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I am, to my father's dismay, more like the passive women in my family than the men. The women form a long chain of paper dolls, and I am half a doll at that. But I am my father's only child-his miracle one. When I think about it, he was more of an embarrassment to la familia than I ever was. Hell, I saved his reputation. Impotent, they would whisper at fiestas. Shake their heads and say, Chingao, what a waste. I get the same reaction from the girls. They see my sculpted body, the Spaniard complexion-you know the one, beetle-black hair against ivory white skin, the kind Don Juan must have had, and the girls go ga-ga. Girls and their locuras... I see them eye me discreetly and sometimes not so discreetly.
Tonight, as I saunter past the Crockett Hotel, the girls gaze in astonishment. They've spied the huge bulge my black leather pants try to contain. El viejo used to show me his chorizo in the bano and say, "Ya ves, mi'jo, when you grow up, this is what you can thank your papi for. It's gonna drive the viejas crazy." Gra-cias, Papi, because you were right, a man is nothing without a big dick, especially in jotoland.
But why think about that culero now? Maybe because my balls are shriveling from this chilly breeze while I wait to dance my buns to warmth inside the Bonham. Old historical Bonham, the only decent thing about San Anton' on Saturday nights. How many nights did I freeze my ass off that Thanksgiving el viejo kicked me out?
At least three, before my great tia Tita took me in like her own son. I grew up hearing la familia whisper about her, saying she would never get married and have kids because she was "one of them." A tortillera. Back then I didn't understand what eating tortillas had to do with her not getting married. My mom ate tortillas and she married my dad. It seemed the whole fucking town of San Anton ' ate tortillas, even the gringos. It wasn't until Tia Tita showed me albums of all of her "comadres" that I got the picture.
Almost twenty years ago, and I still remember el ataque de corazon my parents had when it was my turn at the table to be thankful and I said, "I thank Jesucristo for letting me know so early on in my life that I think men are groovy." Thinking it was a joke, Abuelo Rufus laughed aloud. Almost choked on the turkey leg he had shoved in his mouth. But when I looked at our neighbor Jim Stonewall, a closeted fag, and said, "Tell them, babe"-a battle bigger than the pinche Alamo transpired. And just like back then, Mexicans were fighting Mexicans, and the pobre gringo got pulverized.
Ten more vatos to go and I'm inside. I hate it when the line gets stalled; you'd think they could card the jailbait a little faster. The music is already pumping so loud I can hear my dreamy Ricky blasting through the speakers. Tasty. N'ombre, I was into him when he was just a Menudo boy. And even now that his star has waned, I'm still his biggest fan. You see Junior, you can be loyal to a man. He's just gotta look like Ricky or George.
Not like the average joto I see standing out here. Carajo, I don't see anything worth a stroke. Just the regular faces. I think every guy in this line has already given me a blowjob. That's the daddy's girl in me. I still let the men do the picking-up. But it doesn't mean I'm a bottom. And that is definitely the macho in me.
Regardless of what el viejo said about me back then-that I'm a long-haired sissy joto who will never be a man or his hijo 'cause you like to take it up the ass like a pinche vieja!-I've discovered it's really not my style. It's like no one ever tells you that if you take it up the ass you can't really enjoy it the first few times. How? The whole fucking time it feels like you're gonna crap. That grosses me out. They can blow me, give me a handjob and I'll gladly fuck or suck them, but those are my boundaries. I don't think it makes me less of a joto.
The only one who ever did me doggie style was Orlando, and that's just because the puto was stronger than me. If the struggle hadn't turned me on so much, I would've called it rape. After Orlando, I've always made sure to only let smaller putos pick me up. Too many psychos out there.
Speaking of locos, ay, mi virgencita, I don't believe my eyes, pinche Gerald is here. Que apropos, here I am going down memory lane and the only cabron I let treat me like his perra is here. At least, he's at the end of the line. Maybe I can avoid him. Damn. I thought he moved to Irving five years ago when he started dating that Dallas Cowboy player. He must be here visiting his sister Gweena.
That must be his boyfriend hanging on him like a sweaty workout towel. Gerald always enjoyed being worshiped. I wish I could say he looks like shit, but he doesn't. For a brother, his style doesn't change much though. Black slacks and a white tank top to show off his Olympian chest and arms. Delicious, but my worst relationship. What did I expect from a gym rat? I mean, I work out, but chingao, I got a life, too.
Now he's looking arrow-straight at me. I don't think he recognizes you, Junior. How could he? I was in my blond ambition stage when we dated. He never saw my natural look, well, except for my nest where the pajarito sleeps. C'mon Gerald, get a good look you pinche puto, because your slutty hands will never touch me again. Look at him grinning, what a flirt, always on the hunt. He's definitely got that guy dick-whipped.
Hello, honey, are you going to give me the regular special? C'mon, give me the smile, papi chulo. Stamp my hand. In I go for free and in return a nice squeeze to the ass to keep him caliente the rest of the night. Since Edward started manning the door, I can't remember the last time I paid to come in.
Ay, music throbbing, I can barely hear my thoughts. This is nice. A packed house and it's not even eleven yet. I love the holiday crowds: out-of-towners and their fresh faces. I should write a book about playing the game at clubs.
First thing any professional clubber does is cruise the entire scene as soon as he enters. Even if he's a drinker, the cerveza can wait once you get an idea of what kind of house it is. Actually, I rarely ever buy my own drinks, so I don't even worry about stopping at the bar. Tonight it's a rather eclectic crowd. I should have no problem getting laid.
Let's see, we got the young freaks who wear nothing but Hilfiger, Nike, and Adidas in the video hip-hop room. This is usually where I run into my ex-students. I used to get embarrassed and terrified the first few years this happened. "Coach Rodriguez? What are you doing here?" No, I should be asking you that, quarterback Joe, lineman Johnny, or running back Ricardo. Tough baby jotos. I let them squirm with vergiienza and then say, "Your mama asked me to find your joto butt and take you home." Their mouths opening with fear, just wide enough to take my cock, I think. And then I laugh my ass off and grab their balls.
And the truth is, if they are over twenty-one, I usually do take them home, or at least to my car. Any teacher who says they've never been turned on by a student is a liar. But with the new law San Anton' passed about teachers and students involved in sexual relations, I'm going to have to start checking their I.D.s. Make sure it's been at least seven years since I last spanked them.
It's not like I think teachers should be sleeping with their students, especially, if a kid can come back up until the age of twenty-one and sue your culo. Just gotta be more careful. Gotta be cool in the young face of temptation. I feel sorriest for the straight teachers. Some of those young girls are serious putitas. If Coach Hernandez isn't careful with the third-year flunky, Melissa Gallegos, he's going to have some major problemas down the road. Everyone says she keeps flunking eighth grade to stay in his P.E. class. Girl is way past the training bra stage. But there you have her, jumping jacks in the front row, where Hernandez can see her chichis jiggle like Jell-O.
