Well Earned

It’d been about six weeks since the day they’d run into each other at the downtown library. Grace supposed they were seeing each other now. It’d happened quickly, the weeks passing without her even really being aware. 

Grace liked the way Adrian held doors open for her. He teased her about her white-knuckled driving. He was smart. He had what turned out to be a very good job as a industry colorist. She could overlook the way he seemed to occasionally disappear, zoning out staring at mirrors or streetlamps and during movies and even sometimes in conversation. He seemed to want a companion he could relax in total silence with, and she was used to filling this silence, in any way possible. She equated this to the awkwardness of their first date last summer—they’d been mismatched because she was so frazzled, being new in town, and he was so gentile. It’d unnerved her at the time. But things were different now. Her various liaisons had made her brave. Grace felt she’d completed a step, been allowed to move up: she liked having someone real to go out with on a Friday night now, getting out of the Valley and away from her computer screen. 

A weekend in late March, or was it early April? They had a good time. He took her to the Catalina Jazz Club on Sunset. They ordered steaks and watched a pickup band play Oingo Boingo songs and he let her finish the chocolate pot de crème, scooping the graham cracker dust from the corners of the plate. Grace got buzzed off three glasses of Sonoma Coast chardonnay. A warm wind pushed her into him on the street, and they kissed for the first time: his lips were soft and determined pressed against hers. She didn’t dislike it, feeling oddly helpless in his arms. He grabbed her by the back of the head, forcing her into place. It hurt a little, but she let him. The thrill reminded her of her long-term penpal, GHOSTLOUPE. She imagined that was how he’d kiss her. This bled one fantasy into another, and she was beside herself by the time she got home, aching down there for hours. Very quietly in her bedroom, after midnight, Grace masturbated, her mouth dropping into an ah of shock at her body’s hasty, shuddering response. She felt less ashamed afterward, now that there was a real person involved. 

Her first time at his apartment, they’d had a strange conversation. She’d been admiring his vintage cameras. He had three or four on the side table next to the door: she recognized a 35-millimeter, a cracked rainbow strap curled around it; a vertical folding camera, and an old Kodak brownie from the 70’s. 

“Have you ever shot anything on these?” She asked.

“Oh yeah,” he nodded, moving forward to touch the lens cap of the 35-millimeter. “This one is a family heirloom. I’ve shot all over the city with this one. And the brownie I like to take out sometimes. Developing is a bitch though, I need to do it at work.”

“What do you like to take pictures of?” Grace asked.

His face seemed to cloud instantly. She was starting to notice it a bit, like a curtain falling, whenever something came up he didn’t want to talk about. 

“People, mostly.” He said this curtly. “Do you want me to take your picture? I could do that right now. Here.”

Grace blanched. “Oh no, I was just curious, I wasn’t—”

“I think you may need to earn it first.”

“What?”

“You haven’t earned it.”

She faltered, staring at his grave face. She’d suddenly lost points somehow. “I—okay, if you say so. I didn’t, like, mean anything by it.”

“No.” He was agreeing, but it felt like a condemnation. His gaze dropped from her to the cameras on the table. Then something seemed to change, a beat passed, and he was back. 

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s just—this equipment is delicate and very old. And I have a—I guess it’s a sense of privilege, when it comes to capturing a subject. It’s a very vulnerable thing. It’s very intimate.”

You brought it up, she thought, nodding her head sagely, backing away from the table. 

“But,” he was saying; his voice changed and it was suddenly loftier, happier. He grabbed her by the hand, twirling her around with his arm extended. “You, my dear, may have earned other things.”

“Oh yeah, what’s that?” She asked, mimicking his playfulness, trying to lighten her own heart. Hoping for a kiss, anything to sweeten up the moment. 

“Follow my instructions,” he said to her pointedly. He was grinning, but serious. 

“Okay.”

He dropped her hand, and she stood there stupidly, waiting. 

Adrian smiled, enjoying her visible awkwardness. When his admiration had waned, he said:

“Remove your clothes, please.”

Grace made a face. “Here?” She asked. She looked at the couch, turned around to glance at the TV, then back to Adrian, who was nodding, stony-faced. She remembered she was supposed to follow instructions. Right. 

She sighed loftily, partly to curb her beating heart. They hadn’t yet slept together. They’d only made out on the street and in his car a few times—and to her surprise, he hadn’t even tried digging his fingers into her underwear then. Their knowledge of each other in these details was still unexplored territory. Her face was on fire as she sunk to the ground to remove her shoes.

“No,” he said. “Stand up.”

She eyed him silently, and stood back up. She kicked her shoes off, not bothering with the laces. He watched, one hand on his chin, as she wriggled out of her jeans and, sighing loftily again, lifted her arms to take off her t-shirt, draping both on the end of the couch. 

She hesitated in her bra and underwear. 

“Both of them,” Adrian gestured. 

Grace’s eyes had lost some of their brightness. She stared at a spot past his head as she slipped herself free of the bra—a little mesh thing he liked quite a lot, light violet, with halter straps keeping her nipples pressed tightly against the fabric. 

The briefs, navy blue, were opaque and covered both cheeks, giving everything a wide berth. Angles and cuts and nothing else to see, really, other than the tiny, wedged impression of her sex in the fabric. 

A roll of flesh dimpled together sweetly at her waist as she curled to ease the underwear down. Muscles reflexed as she curled back up, and he could observe where baby fat had given way to cellulite, and where she’d remained lean. She was shorter than his Arctic Fox. Her body was, broadly, a pear: her breasts, freed from the mesh bra, were small and white, pale nipples inverted on her chest, her waist narrow enough for him to wrap both arms around and have overlap. Her hips widened out from here, surprisingly so—into a large ass which was wide and shapely, practically an entire ocean’s surface he could imagine resting his head on. 

She held her powerful thighs together stiffly. The little triangle between them was clustered with a soft swath of brown hair, a flesh-colored slit in the middle. He wished he could put his tongue in it right then and there.

“Good,” Adrian said. “Very good. Now—turn to the wall, please.”

Grace looked as if she were starting to disassociate: he knew the expressions. As long as she followed his voice, it was fine for the time being. He’d get her out. He was very happy with her. She turned slowly from him and faced the gray wall. 

“Put your hands on it.”

Her palms sought the gray, flattened out. She stared at this, concentrating on the color. Grace imagined living inside an entirely gray world. She was suddenly chilly, and tried not to shake. She wasn’t sure what was happening down below, the sensations were confusing, and so she kept her legs together. She felt oddly hungry, a grumbling erupting in her stomach. 

“Spread your legs, please.”

