6
I have not seen or heard from Georgia since the night she pawned me off on Julia, or Julia off on me, whichever the case may be. Then, out of nowhere, she sends a text: Let’s go out tonight. It is a Monday night, and there is almost no one inside the gay club that is becoming my home away from home. They still charge us three dollars to get in. The dance floor is empty, the pool tables are open, and there is no wait at the bar. I order a vodka and Redbull.
"I’ve got a nasty sore throat," Georgia complains. "How about a hot cocoa with peppermint schnapps?"
We grab a booth in the empty pool room, free to yap, burp, and brag about our sexual adventures as loud as we want. Of course, two is not much of a party, so we are more than happy when Angela, Julia, and Daemon meet us there.
"Can I get you ladies another round?" Daemon offers.
Georgia and I look at each other surprised and confused. He never has money—not that he shares, anyway. We accept regardless and do not think much of it. Three rounds later, we would go on spending his money if it were not for the sour look on Julia’s face. Why she does not say something is beyond me. It is just the way she is. She will go on steaming and stewing and getting madder and madder until she finally walks out, and no one but Daemon will know why.
Instead of letting that happen, I confront her. "What’s wrong?"
"Nothing." She turns away.
"No, seriously. You look mad as hell, and you’re still on your first drink, so I know something is up; what is it?"
She turns back to me. Her jaded eyes are piercing to say the least. "That is my car payment he is spending on you guys," she huffs. She isn’t just mad at Daemon for spending her money. She is mad at us as well. In hindsight, we should have known it was hers.
I apologize even though her accusation is, on a technical level, bullshit. Money is not something that comes easily to Julia. She works and works, and yet it always seems to elude her. I slip her a twenty to cover the cost of my drinks. But I still have to state the obvious: "Why would you let Daemon hold your money anyways? That seems kind of stupid really."
There is something about playing the victim to love that Julia thrives on. But instead of addressing it, she giggles a nervous giggle that is not really a giggle at all; it is more of a placeholder, something she throws out there when anything is better than silence.
"Oh, that’s fucked up!" Georgia bellows when I tell her why she cannot accept any more drinks from Daemon. I have to hold her back from storming over and giving him a piece of her mind. I grab her by the arm, on the inside and just above the elbow, so that she knows I mean business.
"Whatever you say to him, he is going to take it out on her later."
"But he can’t do that!"
"He can and he did. Let’s go outside and smoke a cigarette."
The smoking porch is bordered on each side by a nine-foot-high wooden fence, and there is also a roof to keep the rain out. We sit across from each other at an unfinished picnic table, and she lights our respective cigarettes: menthol for her and red for me. "It’s not right!" Georgia is so mad that her hands shake as she flicks the lighter. Her natural flush is even redder than usual, making her cheeks bright red. "He is just using her!" She shakes her head and takes a long drag. She is staring down at the bench, and I can hear her grind her teeth. "He’s using her money to buy our approval!"
"I don’t know about you," I point out, "but my approval is not for sale."
"Yeah, no, I know . . . I mean, that’s not what I mean." She shakes her head some more, shakes her right foot in agitation, and taps her fingers on the table. "I just don’t understand why she puts up with it."
"It isn’t worth trying," I point out. "It’s just the way it is."
She eyes me suspiciously. "Huh?"
"It is like part of her identity," I try to explain. "Like she has to suffer for it to mean anything."
All of a sudden, her nervous ticks stop. "Really?" Her voice is a mixture of sarcasm and disbelief.
"Some women are like that. Martyrs for love. Shit, most of us are like that, aren’t we?"
Georgia considers this for moment. "But why? It doesn’t make any fucking sense!"
"What? Do you really have something to say about it? ‘Cause, you know, you’ve got a few of your own defective dating patterns."
She raises her eyebrows as if she has just been called out on some dark, dirty secret that she will deny to the death. "Oh yeah?"
"Uh, yeah."
