In the observation room, the darker, muscular one straddled the chest of the other, who used his mouth to caress his lover through the thin barrier of the cotton briefs.
What did Martinetti suspect he might do? Break the window and join in? Cut his knuckles on the glass and stain his flawless white jacket? Of course not. It had to be something deceptively simple.
Distraction.
Paul became fully alert and looked around him. All was as still and quiet as it had been. No sound of Martinetti. No one else in the hall. He felt panic, then breathed into it and gathered his focus. He looked into the camera that recorded him. Paul re-established evenness. Then he turned back to the observation window.
They both stared at him – directly at him. The men's faces were hungry, almost malicious. Could they see him? Martinetti had clearly stated otherwise. She could've been lying. Paul looked at the video camera, then back into the room. The subjects disengaged from one another. They both approached the glass, stalking him.
Had he contaminated the experiment? He stood unmoving, fully aroused now, as the pale one pressed his body against the glass, arms up, palms near his shoulders. The window was large enough to frame him from the crown of his head to mid-thigh.
The darker man, who had been maintaining eye contact with Paul, now broke his gaze as he knelt and slid off the pale one's briefs. The darker man removed his own and now embraced his lover from behind, tucking his face into the white neck. The pale man's mouth moaned as he shut his eyes but Paul heard nothing.
He backed away from them carefully. He walked quickly around the corner to look for Martinetti. She wasn't in the previous corridor. Should he call for her?
He reversed and rounded the corner again, back to the men at the window. The muscular one pressed his lover firmly into the glass. The slim man snapped his eyes open and made unblinking and unnerving eye contact with Paul.
They're distractions, he assured himself. Something else is happening. What?
For a long moment, nothing changed. Then all at once, a crack opened in the glass, the two men climaxed, and the outpouring of their energy bombarded Paul. All three collapsed backward, the crack in the glass branched and branched again, and Paul realized that he'd also emptied his libido into his own briefs.
Martinetti emerged from around the corner. She took in the scene. The two men behind the glass were now embracing on the cushioned table. The glass held together.
"You said they couldn't see me," Paul said.
"Yes. But they knew you were there. Interesting." Martinetti sounded eerily detached.
"They made eye contact with me. Both of them. Did they feel me?"
"Hmmm." Martinetti lingered at the opposite wall, as far from the glass as she could stand. The equipment was still measuring the experiment, or else she wouldn't stand so far away. She asked Paul, "Did you touch the glass? I'll know if you lie."
"I didn't." Paul's heart raced.
He thought he could smell his own fluid through his pants. Could she smell him as well? He looked down to his crotch before he could catch himself. No visual evidence there. He looked back to Martinetti. "Did I contaminate the experiment?"
"No, Paul. You did exactly what was expected." Her words did nothing to soothe him. "There's a restroom halfway down this hall, on your right."
He didn't need any other prompting. He stood up and walked quickly. He passed several more observation rooms: one that contained a sleeping man suspended by his feet, with what appeared to be a taproot growing from his shaved skull; another that had no portal to the hallway but was filled with water, an aquarium in which a man appeared to make love to something with more than four limbs; and one in which only a large amethyst cube rested on another cushioned table in the center of the room.
He finally found the door to the single-occupant washroom. The inside was utterly ordinary. A blessing. Paul took down his pants and washed and dried himself thoroughly. Still being tested, he thought, it's still happening. Looking into the mirror, he took a moment to congratulate himself on the coolness with which he was handling the situation.
He opened the door to see Martinetti, flanked by the two naked men. The men stared at him, while Martinetti gazed stoically at the cell phone in her hand.
"We've accepted Ms. Bamford's generous offer of investment," she said.
The two men caught hold of Paul and locked his arms behind him, pulling him out into the corridor.