She’d been afraid of this. As she readjusted against the wall, taking a spread-eagled stance, she felt air reaching new parts of her in the front and back. Out in the open like this, helpless, all she could do was wait for whatever was going to happen next. 

He came up behind her. She could feel his breath on her neck. Her ear. His lips seeking her hair. He kissed her neck. He breathed through his mouth, forcing warm air into her hair which sent quiverings up and down her spine. She felt drugged as he crawled her this way, taking in the poison through his breath, saliva, and she almost cried out when a hand also suddenly sought her ass, gripping tightly, digging the nails in. 

He kept his hand here, on her ass, in an expert hold the entire time, while his other hand began to explore her. Tentatively at first, until it began to use the moisture provided and seek out a wider, sweeping gesture. 

Grace was in a state, a place she’d never found herself. She couldn’t move. Sensations were beginning to rise—ones she’d brought herself to before, of course, but never in the presence of another and never upright like this, arms taught and trembling, as she struggled to control the rocking rhythm of his hand, which had grown enormous, and a terrible pulsing, like deep vibrating velvet, which also grew until she was gasping and squeezing her eyes shut and the word “No,” escaped her lips. 

The moment Grace whispered “No,” he knew she was starting to come. He held onto her tightly, as she was trying to get away from him, drooping and sinking towards the floor, her legs like wet clay collapsing. When she cried out it was cough-like: not the sound of someone mimicking pornos or movies they’d seen, but involuntary. This pleased and aroused him, the authenticity of it. He liked how she naturally fought it, too.

The release had triggered something in her legs, and Grace stood there, her body curling inward, hot hands sliding against the wall, trying to keep herself vertical. She breathed in loudly through her nostrils, feeling like a winded rhino and wishing he weren’t there, wishing she could just go to the bathroom and get herself together for a minute. She concentrated on the gray world two inches from her face.

“Good,” he whispered in her ear, finally releasing his grip on her ass. It was stinging a bit. The room was eerily silent. 

***

Fifteen minutes later, Grace was sitting in her car on Franklin Avenue, trying to light a cigarette. Her hands kept shaking, but after a couple of tries, she got it. She pulled away from the curb without thinking about where she was going, her mind blank, one hand resting lightly on the turn signal switch. 

It was late, not many cars on Barham. Her left hand, holding the cigarette out the window, was sturdy only by the time she’d descended back down into the valley, bottoming out at the Forest Lawn and Pass Avenue intersection. She was rounding the corner at the Warner Brother’s buildings, glancing at the familiar tan gates, the Hot Dog Haus across the street where she’d once gotten sick outside. 

He hadn’t offered to let her spend the night, but she wouldn’t have accepted, anyway. The evening seemed over, at any rate. He’d watched her closely as she pulled on her jeans, leaning against the arm of the couch. There wasn’t much said between them, and Grace felt strange, almost frightened of him as she gathered her things. Her crotch was still pulsing like a beacon, a humming filling her body which was not unlike the need she’d cultivated online with GHOSTLOUPE. 

But that had all been fantasy. This was real, and she felt a new humiliation in it, that she’d come so hard and fast, as if this cheapened her, made her slutty. It’d felt forced out her, the pleasure itself incidental. She couldn’t read where his true interest lay, exactly, in regards to her. 

This thought popped out in her head as she sat at the light on Olive Avenue. She was surprised it hadn’t occurred to her before at some point. 

He hadn’t thought it a good idea to try and get her to stay. He knew her discomfort well, and watched calmly as she avoided his gaze, grabbing her things. He was used to women not looking at him afterward. He was reminded briefly of the previous girl’s last path through the apartment. But Grace wasn’t angry or hurt, she was confused. Wrestling between pleasure and fear. It was best to let her go. He downplayed his goodbye, smiling sleepily at her, standing in the open doorway. Despite a growing fondness, or perhaps exactly because of this, he closed it in her face. Through the keyhole, he watched as she turned and, as if in a trance state, walked to the elevator alone. Turning back to the living room, he raised his fingers to his nostrils. The smell of her lingering effluvium was practically a drug; he felt woozy for a brief moment, standing there with his eyes closed. 

Adrian knew the drive home would probably be enough, but if not, he’d hear from her in the morning. He was pleasantly surprised when about two hours later, while he was reading an article on the toilet, she texted him. He clicked over to the message, eyebrow raised. 

-I had a good time tonight. 

She was sitting on her bed as she sent this. Safely bathed in the soft orange lighting, returned to an adult womb, where her parents slept soundly down the hall and, cautiously, she’d made herself come again. Lying on top of the covers, breathing heavily, Grace asked herself what had been so frightening about the evening, after all?—he’d wanted to please her. That was nice. The separation and the time to think had made the eerie feelings she’d experienced in his apartment fade away. Or maybe she’d just deleted the shame, purposefully, all of it—the strange sense of unease which had followed, the feeling she’d been violated somehow, like something had been involuntarily taken from her. 

It’d been surprisingly easy, standing in the kitchen in the stove’s half-light (which her mom left on whenever she was coming home late), absently eating chips from the bag on the counter and going over the scene again. She’d enjoyed fighting him. That was what had made it so intense. He’d known this all along. 

When she woke up the next morning, Grace was absolutely starving. Her mother found her at the kitchen table, reading an article in Entertainment Weekly about Jennifer Lawrence’s favorite swear words, and eating an enormous bowl of Cheerios. 

“How was your date last night?” Her mom moved around the kitchen, jiggering the coffee pot, dabbing at her eyes with a paper towel she ripped from the holder.

“It was nice, actually,” Grace said brightly. She was in a good mood. She preferred talking to her parents in the morning to all other times of day. The sun threw a transparent yellow angle on the dining room table, and she thought all the sudden how easy, how beautiful everything was. 

She pulled out her phone to show her a picture of Adrian. It was his main photo from the app.  

Her mother wrinkled her nose from over her shoulder. “He looks kind of like an actor that could play a vampire on one of those Gen Z shows, doesn’t he?”

Grace couldn’t help herself. She burst out laughing, and couldn’t stop; she inhaled a cheerio, and started coughing. Her mother slapped her on the back a few times, frowning pleasantly. She moved Grace’s braid back and forth a few times, as if playing absently with her own. 