Luckily, it takes my boys longer to figure out their sexuality. They're too busy trying to get pubescent panocha to prove their studliness. They overlook the fact that they're really in love with their own chorizos. Once they get past the societal bullshit, they realize a gay man's life is ideal. Dick whenever, from whoever, no questions asked. Well, at least that was the case in my early days; now everyone's freaked out about la pinche SIDA. But like I say, I have no problem with a complete stranger sucking my dick.
Like, who's that guy in the pool room? Now see, the pool room is where your older guys hang out. Men who could be as old as my father. My father probably looks like this hombre here. Good-looking tejano type with a small beer belly over his Wranglers. Yep, my dad would be wearing his ass-kicking boots, too, and, of course, the Stetson. But my father never smoked like this guy, my mama hated it. Made her asthma worse. And if this vato is the one who put Gloria Gaynor in the jukebox, he's definitely not el viejo. Dad was Texas Tornadoes day in and day out. Con-junto or nothin'. Ay, if there's nothing interesting on the main dance floor, I will definitely come back here, because the way this papasote is looking at me, he wants to burn his mouth with my chile.
Well, Junior, look who finally got in. Princess Gerald and his frog. I hope they stay at the side bar. I don't want to deal with diva shit tonight. And there's Randy, or is it Rudy? I don't remember, but he does have the cutest asshole, all salmon pink and precious. I'll just nod at fish-ass. I like to be polite. Just because I do a guy doesn't mean I have to be a cabron and not acknowledge him. Just hope he doesn't follow me, because I'm not feeling like Jewish tonight.
Maybe it's all the reminiscing, but what you need, Junior, is an all-out Hispanic faggot with a Catholic complex. The kind that is always praying because he feels guilty about everything, so it's natural for him to be on his knees. Those are the men who usually indulge themselves with my body. Maybe it's all of those years of taking Christ in their mouths.
And now we get to the end of our cruise and what do we have on the main floor? Some biker boys, some pain-in-the-ass queens, a decent mix of lesbians, a couple of corporate types, lots of beefcake and, oh my-Junior, your eyes have landed on paradise. If Emilio Navaira ever had a twin brother, that is him over in the corner. He's everything that was back in the pool room only twenty years younger. And I am of the Hollywood mindset: younger is definitely sexier. I've never seen this one. He must be visiting from Laredo; he looks bien bordertown.
Okay, Junior, time to move to the second and most essential clubbing step. Parking. I'll just take my fine ass to the bar where my cowboy is stationed and make myself look available. Did someone just grab my ass? Oh no-the pink princess is shouting in my ear.
Hey, Zorro, you got that nifty sword of yours handy?
I'll just smile and pretend I can't hear him. Gotta keep dancing my way to Emilio.
It's Randy! I forgive you if you forgot my name, we didn't exactly do much talkin' last Saturday!
Just keep moving, Junior. No, I can't be an asshole. Fuck my Catholic upbringing! You're looking good, Randy, but I came here with someone! So, are you alone again? Shit, he didn't hear me. Okay, you've been nice enough, Junior, Emilio is going to get away if you don't drop this mosca. Oh, thank God, the YMCA song. I'll run away when he makes the em. Even better, let's bump hips with these bikers and pray one of them takes an interest in fish-ass. Chingao, I hope Emilio isn't watching all of this; I don't want him to think I'm cheap. Yet. Bingo, there go Randy and Mr. Harley Davidson himself. Cupid should pay me a commission.
I can't believe I've been standing here for over three minutes and my Emilio hasn't even made a move. I've already thrown him the eye, step number three. I throw it any harder, I'll be left with two empty sockets. Chingao, maybe he's hitched. Let me see if he's looking at anyone in particular on the dance floor. Nadie. So what's wrong, papasito? He may not be interested-nah, impossible. Dio, don't tell me I'm dealing with the shy type. Maybe he's straight and this is his first night out. Oh, well, Junior, you can move on. Mexican Marlboro Man is waiting in the pool room. But this Emilio is extremely cute. I'm getting a hard-on just looking at him. No mustache to tickle your cock, an authentic baby face. Ah, fuck it-be a man and make the first move, Junior.
"Hey, what are you drinking? Can I buy you another one?" Uh-oh, he looks nervous, maybe he is here with someone. Maybe he can't hear me through the Gloria Estefan dance mix. Wait, is that a smile? And he's holding up his Lone Star. Aaajuuua! I'm at the bar.
"Hey, Javier, will you get me a Lone Star and a Corona?"
"Oh my God, you're going to, like, actually buy someone a drink?"
"I guess you don't want a tip?"
"I'm just kidding, her royal highness. Here you go. And by the way, I love the eye makeup."
"It's just eyeliner."
"Oh, but it's so you."
I hand my soon-to-be loverboy his beer and sit on the stool next to him. Oh, he's so kissable. I don't want to jump to conclusions, but my vibe says he's a maniac in bed. It's like mama used to say, Watch out for the quiet ones, mi'jo, they don't talk 'cause they've got the most to hide.
Nice nails. Trim and clean, says a lot about a man. I wonder what he does for a living? I'll ask him later, maybe between sessions. Best thing about picking someone up at a club, no need to talk. Oh, look at him chug that beer. Ay, Junior, this one definitely swallows. Just thinking about his mouth around my cock is working me up. That's what I need to do, just get him up and off that stool so I can take a peak at his package. Those jeans are tight enough to give me a sneak preview. Well, I've taken the lead so far, no sense turning femme now.
Jesus, Junior, if Gerald could see the butch in you now. Don't let go of Emilio's hand until you're bumping and grinding to the groove. Soft hands. Gracias a la virgencita I wasn't born during that waltz era. How the hell would you get close enough to a man's body and figure out if he's really into you? Really. Well, this is a pleasant surprise. My Emilio isn't too tall. I'd say about five feet eight and since he's wearing boots, maybe that makes him only a five-six or five-seven at best. Who cares, the boy has got some serious Latin rhythm going on. And from what I can tell in these flashing pink and blue lights, he makes up for size in other areas.
And he's not that shy. He's letting me rub against him like I'm cloth-shining his boots. If he's not careful with that sexy look of his, it's going to turn into a spit shine pretty quick. Ay, virgencita, are those his hands around my ass? Junior, I think he likes you. This has got to be the best part about dancing to techno, it's sex with your clothes on. And the way he's letting me buck against his ass, carajo, I gotta get him into a bathroom pronto. "Do you want to go to the bathroom?"
Oh, my God. I feel like such a dick. Did he just shake his head and reject me? No one has ever told me no. Who the fuck does Emilio think he is? What is he pulling out of his pocket? Keys. Keys? Keys! Oh, yeah, cowboy, let's go.