"She has decided to invest you." Martinetti approached him and placed her index finger on the spot between his eyebrows. Paul scoured his knowledge frantically for the right trick, the best distraction that would buy him time to get out of there. Her finger felt like a brick balanced on one of its corners, the weight of it pushing into his head instead of downward. A rivulet of blood slid from the point of contact and down the length of his arrogant nose. He struggled to maintain consciousness.
"Welcome to what you've always wanted. Welcome, seeker," she said. The men repeated, Welcome, seeker.
As he faded, he had the futile thought that Martinetti must've gone through this same ordeal. Perhaps even Charlotte...and then he was out.
He regained consciousness on a cushioned platform in a small observation room. Two men, different from the two who had grabbed him, stood naked, one to each side of him. Paul was naked as well.
"Let's begin," said the man to his left. He ran his hands along the length of Paul's body, while the other knelt to the floor. Paul surrendered and allowed himself to be stroked, to be studied. He breathed into his panic. He knew he couldn't escape. He didn't want to.
When the man on his right stood again, he held an object the size of a hatbox. Paul recognized it immediately, though he'd only seen it for a moment. It was the amethyst cube he'd glimpsed just before finding the washroom, and it glistened as all dazzling things do. The man set it onto Paul's groin. It weighed less heavily than he'd expected.
Something living stirred inside the cube, seemed to shudder—or was that Paul's own body, trembling on the table, making it appear to move? No. Something spindly and sharp, arachnid, arthropod, Heaven only knew, scratched its little limbs against the inside of the violet prism.
"What's in there?" Paul asked, his curiosity and arousal outweighing his fear.
Both men grinned down at him in horrible serenity. "You'll know soon enough. Telling you now would ruin the experiment."
A Soldier’s Mercy
Martel Sardina
No one had to tell me that I am sitting where the johns look for action. I’m not looking for business. Just waiting on the 204. This shelter has seen better days. A pool of foul smelling liquid puddles up underneath the bench’s firebombed seat.
It’s 3:00 a.m. and hotter than hell. That’s not unusual for Vegas. But the wind is. A gust kicks up and blows sand from the vacant lot across Sahara into my eyes.
Fuck.
It hurts as I rub the grit away. I almost forget how hungry I am. Then my stomach growls and I start to think the bus might never come.
A guy rides up on a ten-speed bike. He’s shirtless. He’s thin, but his chest is muscular and strong. His long hair reminds me of a lyric from an old Beatles song.
Come together, right now, over me.
A fucking hippie if I ever saw one. And the grey tells me he might legitimately know what that damn song actually means.
I watch him as he jumps off the bike and leans it up against the side of the shelter. It doesn’t have a kick stand. Looks like it’s been patched up a bit over the years. The paint is chipped and the tires are nearly bald.
He walks out into the street, looks left, and then right.
“You been waiting long?”
“About twenty minutes,” I say. “Haven’t seen a bus yet. Either way.”
He grunts and swears under his breath, “Fucking figures.”
I can smell him now and it isn’t remotely attractive. Sweat turns me on, but this is something far worse. I think this guy might have been sleeping
in a garbage can.
He returns to pacing. Mumbles to himself but I can’t really make out what he’s saying. Seems to be getting upset though.
Why doesn’t he just jump back on the bike if he’s in such a goddamn hurry?
As soon as the thought forms, he gives me a wicked glare.
Oh, shit. Did I say that out loud?
“It’s too fucking windy,” he says. “Took me an hour to ride less than a mile.”
“No worries, man,” I say. “Ride the damn bus. Who am I to judge?”
He laughs. Pushes his hair back and tucks it behind his ears. Finally get a good look at his face. It’s long and thin. Rugged with sharp features. High cheekbones and deep-set grey-green eyes. His teeth are a little crooked. While he is handsome, his face bears evidence of hard living. I wish I knew if it was from drinking and drugging or the far more dangerous kind. After another ten minutes, he finally stops pacing.
“Bus is coming,” he says, pointing east.
I can hear the steady rumble now.