Daiquiri

The music pounded through the floor. It was a constant. Up through the floor, down from the ceiling, 1990, Seattle, Casa del Rey, Broadway, Capitol Hill. I was fresh as a steaming a.m. turd, relocated from San Fran, 24 years virile and ready to fuck the world. Tats on the fingers and all. I’d been inhabiting the studio apartment all the way in the back on the first floor with avocado green walls and view overlooking the building’s garbage receptacles and the Seafirst bank parking lot for several months – with time being non-linear and such, the struggle to differentiate is palpable – head in the clouds, or buried underground – brain like fried fish, or submerged in a public toilet… I only knew a couple people in the building. Cheap rent, wastrels, subverts, a carnival lodging splat in the thick. The I-don’t-know-who up there hammering at his drum kit day and night, like a series of earthquake tremors… I run up the stairs ready to raise hell, bam-bam-bam! on the door, which after a beat flies open with a Rastafarian linebacker filling up the doorframe, and I’m all, uh, yeah, so you’re a drummer, huh? Cool, like, holy shit and stuff, you hit really hard, man, like John Bonham on steroids, I mean, uh, y’know? Shaking a bit, I must admit. The dude was a fucking leviathan. But apparently with the power of Jah coursing through him. Yah, man, no problem, I can tone it down some. Peace. And he closed the door so gently you’d think a little infant baby was sleeping in there. Well fuck me, I thought. I went back to the avocado walls and the desk scavenged from the alley behind Broadway. And my ancient 1940s-in-the-Bowery manual typewriter. Because I was a poet and I had to make my own noise and as unmusical as it was clack-clacking away like a tiny locomotive in my head it calmed the demons and lubricated my ego like Crisco on a stale biscuit. The swish across the hall aptly cracked, oh, that’s just Monsieur Ivan hard at work on the next Great American Novel. That’s ATM, girl. Party every night at mi Casa es su Casa, ATM the unofficial aficionado. A tall thin Greek specimen with the blackest, longest, curliest tresses I’d ever seen on a man. Oh, honey, they’re not real, he lisped. They’re extensions!It’s what he did, his active career. Apparently, a vast percentage of the coifs of the early Seattle grunge movement were the product of ATM’s hair-tying abilities. You actually make money doing that? I make bank, little man, as he reached out to finger my side-locks appraisingly. What I could do with your pe’ot, sweetie… Dude! Get the fuck! ATM whinnied. I vowed to shave my head as soon as I could get my greasy Sephardic hands on some clippers. Later in the night, after several beers and multiple hits of pot, I asked ATM why his parents named him after a cash machine. You poor thing, he pouted, it’s Etienne, EH-TEE-EN, get it? En francais. You vulgar little man you. Etienne had a nice friend that lived in the basement apartment right beneath mine, under the stairs. Her name was Daiquiri and in the same sentence with the straightest face imaginable Etienne added, and her sister’s name is Brandy. You gotta be fucking kidding me I said. Welcome to Seattle, Monsieur! Daiquiri was the first bona-fide grunge groupie I’d come across. Repurposed print dresses from Betsey Johnson’s, honking Doc Marten’s, kinky hair past her waist of every conceivable tint and pigmentation, expertly tied by the deft digits of St Etienne. Not to mention generously doused from head to toe with patchouli oil. Daiq, hot street-smart cross between Raggedy-Ann and Goth Barbie. I didn’t want to love her because she stank and treated me like a little brother when really, I was probably 3 or 4 years older. Oh Eye, she sighed, oh Eye, you’re such a good friend. She’d try to read one of my skittish ditties, her eyes attempting to focus with great pains. She simply couldn’t. I’d read it out loud while she, happily relieved of the effort, smoked a cigarette. She’d light a joint. She’d sip a fruity concoction. She’d light a pipe. Several pipes. Weed? Kif? Dank? Why not? But Daiq preferred crack. Her patchouli aroma was amply spiced with acrid permeations of tart, chic, swank, chi chi, decay, decomposition, death. Oh Eye, she’d sigh. Up on the roof, on dilapidated lawn furniture, we partied through the summer – in the pit of the avocado, at Etienne’s pad – the replica of a Salvation Army thrift store’s window display – spilling over onto the granite stoop of the Casa del Rey – the carnival of our nation’s happening musical hub bop-bopping by on Broadway. I was the good friend who naturally wanted to fuck my good friend Daiq who was, naturally, a fucking junkie. But did I really want to fuck a junkie? Granted, Daiquiri had all the requisite hotness covered: length, curves, youth, hipness, surface gaiety, childlike naïveté – attributes to exploit and annihilate. Such traits in the female species, presented on a silver platter, perhaps in a state of delirium, or altogether unconscious… I could just… I would just… ahem. But to repeat. The music pounded up through the floorboards, up, through my thin futon mat, into my earholes and sonically attuned body, with a thick thumping bass that vibrated my bones. I leaped up despite the time – day, night – I was as unaware as a temporarily unemployed person could be, attuned not to the Gregorian but to depths of shadow, incomparable values, black ‘n fucking white, drunk-ass plaid, bleak and snap, dying, crying, wiggling, jerking, spurting, bleeding, vomiting, dreaming. I leapt up across the room out the door down the stairs. At Daiq’s door I pounded. If I couldn’t pound Daiquiri I sure as shit could pound on her door. Daiquiri was dead to the world. I tried the knob. Unlocked. Well, shit. I pushed it open and entered, shoving aside piles of clothes, shoes, a smorgasbord of bric-a-brac, made my way to her bed, a Victorian wrought-iron contrivance. I spied a naked, pale white foot with toenails painted canary yellow. I clutched. I pulled. I yanked. I shook. Not dead. Undead. I mounted the bed and crawled across Daiq’s inert form to the headboard shelving where the boombox was booming. Daiquiri never knew I was there. What did you expect, darling? Etienne simpered – a come-hither invite to dip into her Victoria’s Secret-clad honey-pot? You silly little man you.

I’m A Writer

Howdy. How you doing?

I guess okay. Just wanna have a couple drinks before I haveta go.

You from around here? I don’t remember seeing you before.

Listen, I’m not into conversation. Just wanna drink in silence. I had a rough day.

What is it exactly that you do?

Really? I’m A Writer.

So you’re a writer huh?

That’s what I claim to be on Facebook. And my name is on a couple of books.

What kinda shit do you write about? Maybe I’ve read some.

I seriously doubt it. I write about a little bit of everything I guess. 

Do you write any dirty stuff? You know like write about sex?

Sometimes I write about sex.

Then you write about people having sex?

Usually there’s always people involved, especially when I write about sex.

Anyone I’d know?

