The Doorman

by William Schrader

  "No. I can't get him to make a move."

  "What's wrong with men these days? Used to be all you had to do was look at them and they'd try to stick their thing in you."

  "We were a lot younger then."

  "Nonsense," Mabel insisted. "You're an amazing woman."

  "If you say so."

  "I do!"

  Mabel was convinced that they were both beautiful. She herself had been Miss Turkey Breasts 1962, a title she bore proudly, and that was against the Delaney sisters, only two of whom were cross-eyed. Unfortunately, the group photo, which she still possessed, was less than flattering: not only was Mabel's mouth wide open in a huge horsey laugh, her rivals, one on each side, undermined her with their optical opposition. That was also where she met Rudy. He was working as a turkey plucker and her baton twirling stirred him deeply. So much so they were engaged within a month. Such happy times, she thought, and often got emotional in the poultry department.

  "It could be Pete."

  "That boy, he just doesn't want you to be happy."

  "I did steal his friend."

  "All's fair in love and war."

  "I just don't understand it."

  "Understand what?"

  "Why he hates me so much."

  "He's just going through a stage."

  "That's what I thought at first but it's been going on for years. Ever since David left."

  "Maybe it's a Freudian thing."

  "What do you mean?"

  "He wants to sleep with his dad."

  "I think you got that backwards."

  "His dad wants to sleep with him? Disgusting!"

  Not that Mabel was surprised. Men were such perverts. Even Rudy, who was a saint in so many ways, liked to talk dirty in bed. There she'd be, lying on her back, thinking about Tupperware, and he'd be on top of her, grunting and groaning and snarling about how hard he was giving it to her - when really, all she felt was bored. That and uncomfortable. Oh yes, she'd say, after he finally spurted inside her. You sure showed me. And he'd smile, so pleased with himself. You had to give them that.

  "No, I mean he wants to sleep with his mother.'

  "Of course he does. Who wouldn't?"

  "Oscar obviously."

  "He just needs a bit of encouragement. Show a little skin.'

  "I tried. Gave him so much cleavage I almost caught a cold."

  "Maybe he's a leg man. Try black stockings. They're thinning."

  "I did. Crossed my legs and dangled my shoe and got nothing."

  "What else is there?" Mabel asked, throwing her hands up.

  A virgin before marriage and a reluctant participant ever after, Mabel's only sexual experience was with Rudy, her late and much lamented lover, and, according to him, there were two kinds of men: leg men and tit men. He himself was one of the latter and often tried to guess women's bra sizes. She's a B for sure, he'd say, pointing at the protruding pair. Sometimes, at parties, when he'd had too much to drink, he'd ask point-blank, which often caused offense. Don't get all worked up, he'd say, raising his drink as proof of innocence. I'm just being scientific. But, for some reason, women rarely saw it that way.

  "Thank you," Mabel said as Kelly placed a large pitcher of martinis on their table. It was important to be nice, especially to people who brought you alcohol. You may be the customer but they had the power to cut you off - something she prided herself on never having experienced. However drunk she got, she never descended into nastiness. On the contrary, she had a tendency to become excessively polite, which some people mistook as condescension. Fortunately for her, her peasant blood and uninspiring origins undercut the formality of her speech. Just a moment my good man, she'd say with a smile. I have to pee. Then, gracious as a queen, she'd saunter off to the can.

  "Well," she said, pouring them each a drink, "can't you just make him?"

  "How?"

  "I don't know. You're the worldly one."

  "But he's a Christian."

  "All the better. Guys like that... you only have to give yourself to them once. And then it's all over. Game, set and matches. They practically march themselves to the altar."

  Although a non-believer, Mabel had a great deal of respect for Christianity, Christians, whatever their faults, married early, rarely cheated and understood that the point of life was not to be happy but rather, to immerse yourself in the drudgery of family life. That weddings occurred in churches was only appropriate since it neatly combined two forms of servitude: familial and celestial. Only government remained and its principal purpose, as far as she was concerned, was to track down deadbeat dads and make them pay child support.

  "Maybe you're right."

