by Jeff Gelb
Carla glanced at her watch. “Actually it’s two-fifteen. What time did you get home last night?”
Marsha exhaled deeply. “I had to work a double shift. I’m not quite sure what time it was, but the smell of bleach on the living-room floor almost knocked me to my knees when I opened the door.”
Carla shrugged. “Trixie gets nervous sometimes. She can’t help it.”
“Well, at least she didn’t do it on the rug.”
Carla smirked. She always made sure there wasn’t a mess on the rug.
Marsha stretched her arms and took in a deep breath, apparently awakening more by the minute. “Mmm, something sure smells good,” she said, easing behind Carla and peeking over her shoulder into the saucepan. “What’s cooking?”
Carla stirred the contents a bit more rapidly. “Meat balls,” she answered.
Marsha looked closer at the saucepan’s contents, a confused expression sweeping over her face. “Only two?” she asked.
Carla groaned in disgust. “They’re for Trixie.”
Marsha laughed. “You’re kidding, right? That’s hardly even a mouthful for her!”
Carla slowly raised her head and stared blankly ahead, then pivoted to face Marsha, glaring at her. “Don’t get started with me. I’m not in the mood,” she growled.
Marsha touched Carla on the shoulder and said, “Honey, please. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Carla’s look of anger grew worse even after Marsha leaned forward and gently kissed her on the lips. “We need to talk,” Marsha said.
“When I finish this—”
“Now,” Marsha interrupted. “I’m serious.”
Carla prodded the simmering contents with a spoon and shrugged. “They’re almost ready anyway.” She turned the burner off and flashed a grim expression at Marsha.
Marsha took Carla’s hand and led her to the living-room sofa. The two sat together, and Trixie occupied the far end of the sofa. Marsha began to gently massage Carla’s neck, but Carla flinched. “Your shrink called yesterday,” Marsha began.
“So?”
“He said you’ve missed some appointments.”
Carla looked away. “He has no right to talk to you about me,” she said.
“You signed a release, remember?” Carla sulked and turned away. Marsha squeezed her shoulder. “Have you been skipping your medication too?” Marsha asked.
Carla slammed a foot against the floor. “You don’t understand me!” she shrieked. “Nobody understands me!”
Marsha tried to hold her, but Carla jerked away. “Leave me alone,” she shrieked. “Don’t touch me!”
Marsha’s expression suddenly faded. She reached for her cell phone, glanced at Carla, and pleaded with her eyes. “Calm down, honey,” she whispered, swallowing hard. “I’ll get you some help. It’ll be okay, I promise.”
As Marsha punched numbers into the keypad, Carla grabbed a nearby lamp and swung its base hard against her roommate’s head. Restricted by the length of the electrical cord, the blow only stunned Marsha but sent her tumbling to the floor. By now, however, Carla raised the straight-back chair in which Jason had been recently strapped and brought it down hard against Marsha’s head, promptly muting her screams. “No. You. Won’t,” Carla repeated over and over. When she stopped swinging the chair, little was left of her roommate’s head other than a bloody lump.
Carla shook her head. This time the rug was a mess.
Trixie whined and plopped to the floor, taking a quick lap of Marsha’s pooling blood, then staring sadeyed at Carla.
She’d never attempted this before, and it proved to be more difficult than she’d imagined. Marsha’s lifeless corpse lay faceup and naked on the floor, legs spread far apart. The jar of pickled penises rested just to the right of Marsha, and Carla fished out another one, a larger one this time.
Even after adding a lubricant, this one was still practically impossible to jam inside Marsha. It was like stuffing Jell-O through a keyhole.
“Damn,” Carla muttered. She considered applying a make-shift splint to the flaccid member when another thought occurred to her. Was it possible to preserve an erect dick? She recalled her Uncle Ed, who had molested her repeatedly as a young teen. He could never get it up, so he used some kind of pump device to get hard. He’d stick his dick into a tube, then pump out the air to draw blood into his dick, forming an erection. When he was totally hard, he’d slide a tight rubber band over the tube to the base of his dick to trap the blood inside. Purple penis ... purple penis ... She stared blankly ahead and shuddered at the thought.
