Ambientes_New Queer Latino Writing

by Lazaro Lima

  “Which bottle should I open? Is it in the kitchen?”

  I balanced in my shoes as gracefully as possible while dashing toward the kitchen with the corkscrew. There, in front of the kitchen table was a sweaty Walker with his shirt unbuttoned to the middle of the waist, as I had already seen him before, a frenzied, shadowy déjà vu, white shirt and all, the smell of Aramis, a sacred symbol of a paroxysm I recognized and longed for.

  “You shouldn’t have come here. This is a private party.”

  “It still is, just with three, that’s all. More fun, no? Here, let me do it.”

  I took control of the situation as best I could remember from my boy days, dancing and whirling around in the middle of the kitchen like a chicken with its head cut off. By being fast, swift, masterful, opening the bottle quickly, getting a third glass out of the cupboard, passion defeating prudence, pouring all three, calling Pandora into the kitchen, toasting to this miraculous accident that brought all three of us together before Walker could think straight, if he could ever think without seeing red like most men, I had fully succeeded in inserting myself into the party with the people of my dreams. I made an elaborate, boastful, bloated, belligerent toast, then, dismounting reality even further, suggested we all dance.

  “I don’t dance,” said Walker with a fiery frown.

  “Fine. I’ll dance with Pandora.”

  I pulled Pandora by the wrists. She let herself be led like a lamb to the slaughter, while I changed the music from romantic to house, and started dancing crazily, as if I were about to have a seizure, or be electrocuted for my crimes of passion. From the corner of my eye I could see that Walker, his clumsy imagination limited by his male’s gaze, couldn’t believe what was going on. He drank his wine in one big gulp and rolled up his shirtsleeves. I got into dancing with Pandora. She had rhythm, even if she was somewhat tentative in her ability to follow me, surprisingly shy, perhaps because I was a girl. Suddenly I felt protective toward her, very maternal of me, though mixed with a tingling sensation in my prickly skin and a rush of unexpected warmth surging from within my own inner body. I pulled her closer to me and could feel very distinctly her body heat. The air was steaming, amber sweat gliding down my eyes so that everything looked as if we had stayed too long in the sauna, deaf shapes deformed and colors more alive, chaotic, our scents tangling like a magical blood rite, deliriously dancing, mad, howling like melancholic wolves. We were holding hands. I began to swing in one direction, then the other, squatting on my knees as far down as I could, then sticking my leg between hers as we went back up. My bare leg in contact with her lacquered thighs sent shivers of pleasure throughout my entire body, eventually coalescing in my throbbing pussy. The pace and rhythm accelerated. I grabbed a glass of water and poured a third of it down my back to cool my stained, camouflaged emotions, then took advantage of this melodramatic excuse to holler my hallucinatory pleasure, leaned over to turn off the light, so that we were left only with the dim one coming from the dining room, and then immediately placed the glass of water on a little table forlornly abandoned against the wall near the light switch. By that point, I had forgotten Walker, my true object of desire, my sweet, my love. I touched the back of Pandora’s neck. She crumbled, contracting her entire body like an accordion closing, but in the same gesture stretched her magnificent neck and half-opened her mouth, the mintlike moisture on her lips clearly visible in those indirect rays of light hitting us from the side. I squatted again, pulling her leg between my own. As we both went down, her leg was in the middle of mine, so I sat, literally sat, abandoned to my lubricity and my imagination, on her thigh, just above her knee, and I could feel my moist pussy coming into contact with her skin, our legs like two boas twirled one within the other. She felt it too, like burning ice, and her eyes doubled in size, amazed, shocked, I should say, but by then I was in full control, drowned in pleasure, and she was lost. She tensed somewhat, with the old unconscious memory of a shy stiffness, entwined as she was with me. We went back up, I smiled, winked an eye at her; she smiled nervously, unveiling some of her mental labyrinths, curious, with innocent doe eyes. I provocatively stuck my viscous index finger in my own mouth and sucked it while holding her with the other hand. She raised her marvelous head, weighing infinitely more because of her bedazzlement, and her eyes opened on a scene of madness.

