Sex and Death in the American Novel

by Martinez, Sarah

  A tentative hand rested on my waist, I did not turn but moved beneath it. His hand was enormous. Pushing beyond a flutter of nerves, I wound my hand over his and entwined my fingers into his, and pulled away when the rhythm got stronger. He followed; I came closer, and at intervals dictated by the music, I pulled away then came back. I placed my hands on his shoulders and circled him, grazing his legs with my hips, arms, and once swept my breasts across his back. When I did this, he tipped his head backward, eyes closed, and a current ran through my body.

  The music slowed; I came closer, from behind him, his dark hair inviting me to hide my face there for a moment, the skin at his temples only beginning to wet from his exertions, reminding me how soaked I was. He leaned far back to rest his head on my shoulder; with my fingertip I traced his mouth in one swift movement, then twisted around, touching his forehead with mine, making real contact. He moved forward, following me, chasing me, moving me now with those long-fingered hands, his grip sure on my hips, and sometimes moving up my ribs before I twisted away with a smile.

  After some time, he craned his head toward the bar, and I followed. I started off with three waters, getting an impressed noise from him as he watched me gulp it down. We sat and sipped our virgin drinks—basically lemonade—more slowly. It was well after the last call.

  He leaned into me, his smell clean, quite a feat for this place especially after dancing this long. “Smoke?”

  “Sometimes,” I answered.

  I finished my drink and followed him outside, the walls in the alley brightly lit, a different atmosphere from the dark safety inside. A small, dark man and a tall woman in a red dress were making out in between drags on a cigarette the woman held.

  Jasper pulled out a pack of cigarettes, a brand I wasn't familiar with. He lit one and held it out to me and I took it. I eyed the filter end before I took a long drag. He lit another.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Looking for the dollar sign.”

  He furrowed his brow before he smiled at the reference to Atlas Shrugged.

  We smoked in silence before he said, “Did it help you any to tell me off tonight?”

  My mouth went dry. “Yep,” I croaked, hating that the real world had begun to push into my late-night odyssey. I wished my weird dreamlike state would not end yet.

  I hoped my eyes communicated the right level of pleading and bravado when I said, “There is still another hour until this place closes.”

  He looked at his watch and then studied the grimy brick across the alley. After a moment he looked back to me, eyes resting on my face.

  He smoked and I held his gaze, eyes dark like deep inside a Montana forest. Here he was relaxed and this made him much more appealing. I wondered what he would look like in black leather.

  We smoked some more, then I took his hand and led him back inside. I could tell he was making an effort for me—I didn't care, I was having fun. When they finally turned the lights up, Jasper didn't let my hand go after the last of the music faded away. “Want to go somewhere else?”

  Planting one foot in front of me, I leveled a stare at him.

  “So I can talk to you.”

  We grabbed a cab and rode over to 13 Coins, a diner that stayed open late. I loved this place with its high-backed chairs and enormous windows that reflected the streetlights outside and gave the illusion that we were up high.

  He slid into a large booth next to me and we looked over the heavy, leather-padded menus in companionable silence. After five hours of hard dancing, I was famished.

  We ordered, then I adjusted myself in the booth so I could face him. “So what's with the whole OCD deal before you give your talks? And why are you recycling old speeches? My dad at least had the gumption to get Mom to think up something new for him.” In a fit of weird intimacy that comes with spending the night sweating all over someone, I added while leaning toward him over the table, “And what's it like to have some psycho chick blaming you for all her family's problems?”

  He paused, opened his mouth and stopped. I smiled at him, knowing how ridiculous I sounded, firing questions off without giving him a chance to respond. All the better to avoid the excruciatingly painful silence I knew would fall otherwise.

  “First,” he began with a smile, “I get nervous. You try being up there in front of that many people, in a concert hall no less.”

  He wanted a laugh. I didn't give him one. It was more fun to watch him squirm. There is nothing more invigorating than watching a man in this state and knowing I am the cause of it. A worm at the end of my psychic hook. I could almost smell the anxiety coming off of him. He broke the gaze and pulled the napkin off the table and took a sip of water.