Perhaps if she clamped something tightly around the base of the next pervert’s dick and somehow sealed it as she cut it away, she could preserve the boner. It was worth a try.
Carla dropped the shiny, severed penis back into the jar of alcohol with the others. She replaced the lid, then shook the jar, watching the various-sized penises swirl against each other. Carla smiled. Looked like she’d soon have to find a bigger jar.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
Carla paced nervously in front of her latest victim. He was beginning to awaken, and she didn’t know what to do. She took a deep breath and looked him over once again as he slumped in the chair to be sure she wasn’t missing something. There was a bald spot at the crown of his head that she hadn’t noticed before. Streaks of gray in his hair had been virtually invisible until now. Perhaps she had overlooked it.
A thick mat of chest hair looked like a bearskin rug stretched over his husky, masculine body. His legs were open but—
No. It just wasn’t right. How could this be?
His head rolled from side to side. His eyes slowly opened, then blinked repeatedly. He seemed to be focusing his attention on her now. Carla continued to study him carefully.
His eyebrows arched. As his senses apparently returned, he showed little concern over being naked and bound. He swallowed hard, and a grim expression washed over his face.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he hissed.
Carla stood speechless. Wasn’t she supposed to say that? He glanced down at his crotch, then made eye contact with her again. “You hot bitches are all alike,” he said. “You only want perfection. You don’t have even an ounce of sympathy for guys like me.”
“I ...” she started but then was at a complete loss for words. She swallowed hard; then her mouth hung open.
He slowly shook his head, glanced down again between his legs, then grimaced at her. “I wanted to prepare you. I meant to say something before I passed out.” His eyes narrowed as he scrutinized her. “You spiked my drink, didn’t you?” She stood motionless, and he laughed unexpectedly. “I thought only guys did shit like that,” he said.
For the first time that she could remember, she was self-conscious about her appearance, but it seemed that no matter how she moved, he stared at her harder.
“That hot body of yours is hazardous material,” he said. “You should put one of those yellow labels on your ass.” He smiled broadly and pursed his lips. “But I know what you’re wondering,” he said. “And the answer is yes.” He tested the rope at his wrists and shrugged. “You’ve heard of phantom limbs before, haven’t you? A guy loses an arm in an accident, but it feels like it’s still hanging there?” He hesitated briefly. “Well, babe, I’m hard as a rock right now.”
Carla stared blankly at the vacant space between his legs.
“Arms aren’t the only body part that can be lost in an accident,” he said. “But guys like us? We still gotta live. We still have urges, but we learn to compensate.”
An uncharacteristic sense of sadness washed over Carla. Perhaps she’d been wrong to judge all men so harshly. Maybe there were actually some out there who couldn’t think with their dicks.
His face turned to stone. “I’ve already felt a fucking Rottweiler clamp his teeth between my legs. There’s nothing you can do to me that could be any worse, so go ahead and get it over with.”
She stood speechless. He slowl
y shook his head and grinned.
“Never seen a dickless guy before, huh?” he said. “You’re no different from any other bitch. They’re all curious. . . but no compassion.” He took a deep breath, then exhaled hard and swallowed. “I can still piss through the little tube you see down there.” On closer inspection, she saw what he was referring to. “I can even have an orgasm if someone will take the time to lick around the scar tissue.” He rolled his eyes and laughed. “But there ain’t many bitches around who’ll bother.” He gave her a cold, hard stare. “You bitches are all alike. You’re only out for yourselves.”
Carla trembled as a wave of emotion overcame her. “I ... I’m sorry.”
“Yeah ... sure you are,” he smirked.
A tear trickled down Carla’s cheek. It felt odd. How long had it been since she’d felt such emotion?
Following a moment of awkward silence, he said, “So, what the hell happens next? Sorry I disappointed you.”
Carla slowly shook her head. “I was wrong. I didn’t know.”
He exhaled deeply. “You’re not making any sense.”