"Like what?" she dares.
"Well, like have you ever actually dated a single guy? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure you just steal other girls’ boyfriends."
"Hey!" She sounds offended.
I roll my eyes, stamp out the butt of my cigarette, and head back inside. We buy our own drinks for the rest of the night even though Daemon continues to offer. We feel bad for Julia, so we buy her drinks too. Suddenly thirsty but mostly angry, she gets shitfaced. So shitfaced that she emcees the wildest dance off Salem has seen since the seventies. No one can hear her outside of our little circle, but it is hilarious nonetheless.
7
(Julia) "In the left corner, we have Daemon in all blue, weighing in at two hundred pounds. He has been doing the Crip Walk since he was in his mother’s womb and definitely has the advantage here tonight, ladies and gentleman. In the right corner, we have Jane topping the scales at a buck and a quarter, but I’m pretty sure, ladies and gentleman, that five of those pounds are in her red heels. She is definitely the underdog here tonight.
"Our contestants have already started. I guess they’re not wasting any time on introductions. Daemon starts strong with his infamous Crip Walk. My man is putting it down! Is he not, ladies and gentlemen? Now here’s Jane, never Walked in her life. She is trying to mirror him. It’s a risky move. Brave, but risky. She looks more Riverdance than gangster, but the crowd is going wild . . . with laughter! Give it up, ladies and gentlemen; give it up for round one.
"Jane is taking the challenge down a notch for the next round: down and dirty! As you can see, ladies and gentlemen, she has turned our good friend Angela into a makeshift stripper pole. Look at that: a bump, a grind, and she gets low, low, low. Look at this, ladies and gentlemen; it looks like Daemon is responding with a striptease for yours truly. Wow, my man is sexy, isn’t he, ladies and gentlemen? Give it up for our very own Chippendale!
"What’s this, ladies and gentlemen? Our contestants are doing something very unorthodox here tonight! It appears as though they have both dropped to the floor at the same time and are . . . crawling? Yes, crawling! Crawling towards each other from their respective corners! What a sight, ladies and gentlemen! Look at them, so serious. Can you see the fire in their eyes? Both of them are determined to win; they won’t back down! Give it up for our contestants, ladies and gentlemen! They both brought it hardcore for us here tonight!
"Now ladies and gentlemen, I need your assistance to decide the winner here. Let’s start with Daemon; everybody give it up for Daemon . . . Now Jane, give it up for Jane… Ladies and gentlemen, you really are not much help; you are supposed to clap for the winner, not laugh."
8
There is no topping the floor crawl. We will talk about it for years to come. Afterwards, we retire, laughing and panting, to a small cocktail table wedged between the dance floor and the emergency exit. There are not enough chairs for everyone, so a couple of us stand—which is how I end up across from Julia for what happens next. It is one of those moments that seems to happen in slow motion but at the same time quicker than I can process what is actually happening. One elongated instance gives birth to another as Julia’s lips part, her mouth opens wide, and the night’s libations spew forward. Bug-eyed and aghast at the steady stream, there is nothing she can do to stop it. As if by some horrible drunk magic, Julia’s vomit bounces off of the table in front of her and sprays me smack dab in the belly. It lasts forever, but it is over in an instant, and everyone goes quiet, shock on their faces; they wait for me to s
cream or cry or otherwise make a scene. But it does not happen. Instead, as if by reflex, what comes out is just more laughter. Even though I witnessed the entire scene, my own drunkenness makes it too hard to process, and confusion sets in. Cracking up is a placeholder like Julia’s nervous giggle, a cover for the fact that I have lost complete track of the situation. It is a struggle to put the pieces back together, decipher the puzzle with blunted cognition, figure out what the fuck just happened. I look down at the hot stickiness that seeps through my cotton shirt, and my smile fades.
9
(Julia) Ah FUCK!