Ya, your wife.

down the bermuda highway

thumbin’ my way down the Bermuda Highway, chip on my shoulder, grave dirt on my shoes. sun’s gone n gone. ne’r to be found—neither hide nor hair—‘hind burdensome clouds that bruise god’s baby blue. clouds black like tar, black like pitch. fire-crested seams holding day’s woeful tapestry—tender, ephemeral like blazin’ cigarette drags from god’s hot cherry mouth. but m’eyes stay fixed yonder past vaporous heat of I95 and the gravity of Texas noon, where roadkill feeds asphalt and wheels, and tumbleweeds embark ‘pon their journeys to nowhere. hey, buddy, can I hitch a ride?

heat sticks heavy like a tick, like oil. slip slip slide and awaaay. so heavy it’s hard to      b   r   e   a   t   h   e (just ‘bout, but i do). sweat’s salty streams sting my eyes, vision turns green, hazy like dreams o’ yesterday n yesterday n yesterday. but i walk on, wander-weary, future bleary, highway hot, burnin’ souls, burnin’ time.

black car emerges from liquid air, stops, and trails me like a lonesome shade. 

“goin’ my way?” he asks from cracked, tinted glass.

“you tell me,” i return.

door opens. i step in, into black—black ice shadow. he just smiles, n we drive. dark eyes. dark skin. black like tar. black like pitch. fingers snappin’, ra-ta-ta-tappin’ the steering wheel to the tune of a silent dirge.

death in the driver’s seat, suitcase in the back wantin’ for a soul, i miss the fire under my feet n the hazy days of home n yesterday n yesterday n yesterday…

Terrence Underhill Before the Tsunami

“It’s there,” Jessica said, not quite looking at it. She rifled through my purse, pulled out a half-empty roll of breath mints, and toyed with the ragged edge of wax paper. The acid in my stomach churned. She dropped the mints back in the bag without taking one and stared out the passenger window. 

The Eureka Inn waited for us at the end of the street, hulking and squat, a beast with its scabrous back pressed up against the low, grey clouds. Beyond that was the sea, leaden as the sky. The tide was far out and the traffic-like drone of the surf was muffled by distance. I’d never seen it that low.

The Eureka Inn had 103 rooms, but every window was dark. All but one. 

Dan was standing outside the front doors, his fists pushed down hard in the front pocket of his hoodie. His feet were uneasy as he watched us come up the drive.

“You ready?” He asked when we were close enough. When Jessica laughed she sounded like she was choking.

“No,” I told him. He nodded once, like I’d said yes, and wiped his mouth with the back of hand, not quite looking at us. After a long minute, Jessica pushed past him.

“Fine, let’s go,” she said. She moved with purpose, head down, shoulders forward. Inside, the faded carpet smelled musty and the walls were nicotine stained. Ronald Reagan grinned down from above the grand fireplace, but there was no one else in the lobby to greet us. Jessica made it all the way to the lift doors before she stalled.

“Let’s have a drink first,” she said, spinning back around. 

“Okay,” I said before Dan could object.

Kate was behind the bar, her hair parted neatly down the middle and coiled up into two tiny buns like cat ears. She frowned.

“Double Clan McGregor,” Jessica said. Kate poured it with a look of disgust. 

“Can I just have a glass of water?” Dan asked, sounding sorry enough for all of us. Jessica swallowed noisily. 

“Vodka.” I told Kate. She poured a meager draught into a smudged glass, no ice, no lemon, no nothing. I drank it anyway, not quite looking at her.

Jessica called for another round. Kate poured her a single this time.

“That’s enough,” she said, putting the bottle away and glaring around at us.

“Let’s go,” Dan urged. Jessica ignored him and sipped her scotch. 

“We have to,” he whispered.

“We will,” I said, wanting him to shut up. 

“They’ll be pissed,” he said.

“You really know how to ruin a drink,” Jessica muttered, swallowing the last of her scotch. “All right, let’s go.”

I thought about letting them go on ahead. I’ll be right up, I could say. I could sip the last of my warm well vodka, then saunter out of the Palm Lounge like I couldn’t feel Kate’s disapproval burning through my back. I could slip right out the front door. I could run. I had an almost full tank of gas and a hundred bucks hidden under the front seat. I could get pretty far on that. Far enough anyway. 

Jessica was staring at me. I could tell from how she was looking she knew what I was thinking. “I’ll be right up,” I said.

“Finish your drink.” When her voice got low like that it meant she was getting ready to throw a punch. They had her kid in a room up at Joe’s place. There was no running for her.

Kate was staring at me. So was Dan. He got this coiled up look when he was getting ready for a fight, like a snake in a tight corner. 

“All right,” I said, the resistance draining out of me. It’s like when someone too big takes a swing at you, or when you crash a car. You can see the impact coming and you know it’s going to be bad, but there’s nothing you can do. You get really calm on the inside and you tell yourself this is going to hurt, but you’ll probably live. You try to get ready for it, even though you know when it hits, you won’t be ready at all. 

Jessica put her arm around my shoulders. It might have been to keep me from bolting, but I don’t think so. We’d fucked everything up together. Now we had to clean up the mess together. More than anything I wished I had a little crank. I could get through anything when I was geared up.

Our footsteps were muffled by the threadbare carpet, then the soft woosh of the lift doors. We all stared down at the floor. Dan was the first one out and set a quick pace down the hall. But once we were there, we huddled outside room 44, trying not to hear the sounds on the other side of the door. This isn’t real, I thought. 

Jake opened the door. It wasn’t just the smell; the air in the room was warm and moist. It had a terrible intimacy about it. Most of Terry was sprawled on a blue tarp between two twin beds. He was still wearing the Elvis costume he’d had on when we killed him, except the white jumpsuit was soiled with troubling stains. 

Jake went back to the frying pan he had over a camp stove set up on the bureau. He pointed to the awful red meat sizzling in the pan. 

“You’re welcome,” he said. Ginny held out three forks.

“You better get started,” she said. “It’s going to be a long night.” 

When I looked down at the fork in my hand it looked far away, as if my neck had grown taller. This isn’t real, I told myself. You’ll probably survive. 

Outside a siren began to sound, a loud, long wail that didn’t quit. 

“What the hell is that?” Jake said, looking out the window.

Hidden Tabs

“They’re ‘un abomination, Andy. A god damn abomination,” his brother Joe said. They were sitting outside drinking their cans of Lone Star by the fire pit. Joe’s wife Jill helped Andy’s wife Tricia put the kids to bed and clean up after their crawdad boil. 

“Yeah, if any one of them she males tries to come near me with a hidden dick. I swear I’ll kill ‘em,” Andy says and takes another swig of his beer as if to bring home the point. His brother, satisfied with the answer, sits back in the lawn chair, his salmon-pink short-sleeved angler’s splaying open on each side of a notable beer belly.

Ding!