She quickened her pace. How could she have been this mistaken about men? Was it possible that some were not sexual predators? She felt her skin tingle. The familiar restless feeling swept over her. Should she take her medication? No, not yet. She had to do something with this guy first.
“It’s getting cold in here. Can’t you at least throw a blanket over me?” he complained.
What should she do? She had been so wrong.
And then the thought occurred to her. Maybe a gesture of kindness could make everything right. Perhaps through one simple act she could turn her life around. In her twisted mind it made perfectly good sense.
A smile crept over Carla’s face as she stepped across the hardwood floor to her bedroom. Trixie barked and jumped all over her bed as she retrieved the jar from her bedroom closet. Everything would be fine, she felt certain. She would untie him and let him have his choice of any of the jar’s contents. He could feel whole again.
He would thank her, she was sure.
She couldn’t wait to see the look in his eyes when she handed him the jar... .
Tres Hermanas
Roberta Lannes
The men huddled together in the Minneapolis bar so they could hear each other in the din. One, haggard and lean to the point of gaunt, gulped down his fourth scotch. His heavyset friend in the Hawaiian shirt wiped his face with his hand as he shook his head.
“I don’t get you, Jim. You were separated five minutes when you got involved with a hot babe a year older than your daughter who just wanted to fuck you twenty-four hours a day. You spent every free minute with her, stopped sleeping, and started having hallucinations. Your dental practice went all to hell, and you didn’t give a shit. Now this woman disappears, and you’re begging for help ... now, after you told us all to fuck off? Explain why I should even try.”
Jim cocked his head. “Okay. Look, Benny. You understand how it is when you have to have something. When you’re living for it, thinking about it every second you’re not tasting it. Hell, I don’t know how you can sit in a bar and watch me drink and it doesn’t bother you.”
“So, you think you’re ...”
“An addict? Yeah. Addicted to Carmen. To the sex.” Jim nodded. “I even miss the fucking hallucinations! I can’t tell you how many times ... in the beginning ... I prayed she’d dump me so I could get a full night’s sleep. Shit, I was terrified I’d drill the wrong tooth, fit the wrong crown, but she took me over, man!” He elbowed his friend. “You know what that’s like... .”
Ben snorted. “Okay, so you see where you’re at, that’s important. Find a twelve-step program for love addicts, sex addicts. They have them, you know.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. Anything you can get hooked on, they got a twelve-step thing for it.” Jim motioned for the cocktail waitress. “But until then, you’ll help?”
“You have to help yourself, man.” Ben looked at his watch.
“Yeah, I hear you, Benny, but look ... you’re a detective. You can find Carmen for me.”
Ben pulled his two hundred and sixty pounds up off the stool and slapped a ten-dollar bill down on the table. “You’re completely fucked, Jimbo. Find a shrink, get professional help. The one thing I’m not going to do is find the bitch who put you here.”
Jim trembled. His eyes were the color of watery creamof-tomato soup. “Please. Her name’s Carmen Almanza. Twenty-six years old. Five feet ten with short, wavy black hair and chartreuse eyes. Born in Guatemala.”
“You need help, man, not her.” He stared into Jim’s eyes and saw only desperation. “I got to go, buddy. I’ll call you.”
Ben did his best to walk out without turning back. His friends had gone through the same anguish with him when he was a gutter drunk. When they turned their backs because Ben could only love the bottle, he hit bottom. It took years to win back the trust, to learn how to help other guys who were falling down. When Jim was ready, he’d walk the walk with him.
Still, when he got into his car, he pulled out his notebook and jotted down the name and description Jim had given. Maybe this woman had a sheet; maybe she was a con and had left a trail. He’d check her out. At least that.
Esme braided her sister Yolanda’s thick, dark hair into one long plait as their middle sister, Carmen, stroked lotion over her shapely brown legs. Their party dresses for the evening were draped across the back of Esme’s sofa.
“Why am I nervous?” Yolanda, the eldest, patted gloss onto her full lips. “I always worry we’ll give ourselves away.”
Carmen wiped the last of the lotion onto her forearms. “Once we’re there, we’re strangers. We’re practiced at this.”