  "Of course I am," Mabel replied, and drained her drink.

  *

  Oscar awoke to the sensation of movement. Something soft was sliding in beside him. A cocktail of scents, alien but inviting, crept into his nose and a hand touched his arm.

  "Oscar?"

  "Um?"

  "Are you awake?"

  "Ah, yeah."

  "Can I stay here a bit? I had a bad dream."

  "Uh, okay."

  Oscar closed his eyes, expecting to go back to sleep but, for some reason, Myrtle wanted to talk. Must still be scared, he thought, and reluctantly opened his eyes. Half asleep, he hardly heard her. Broken bits of dream mingled with her words, producing odd images. Suddenly, to his surprise, she sat on top of him.

  "It's a game," she explained, as she rubbed herself against him.

  Unfortunately, his unmentionable was directly below her and the friction had the effect of making it larger. Now fully awake, Oscar was terrified she would notice.

  It's Jingle Bells all over again, he realized and struggled to work up a sedate fantasy to counteract his excitement. But, just as he was beginning, Myrtle reached down between her legs, plucked his penis out from within his pajamas and lowered herself onto it.

  "Don't worry," she said. "We're just playing horsie." And, hunching her hips, she lifted herself up and pressed back down, over and over again, softly sliding against his pole.

  "Oh yes," she said, closing her eyes. "Oh yes."

  Shocked into silence, Oscar lay still, allowing her to ride him at her leisure.

  Leaning forward, she planted her hands on the bed and looked at him, her long hair falling down and tickling his face. Then, lifting her head, she closed her eyes again and her face tightened. Suddenly she shuddered and her body shook, twitching and jerking in many unexpected ways, and she fell, exhausted, upon him.

  Goodness, he thought, she must really like animals.

  *

  The next day was much as usual. Neither of them mentioned their nocturnal adventure. Myrtle didn't want to risk embarrassing him or, worse, prompting a crisis of conscience which might result in him ending the relationship. As for Oscar... he didn't know what to think, let alone say. The experience had been so strange and shocking - his unmentionable had actually been inside her! - he half wondered if it had been a dream or hallucination, a side effect of his medication maybe or Satan tempting him with lustful thoughts. But no: whatever it was, it was real and he had done it. Pastor Wilcox was bound to disapprove: to be molested once was bad luck; twice, however, was habit-forming. What's worse, he had, despite his shame and embarrassment, enjoyed it. As had Myrtle. Which made her a Jezebel. And yet, she seemed so nice, making him dinner every evening and giving him a place to sleep at night. It just didn't make sense.

  And then there was Pete. The thought made Oscar uneasy. He too would disapprove, maybe even more than Pastor Wilcox, although for very different reasons. Oscar wasn't sure what exactly he and Myrtle had done but felt sure Pete wouldn't like it. For some reason, he seemed to really dislike his mother which, as someone who had lost his parents early, Oscar found hard to understand. Sometimes, when he felt sad or lonely, he would imagine them in Heaven, which he saw as a giant dog park where people forever played with their pets. No one used a leash and there was free dog food for everyone. Other animal
s were welcome too and everyone got along. Oscar's favourite Bible verse, in fact, was the one about the lion and the lamb lying down together. Truly, that was paradise.

  Myrtle felt no such uncertainty. The events of the previous night were an unalloyed pleasure and one she had not experienced for some time. Sex with Jack was a race and one she usually lost. Not only was he in a hurry - have to get back to the wife and kids - he seemed to regard sex as a sprint. She would've settled for two hundred meters but it was always the hundred meter dash: quick start, rapid acceleration and total focus on the finish line. Sex with Oscar, on the other hand, was a long slow walk in the park, holding hands and pausing whenever you pleased to smell the flowers. True, she had been on top and so, in control, but he didn't seem to mind. On the contrary, he had seemed content to just lie there and let her do whatever she wanted. Myrtle wasn't even sure he had enjoyed himself but just assumed it to be the result of inexperience. The first time was often bad. Or at least, not good. She remembered her first, a pimply-faced teenager named Duane who hadn't been able to find her opening and so, just rubbed himself against her. On her way home she wondered if it was a good thing. No chance of getting pregnant but her panties were sticky. More to the point, did it count? Duane had no such doubts. He was convinced he had done a momentous thing and wasted no time informing his friends. Shortly thereafter Myrtle's popularity with boys took a sudden uptick and she found herself the recipient of several unexpected offers, most of them unsuitable.