  I crossed my hands in front of my face and waited for him to continue.

  “As for the second question: I was wiped out, long plane ride, and I somehow managed to delete the only copy I had of the speech I had prepared. The best I could do was pull up that old one.” He made an apologetic smile. “Jet lag. I've been going nonstop for weeks. I wish I had something better to say to you.”

  Seeing him as open as he possibly could be made my brash attitude seem all the more tired. I missed how it was before on the dance floor. No words, just eyes and hands, and the feel of his breath against the back of my neck.

  I held his eyes when I said, “At least you type your own stuff…write your own speeches.”

  “Who doesn't?”

  “My father didn't.”

  “And who was your father?”

  “Sebastian Post. He won a Pulitzer prize…”

  Jasper leaned toward me, put his elbows on the table to match my posture, and leaned around his arms to address me. “Wow.” Then he said, “Fairly common though from what I hear, with those older guys I mean. I heard about one big old writer whose wife hashed out all his novels with him and typed them up.”

  “Never in a million years would he have given her credit on the front of the book though.”

  He was close enough for me to smell him again, my faint perfume now mingled with his sweat. I imagined I could feel his warm breath against my forearms as he spoke. I leaned back, considered what to say next.

  “So you're here,” I said, and unrolled my napkin and placed it in my lap.

  He started to rearrange himself, running his hand through his hair, examining the palm of his hand as if he'd found something fascinating there.

  “I had no idea that that guy standing there with all those papers and books was the son of Sebastian Post. You know I used to copy your father's sentence constructions, when I was first learning.”

  I winced, unsure what direction the wind of my reaction would blow. Should I be understanding or cold and impassive? I kept my tone even, “Should it have mattered who was standing there?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Tristan said you were chasing tail and that's why you blew him off. He thought he understood you. He wasn't anything like my father, except for that part. He knew how to chase girls. He had charisma; he was funny and knew all the right things to say…most of the time.”

  Jasper looked up, then smiled, and looked down again, scooted forward in his seat. “Yeah.” He shook his head. “You can blame me for that.” He tried a soft laugh. “Slept in the next morning to make matters worse, right? I am not proud of myself.”

  “Well, you guys never are.”

  He looked to me expectantly.

  When I didn't respond he said, “You can't make a comment like that without qualifying it.”

  “Well. Okay, straight guys,” I said and grinned in spite of the hard look I tried to give him.

  He twisted his head like he was adjusting himself to talk to me, almost annoyance.

  “Tristan was always good at excusing pathetic behavior.”

  “Like what else?” His face was blank, not giving me the satisfaction of a reaction to my comment.

  “My father. Everyone thinks he was so great, but he was never around. And when he finally left us
, that was the last time I saw him. He couldn't even make it to the ceremony when Tristan got his big writing degree. How pathetic is that?”

  “That's too bad.”

  “I wrote him a letter though. I told him what I thought of him for that. It was bad enough that he didn't come to my college graduation either, but Tristan was his first child, his son, and it was something Dad should have cared about, you know?”

  He nodded, keeping his gaze level with mine. “Sort of like how you told me off, when your brother couldn't. His advocate. Is that how you see yourself?”

  He could have meant this in a cruel way, but his face was soft, and his eyes warm when he asked this.

  “I guess so, when you put it that way. It wasn't like he was a wimp or anything, not at all. When I was in school he was the one who gave my dates the stern talks, he looked out for me.”

  He moved around and placed his palms on the table as if to center everything.

  I broke into a grin, letting him off the hook. “He would be nuts if he saw me with you now.”

  “You think so?” he said.

  The waitress came with our food and coffees. The scent of grilled meat hit me first, and my stomach hollowed out and grumbled. I picked up my fork before the waitress even placed the plate in front of me. When the buttery sauce from the Eggs Benedict hit my tongue I melted for a few minutes, pausing after three large bites to sip on my coffee. Jasper was equally focused on his steak, working the large serrated knife over the meat, and stabbing bits with his fork and looking at me and smiling.