Esme laughed. “Yoli’s nervous we won’t find a ripe man.”
Yolanda turned and swiped at her sister. “Don’t be ridiculous! We are each the light on the porch to the moths. They always flutter to us. We will find many.”
Carmen stood. She was the tallest and thinnest of the sisters. She wore golden green contact lenses which, with her olive skin and wavy black hair, gave her the most exotic look. “You have a way with words, sister. It’s moths to a flame.”
Yolanda turned to Carmen. “What’s the difference? They’re drawn to us. We are the lights.” Yoli had the most naturally Latina appearance, with her black eyes and dark skin and voluptuous figure.
“And we’ll all be lit up tonight!” Esme giggled. “I’m getting dressed. I promised Julian I’d get there early to help set up.” Esme, the lightest skinned, whose pale blue eyes belied her heritage, began brushing her long, redstreaked brown hair.
Esme had promised her boss all the beautiful, smart, single women he wanted for his wealthy, intelligent, and nerdy software-designer friends. Julian warned her: many of the men weren’t socially adept, none looking for one-night stands. Esme invited half her yoga class, some of the girls at her hair salon, some from her art class, but the sisters had lived in LA only three months. Yolanda, a nurse, met sick kids and worried parents, and Carmen did research at the Getty Research Institute, cloistered in a cubicle. Neither could offer Esme much help finding women.
Carmen slithered into her dress. It clung like pale water to her skin. “Come, my fellow porch lamps. We have some moth hunting”—she chortled—“I mean, man hunting to do.”
Michael’s hand trembled on Carmen’s lower back, rustling the fabric of her silk blouse as she opened her front door. She turned to him, her eyes wide, smile mischievous.
“Are you okay with this?” She leaned into him, put her arms around him, and let him kiss her. He was awkward, pushing his tongue in, swallowing her. “No, Michael, like this.” She took his face in her hands, put her lips softly to his. Her tongue was gentle, playful, sensual on his lips, parting them. When his tongue darted at hers, she pulled away. “Let me ... just relax.”
The man was shaking. It was their first date. “I guess you can tell I haven’t done this much.”
His shrug was sharp. His every move rigid.
Carmen, laughing playfully, turned to open her door. “We need a lot more wine.”
They had been out for dinner, where Michael nervously dominated the conversation with grueling details of his work for Julian’s software company. Carmen half listened, half observed. He was just a bit overweight; no exercise, she guessed. He was handsome in a boyish way. Someone dressed him, because he wore nice clothes but didn’t inhabit them. He told her he lived with his sister and brother-in-law since he spent most of his time at work. He’d been alone since moving to LA. Carmen considered him “ripe.”
It took an entire bottle of wine to relax him. Carmen turned off the lamp, lit some candles, then excused herself to use the bathroom. She returned in a red satin robe and nothing else, then draped herself over him on the couch.
“Kiss me now, Michael.” Carmen stared into his eyes, her lips but a few inches from his. She arched her back. The robe slipped slightly from her shoulders. His eyes went from the curve of her breasts to her lips, then closed. She felt his hard-on beneath her.
His kisses began less awkwardly, and soon he forgot himself. Michael breathed in Carmen’s spicy scent, felt her long fingers move along his shirt buttons, plucking them open.
“Yes, that’s better. Let me show you what I need and make you a very happy man... .” A low purring sound rose from deep in her throat as she peeled off his shirt. He was pale and doughy but not flabby. Her fingertips went to his small nipples and began to knead them gently. She stopped kissing him on the mouth, moving to his neck, then to his chest, where her tongue took the place of her fingertips. Michael gasped sharply, giggled.
“Tickles!”
“Shush. Let me show you ...” She worked her hands to his belt, undid it, then his zipper. She felt the waistband of his briefs, and his cock pulsed under her palm.
Carmen pushed him back onto the couch. She knew her men, never choosing cunning, macho types who would not be led. Michael let her pull off his slacks, his briefs. She stood and let the robe fall to the floor as he lay back.