  All of a sudden it felt as if we had been caught in the middle of the street by a car that had lost its brakes. Walker charged out of the kitchen in full force. I swear I thought I saw horns on his forehead. He was so sweaty it looked as if he had taken a shower with his clothes on, his open mouth a very black and fearsome cave. He had the opened bottle of wine, now half empty, in one hand.

  “Leave my girlfriend alone, you lesbian bitch!”

  I was startled, then started to laugh. I had been a girl for such a short time, no one had ever called me a lesbian before. I was both shocked and pleased at the same time. Then, things began to move as if in slow motion, with the inexplicable acuity of horror. Walker screamed unintelligible phrases, having lost all sense of boundaries after stumbling onto the cutting edge of perversity. It almost felt as if he were speaking outrageous French, or maybe even Basque, shrieking, raving, and howling in the loudest voice I had ever heard. His entire stance was like a boxer’s, and I realized he was ready to punch me, so I went into a crouched position, letting go of Pandora’s hand at that instant. Pandora was entirely silent, paralyzed, like a Greek statue, but her eyes betrayed deep-seated panic. Walker advanced menacingly toward me, vociferous, breathing fire, looking like a hairy warthog, a chain with a cross dangling from his neck. As he raised his left arm in condemnation, a spurt of ink-red wine escaped from the bottle and flew in my direction. I instinctively ducked behind Pandora, still paralyzed, and Walker must have interpreted this in his furious rage as a gesture of protection on her part. Because all of a sudden, from within the river of unintelligible words erupting from his foamy mouth I did recognize the phrase “so you too, bitch,” and then his hand flew in her direction. The woodlike palm of his hand was open but it still hit her with full force on her left cheek, sending her flying across the living room. She collapsed in a heap at the foot of the sofa, where she remained, trembling and convulsing in ripples of fear and shock.

  I must have screamed, but I don’t remember. I do remember my mouth open, my eyes staring into space as if they had fled from my body and could see me from afar. Then Walker’s attention turned to me. He came in my direction, flailing his arms about wildly, shaking, chortling and gulping horribly. I leaned against the wall, trying to feel with my arms, hands, legs, any avenue of escape through the wall, and found the glass of water. He was rushing at me now, and I could see his left hand shooting wine with the extreme intensity of the solar blaze. I grabbed the glass of water and instinctively threw it in his face. He was so astonished at my sudden counterattack that he covered his eyes with his hands and dropped the bottle of wine to the floor. Swiftly, as if I had practiced that nifty move for years, I darted under his arms, picking up the bottle in the process, and ran in Pandora’s direction. She was whimpering in rhythmic sobs, short, intense, modest, ladylike. I tried to pick her up, and she instinctively covered her head with her arms before realizing it was me, then gave me a frightened look that made me realize this had not been the first time. I turned around in time to see Walker charge once more. I remembered I had picked up the bottle of wine, and I threw what was left of it in his face, staining his lily-white shirt in the process. Then I grabbed Pandora’s hand as hard as I could.

  “Come on! Let’s get the hell out of here!”

  “My purse!”

  Somehow or other, while Walker kneeled on the ground like a wounded boar with wine in his eyes, or like a squire about to be knighted, trying to pull his eyes out like Oedipus but without any sense of punishment or guilt, I managed to find Pandora’s purse on the sofa, grab her by the wrist so hard it turned pearly white, and pull her out of the apartment, slamming the door behin
d me as if its noise upon closing were the beginning of an earthquake. We ran down the stairs to my place. I felt the warm exaltation of urine flowing down my thighs and smelled its acrid acidity as I closed the door and immediately called the police. They showed up in five minutes, calmed us down, and talked to Pandora, whose swollen face was now bruised and scary, deforming her beauty in unexpected and surreal ways, and tried to convince her to press charges. Then they paid a visit to Walker. I never found out what happened to him, but that night the police did insist that we should not sleep in the same building as him. So, Pandora offered to put me up in her place, and we were driven there in a patrol car, of all things.