The back of his van. I thought he'd be driving a Chevy pickup, but he's got a Dodge van from the early eighties. Tinted windows, of course. And a bumper sticker that reads AUSTIN in rainbow colors, no wonder I haven't seen him at the Bonham. I gotta go to the capital more often. Doors open-and I thought I had seen everything, but this shit is amazing. There's so much leather in here we could piece together a cow. He nudges me inside. It's just too wicked to stop now.
The doors close behind us. I can barely see the club through the windows. He parked his van too far away for us to hear the music. Cold. Our breath is still coming out in clouds, until he puts his mouth to mine. It's obvious both of us are naturals. Sluts, that is. His tongue and mine wrestle the way our bodies are gonna. Oops, his hat just fell off. I put one hand against the back of his head-ooh very soft hair-and the other on his ass-very tough-and suck-suck his beery breath. Curl my fingers around his biceps while he pushes me onto his mattress. I move my hand to touch his dick-his pelvis pulls back. I guess he wants to be in control. Short man syndrome? He's chulo enough to have me play along.
I love the way he respects silence. No need for having to think of something sexy or sweet to say on the spot. It always comes out sounding so corny, or I feel like shit because I know I'm lying to the guy. I dated this writer from Colombia once and he wouldn't let me touch his dick unless I came up with a metaphor. That didn't last long. What would I tell Emilio if he started talking? If he'll be my wetback, I'll be his border patrol? He starts unbuttoning my shirt, I close my eyes and listen to the stream of traffic rushing on the 1-35 nearby. I place my hands behind my head so he can strip search me.
Smooth tongue works down my chest like he's licking an envelope. Then it lingers at the edge of my pants like a truant kid walking back and forth along the school fence waiting for his chance to jump it. There he goes. Emilio doesn't unzip me though. He's play-biting my dick and it likes him. I must be eight inches now. I wonder if he didn't let me touch him because he's smaller than me. I swear, machos can be so sensitive about those things.
Ay, yes, that's it, Emilio, unzip me and kiss it with those fideo-thin lips. He's really good at this. No teeth. Just his tongue massaging my dick in warm circles. A little moth dancing around my pole. My stomach muscles are getting tighter, gotta start holding back the juice. Ay, it's that good kind of hurt. The kind that makes the coming tingle in my tummy. Chingao, I can't wait to reciprocate the favor, whatever size he is. Wait, why did he stop?
Carajo, this is too much. He's dangling a pair of handcuffs. But what the fuck? Are you going to go to your grave without the experience of at least one guy tying you up? Lose control every now and then, or why be fucking gay? And I don't know what it is about this vato, but I feel like I can trust him. Like he's got something nurturing about him. Or maybe it's just my taut chorizo doing the feeling and thinking for me. I nod my head, sit up and hold out my hands. I am an offering. He grabs a piece of black cloth hanging from the window and starts-blindfolding me? Well, they do call me Zorro. Click-click-click goes the first handcuff around my wrist. Freezing metal teeth. Emilio moves quickly behind me and kisses the back of my neck. Ah, chingao, how did he know that was my weak spot? I'm Jack Frost in a microwave. Hold on! No fucking fair! How did he do that?
"Hey, chulo, hold on. I don't mind being handcuffed, but not from behind."
"Shhhh!"
Ah, shit, Junior. You better pray this guy isn't a homophobic killer. Dumb ass, of course he was going to handcuff you from behind. Vulnerable. Breathe. Just relax. This is part of the juego. See, your dick is still into him. All part of the fun. What's life without a little danger? Shut up idiota, you're a joto, you're always in danger. Now what is he doing? I could resist. Ah, fuck it. Whatever happens happens. A gag? Okay, this is beyond cliche. All he needs to do now is throw me on my stomach and-there he goes. How did I know that was coming? All right, Emilio, now I'm all yours. What are you going to do, kick my culo for being such a trusting faggot? Ah-he kisses my neck again. His touch is all gentle. I guess he feels he can be nice again, now that he's utterly in control. Hands massage my back. God, his hands are so silky. This ain't too bad, I should've tried this sooner. Okay, Emilio knows he's got me hot and bothered, I'm rubbing myself so hard against his mattress, he's got to know I want to be inside his mouth again.
Ay, yes, he's a mind reader. We are so connected. That's it, baby, take my pants off. I'll lift my ass up in the air so you can unzip me. He's having problems. See Emilio, if we had just done this the old-fashioned way I could've helped you with my chaps. Now what? Where is he going? He can't leave me like this. What's he opening? A door? No, I would have felt a chill or something. Glove compartment? He's back but what's he trying to do to my leg? Tie it? No way, man. Now I'm going to make him earn his little masochist thrill. Where is the motherfucker? Just keep kicking in the air, Junior, you're bound to give him a good chingazo. Hey, where the fuck is the parking attendant when you need him? Carajo, I'm dealing with a real vaquero here, he's sitting on my knees and tying my ankles to who knows what. All right, Emilio, you win. I'm splayed like the fingers of the peace sign. Peace, brother, ever heard of that?
Hey! Did he just cut my pants? Cabron, these cost me three hundred dollars! Hold on. Is he using a knife? Jesucristo, get me alive out of this one and I'll-I'll-Oh, wait a second, false alarm. That's more like it, Emilio. He knows he's got me scared shitless, so he's kissing my ass-literally.
Ssshhh! Another deep kiss between my butt cheeks. Ssshhh- ssshhh-yeah, easy for you to say, Emilio. I wonder how turned on he is by all of this? Not that I'm one to talk, my chorizo gets any harder I'm going to bruise my stomach. I hear a popping sound. Now what is he grabbing? A zipper. Well, I know how I'm getting it tonight, that's no surprise. A jangle, and it ain't fucking Santa. Must be some belts. I hope he doesn't spank the shit out of me. I have to work Monday. He's squeezing a bottle. Ah well, at least we know he's considerate. He's rubbing plenty of cold lube around my asshole. It's gotta be that brand called WET, rub it and it gets hotter, 'cause that's what I'm feeling.
See, Junior, he's definitely not a cabron. He could just ram it inside of you. But he's actually being very sensitive about his entry. I knew I could trust him. Ay, he's coming inside of me inch by inch. I don't know what he was worried about, he's got a hell of a package. I think I've met my match. His legs are starting to sweat between mine. He grabs on to my shoulders and I can feel every thrust vibrate inside of me. I extend my fingers and they reach the edge of his pubic hair. It's the softest pubic hair I've ever touched, like a newborn's head.
Ay virgencita, there's nothing like a tejano. He rides like a thousand cowboys are in his veins. C'mon Emilio, baby, take me on your Chisholm Trail. God, I'll be your saddle any day after tonight. What was I scared of? Why does this guy feel so fucking good from behind? There he goes, coming so fast his tiny shrieks sound like an eagle or a boiling teapot. And me, I'm coming right along. Hold on, Emilio. Hear the hooves beating along the path? Or maybe that's just my handcuffs scraping against each other. Who cares-all I know is that we're both riding into that fucking sunset. He bellows and all I see is tiny lights. The blackness gives way to red, orange and then yellow spots. The pinche sol envelops us. I feel its warm rays all over my body-virgencita, I think I'm in love.