  There seemed to be more going on with him than he was letting on, like he wanted to ask me something important. I was not a stranger to this situation; generally I felt more in control, however.

  “Do you go to that club a lot?”

  I swallowed. “All the time. Tomorrow Laura K is going to be there.”

  He gave a shrug. Anyone else I would have felt the need to rib about being so clueless.

  How strange to be with someone I felt I should show a certain level of respect for. Jasper's list of accomplishments was impressive. I was grudgingly curious about him. To begin writing at such a young age took a discipline I couldn't begin to imagine.

  “If my mother knew I was with you she would be terrified that I would embarrass her.”

  That got a laugh from him.

  The waitress cleared the plates and filled our coffee cups and then there was silence.

  “So,” he said, leaning over the table.

  “So,” I said.

  He leaned toward me. “How can I make this right? If it helps you at all to know that even if I have some fame, with that seems to have come this idea that I am superhuman, that I can give everyone who wants to talk to me equal attention…these tours get really draining. I really didn't know your brother was that keen to talk to me, which is to say…if I had known that, I hope that I would have behaved differently.” His eyes were clear and steady.

  The noises at the other side of the restaurant became louder, there was that giggle again—was it possible it was somehow directed at me? I felt very small.

  I twisted my mouth, first a pout, then adjusted it to a smirk, nothing seemed right. I let my shoulders fall.

  “Look,” he said, “I will be here a few more days.”

  “Make sure you visit the Space Needle,” I said.

  He chuckled, a low soft sound, and then shook his head slowly. “What your brother said about me was right; I went through a period where I wasn't as responsible as I should have been. I have grown up since then, I hope.” He played with the edge of the tablecloth. “I would like to see you again.”

  A strange silence fell over the table. The only sounds were distant; bits of conversation from other tables, silverware clinking against plates, another giggle.

  Tristan's words slithering around in my head. What do you want me to do, chase him?

  Chapter 6

  As with any night when there was a live performance, which didn't happen very often, Neighbours was packed stage to ceiling, with people of every imaginable size, dress and persuasion. Tonight was no exception; everyone wore their finest attire. A woman below wore a bright-orange dress, very short with a loopy strap that wrapped around her neck. Both her arms and legs were amazingly long, a radioactive octopus. All the hotties were out too; Vlad was there with his arms around a tall Asian guy in a silky pink shirt with delicate pearl buttons.

  I wore my best for the evening as well. A tiny vest on top showed off my arms, and if I moved sideways or backwards at all my stomach and sides showed. The black fabric was sheer, light enough that I could dance without dripping puddles of sweat.

  Eric and I stood up at the top level, leaning over the railing, watching the crowd below. He worked on his second Vodka Cranberry; I stuck to ice water, needing a clear head for the night. I'd been waiting for this event for several months. I buzzed with excitement just to be this close to Laura again; maybe she would dance with me like she had last time. I hoped she wasn't too wiped out after her show.

  Laura took the stage after an extra half-hour wait. She wore skin-tight snakeskin pants in black and gray, and a deep-pink halter. Her short platinum hair formed a Mohawk that did not move when she swept across the stage, carrying the microphone, greeting the crowd. This was a special show for Neighbours, her club away from home she called it. Her real work would begin the next night at CenturyLink Event Center.

  She began the show with the song that first got her on the radio the year before. The crowd bounced up and down like a mess of colorful pogo sticks. The place was too packed for any other kind of motion. After three songs, she looked up toward the stage, waved at Eric, then she caught my eye. I froze and she gave me a huge smile and waved for us to come down closer. Eric and I made it down to the front of the stage, pushing past eager hands and arms. I looked up from my place on the floor and she motioned me toward the stairs leading to the stage. My heart pounded, drowned out by the impossible volume of the speakers at that end.