  Now, life has taken an entirely new twist for us. I live with Pandora. I’m her first, and I hope last, woman. Life being its own ironic self, when I desired to look at, to penetrate, Pandora’s box as a boy, she was my unbearable, forbidden desire. She has been revealed to me, a woman, as this and more, as we forever repeat this refigured primal scene, our mouths mingling together in a storm of saliva, my lips foaming with love. I have never dared tell her I was a boy before, nor that I desired her as one, nor that I slept with many women in my previous manly life. She certainly did not believe me at all when I tried to hint she was my first lesbian affair. She insisted that I just admit it was either the first time I fell in love or lived with my girlfriend, that I should not exaggerate about never having done it before, since my technique was sufficient proof of my acquired expertise. I have also given up trying to become a boy again. Resplendent with happiness, I have learned to put up with PMS, a feeling of powerlessness, fear of men, not being listened to, having to help everyone all the time without being helped myself, impotent and all powerful at the same time, while enjoying my multi-orgasmic chain and the pleasure of not falling asleep, but on the contrary, being reenergized every time I come, as if I had snorted a thin, white line of coke. I’ve also discovered that my PMS and cramps are stronger than other women’s, including Pandora’s, who barely changes her moods over the course of time. The only problem I have now is that Pandora, who has since mastered her German, is tired of being a shy, passive girl perceived by all men, and even by many lesbians, as a princess with nothing in her head. She wants to become a boy!

  Shorty

  DAISY HERNÁNDEZ

  I meet her at Julie’s. It’s Saturday night, and that means every tristate Puerto Rican lesbian is dancing salsa and having too many Coronas at Julie’s in Manhattan. I’ve always wondered about that club. I mean, how many Latinas do you know named Julie? Julissa, sure. Julia, yeah. But Julie?

  So, there I am on the dance floor with my buddy Marisol showing off my best steps when all of a sudden I do a little spin and I’m staring straight at some woman’s tits and I’m not talking about the kind of cleavage where it’s two droopy tetas propped up with a wired bra. This is the real stuff. Two round, large breasts squeezed together in a baby tee. Just as I’m about to bend my neck back to look up at the homegirl, Marisol spins me around, laughing. “Oye loca, careful before you get some old butch kicking your ass for staring at her woman.”

  I lean into Marisol. “Did you see the cleavage on that girl?”

  Marisol’s short, curly hair smells like oranges, but I know it’s just that nasty anti-frizz gel she uses. She shakes her head. “Lou, she’s too tall for you. La Cleavage wouldn’t give you the time of day.”

  That’s why I love Mari. We met at some gay parade years ago, and she’s the perfect friend, la hermanita who nicknames the new hottie “La Cleavage.” That’s how well she knows me.

  After three more songs, Marisol runs off to kick it to some cutie in high heels, but I stay on the dance floor, dancing solo and watching the old dykes do the best salsa you’ve ever seen. I also want to see who La Cleavage is with, but she’s just hanging with friends. Homegirl has some seriously pin-straight highlighted hair. You know she’s Dominican and she gets that shit worked on every week at the salon. Straightened, pulled, tormented. You gotta love her for it.

  I’m heading to the bar when she steps up to me and puts a hand on my shoulder. “¿Quieres bailar?”

  I start nodding because I’m thinking but she takes that for a yes and grabs my hand. I’m thinking, “what the fuck?” but girlfriend starts dancing and leading me. Leading me. I wouldn’t put up with that shit except I’m at eye level with her tits and I’m a little buzzed from the gin and tonic I had earlier, and it’s La India that the DJ’s playing. By the end of the first song, though, I’m back to myself and I’m trying to lead her but it ain’t working. She’s too tall or I’m too short. Whatever. I thank her for the dance and say I’ve got to go. Which I do. I need another drink. She nods and goes back to her friends.

  From the bar, I check her out. She’s got the tight pants, the bright lipstick, the big, gold hoop earrings. I’m feeling pretty good about myself. “I could get that if I wanted,” I tell Mari, who’s buying her new girl a drink and shoots back, “Right.” But what does Mari know? She likes playing it safe. Not that this matters. La Cleavage is too tall. We can’t even dance together. So, fuck that.

  An hour later, I’m in line at the coat check when I feel a tapping on my shoulder. I turn around and it’s cleavage. No, I mean really: it’s tetas. That’s all I see for a second until I hear La Cleavage ask, “Are you gonna give me your number before you go?”