Jane’s a tough broad to read. She can flip faster than a light switch. I’ve seen her laughing one minute and throwing a goddamn fit the next. Her temper’s severe. Her brain works like a volcano. Of all these bitches, she’s the only one I can’t predict. And she’s just crazy enough. She’s the only one of them that’s crazy enough she might come at me. But I won’t back down from a fight. Shiiiiiit, who are you talking to? The wheels of strategy already start to turn in my head. If she goes right, I’ll block and surprise her with a left. Then I’ll pounce and take her to the ground.
10
People are still staring at me like they are asking for permission to react.
The puzzle pieces jumble together, and I am relieved when I realize that it is not my puke plastered across my torso. That is my first and primary thought. At least I am not THAT drunk! Even if I cannot remember what happened thirty seconds earlier, at least I am not throwing up!
Around me, the chuckles start out slow and reluctant. But a table full of regurgitation is never good, and this is not the fashion statement any of us were hoping for tonight, so we pile out of the emergency exit before they can kick us out. Back at our cars, we do the least-drunk-driver elimination, and Georgia wins the wheel in my car, no surprise considering she nursed Schnapps all night. Julia leaves her car behind, and it is a rare moment of clarity for any one of us.
Georgia drives us to Julia’s where I change my shirt, and somehow—as a matter of conversation—Angela and I get into it about who is the better titty sucker. She insists that she is of course. "You ain’t even a lesbian!"
I scoff, "What’s that got to do with anything?"
So we make a bet and wager our sexual pride.
Now Julia is not a lesbian either, she will have you know that straight away. Nor is she bisexual or even bi-curious. But that is not to say that she does not enjoy the attention of women who would bring her pleasure. On the contrary, while she is more than willing to receive stimulation from a woman, she does not see this as having any effect on her sexual identity or preferences. As she explains it, so long as she is only a receiver, the matter of her heterosexuality is cut and dry. So there is nothing odd or out of character about it when she volunteers to judge the competition. Then, naturally, Daemon demands to be allowed entry for good measure. He plans to show us that women do not, in fact, know women’s bodies better than men.
So here is Julia, her stomach freshly purged. She removes her bra and shirt to lie with her back flat in the middle of the living room floor. She folds her hands over her navel and lies too still—unnaturally still. She looks like something in between a mannequin and a subject awaiting a medical experiment. The pose is not in any way sexy, but it is what she gives us to work with. In spite of this, her textbook thirty-six Ds are still pretty spectacular, and gravity does not pull too much into her armpits.
"I go first," Angela demands. She lowers herself onto her knees and wrists and approaches Julia from the side. She flicks her tongue across each of Julia’s nipples in turn, a rapid-fire technique that has always left me lacking. Aside from a nervous giggle at the start, Julia is silent. I gather Angela’s methods do not do much for her either. I have this in the fucking bag!
"Time," Georgia calls. Each of us gets sixty seconds of which she, as the only non-participant, is the obvious gatekeeper.
Angela stands and faces me, triumph spread across her face. She is always proud, always confident that she is the best even when her losing status is as clear as her porcelain skin.
My skills demand a much more sensual position. I part Julia’s bent knees and slide my body between them. I lean over her and start with a slow gentle lick across her right nipple, followed by a warm breath of air, and then I repeat this on the left one. It is a tease, part of the buildup, and something Angela does not know anything about. So far her sex has been monochromatic; her tongue only has one speed. She does not know a damn thing about what comes next. I cup each of Julia’s breasts in my hands and stroke them slow but firm, and then I lean over her left breast and take as much of it into my mouth as will fit. First, a short, rough suck, then a slow brush of my tongue against the face of her nipple. I focus on every bump and crevice so that she can feel it in every cell down to her core.
"Oh shit!"
11
(Angela) What the fuck was that shit? "Oh shit!"?! Oh shit, my ass!
12
(Julia) It just comes out. I can’t help it.