The bus sputters to a halt. A bell chimes as the driver opens the doors. The hippie pushes his bike by me and says to the driver, “Will you take me to up to Decatur for ninety cents?”
The driver says, “Yes. But you’ve got to put a shirt on.”
The hippie returns to the bike, unzips the small pack behind the seat and pulls out a shirt. He shakes it out, and I realize that the shirt is long sleeved. I don’t know why the driver is making him put the damn thing on considering the heat, unless there’s some kind of “no shirt, no shoes, no service” policy at the RTC.
I board the bus and stick my temporary fare card into the machine.
As the hippie loads his bike on the rack, the driver whines, “It’s too hot. It’s too cold. It’s too windy. Where will you take me for ninety cents? Lazy bum.” The other passengers laugh. It’s apparent the hippie has pulled this trick before.
There are plenty of empty seats, but I sit down in one of the ones reserved for the disabled. I don’t feel like walking to the back.
The hippie boards the bus, fumbling to find ninety cents in his pocket. He pulls something out and I hear a clinking sound. He’s got a handful of dog tags dangling from a cheap metal chain. I want to know how he got them. Soldiers don’t just give up their tags. That takes more than a one-night investment. I’m impressed. Maybe there is something this old hippie can teach me.
I take another look at him. He’s in pretty good shape for a guy his age. He’s old enough to be my father. But what I’m thinking right now is how I’d like him to be my Daddy. I haven’t had a Daddy in a long, long time.
I usually don’t pay this much attention to the people around me. Most of the time, I’m in my own little world. I’ve been told more than once that I don’t have street smarts or maybe it’s common sense or both. This guy seems like he might be a little crazy. Maybe even dangerous. But I’m not scared. Not yet anyway.
The driver gets disgusted when all he comes up with is a handful of pennies and a ball of lint.
“I’ll get you tomorrow,” Daddy says.
“Forget it,” the driver says.
Daddy walks toward me.
“You mind?”
I shake my head “no.”
Daddy leaves an empty seat between us and sits down. Despite the smell, I have this strange urge to tell him to ditch the shirt and let me go back to enjoying the view.
“Where are you headed?”
“Back to the hotel.”
“Which one?”
“Palace Station,” I say and as soon as the words push past my lips, I regret it.
Then he asks where I’m from and before I can stop myself, I say, “Chicago.”
I know I shouldn’t be telling him anything personal but I can’t help it. My heart is working overtime to bypass my brain.
“Nice town. Been there once. After I got back from Vietnam.”
“Were you in the Army?”
I’m not asking to be polite. I truly want to know. I have this thing about soldiers. Whenever I meet one, I always thank them for their service. My uncle died in Korea. My brother died in Kuwait. I could have gone to Afghanistan, but my father wouldn’t let me enlist. Said I could never pass, “Don’t ask, don’t tell.” He doesn’t try to hide his shame from me.
“No. Marines.”
“Semper Fi.”
“Shut the fuck up, kid. You even know what that means?”
“I…uh...I’ve got family in the service. Sorry…didn’t mean to offend.”
He glares at me, doubting my sincerity, and then turns away.
A bell chimes and the bus sputters to a halt at the next stop.
Daddy stares straight ahead, looking out the window. Across the street, there is a yellow ribbon tied around a tree in front of an office building.
“Support Our Troops,” Daddy reads the sign pegged in the lawn. He snorts.
“Too bad it wasn’t like that when you came home.”
Daddy doesn’t respond.
“I know I’m not old enough to remember Vietnam,” I said. “But I am sorry. Nobody deserved to be treated the way you guys were.”
The bus starts moving again. I get up. Palace Station is next.
When the doors open, I step off. I head for the crosswalk and hit the button to get the light to change. The walk signal flashes and I start to cross Sahara. When I hit Palace Station’s parking lot, Daddy pedals up behind me.
“Hey, kid.”
I turn to face him. “What?”