  It’s hard to know what to say when you want something you probably shouldn’t have and come close to getting it. “Huh?”

  “You speak English?” she asks.

  “Sí,” I say. “I mean, yeah.”

  The coat check girl asks for my ticket and disappears behind the jackets. She’s chuckling, I notice. Is she laughing at me?

  At the bar two old butches are doing shots and hollering, “Pa’ las mujeres!” The song “Fruta Fresca” is playing and I see Cleavage’s friends standing against the wall, shaking their hips and watching us. That bugs me about lesbians. You can’t do anything on your own. Always gotta have an audience.

  “What’s your name?” Cleavage asks.

  “Luna, but people call me Lou.” I make a point of staring at her pointy chin. “And you?”

  “Peggy. Peggy Edison.”

  At that point, it’s over. I’m sorry. I don’t care how much tits there are. I ain’t dating no girl named Peggy Edison. What kind of name is that? Probably some white girl with a tan passing for Puerto Rican.

  But then, coat check girl’s handing me my jacket and Peggy places her hand on the counter like she owns the bar but is being polite to her employees and says, “Hey nena, you got a pen?”

  Something about the way she says “nena” and I know she’s Nuyorican. Or at least Dominican. I can hear it in her Spanish. She says it easy, quick, sin duda, like every letter belongs to her.

  I don’t expect her to call or I figure I won’t call her back. It’s just crazy how tall she is. Tall girls go for other tall girls, or they should. But when Peggy leaves me a message with her number, I call my girl Mari.

  “You think it’ll be weird?”

  “What?”

  “C’mon bitch, you seen how tall she is.”

  “Yeah, that girl’s all piernas. Your five-foot ass is gonna have to do some climbing, mi’ja.” Marisol is laughing.

  “I’m five feet two inches.”

  “Right. Remember that white girl from upstate? The one I went with last year? She went climbing rocks and shit. That bitch had this bag—I’m talking like a suitcase of stuff you gotta take with you when you go climbing.” This makes Mari laugh so hard that she puts the phone down.

  “You drunk?” I ask when she picks up the receiver again.

  “I smoked a little but I’m just thinking of your tiny ass with rock climbing gear, making your way up Mount Pegoña.”

  “Mount what?

  “Your girl Peggy. Pegoña. Don’t you think that’s better? A little more flavor to it?”

  I hang up the phone. I ain’t calling Peggy back. Mari’s right. It’s c
razy. Climbing gear. Fuck. Not that I couldn’t do it. I can bench press eighty pounds. But shit. Why did the girl have to be so tall? We’d look like freaks. I mean I’ve seen it once. I’d seen this Costa Rican chick, four feet eleven inches, and I swear she was kicking it with her girl who was six feet like Pegoña. They looked like freaks. Cute, you know, but freaky. I mean, how did they have sex? How could the little one top?

  I call La Cleavage two days later. I don’t believe in passing up hot girls. At the end of the day, I tell Marisol, it’s that. I don’t care how tall Pegoña is, you just do not pass up a girl like that.

  “She could do porn with those tits,” I tell Mari.

  “Now that you mention it, maybe I saw her—”

  “Fuck you, Mari.”

  The first date’s good. Actually it’s much better than I expected because we’re sitting most of the night, watching a movie then getting something to eat on Bergenline, and honestly I do spend the night trying to figure out why we’re the same height sitting down. Finally, I blurt it out. “You ain’t that tall sitting down.”

  She laughs. She has this way of laughing where all of her shakes: boobs, shoulders, tummy, even the pin-straight hair. This bitch does not giggle. I hate girls that giggle. It’s so fucking fake, like somebody trying not to fart. I’m always like, “Just laugh. Don’t giggle.” Not that I have to tell Pegoña. She’s laughing her ass off.

  “You ain’t so short sitting down,” she says, smiling. She reaches across the table and rubs my head. Generally, I hate it when people do that, like I’m some five-year-old. But with Pegoña, it’s OK. I close my eyes and she doesn’t take her hand away. “It’s my legs,” she says.

  “Your what?” I ask, opening my eyes.

  “I’m all legs.” She lifts the edge of her long red skirt. “My torso’s short. I’m five feet eleven inches but it’s all legs.”