Everyone else laughs, as surprised as I am. Daemon calls time early, and it’s his turn. He pulls out his usual passion. Usually amazing but a little familiar for what we’re doing right here.
Still, I have to crown my man king. Regardless if Jane thinks she won. It’s about respect, and that’s a lot more complicated than just who gives the best booby head. She tries to call me on it, but I insist.
Jane has a thing about justice, no matter how inconsequential. "I didn’t hear no ‘oh shit’ when he licked you!"
I stare at her straight on, my face hard, and explain, "There are some things men are just better at, and pleasing a woman is one of them."
Daemon has a smug look on his face. He appreciates my loyalty and gloats at her irritation. His superiority as a male has been vindicated. My man is happy. Who cares if he was really the best?
13
(Rose) I wake up a brand-new woman. I wake up with none of my regular fears or anxieties, none of those insatiable paranoid ideas that haunt my waking hours. Instead, they shiver and shake in the corner. They know they’re going to die. They know how powerful I am now! The new me will crush them! I know who I am, and she will overcome!
I go to the bathroom mirror and take a long look. I don’t remember the last time I did. Shit, I can’t even remember the last time I just peeked at my reflection. It’s easier to do than you think. If you live alone, you can always cover the bathroom mirror with a towel or a piece of cardboard. Otherwise, just stare at your hands when you wash them and brush your teeth at the kitchen sink instead. Simple steps really, and they pay back big time when you hate the person in the mirror.
The new me looks different from the last woman I saw in there: older, grayer, wrinkled, but also better and more alive. She doesn't cuss or bare her teeth or growl at me. Her voice is soft. Her venomous tongue’s gone. Instead of the fork I was so used to, the one in her mouth’s thick and round like a human’s. This is the best she has been in a long, long time. I smile at the skinny old woman in the mirror. She can do anything . . . I can do anything, anything that I set my mind to! I can do whatever I want to do and be whatever I want to be. There are no limits, no walls, no disabilities to hold me back. I am cured. I am capable.
And then I have the best idea!
I should get a job!
It probably doesn't sound like much to you. Just a regular part of life. But for someone like me? For someone like me, getting and keeping a job’s like making rainbows come out of your ass.
I’ve gotten a few jobs. True. But I never could keep them. The first time I got hired was at a shoe store in the mall. I was still in high school, so it was kind of like a rite of passage. Except that it’d only been a couple months since my baby girl was ripped out of my arms. None of my coworkers could relate. They didn’t see their daughter in every stroller. Or imagine trying every tiny shoe on her tiny little feet. I missed her feet. But my therapists thought it would be good for me to work
. They thought it would get my mind off of her. They didn’t think about how much it would hurt seeing new moms stocking up on booties for their newborns. They didn’t realize just how many babies I would see every day. They didn’t see their error until one of those moms accused me of trying to kidnap her daughter. I was just trying to move the child out of the way so she wouldn’t get tripped on and hurt. Mall security didn’t believe me. The shoe store didn’t either. At least the cops knew better and let me go home. But I wasn’t allowed at the mall again for a long time.
The next place that fired me was a music store. It was one of those indie stores where anything goes, so I thought it would be a good fit. They were weird and didn’t bathe, I’m weird and don’t bathe—it seemed like the perfect match. And we kept the music turned up, so nobody was stupid enough to bring their babies in. But something still went wrong. You see, once, right after she was taken, I bought an album by some sad girl whose name I don’t remember but whose voice sounded like she was drowning. I ran home to cry along with the cassette tape. Problem was, the insert was gone. The lyrics. The WORDS. They were gone. And then I couldn’t hear them on the record either. They just disappeared. All that was left was the guitar, a little piano, some soft percussion. So when I got that job at the music store, I just had to open every single tape, every single one, to make sure the package was complete before I stocked it. I had to! I couldn’t live with myself if I put another soul through what I had been through. I couldn’t live with myself if a single album went out without the insert, with disappearing words.
Jane. Page 17