Andy’s phone lights up with a social media notification. @hotgrrrll694eva has sent you a message. Intrigued, he flicks his finger across the screen and unlocks with face id. 

“Just had to say…you’re so sexy. I love a guy who hunts. Wouldn’t mind being your prey in my bed tonight.”

Andy’s face flushes and he looks over at Joe who is just mindlessly staring up at the stars, an uneven Winnie the Pooh grin settled on his face. He should just delete it. He hovers his thumb over the message to do just that, then instead decides to click on the profile.

A bleach blonde with gigantic fake boobs and the most gorgeous slender face he’d ever seen. Just his type, a little sleazy but coquettish, heavy on the makeup. The complete opposite of his wife Tricia, plain, mousy brunette, small boobs and a shapeless rail, aside from the kangaroo pooch leftover after kids. They’d dated since high school, and he kept her around since. Although, he always had the strongest inclination that he could do better. This latest message was just additional reinforcement.

He continues to scan her photos and thinks it’s a shame he isn’t alone right now. He scrolls back up to her bio, the first time he even thinks to look. A secondary concern. There he sees:

Lola Jane 

🏳️‍🌈 | trans | she/her

His stomach drops for half a second. Not in disgust. Just in that sharp, electric way you feel when you realize you’ve stepped somewhere you swore you never would. Maybe a little fear. 

He glances over at Joe again. Joe’s still staring at the stars, scratching his belly and looking like he might fall asleep in the chair, his arm dangling off the side of the chair, the beer can precariously dangling from between his thumb and index finger. 

Andy scrolls back through the photos again. The pictures don’t change, the trans woman’s body doesn’t but the electricity in his does.

He swallows.

Ding!

Another message.

“Don’t get shy on me now, hunter.”

His thumb hovers again. You should block her. He types instead.

“How’d you find me?”

Three dots appear almost instantly. He feels a cold stone in his stomach that contrasts with the hot spark in his frontal cortex. 

“You pop up in my feed a lot. You like what I post,” Lola responds.

His throat tightens. Confusion takes over the excitement. He doesn’t remember liking anything.

But maybe he did. Maybe late at night. Maybe drunk. Maybe half asleep.

He switches apps. Opens his browser. Incognito mode. Types in words he knows by muscle memory now. Words he never says out loud. Words he clears from history before he closes the tab. 

The images flood the screen. His pulse kicks up. Back to the message. He sees the three dots appear again. Then her message flashes again on his phone.

“You into girls like me?” she types.

He stares at the fire pit, at the coals collapsing inward.

Before his brain even knows what his fingers are doing, “Maybe,” he types.

Joe laughs at something in his own head. Andy angles the phone away from him and waits. He sees Joe looking at his phone now, “Oh, look at this. This dude’s launching bottle rockets out of his mouth. HOLY SHIT! Shit’s hilarious!”

Andy holds back a sigh of relief and chuckles, “Oh, yeah, reminds me of Fourth of July this year when Dallas launched them out of his butthole.”

“Ha! Yeah, that was funny as hell. We should start our own Ticky-Tock if it weren’t for the Chinese watching us,” his brother responded. Andy didn’t want to point out that his brother was watching the very app that was potentially spying on him. He wants to get back to his conversation. He’s itching to get back to it.

“What’s maybe? Are you scared?” she had replied.

He feels that little rush. That stupid boyish one he hasn’t felt since high school, before Tricia, before the mortgage, before crawdad boils and matching Christmas pajamas, even before whiskey girls (what he is supposed to like) and smoky bars and men being men (the way he was supposed to be). When there was Shawn. 

“I ain’t scared,” he types.

“Prove it.”

His breath comes shallow now.

“What you want?”

“A picture.”

He hesitates.

He hasn’t done that before. Not really. Not with someone real.

“You first,” he writes.

A pause.

Then an image loads.

She’s on a bed. He? Red lace. Hair spilling over one eye. Perfect lighting like a damn magazine shoot. Too perfect maybe. But he doesn’t linger there. He zooms in. His mouth goes dry.

“Your turn,” she writes.

He looks at Joe again.

Joe’s humming some country song under his breath.

Andy stands up.

“Gonna take a leak,” he mutters.

He walks around the side of the house. The yard dark, cicadas whining in the trees. He leans against the siding and unbuttons his jeans. Snaps a quick photo. Not artistic. Not posed. Just enough.

He stares at it.

You’re not that kind of man.

He sends it anyway.

The three dots appear immediately.

“Soooo much better than I imagined.”

His chest expands at that.

“You trust me?” she writes.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, she does.

“Tuesday. 11:42 PM. You searched ‘motel trans fantasy rural.’”

The blood drains from his face.

He didn’t tell her that. He never told anyone that.

He types slow now.

“What the fuck? How the hell you know that?”

“Don’t get nervous,” she replies. “I pay attention.”

A breeze lifts the edge of his shirt. He suddenly feels watched. Like the dark itself has eyes. The cicadas feel louder in his ears. His breath hitches painfully in his lungs.

He goes back to the browser. Checks his history.

It’s empty. Of course it is. Incognito.

Ding!

“You look good,” she writes. “But I want more.”

He’s breath is hot, his head feels ready to explode. “No, I want to know how you know what the fuck I’m looking at. Who are you?” he types.

“I want to see you how you really are.”

His stomach flips.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know.”

He stares at that for a long time.

The house behind him is quiet now. Kids asleep. Tricia probably done rinsing dishes at the sink, sitting on the couch now drinking Moscato with Jill bitching about their husbands and talking about the next gymnastics meet for the girls.

“You ever wonder?” she writes.

He does.

He always has.

Late nights when the house is still. When he scrolls through profiles he’d spit on in daylight. When the shame burns but the curiosity burns hotter. 

“I ain’t like that,” he types.

Three dots.

“Then prove it.”

Another image comes through.

This one closer. More intimate. But something’s off. The background repeats faintly at the edges. Like the wallpaper loops wrong. Like it was stitched together. 

He ignores it.

“What you want me to do?” he writes.

“Put something on,” she replies. “Let me see.”

He almost laughs.

“You’re crazy. I’m done with this shit. BYE!”

“Are you scared?”

That word again.

He isn’t scared. 

“Hey man, Jill and I better get on outta here. Gotta go meet a guy who wants to buy my trailer tomorrow. You good?”

“Yeah man, cool, sounds good.” He walks back inside and he and Tricia say their goodbyes. The living room dark. Joe and Jill gone. Tricia looks at him, “You coming to bed?”

“Yeah, babe. In a sec. Be right there,” she gives him a skeptical look. “Promise,” he says and lifts up his pinky finger giving her the sly good-ol’-boy look that always charms her.