“Nobody ever said anything like that to me before.”
“I wanted to join the service once. Didn’t make the cut. But that doesn’t mean I’m not thankful for those who could.”
“You hungry?” Daddy says. “Great oyster bar here. Folks who work here take care of me sometimes. My friends, too.”
I’m not sure if this is a genuine attempt to be nice or some kind of a con to get me to pay for his meal. I decide that if it’s the latter, it won’t break the bank.
I find myself incredibly drawn to this man. And I can’t really explain why. Words like duty and honor and service are floating around in my mind.
I keep imagining myself serving him.
I shake the thought off.
“Hungry?” I say. “Yeah, sure.”
*
We take the two stools at the far end of the bar.
We’re there for less than a minute before the manager comes over and says, “Oh, no. I told you last time. You can’t come in here like this.”
Daddy says, “Like what?”
“Stinking to high heaven,” the manager replies.
“You said not to come in like that when it was busy. It’s dead now. It’s not like I’m scaring anyone away.”
“That’s not the point.”
“I can’t hit the showers at the shelter until tomorrow.”
“That’s not my problem.”
Daddy motions to me. “I told my friend that you’ve got the best gumbo in town.”
“I’m not kicking him out.”
Daddy’s starting to get angry. The skin on his neck is turning a deep brownish red, like he got a tan on top of sunburn. “Have a heart. You’re embarrassing me.”
“Am I going to have to call security?”
“Let’s go,” I say to Daddy. To the manager, “You do room service?”
“Sure.”
“Send two bowls of gumbo up to 724. Charge it to my room.”
“No. Fuck that,” Daddy says. “I ain’t leaving.”
Daddy’s eyes have gone cold.
This scene’s about to get ugly.
Daddy rubs his temples. “You can’t treat me like I’m a piece of shit. Not after what I gave up. Not after what I took. And I did all that for people like you.”
“What is he talking about?”
I want to tell the manager the Daddy isn’t just some homeless bum. That he might have been a normal kid like us once. I don’t know if he’d believe me or c
are. A lot people think that soldiers are a little fucked up to begin with. That anyone who’d voluntarily sign up to go to foreign countries, meet interesting people and kill them, deserves whatever happens to them in the process. They don’t think freedom is something worth fighting for. They take it for granted. People my age don’t always remember that there was a time when young men didn’t have a choice about getting sent off to war.
“Come on,” I say. I get up and grab Daddy’s arm. He recoils. I grab him again. “Why don’t you come up to my room? You can take a shower. And then we’ll come back down and you can order whatever you want.”
“That going to be a problem?” I say to the manager.
“No.”
Daddy grunts as I pull him away from the counter. We walk through the casino. The cacophony of active slot machines makes it difficult for me to hear anything else.
When we reach the hotel lobby, I realize what Daddy is saying.
“I’m shorter than a mosquito’s pecker. Two weeks left in the crotch. Two weeks ‘til I get out of this shithole.”
He says it again, louder this time. The bellhop looks over at us. I make a quick dash for the open elevator and pull Daddy inside.
I say the only thing I can think of that might make sense in his scrambled brain, “Semper Fi.”
This time, Daddy doesn’t tell me to shut up. He squeezes my hand.
The elevator lets us off on the seventh floor.
It’s a short walk to my room. I fumble with the keycard and swipe it too fast. On the third attempt, the lock disengages and I open the door.
I’m almost embarrassed to let Daddy in. The room isn’t extravagant but it’s nice. Probably nicer than any place he’s slept lately. I feel pangs of guilt about being the one who can afford to stay here. It doesn’t feel right. I’ve worked hard for everything I have, but I know I’ve had it easy in comparison. The benefit of being young and cute is that my services are always in demand. So far, skipping a meal has always been a choice, not a necessity. I never really had to risk anything that I couldn’t get back. I haven’t been around long enough, never had to put my life on the line.
Abominations of Desire Page 10