  As she moved across the stage, her breasts moved slightly when she took a hopping step to emphasize a certain note. When she spun around I caught sight of the groove at her back, just barely exposed when her top shifted. She had curves in places where everyone else was flat. I could have watched her all night. Her muscular limbs, the way she held the microphone, her lips barely touching it, then the way she pulled back to belt out the end to the last song. She bent forward and hundreds of hands came together to show appreciation amidst whistles and hollers. The lights went down on the stage for a moment, then she came to stand in front of me. “Great to see you sweetie, been way too long if you know what I mean.”

  I hugged her, and she held me like that for a minute and pulled back. “I want you to come out with me and dance on stage while I do this next set.”

  I stared. “No way!”

  She nodded vigorously, then bent over and grabbed a bottle of water. She downed it in three gulps.

  I couldn't say no, not to her. Just like the first night I met her, she wove a spell with her eyes, or maybe the draw was her scent. She was the purest form of woman I'd known. Like an animal she moved, and behaved. She was a Goddess and I would do anything she wanted. When the lights came back on, she made slow motions to the guy working the music and shouted to the crowd, “I want you all to give a big round of applause and encouragement to my good friend Vivianna. I found out last year, this one can shake her ass! You all should be taking notes!” She planted a kiss on the side of my head, let me go roughly, then the music was at full volume, pounding through my midsection, and I started to move. The first minute was torturous; too many expectant eyes were focused on me. I looked to the floor and there was Eric, gazing up at me, raising his arms above his head to dance with me from his spot on the floor.

  As I always did before I took off, I closed my eyes, forgot about everything except for the way I felt then, the tempo called to me: Freedom, Abandon, Nothing Else Mattered. I felt her behind me, and tippi
ng my head back I could smell the sweat on her skin—she was slick with it, under the lights I was sweating too. Air swept past me in a way it wouldn't have on the floor. Up here on the stage everything was so open. With the hand that wasn't holding the microphone, she ran her hand up my side, my hips moved beneath her, then she slid her forearm under mine and raised my arm above my head. Whistles and catcalls sounded towards me, good natured, encouraging me to let go.

  After several minutes, I could focus on what I was doing, feet skipping forward and back as the up-tempo beat dictated. As it slowed, I planted my feet, letting my hips and movements come from my waist. I watched the crowd, taking in the faces there: Eric smiling up at me, and a big black guy with his arms around himself then moving lower. I found Vlad as well, he and the Asian were like a two-headed monster—one torso, two sets of arms and two heads. They were all moving, all connected by the rhythm and energy.

  When Laura copied my movements, I got a smile from her, then added new steps—I turned back to the crowd, held my arms in front of my face, ran them down my throat, the sides of my breasts, my waist. I turned my head and held it for a long beat, then dropped my hands and tipped my head to one side, then the other and let that move into a full spin, and planted my feet. I bent forward and worked my way up, feeling the action in the muscles of my calves and thighs, burning, then release when I popped up and began moving with my feet, strutting in jerky steps across the stage, then back, a few times backwards and forwards. When I stopped at the midpoint of the song, where the rhythm slowed, I tapped my toe on the floor behind me, like I'd learned to do at a stop spot in tango. When the beat picked up, I let the same toe lead me into another spin, once, twice, my arms wrapping around the back of my head, following down my neck, across my torso, then I landed. I straightened my legs and absorbed everything, only moving my top half.

  I hadn't had this much fun in my entire life. I smiled toward Laura, she blew a kiss, then ended the act with one of her lesser-known ballads, still upbeat enough to dance to but it slowed me down. She strode over, put her arm around me, while I tried my best to look like I deserved her attention. Scanning the crowd, I landed on the face I'd been looking for all along. There he was, one more face in the crowd, and I held his gaze until Laura pulled me to her, at the end of the song; when the last note hung in the air, she breathed close to my face, and her lips hung just next to mine, and she smiled. Her eyes sparkled, and the way she opened them, wide, that told me that this was just the beginning.