We have company!”
Before the right medications came into our lives, Rory was often suspicious of new people and reluctant to socialize with any but our circle of familiar friends. One of the many miracles of his revised pharmac
eutical elixir is that he’s become gregarious and outgoing. New people equal new ideas, new information, new opinions. When a new colleague joins his team at Starwalk he often invites him for dinner the first day.
Rory pokes his head out the patio door, grinning broadly. “Hello! I’m Desi’s husband, Rory,” he says, extending his hand.
Jesse stands and shakes his hand. “Jesse,” he says simply.
“Jesse is new at the library,” I say. Jesse gives me a quick glance and a sly smile, but doesn’t contradict this plausible lie.
“I’ll get us some drinks,” Rory says.
Minutes later we’re sipping tall Virgin Marys, stirring them with celery stalks and strips of crispy bacon. I leave Rory and Jesse to their conversation as I slather some pork chops with soy and ginger and get them onto to a very hot grill. While they cook I make a quick green salad, and cut up some left over potatoes from last night to stir in with mayonnaise, Dijon mustard, celery and spring onion. With the patio door open the sound of the conversation on the deck soothes me, settles my nerves somewhat. Maybe the two hundred dollars I gave Jesse is just for this—just for a new person for Rory to quiz and illuminate. To him that’s more interesting than sex anyway.
“…by precisely modulating the timing of the left and right channels to give the illusion of a 3D experience. That was revolutionary for the time, but it’s pretty standard now.”
“But how do you know how to manipulate the sound?” Jesse asks. Is he really as interested as he makes out? Or is this all part of his service? There’s something so disconcerting about paying someone for company. As though you’ve paid them to lie and deceive you.
“It’s an algorithm,” Rory begins. “A computer program which…”
Biker Chicks: Volume 2 Page 29