  That night, and for several following, Myrtle repeated her trick of simply coming into Oscar's room and getting into bed with him, and with much the same results. At first she continued to use the bad dream excuse but soon dropped it, realizing it wasn't necessary. That they would have a discussion about it eventually was inevitable but she wanted to put it off for as long as possible. Talking was always the enemy. She should know. How many relationships had she destroyed with her need to know how things stood? Maybe Mabel was right. The world was full of possible mates and the less you knew someone, the better.

  If I'd known what he was like, she'd say, reminiscing about her Rudy, I'd never have married him. But I didn't. So I did. And now look at me!

  That he was dead daunted her not a bit.

  I have my memories, she'd insist. And a full pension!

  Myrtle wouldn't go that far but her standards had certainly fallen. Now all she wanted was to be happy. And she was.

  *

  "Damn," Dale said. "It's like a porn mag, only real."

  Confused and in need of someone to talk to, Oscar had invited him over for coffee.

  Fuck that, Dale had replied and insisted on taking him to the Commodore instead. Having recently risen, he had a tomato juice with his beer, which he considered a balanced breakfast. That the Commodore served food was a well-known secret, largely ignored by the vast majority of people who went there. Occasionally, when starved, Dale would order a burger or some fries but, for the most part, lived on protein drinks which, besides building muscle, had the added advantage of not requiring any effort.

  "I feel so bad," Oscar said.

  "For what?" Dale asked. "The bitch is coming to you."

  A sexual swashbuckler, ever randy, Dale's dream was to sleep with a woman of every race and type and had made considerable progress due to a total lack of discrimination regarding looks, character or personal hygiene but he had never slept with a friend's mother and considered that a black mark on his record. That Oscar, whom he had always seen as a loser, had been able to bed Pete's mom filled him with both envy and respect.

  "What about Pete?"

  "What about him? Not your fault his mom's a babe."

  "He took me in. Gave me a place to stay and everything."

  "Don't worry about it. Just do her as much as you can."

  All women, Dale believed, had a time limit. As such, it was important to have as much sex as possible as often as possible since, sooner or later, they were bound to find out what a jerk you were. In his case, it was almost always sooner. Sobriety had a shocking effect on women. All his finer qualities fell away and some of them even scowled when he asked for a goodbye blowjob. Fortunately, alcohol had a liberating effect on women's morals and that, combined with his willingness to scoop up the big fish most men sailed past, made for frequent bedfellows.

  "But I live with them."

  "Sweet."

  The guy had it made - delicious dinners, relaxing with a video and sex every night - and all he had to do was get stabbed. A small price to pay to escape the dating trap. Dale had never liked dating, which he saw as going to places you don't like and spending money on things you don't want in the hope it might lead to sex. The worst was Valentine's Day, which he regarded as a straight up scam. Women's expectations were so high. Once, when he was young, he took a date to Ollie's for Hot Dog Tuesday and she failed to appreciate the uniqueness of the event. But it only happens once a week, he repeatedly explained on the ride home, during which she stared ahead in simmering silence.

  Best of all, it wasn't even his house so he didn't have to worry about losing it in the divorce. Pete was a problem but nothing a few slaps wouldn't straighten out. He saw himself in Oscar's place, a modern pasha, sitting on the sofa in a bathrobe and reading the sports section. Below him, sliding slippers onto his feet, was Myrtle. Liberated women were all fine and well - he liked the fact they paid half - but someone had to do the cooking and cleaning and it sure as hell wasn't going to be him. There must be some way to get in on this.

  "No problem," he said. "I'll have a word with him."

  "Could you? That would be great. Just... be gentle."

  "Absolutely," Dale assured him. "Gentle is my middle name. Dale Tiberius Gentle Fucking Armstrong."