“Alright, see ya up there,” she says and walks up the stairs. 

He moves quietly to the laundry room. He knows where her things are.

He shouldn’t do this.

But he does.

He grabs a blouse. Soft blue. Smells like detergent and something faintly floral.

His hands shake as he pulls it over his head. It hangs wrong on him. Tight at the shoulders. Loose at the waist. He stares at himself in the mirror hanging on the back of the laundry room door.

There’s something in his eyes he doesn’t recognize.

He takes the picture.

Deletes it.

Takes another.

Sends it.

The dots appear instantly.

“Beautiful,” she writes.

He exhales, long and slow. Then:

“Go out like that,” she types.

His heart stutters.

“What?”

“To the bar. Tomorrow. I’ll be there.”

His first instinct is to laugh it off. But the idea lodges itself in him like a splinter. All night he dreams in flashes. Red lace. Neon signs. Then nightmares: Joe’s face twisted in confusion.

The next evening he drinks before he leaves. Two beers. Then a third. The blouse again. This time a pair of Tricia’s jeans. Too tight. He shoves his boots on anyway.

In the mirror he looks ridiculous. He feels exposed. He doesn’t recognize his face. Not only that he used Tricia’s makeup doing his best to emulate what she does and settling on a YouTube tutorial. Tricia was going to a Colleen Hoover book club, his kids were at the grandparents, he told her he’d just take it easy at home and watch the game. 

His phone buzzes as he steps outside the car in the bar parking lot. “The Klamshell” glowing neon above the door of the dive.

Andy no longer feels like he’s controlling his own body any more. He’s not commanding this ship any more. He thinks about getting back into the car and driving himself to the nearest state mental hospital. But, his logical Andy brain is completely dissociated from this new persona.

“I see you,” Lola writes.

He freezes.

The street is empty.

“You’re brave,” she writes.

The bar’s neon sign hums like it’s telling him, “Yes, over here sweetie.

Inside it smells like beer and grease and sweat.

Conversation dies the second he walks in. His brother Joe is at the pool table.

Joe turns.

The silence is a living thing now.

“Andy?” Joe says.

His name sounds wrong in his mouth.

Someone coughs. Then laughs. Not kindly.

Joe comes over, his startled expression gives way to a furrowed-brow and pursed lips. He sounds out of breath when he says again, “Ah-Andy. Wh-what’s going on? Does Tricia know you-you’re here?” He then smiles hesitantly, “Wait, is this a fucked up joke?” He looks at his buddies giving them an it’s-okay-guys nod.

“I’m not Andy, I’m Angela,”

Joe’s face shifts from confusion to something harder.

“You sick son of a—” another man behind Joe’s shoulder comes forward.

The first punch knocks him sideways.

The second splits his lip.

Boots. Fists. Shouting.

He curls in on himself but they keep coming. He hears Joe at first, but then the tornado of denim and cowboys boots crunching in his face and crushing his ribs takes over.

He tastes blood. Metal. Dirt.

Somewhere in the chaos his phone skitters across the floor.

The last thing he hears before everything goes dark is someone saying, “Abomination.”

***

When he wakes up, everything hurts. Fluorescent hospital lights buzz overhead. His jaw is wired. One eye swollen shut. Tricia isn’t there. Joe isn’t either.

There’s a phone on the tray table. It’s not his.

He reaches for it slowly. One notification displays. The phone opens to his face id.

From: Lola Jane
Subject: Welcome Home.

His vision swims but he opens it. Inside is a list.

Username.
Password.
Backup codes.
Recovery email changed.

“All yours,” the message says.

He scrolls down. There’s one more line.

“You wanted to know who I am.”

He sucks in a breath. His ribs scream.

Another message appears.

“It’s you.”

He opens the social media app.

The profile loads.

Lola Jane.

🏳️‍🌈 | trans | she/her

No new posts.

No new messages.

Just waiting.

His reflection in the dark screen looks unfamiliar. Bruised. Split. Lips swollen and red.

He types with clumsy fingers.

He changes the profile picture.

Uploads the one from the laundry room.

He edits the bio.

Deletes everything except:

she/her

He sets the account to public.

Then he closes his eyes.

And doesn’t switch back.

Bestiality

The first time I saw myself on video I got a hard on.  I don’t remember the girl’s name, but I remember what her blood smelled like as she died.

It started out innocently enough.  I took her to a rundown motel and paid her fifty bucks to let my partner videotape her.  I told her to strip and bent her over the dresser, entering her. She moaned softly and I couldn’t tell if she was enjoying it.  I pushed my fingers into her hair, stroking the pale mane gently. “Do you like it when I fuck you?” I murmured against her ear.  She only bit her lip and closed her eyes.

I lowered my head and kissed her shoulder, and the sensuous taste of her skin caused my animal instinct to take over.  The girl’s eyes fluttered open and she let out a startled gasp as I curled my fingers tightly around her hair and pulled her head sharply back.  “Oh god,” she whispered, her voice trembling once she realized I had her small frame pinned completely against the dresser.  I smiled at the thought of what I was about to do to her, and a low laugh escaped my lips.  

“God?” I replied, “No darling.  God has forsaken you.”  She struggled in vain, whimpering, and tears stained her cheeks.  Her pitiful cries soon turned into screams as I sank my fingers into her back, clawing at the flesh savagely.  The camera zoomed in on her mouth, opened wide in terror, and her head slammed into the streaked mirror over and over again as I hammered myself violently inside her.  I growled in lust and hunger, and my mouthful of sharp teeth sliced into her delicate skin.  I lapped up the blood that poured from her wounds and brought my hand up to her breast, my eyes glinting in the poor light as I smiled slyly into the camera.  

When I came, the intensity of release brought forth a guttural raging howl and I closed my eyes until the feeling passed and I became myself again.  I climbed off the corpse and staggered to the bathroom, turning the shower on.  As I left, I made sure to reach into her purse and retrieve the fifty before closing the door, leaving the carnage behind.

There are others like me, men that possess an agonizing thirst for the blood of women.  They look like everybody else, but their daydreams are haunted with pornographic images of women, naked and exposed, covered in blood.  And when they make love to their wives, they often silently wish for piercing screams of anguish, only climaxing at the thought of that certain intoxicating look all women get when tortured.  The look is more beautiful when you finally tear them to shreds. 

To our kind, mutilation and sex are forever intertwined.  It has been so since the dawn of creation.  We don’t struggle with the question of it.  We don’t fight to suppress it.  And we no longer reel against the idea of it.  We simply kill.  You read about us in the paper sometimes, but often you’re not allowed the privilege of the details.  How, after the victim was raped, the entrails were torn out and feasted upon.  And always, a video camera and tripod remained, but never a tape.  