I wish he would at least take off my gag, my nose pressed upon this mattress makes it difficult to breathe. He's fallen on top of me and I can smell his sweat. Like cumin. My stomach is all wet from my juice, but that's a small due to pay for the pleasure. Hold on. I just realized something. He's still inside of me. Hard. How is that possible? Chingao, Junior, have you really met your dream man? Now that's he's removing the gag with his teeth, maybe you should at least find out his name. We can't keep calling him Emilio just because he looks like your favorite tejano singer.
"So, what's your name, loverboy?" He cuts the rope off of my legs.
"Martha."
What? Martha Serrano. Off with the blindfold. If I weren't such a macho, maybe I'd cry. But all I can do is laugh like an idiot. My dream man is sitting in front of me Indian-style, her hot pink strap-on dildo pointing to the gods. Jesus.
Adelina Anthony is an interdisciplinary Xicana lesbiana artist-a writer/actor/director/cultural activist. She is cofounder and artistic director of Los Angeles ' MACHA Theatre Company, which produces works by lesbians of color. Her op-eds are published by the Progressive Media Project; her poetry has been published in Texas and Germany; and her short stories appear in Texas Short Stories II, Nerve, and Pillow Tal\ III.
"Cowboy," © 2000 by Adelina Anthony, first appeared in Nerve (Nerve Publishing LLC, 2000); www.nerve.com. Reprinted by permission of the author.


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Introduction and Useful Resources
Erotic lit has been a lot of things during the past couple of decades: a renaissance, a political football, the best conversation piece you ever left out on your coffee table. It's transformed itself from publishing shame to book business savior, from militant manifesto to supermarket special.
But for those of us who've been enjoying (or criticizing) the modern heyday of erotica, it's also been something else: one of the most compelling soap operas around. There's always a new character threatening to take over the room-the Gothic babe, the safe sex mensch, or the cyber-amazon-which one will be the star this year? In addition to the new kids on the series, we've got such stalwarts as the sensitive macho, the rebellious virgin, and the notorious diva who never dies-the Whore with the Heart of Gold.
In the 1980s, erotic lit revived itself in rebellion, as the horny battle cry of the outcasts and the invisible. On one side, there were the pro-sex feminists who thought the best way to kick a double standard in the ass was to create their own juicy alternative. It was the erotic version of "I am Woman, Hear Me Roar," and this time the girl was in ecstasy, unapologetic and orgasmic.
The queer side to the new erotic wave was the spectacular growth of gay and lesbian publishing, which was much more outspoken. Again, it was all in the vein of "I Am (Name Your Label Here), Hear Me Roar, Sweat, Come, and Whisper Dirty Somethings in Your Ear."
Much of this early writing was first-person, confessional, and triumphant. This style did not make it as the darling of the literary fiction world, which considered the whole trend to be adolescent raving. You weren't about to see "Lesbian Coming-Out Stories" heralded as best genre of the year by The New Yor\ Review of Books. But like many genres that are disdained by the literary establishment, coming-out stories were a huge hit among everyday readers.
I look back at my first collection of erotica (Herotica, in 1987) and it's like looking at my teenage self-so precocious and poignant at times, so ridiculous at others. It's a remarkably popular book even today, and I think that's because, for many readers coming into their sexual identity, it's still the perfect welcome wagon. These coming-out stories invite the reader to join a community that proclaims, "Yes, we're sexual, we're healthy, we're the future leaders of tomorrow, dammit." If you're someone who has heard only the dirtiest and most shaming messages about sex all your life, this is the enlightenment.
Nevertheless, as more and more talented writers explored erotic fiction, a bit of backlash began. It was a reaction to the sunniness of the coming-out formula, and I called it "porn noir." This was the attitude of the writer who said, "I don't want to be a role model, I don't want to be wholesome-I 'came out' ten years ago, and it was hardly the highlight of my sexual career."
Porn noir peaked in the mid-nineties, and we started seeing a lot of dark stories, parables with erotic antiheroes, ambivalent endings-and yes, bad sex. Yet they were still arousing-the storytelling was irresistible. Authenticity was their watchword, and "keeping it real" meant not putting a cherry on top of every cum shot.
In this edition of The Best American Erotica, I'm seeing a new trend that goes beyond reaction or rebellion. Instead, it has to do with a changing viewpoint, a new authorial attitude.
The hallmark of the coming-out story was that it was told in the first person; it was autobiographical. When the porn noir craze hit, even though the author was not as optimistic as we had become accustomed to, s/he was still telling "his or her own truth," as it were. The "I" was still the most popular viewpoint for telling a sex story; the implication was still largely confessional.
Writers being the great liars that they are, no one wanted to "be themselves" for very long... how dreary. That confessional "Look Ma! Look Pa! I'm Fucking Myself!" thing was exhilarating at first, but it was a dead end after the early generations. Some writers are very private about their personal lives, and their own sexuality is often quite a departure from their protagonists'.
There are seven stories in this edition that portray a male point of view, in which the "I" is a man, or the third person is employed to show a decidedly masculine perspective. Six of these stories are written by women. It's the same on the other side; I have men who are writing lesbian and female-centric work as well. One of the "gay male" stories is written by a woman. Of course, since I'm sworn to secrecy, I can't even tell you how many of the author names you see on the stories are actually the gender they appear to be. Just keep guessing.
Now I realize that this wouldn't be big news in literary fiction. No one says to Joyce Carol Oates, "My god, it's incredible the way you write men's dialogue, how can you bring yourself to do it?" But in contemporary erotic lit, this is pretty racy. When Pat Califia first wrote Macho Sluts in 1989, she trailblazed this cross-gender viewpoint, but it's taken until now to become part of the erotic writing mainstream.
Not only is it a leap of writing sophistication, it's also been a departure from political correctness. Many women erotic authors have always been perfectly capable of writing male viewpoints and vice versa. But because modern erotic fiction has been so feminist in its roots, there was always an unspoken peer pressure to write as a woman, to show the woman's point of view, to interrupt the male monologue that seems to dominate every other part of the media.
Men who wrote erotica were discouraged writing female viewpoints because there was resentment there, in the spirit of "What the hell do you know, you patriarchal windbag!" After all, so many patriarchal windbags had already gotten published that the guilt trip worked as an effective shushing.
What's interesting now is to see women taking on male characterizations to make their stories come to light-or gay authors using heterosexual sex to make a homosexual point, and so on. It brings to mind the words of filmmaker Gregg Araki, who once said, "I was so sick of directors who made gay-themed movies for a straight audience-so I decided to make a 'straight movie' for gay people."