  *

  That Dale would invite him out for a drink was a surprise. Must be a trick, Pete thought and searched for an excuse to say no. But Dale was insistent and even offered to buy him a beer. How could he say no to that? And so Pete reluctantly agreed, all the while fearing some unspoken nastiness - like being beaten up by Dale and his biker friends for something he had done at the party. But what? Drunk and high as he had been, Pete was pretty sure he hadn't done anything wrong. On the contrary, he had been extremely careful not to offend anyone and had even pretended to be asleep at one point so as not to attract attention. Had someone spilt his beer by tripping over him? He would have felt that. And the guy would have said something right away. Or was his presence so repulsive they wanted to punish him simply for having been there? Again, they would've done so then.

  To his credit, Dale was quick. He knew Pete was nervous and considered playing with him but lacked the patience.

  "So," he began, almost as soon as they sat down, "I hear Oscar is fucking your mom."

  Pete's first feeling was relief. They weren't going to beat him up after all - although the guy at the next table was looking at him in a less than friendly way. And far from surprised, it was just what he had feared. Pete knew his mom. Her easy sexuality had always annoyed him. How many "uncles" had he had? A lot. The vast majority of whom were morons. That Oscar had become the latest in her long line of lovers was hardly shocking.

  It was, however, distasteful. Disgusting, even. A betrayal of the foulest sort. After all he had done for him! That Oscar's plight was a direct result of his pilfering was irrelevant. How was he to know the fool would replace what he stole? Only an idiot would waste his life savings helping a friend. And how had he repaid him? By fucking his mom!

  "What do I care?" he said. "Not my fault she's a slut."

  "Really?" Dale asked. "So I can fuck her too?"

  "Go ahead," Pete told him. "She'll do anyone."

  Dale felt himself get stiff. He had heard about such women - nymphos, they called them - but had never been fortunate enough to meet one. Not for lack of trying. At least once a week he walked around with his fly fashionably undone in the hope of attracting such a woman but, for some reason, had met with very little success. None at
all, to be honest, and was even beginning to doubt their existence; like Nessie or Bigfoot, they were urban legends, monsters of the imagination only, a pleasant thing to contemplate but unlikely to encounter. That Pete's mom might actually be one interested him immensely.

  Unless of course he was lying. Playing it cool to protect his pride. Eager to find out, Dale elaborated on Oscar's story, filling it with lurid details about sick acts and painful positions, many of them impossible. Soon, aided by alcohol, he began to believe his own lies and Oscar became a super stud who fucked Myrtle senseless a dozen times a night.

  "They laugh at you," he said. "For being such a loser."

  Throughout it all, Pete kept his composure and even tried to make light of it. What did he care that his best friend was fucking his mom? Or so he said. In truth, he was deeply disturbed. The sex was bad enough - Dale's graphic descriptions of Oscar defiling his mother shocked and repulsed him - but that the two of them were conspiring against him, whispering secret plots while lying in bed filled him with fury. And all the while Oscar had sat there, listened to his stories and said nothing. The traitor!

  *

  "Banished," Pete informed him. "You're banished from the basement. For life!"

  "Sorry," Oscar replied.

  "You should be. After all I did for you."

  "Sorry," Oscar repeated, and looked down in shame.

  "How could you do that? Betray me like that. And with my own mother!"

  "It just happened."

  "Just happened? What are you, Hugh Hefner? Sit around in pajamas and have sex all day?"

  "It's mostly at night."

  "Like that makes a difference."

  "It's not sex. We just play horsie."

  "What?"

  "You know, horsie. She gets on top and rides me when she can't sleep. Says it relaxes her."

  "I'll bet."

  "She says it's okay. Just a bit of fun."

  "What about your precious pastor? What did he say?"

  Once again Oscar hung his head in shame.

  "Don't know."

  "Of course not! And why is that? Because you haven't told him, have you?"

  "No," Oscar admitted.

  "And why not?|

  Oscar said nothing.

  "I'll tell you why. Because deep down you know what you did was wrong."