Knowing that there was a relic for each of our vicious acts comforted us.  We did this, so we could live on.  Even the men with badges were fearful to let the brutality of the crimes be known.  It’s likely that every night they tucked their children into bed and prayed desperately that tomorrow would be different.  So far, their prayers have fallen on deaf ears.

They don’t always walk into my traps willingly.  No, some of them have to be forced into it.  The last girl was difficult.  She put up a fight, by god, determined not to go down easily.  I had deep fingernail scratches on my face and torn clothing by the time I got her chained to the bed.  

Working alone this time, I set up the video camera myself before approaching her.  I rubbed my hand down her smooth white belly, and her mouth quivered when I reached her underwear.  I ripped them off, cruelly slapping her across the jaw as I revealed the fiery red pelt that matched her bright curls.  When I entered her, she cried, making desperate, futile attempts at negotiation.  

She pleaded incessantly with me, a river of tears streaming down her face.  I didn’t know whether she cried from the pain of me hurting her, or the torment of humiliation as she was made to submit, and I never really cared.  I violated her mercilessly and took pleasure in knowing what I was about to take from her.  

“Look at the camera baby,” I purred, laying my hand across her face and pressing to the right, so that she had no choice but to do what I asked.  The elusive primal urge that I had been waiting for finally took hold of me, and I yearned for blood.  

“Take a good hard look,” I leaned down and whispered through her screams.  “Because it’s the last thing you’re ever gonna see.”

I replay the tapes every now and again, watching myself with one unlucky wretch after another.  Its always the same; only the girls change.  The film is grainy and the colors are monochromatic.  The sound, you can barely make out.  They never say anything of interest, only begging when it is required of them.  The scene always ends the same way.  At a certain point you start to see the metamorphosis:  the bristled hair lengthening, the nails sharpening.  Then the camera will invariably go dark, and when it returns everything is red from the blood.  And the last thing you see are the yellow eyes of a wolf.

The Day Harold Finally Flew

Nearly every morning when Harold awoke he stood near the edge of the bed and started flapping his arms.

–You’re never going to fly, Helen said.

Harold glared at his wife.  She always said the same thing to him each and every morning.

–How do you know?  Harold shot back.  –One of these days you’ll see.-

Helen didn’t say anymore.  She just rolled her eyes and headed into the bathroom.  After she was gone Harold continued flapping his arms for a few more seconds.

It had always been Harold’s dream since he was a boy. He would spend hours watching the birds fly around wishing he could be like them.  Just because it hadn’t happened yet didn’t mean it wouldn’t.

–You’re not a child anymore, Helen would say to him.  –You’re not even a young man.-

Harold remembered a time, not so many years ago, when Helen believed in him.  He would even mind her about it, sometimes.

–Yes, she would say.  –But that was about real things.  Like getting a promotion at work.  Not about something as ridiculous like thinking you can fly.-

Maybe it was ridiculous, Harold thought, but he kept believing, kept the dream alive even when Helen pooh-poohed it.

It was a Saturday morning and Harold and Helen had slept in the way they often did on the weekends.  Harold got up and Helen turned over, mumbling in her sleep.  Harold left the bedroom and went out into the kitchen to get the coffee started.  When he had it going Harold opened the back door and stepped out onto the deck.  The sun was bright and shining and the air felt warm.  It was going to be a beautiful day.

Harold closed his eyes and started flapping his arms.  Out here on the deck he had plenty of room so he flapped his arms faster and harder than how he normally would when he was standing in the bedroom.  Harold felt something strange begin to happen.  He felt himself rising up into the air.  Harold was afraid to open his eyes.  Afraid, if he did, the whole thing would turn out to be just an illusion, a figment of his imagination.

Harold kept flapping his arms and he was sure of it, now.  It wasn’t an illusion.  Harold really was rising into the air.  After climbing several feet he opened his eyes and looked down.  He saw the deck and the house growing smaller and smaller.  Harold continued flapping his arms and not only did he keep rising but he, also, started flying around.

Harold flew away from the house and out over the neighborhood.  He flew past the Garvey’s house and the Shoemachers and out away from the town.  Harold found, now, that he was in the air, he didn’t have to flap his arms nearly as much to stay suspended.  Harold laughed and thought, if only Helen could see him now.

Harold wasn’t paying attention to where he was going and the large blade of a wind turbine crashed into him and he spiraled down to the ground.  The impact knocked Harold unconscious.

Harold had no idea how long he had been lying there when he, finally, opened his eyes and stared up at the sun.  He wasn’t sure if he was capable of moving but after a few minutes he managed to sit up.

Harold rubbed the back of his head, gently, checking his hand to see if there was any blood.  Luckily there wasn’t any.  There was just a throbbing pain running through his skull.  Harold wasn’t sure what he was going to tell Helen if he made it back home.  Maybe he could make it back home before she woke up.

After all of his years of wanting to fly and wanting Helen to believe in him Harold had no desire to tell her he had, finally, done it.  And now that he had done it, had actually flown up into the air, Harold had no desire to ever do it again.  Harold stood up.  His legs felt shaky but he remained on his feet.  He waited another moment or two and then, slowly, started walking and making his way back home.  

Can We be Friends?

Blood in the ocean, I have shark like eyes. My teeth are big, do you want to see them? I’ll be kind, I promise, I won’t bite. Under the blue water I track the long legs that move, quickly trying to keep lungs clean. There are different sizes. Some are skinny, pure bone with a thin layer of skin. Others are thick, muscles bulging, beckoning. I watch them with mild interest, waiting for the right one, mouth watering. It’s always great to fill my stomach, red meat, juicy flesh, coating the emptiness inside. There’s joy in the hunt, from the wait to the attack. 

An expectation that tastes bittersweet climbs up my throat, a low sound of hunger, a narrowing of my eyes. I know when the time comes, I feel it from beginning to end. I’m not cruel about it, even though I enjoy it. I make it quick. I’ll drown you nice and sweet. There is no point in torture, it’s a useless delay. I get straight to the point, holding you under, hugging you to my chest, like a mother cradles her child. I have strong arms, they don’t waver. I keep you there with me for as long as it takes, until your body stops moving, finding stillness underwater. 

I only start biting once I know you’re dead, I don’t let you see the blood, chunks of you finding their way into my mouth. I honor your sacrifice, I savor you, take my time. I don’t like to rush the process, losing my head in the enjoyment. Each moment is mine, I take care of it, make sure I’ll remember all the details so I can play it back once we are done. The memory feeds me over and over again. 