This flexibility in viewpoint has made erotic lit a lot more complex and unpredictable, which is the flavor of any good yarn. It's been satisfying to see women's stories where the argument for why women are entitled to have sexual feelings is not rehashed for pedagogical benefit. Instead, the characters do have sex, they do have emotions, but the story unfolds with all their contradictions building up our anticipation. The gay stories, in particular, are often so far away from the legend of "how I became queer" that when I find one of those coming-out confessions today, it brings a tear of seventies nostalgia to my eyes.
One character that's been particularly shaken up by this new candor and creativity is that old whore with the golden heart I mentioned at the beginning of the introduction. The fastest-growing erotica this past year has been the explosion of writing by artists who work in the sex business.
The obvious reason for the burgeoning number of sex-work stories is that so many people now count some sex work as part of their resumes. If you're living in Southern California, I would lay odds you've either worked a sex-related job, or you have a relative who does. We're not just talking porn stars here, but rather everyone from the warehouseman who trucks your dildos, to the sales manager for the printing press that delivers hardcore box covers. There are the doctors who work in clinics that cater to prostitutes and adult actors, and the lingerie manufacturers who wouldn't exist without strippers as their biggest customers. And that's all aside from the "talent": the models, the phone-sex operators, escorts, dominatrixes, and so on.
The peculiar American prejudice against sex work is that, first, it's for dumb people, and second, it's for the chronically horny and hard-up. Yet if you take a look at any of the books, plays, and films created by sex workers, you'll see that they're as articulate, educated, and outspoken as any group of nonconformists. They have the same highs and lows of libido as any civilian.
One of the best anthologies I read last year was Trices and Treats, edited by Matt Bernstein Sycamore. The theme is sex workers talking about their clients. Once again, the "I" is used, it's intended to be autobiographical, and a few of the stories recall how the authors came into their trade.
Yet as the editor says in his introduction, "These stories are written as if we are talking among ourselves." He goes on further to explain the risk he took in showing a warts-and-all view of this world: "The media's most common portrayals of sex workers are of sex-crazed perverts or trapped victims... In a world that still views sex workers as primarily vectors of disease (literally and figuratively), counternarrative is crucial. Sometimes, however, sex-worker spokespersons end up oversimplifying sex work by showing only the positive sides. To me, this is as inaccurate as the talk-show host and the social worker who call us depraved or deprived."
Oversimplifying-the great sin of the do-gooder, the sex-positive cheerleader, the optimistic assimilationist. Truth be told, it's the cry of someone who would just like to be understood and appreciated for a minute before the next tidal wave of sex-shame barrels up. And yet look where it gets you-there's the initial applause for trying to play to the crowd, but it's only a matter of minutes before your facade is unmasked, and the calls of hypocrisy are thrown into the ring.
Fiction has always been the most transformative place to tell the truth. Storytellers aren't running for office; they're simply here to suspend disbelief. Writers don't have to take one side, because if they're any good, they'll make you step into multiple pairs of character shoes. Authors don't have to "do the right thing," because their most appealing hero can be the one who never does anything right. It's this empathy that arouses our convictions and sways more minds than a thousand stump speeches. Erotic lit is getting messier every day, much to my approval. I'm relieved that the new erotica writers don't expect me to love them, or to become them, just because their story turns me on. Give me the soap, the lather, and all the dirt, because I'll stick around for the next episode, and the one after that. Coming-out stories have finally come clean and grown up, like all good genres should. I don't know what's going to happen next, and that's the biggest thrill of all.
- Susie Bright February 2002
Arsenal Pulp Press
Arsenal Pulp Press is a leading independent press publishing a wide range of titles, which include The Bald-Headed Hermit and the Artichoke: An Erotic Thesaurus; Carnal Nation: New Sex Fictions; Exhibitions: Tales of Sex in the City; The Embroidered Couch: An Erotic Novel from China; Quickies: Short Short Fiction on Gay Male Desire, volumes 1 and 2; and Hot amp; Bothered: Short Short Fiction on Lesbian Desire, volumes 1 and 2. For more information, write to 103-1014 Homer Street, Vancouver, BC, Canada V6B 2W9, or visit www.arsenalpulp.com.
Black Books
Black Books publishes books on underground urban subcultures- erotic short fiction anthologies and nonfiction resource guides that enable fringe groups to network with one another. It also publishes The San Francisco Authors Series: fiction by well-known and upcoming authors living around San Francisco, or writing about its underground scenes. For more information, write for a catalog at PO. Box 31155, San Francisco, CA 94131, or visit www.blackbooks.com.
The Blacklisted Journalist
The Blacklisted Journalist includes fiction and nonfiction contributions from writers all over the world. It also features erotica and includes a poetry section. The Blacklisted Journalist is not just an e-zine but a body of work that grows each month with the addition of another column, which is what each issue is called. The contributions range from first-time efforts by fledgling writers to works by established authors. With a growing cult following that now exceeds 100,000 readers, The Blacklisted Journalist can be contacted via e-mail at
black@bigmagic.com or at Box 964, Elizabeth, NJ 07208-0964; or at www.bigmagic.com/pages/blackj.
Bloomsbury Publishing Pic
Bloomsbury Publishing is the publisher of the bestselling books Kitchen Confidential by Anthony Bourdain and The Tulip by Anna Pavord; other authors include Ben Cheever, Karen Karbo, and J. T. LeRoy. Bloomsbury discovered J. K. Rowling and is the publisher of the Harry Potter series in the UK. Also on its UK list are Booker Prize winners Margaret Atwood and Michael Ondaatje, as well as John Irving, Joanna Trollope, and the Encarta World English Dictionary. Visit their Web site, a fusion of their publishing, a literary magazine, reference library, and bookshop at www.Bloomsbury-Magazine.com.
Circlet Press
Circlet Press has been blending the erotic with the fantastic since 1992. Vampires, cybersex, magic-Circlet's specialty is high-quality erotica with a twist. The contact address is 1770 Massachusetts Avenue, Suite 278, Cambridge, MA 02140, or www.circlet.com.
Clean Sheets
Clean Sheets is a weekly online magazine devoted to encouraging and publishing quality erotic writing, as well as providing the public with honest information and thoughtful commentary on sexuality. A new issue of the magazine-showcasing articles, exotica, fiction, art, poetry, and reviews-is published every Wednesday at www.clean-sheets.com.
Cleis Press
Cleis Press has published provocative books on sex and gender by both women and men for more than twenty years. Notable authors include Gore Vidal, Patrick Califia-Rice, Susie Bright, Annie Sprinkle, Tristan Taormino, and Carol Queen. Titles such as New Good Vibrations Guide to Sex, The Ultimate Guide to Anal Sex for Women, Best Lesbian Erotica, The Whole Lesbian Sex Boo\, and Susie Sexpert's Lesbian Sex World are just a few of its groundbreaking books, as well as Zaftig: Well Rounded Erotica (edited by Hanne Blank) and Pat Califia's new nonfiction collection, Speaking Sex to Power: Politics of Pleasure amp; Perversity. Visit www.cleispress.com.