Isn’t this nice? You and me under seafoam. It’s so clear I can see all the details of your face, your beauty brings me happiness. I like to hoard beautiful things, so I’ll take every piece of you for myself, from the flesh of your arms to your organs, gorgeous bloody things. Your hair tickles my neck as you thrash around, it makes me giggle, you’re so playful. I wish we could play hide and seek together, with all these dark rocks around, we would have a blast. But it’s wrong to play with your food, I know that. Still, it would be so fun to spend more time with you. 

They all leave me so fast it makes me want to cry, tears mingling with the salt water. It would be so nice to capture a friend. I would hunt for the both of us, find us nice shelter, tell all my secrets. You would make a good friend, resilient like this, how you struggle, with such strength! I honestly feel like you are doing this just for me! It’s so nice when it takes a while, we just dance around in the water. Are you sure you don’t want to be my friend? I promise if we become friends I’ll never bite you, I’ll be so sweet to you, we’ll be close like siblings, I know so many fun games, you’ll never get bored!

Oh. You stopped moving. That’s fine. I really thought you would say yes. Well, we must go on with the show. 

What strange clothes you people wear, I use them as little flags for all my favorite rocks. I’ll keep yours too, I know just where to put it. Now, where should I begin? I like to change things up a bit every time, it makes it more exciting. Your left leg looks so delicious, that’s where I’ll start. You taste just right, I knew you were the one. Now I don’t feel so bad for not keeping you as a friend, you were made to be eaten. I can take my time, everyone knows to leave me alone, I like to have my meals in solitude. Although to be fair, your blood smells fantastic, I would understand if they got curious. 

Oh, how quick I gobbled up your legs! I couldn’t help myself, this is truly fine dining! My teeth bite down with efficiency, that’s how I learned to go about this.Your arms are next. I’m… What’s the word? I always forget it, I get so caught up in this, everything else is misplaced. I’m organized… I’m… I’m…

Methodical! That’s right. I’m methodical, once I decide where to start I like to follow a system. First your legs, next your arms, then I’ll take chunks of your torso. 

You look so crazy like this! My bloody little treasure. I know what I’m going to do. I’ll leave your heart for dessert. I just know you had a good one. 

China

She materializes before my shift is over. At the bar, my proving ground, my killing fields, my Elysia. Wiping a counter, I watch Tom Rong talking her up or trying to. The language barrier is beyond his intellectual capacity. Her accent sounds Mandarin – a lot of shushing and whooshing. Since I’m such a linguistic expert. She notices me scoping her; there’s no language for that, no need for translation. I finish cleaning up lightning-fast change shoes and shirt. Quick underarm sniff. Huh. Okay. In pheromones I trust. I amble up to the bar like I own the place and sit on the stool next to her. No bullshit hair dye or fancy styling, just long, straight, purplish-black strands in an exuberant cascade. Her face, a classic oval moon, smoothly tapered jaw, full indigo lips, eyes like arabesques. Hot. I don’t know how exactly we manage to communicate, but she likes her rum and cokes. Tom Rong keeps watering her like a horse. Soon we’re flirting and lightly touching. Experimentally. She’s on the sturdier side but more like an ex-gymnast than, say, an ox. Her hands convince me; very proportionate, well-defined, nails neatly trimmed without any garish polish or ostentatious manicuring. Human connection? Animal attraction? A couple of horny lushes? Tom Rong intuits my motivations, and despite his side-eyed and slobbery insinuations, hands me a nice bottle of Merlot; not spendy but not cheap either. I get the hint. Tom, call me a cab – China, let’s get the hell out of here. At the Outrigger I’m the pint-sized playboy with my spartan bar: fresh bottle of Stolichnaya in the freezer stash of skunk bud in the kitchen cabinet. But first things first: I flip open the laptop and press a few tabs. R&B standards: Smokey, Gladys, Etta, Tina, Sam Cooke, Isaac Hayes, JB, Aretha – but the main gyration is Otis. Otis Redding who on a starless wintry night in 1967 dropped out of the sky into the frigid waters of Lake Monona. I load a bong find a corkscrew pop the wine grab a couple glasses saunter over to the futon couch – China’s already barefoot. A beautiful woman who barely speaks English. Otis, crooning The Happy Song:

It makes you want to shout – in fact it knocks you out!

The song delights China who begs me to play it again. Moments later we’re ripping each other’s clothes off. It’s strangely fulfilling to fuck somebody without the usual vocalized preamble of penchants and hatreds. Not unlike an escort but with the bonus of not having to pay. China smells good and has few inhibitions. But when I try rimming her purple ringlet, she wriggles and somehow finds the word tickles in her vocabulary. Kawaii! When it’s time I reach under the futon for condoms, my hand searching with a little frantic dance. My supply is low. In fact, I’m down to the generics, snagged from the free clinic after a rare STD check-up. China’s panting and pulling me towards her, urging me forward, chanting, incanting, Happy hong, happy hong, da-de-dum-dum! Okay okay! I rip open the packet work it on look down to see my old boy standing stiff, straight – and black. Like dipped in crude oil. Fuck it, so I’m a Negro from the balls up. I slam it in. China’s a good sport meets me thrust for thrust. I consider subscribing to The Rosetta Stone. Maybe I’ll never have to talk shit with a white woman ever again. One can always dream. Then it’s over and I withdraw. Goddamn! Cheap-ass, stale-ass fucking defective black latex condoms! Ripped! Trust me, it’s not like my dick is a chisel or anything. I ball that mess up quick fling it into a corner of the room. But China’s uncannily alert for a drunken foreigner. Wah happen? Wah happen? She dives for the evidence. With squinty dismay she displays the dripping victim of my priapic maul between thumb and forefinger. It break? Shit shit! It break! I upturn my hands in exasperation. What can I do? The damage is done. I console China, we drink more wine, we drink all the wine, and as I advance to the Stoli, China falls fast asleep. Off like a light switch. In the morning the indictment begins. She’s sober now and worried about our baby. After an awkward interlude of broken translation and copious tears, it comes to light that China is in all actuality a mail-order wife on the stray. I call out sick and whisk her to breakfast at the Continental where after several mimosas, she’s singing Dum-dum dilly de-dum-dum again, and, after a stop at the corner bodega for some mighty Trojans, we’re back at the Outrigger. 

Fucky sucky!

A week later she shows up at the bar, effusive, upbeat, with the breaking news update. Unfortunately, we are not going to be raising a baby. But China wants to hear Otis again, except this time, no black dick! Shit shit!