Haworth Press
Haworth Press has been publishing books on human sexuality, especially of interest to the L/G/B/T community, for several decades. Harrington Park Press is an imprint of Haworth Press. Visit its online catalogue at www.haworthpressinc.com.
In Touch For Men
In Touch For Men is a monthly magazine featuring erotic short stories, adult video reviews, and nude photographs of young men in their prime. To obtain submission guidelines, write to In Touch magazine, Attn. Michael Jimenez, 13122 Saticoy Street, North Hollywood, CA 91605. Its guidelines can also be viewed online at www.intouchformen.com/edguide.html.
Alfred A. Knopf
Alfred A. Knopf is one of America 's foremost book publishers, dedicated to publishing distinguished fiction and nonfiction. Knopf is the flagship imprint of the Knopf Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc.
Melcher Media
Melcher Media is an award-winning creator of innovative illustrated books, based in New York City. The hit anthology of erotic short fiction, Aqua Erotica: 18 Stories for a Steamy Bath, edited by Mary Anne Mohanraj, was published in 2000 by Three Rivers Press using Melcher Media's patent-pending waterproof format, Dura-Books. Its sequel, Aqua Erotica: Bodies of Water, debuts summer 2002. Melcher Media has also created the deluxe photography collection Voyeur and Peepshow, a stereoscopic book on 1950s pinup photography, complete with built-in 3D glasses and an introduction by Bunny Yeager. Visit www.melcher.com.
The Missouri Review
The Missouri Review is a nationally acclaimed triannual literary magazine that publishes fiction, poetry, essays, author interviews, and more. In close to twenty-five years of publishing high-quality contemporary literature, it has earned a reputation for discovering new writers of exceptional talent. To subscribe, or for selections from the print journal, a lively literature discussion forum, submission guidelines, and contest rules, visit online at www.missourireview.org.
Nerve
Nerve is a smart sex magazine for men and women. In both its print and online versions, Nerve features exceptional photographs, fiction, and reported articles. For its mix of Pulitzer Prize-winning authors alongside MoMA photographers, Entertainment Weekly has dubbed it "the body of Playboy with the brain of the New Yorker." Nerve has created four books to date: an anthology from its first year, Nerve: Literate Smut; a fiction collection, Full Frontal Fiction; a photo collection, Nerve: The New Nude; and a history of sex in literature, The Naughty Bits. Visit www.nerve.com.
New Mouth from the Dirty South
New Mouth from the Dirty South publishes kick-ass fiction and true stories, Tales of a Pun\ Roc\ Nothing and Gynomite: Fearless, Feminist Porn among others. It also runs a subscription service, Factory Direct, that delivers quality, underground, self-published literature to your house every other month. For details, write New Mouth from the Dirty South, P.O. Box 19742, New Orleans, LA 70179-0742; or phone (504) 948-2228; or visit www.newmouthfromthedirtysouth.com.
Noirotica
The Noirotica
series is an ongoing line of erotic anthologies in the crime-noir genre. Noirotica
(Rhinoceros Books, 1996) was the first anthology ever to explicitly explore that territory, and Noirotica 2: Pulp Friction (Rhinoceros Books, 1997) continued the series. Noirotica 3: Stolen Kisses (Black Books, 2001) is the most recent volume. For more information on the Noirotica
series or to order a copy, write Thomas Roche at P.O. Box 410686, San Francisco, CA 94141-0686, or visit www.thomasroche.com.
Studio Loplop
The novel Lofting by Alma Marceau was published by Studio Loplop, an independent press based in the southern reaches of the California Floristic Province. Letters should be addressed to Loplop Publications, 4804 Laurel Canyon Boulevard, Suite 303, Valley Village, CA 91607. Editor in chief April Platinum also maintains the company Web site at www.Studioloplop.com.
Venus or Vixen Press
Venus or Vixen is an independent press publishing fiction and anthologies. It is the publisher of books such as Viscera and Embraces: Dark Erotica. It is also a free, award-winning online magazine,
venusorvixen.com. Editor in chief/publisher is Cara Bruce. For more information, write to PMB #121, 322 Cortland Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94110 or visit www.venusorvixen.com.
Warner Aspect
"Ganger (Ball Lightning)" by Nalo Hopkinson originally appeared in Dark Matter: A Century of Speculative Fiction from the African Diaspora, now available in Warner Aspect trade paperback. Fans of Nalo Hopkinson can look to Warner Aspect, an imprint of Time Warner, for her first collection of short fiction, Skin Folk- To learn more about their other science fiction/fantasy titles and authors, visit www.twbookmark.com/sciencefiction.

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Everything is fine until the oysters come. The waitress sets the silver pail in the middle of the table and leaves us alone. I look at you and squint slightly. You laugh back at me in reply. "I'll teach you how to eat oysters.
I think to myself, so stealthy in form with those granitelike shells, they look like they'd rather be uneaten, undiscovered- undisturbed. They seem rather content in their inchoate state.
The waitress brings us tools: a flat, dull-tipped knife, a small fork, thick cutting board, a plethora of cloth napkins, melted butter, and four wedges of lemon. You eye my confusion and warn me how juicy these oysters are. You assure me I'll need these napkins.
You move the pail to the floor. You pick up an oyster and hold it high to demonstrate. You tell me to find the dark sliver of space waiting to be wedged open. (I notice you have no trouble finding that clandestine slit.)
You ram the dull blade into the crack and twist with vigor. You pull apart the halves and out pours a small rush of clear broth.
"See, I told you," you say.
I see the fleshy nub that fused the two sides together. You throw away the empty half and focus your attention on the one still holding fast to its slick, fleshy mound-the color of city smog. You quickly wrench it free with the tiny fork and toss the shell into the pail. It lands with a loud clunk.
All that shell, I think, for that little piece of meat. Is it so special, so sensitive, it needs all that rough armor?
You douse the nub with lemon then drench it in butter and finally offer it to me fully dressed. With all the juices dripping it glistens like a jewel. I take it and slip it whole inside my mouth. It mixes with the juices that have already mysteriously appeared there. Its texture is something impossible-a soft marble. It makes me smile.
You tell me to try opening my own now. I try but I feel like if I force it too hard I'll hurt it, so I end up holding back. You guide me through.
"Try holding the knife sideways. Grab it like a tool. Like a hammer. Don't be afraid. Ram and twist. You'll know when you've opened it. You'll feel it give." And I do. Give.
"Now, pull apart."
Even though I know it's coming, the juice pouring out startles me as it soaks my hands-my fingers now slick with evidence of this oyster's thalassic birth.
You take the treasured half from me, poke your fork into it and then hold it up for inspection. I think to myself, impaled little oyster flesh rescued from the maw. What now?
"Look," you say separating the miniature folds with your finger. They flutter like blinds like eyelids. "A woman's genitalia," you say smiling proudly like a child who knows he has the right answer.
I am amazed. It is an exact replica shrunk down and enshelled. What sly god did that?
You say it reminds you of a conversation you had recently with a girl about the clitoris. I love how you say the word so articulately and without hesitation. Your eyes are the color of wet bark.
I'm no longer looking at you. I'm struggling with my own oyster. I feel the warm broth soak through inches of cloth napkin to the skin of my wrists.
I shiver like a compass needle.
"She says guys have no clue about the clitoris. No clue at all. They don't know what they're doing." "Is that true?" I ask.
"Some guys," you answer.
I'm afraid to ask where you fit in. I'm afraid you have a clue. I'm suddenly nervous thinking of you with that oyster in your mouth so soft and newly sprung. I eat mine delicately as if it's a tiny bird egg that I don't want to crack.
"This feels like cannibalism," I say.
I feel tender between my legs. My clitoris descends.
Opening another, you ask, "Remind you of the gynecologist? Spread 'em." You laugh.
"I've never been," I say tossing you a clue. I've never been. I've never been spread opened rammed discovered. You're too engrossed in oyster meat to notice. I want to leave, but there's nowhere that I'd rather be. I look longingly out at the river. Could I drown my passions for you there, or would I have to drown my whole self with them because I can no longer differentiate between the two?
You ask, "Have you ever had female genitalia in your mouth?"
"No."
"Well, I've never had a guy's."
"Then we have something in common."
"Yes." But do you really understand what you're saying yes to? Do you really mean "Yes, I know, I know that you, too, have never had a man inside your mouth."
You tell me oysters are an aphrodisiac. I'm squirming long before you tell me this from the juice and the slickness and the folds and your hands-one on the oyster, one on the knife-ramming it into the black crack and twisting. How do I ask you to stop doing that? Or if you could take me home and do that to me?
Something begins pulsing steadily between my legs like an expired clock suddenly rewound. Crossing my legs only intensifies the beat. It'll go like this for hours now.
Everything we say is drenched in innuendo. I, too, am drenched. Aqueous. I want to shut up but can't. I fear I'll start to caterwaul. God help me.
You can't pry one oyster open so you toss it.
"Is that what you do when they're tight?" I ask.
You cast a furtive glance my way.
"Be gentle," I advise.
You smile too slowly and without looking at me.
I force open another. I close my mouth, so my tongue doesn't leap out-my tongue that wants to lick the two dozen vertebrae of your spine. I rub it instead against the roof of my mouth wishing it were the roof of yours.
You ask me if I'm ready for other new things since these are my very first oysters.
"This could be the start of something."
"Yes. New things." I say. And I smile too slowly and without looking at you.
I've had nothing to drink but water. I've inhaled nothing except the smell of you, oysters, and the river. Still, I sway. Drunk on the droplets of lemon butter and oyster juice glistening at the corners of your mouth.
When the rest of the food comes, and the oysters are taken away, I try to return to myself. (Or am I already too much with me?)
You order each of us a beer. You tear me a piece of French bread and tell me to dip it into the warm blanket of fishy soup set before me. I love how you don't hesitate to tell me how to do these things. And I do them because I know you're trying to show me pleasure. And I want pleasure. I wonder if you're like this in bed. I hope you are. And I would follow your instructions there as I do here so I could walk that heady path of pleasure. You have a gentle, yet confident way of instruction. If I were a nation, I'd follow you.
You dip your bread into my soup and proceed to finish it for me at my insistence. You drink my beer as well. I close my eyes a moment no longer able to watch you put food into your mouth. I am dizzy with the satiety of shellfish, soup, your body. I try not to look at you (as if it would help to forget what you look like). I am afraid to speak my desire to you even as my clitoris bangs against its shell like a fist against a wall.
You say, "That was the best meal I've had in ages." You lean back to stretch your long body out even further. It is a world without end. You pull your shirt up and pat your stomach to show me how full it is. But I'm more interested in that dark line of hair there that matches your eyebrows-so much darker than the hair on your head.
I lower my eyes as if I've just touched you where I shouldn't have and writhe beneath the table. You make a casual comment about me lifting up my shirt to see my stomach. I refuse. (There's too much skin around this table already.)
"I don't have a pot belly, if that's what you're thinking. You'll have to trust me on that."
"I wouldn't guess that anyway by looking at you." The way you're looking at me now is as if you're looking without the intrusion of clothes. My clitoris seethes. I inhale sharply.
I'm spinning in a heightened state of restive awareness. I suddenly see and feel everything at once. Drunk on my own precision. I am wholly tuned into you. Plugged into a socket of purely carnal thought. Prickly, pleasurable, yet painful, sensations caress my skin like a cat kneading my thighs with its claws.
My legs are squeezed together so tightly, I think they'll meld into one. The clock ticks. So loud I'm afraid you can hear it. What if the alarm was inadvertently set and it goes off in public? Everyone will turn to stare. And here I'll be with oyster juice running down my legs.
Debra Boxer is a writer from New Jersey currently living in Seattle. Her work has appeared in The Best American Erotica 2000, Nerve, Clean Sheets, Moxie, Publishers Weekly, the San Francisco Chronicle, and The Daily Record of New Jersey.
"The Lesson," by Debra Boxer, © 2000 by Debra Boxer, first appeared in Clean Sheets (Clean Sheets, 2000), www.cleansheets.com. Reprinted by permission of the author.


text:
The little room has a purpose the way Puritanism has a pur pose but we don't want to go into it amp; talk about sex, we don't want to pay someone to sit on a bed amp; talk about sex. -Lewis Warsh, "Elective Surgery"
All I'm going to do is talk. That's right-you're going to pay me to sit here and talk to you. Let me explain-I come to your hotel room, I always wear something nice, maybe a jacket and matching skirt, or a simple dress, pearls, always stockings, always heels, always tasteful. I sit on your bed, cross my legs, smile, and then I talk about sex. You're not allowed to touch me. That would be breaking the rules. I talk for exactly forty-five minutes. I always finish on time. I charge three hundred and fifty dollars. I accept all major credit cards and I am completely discreet. If, for example, I bump into you on 58th Street, and you are going into the Paris Cinema, I will not acknowledge you and I will not talk to you. That would be breaking the rules. Yes. The rules.
There are seventeen rules altogether.
The most important one is that you do not touch me. I know I already said that, but it's worth repeating, don't you think? The second most important one is that you do not touch yourself. And the third most important rule is that you appear and remain completely dressed. You don't have to wear a suit or tie, but a nice sports coat and a pair of khakis or well-pressed chinos are appreciated. You may not eat during the session. This isn't actually on the list of rules, but it's common sense. Obviously it's hard to talk about sex when a man is chomping on a pastrami sandwich. And there's the smell to consider as well. It gets distracting. So no eating. However, you may drink. Cola, orange juice, bottled water, and beer or wine-in moderation-are all acceptable. No hard alcohol. It dulls the senses, and you just won't get your money's worth-not that I care, but you might. I provide none of these refreshments. It's up to you to keep them in the fridge, and if your hotel doesn't supply you with a fridge... Actually, if you're not staying in the kind of hotel that supplies you with a completely stocked fridge, then I probably won't be visiting you.
I will not accept any beverages, so please don't offer me any. However, if my throat becomes dry after talking for a time and I need a glass of water, I will get up and fetch it myself. You don't need to bother yourself; I will take care of getting it and work the interruption seamlessly into my conversation. You will not even notice a change in tone, so don't imagine that you can get an extra five minutes at the end for lost time. There will be no lost time.
Now, the "menu," as I call it, is extensive, updated weekly, and includes not only the classic favorites such as the man who gets caught in a rainstorm and must seek shelter at the home of three nubile teenaged girls who have been abandoned by their parents and are living in a woodshed on the side of a deserted highway in Minnesota but also five or six daily specials. For instance, on Fridays I might offer Catholic schoolgirls in plaid jumpers and knee socks who forgot to put on their underpants that day, playing hopscotch on the sidewalk in front of your enormous split-level house in Mamaroneck, eating pork chops on a Friday, when Father O'Leary comes along and must find a way to teach them a lesson and punish them. This one takes place in 1967 and it's a favorite with fifty-three-year-old Jewish men from Westchester County.
Of course the list is computerized, alphabetized, and on the Internet. I do have a website, and you can access me at www.hoteltalk.org. This does not mean I will respond to inquiries, and I seldom answer e-mail. But please feel free to send a message. Just don't expect an answer.
Rule number four. After I leave, you must never pretend you are very preoccupied and get on the phone as I've closed the door, only to jump up, stand by the door, and spy on me while I punch the elevator button for the lobby, and then quickly run out of your hotel room the moment the elevator doors close, race down the stairs, follow me out of the lobby, and then dart and dodge through traffic, almost getting run over, trailing close behind me until I get in a cab, and then grab a cab yourself and tell the driver to follow my cab, giving your driver a hundred-dollar bill to do so, all the while trying to restrain the enormous erection that has been forming in your trousers as you descend the streets, 51st, 50th, 49th, 48th, 47th, wondering where the hell I am going to get out, nervous it might be 42nd, relieved in Chelsea, then sweating again through Tribeca and Chinatown, getting stimulated, too, imagining that I live in a loft apartment on Walker and Lisbernard with a poet boyfriend who beats me, and that I am not at all the hardened businesswoman that I appear to be but instead a victim, bringing home my ill-gotten gains and handing them over to a drunken poet named Raoul who hasn't written a decent line of verse in the last twenty-five years and hasn't shaved since Friday. Whatever you do, do not get out of the cab and follow me up the five flights of stairs and stand in the doorway, watching as he grabs at the cash still hot from your own hands, presented to me only minutes before, having nestled in your pocket for an entire afternoon. And do not feel tenderness for me when Raoul screams at me that I am a whore, a bitch, and knocks me about the filthy kitchen, throwing pots and pans, as he continues to get drunker and rail against the New York literary scene, harping on the difference between the experimental poets and the language poets, and how the hell John Ashbery got to be so darn famous, when he suddenly lifts up my skirt, kisses my thighs, begs me for forgiveness as he pulls at my garter belt, brings me closer to him-me standing, while he sits at the kitchen table, wearing only boxers and a T-shirt with tomato sauce stains-rubbing my legs, pushing them apart, poking his fingers inside, deeper and deeper, while he talks about going to Tuscany to live for a year, renting a villa and maybe even having a baby and changing citizenship, while you stand there just outside the open door, and suddenly our eyes meet and you believe in that moment that you can rescue me. Then you watch as I close my eyes, and you are not sure whether I saw you or not, or whether I am thinking about Raoul. About how, despite the fact that he is a dreamer and we will always be stuck together in this godforsaken heat, with him pressing his dirty, unshaven face up against my soft chin, taking me there on the kitchen table, and me moaning as he forces his way in, as I concentrate on the knife on the counter and the beer bottle in the sink, while you stand outside the door, witness to all this, wondering if there are any sublets available in this roach-infested building and how you might leave your wife in Cincinnati for me.
Rule number five. You must never leave your wife for me. I know. This is a difficult one. More difficult than remaining dressed or not touching me. Right now you don't think it will be a problem, but you're wrong. This problem always crops up, primarily because you don't see it as a problem so you don't prepare for it, and then one day you find yourself cleaning out the attic, packing away photo albums, deleting names and addresses on your Rolodex and opening up a mailbox number at the Canal Street Post Office.
You're probably wondering how I got started doing what I do, and you're probably wondering exactly why I do it, and if there's any possibility that I do anything more-perhaps for a bit more money-than simply sit on your bed and talk. The answer is no. I do nothing more than sit on your bed and talk, and I am not going to tell you why I do what I do or if I have any plans to do more. But of course you might not care one iota whether I tell you what I do when I'm not here sitting on your bed. You may be the type who wants to tell me about what you do when I'm not sitting on your bed, you may be the type who wants to sit there for forty-five minutes and tell me all about your fantasies, how you really like the idea of you and two women together and how you like to imagine that I have a sister named Candy, who's still in high school even though she's nineteen and a half because she's been held back two years in a row as a result of an undiagnosed learning disability and a penchant for playing hooky. You may want to tell me how Candy's morals are skewed because she hasn't had much parental guidance and her father abused her, and that at fourteen she fell in love with Mr. Swann, her geometry teacher, and he began to explain an especially difficult proof one afternoon in the back of his eighth-grade classroom, and as it got to be about four o'clock and the room grew dimmer and dimmer, he noticed how Candy's delicate white ankles led up to a shapely calf, which led to a girlish knobby knee with a little flesh-colored Band-Aid pointing upward to Candy's supple thigh, which she crossed and uncrossed, and crossed and uncrossed, pressing her wool plaid skirt, the green and blue and yellow lines crisscrossing over and over again, creating a kind of geometrical pattern that rises and falls according to her breathing and the movement of her hands across her lap, and her hands across her lap, yes, resting right there, on top of her pubis, so soft and furry, you imagine that you-because you are now Mr. Swann, the geometry teacher, don't deny it-cannot help but lean forward and put your hand on top of Candy's and press it down, comforting her, saying, "There, there, now the Pythagorean theorem is not so very hard to grasp." And in that moment, your eyes meet and she leans forward, slowly closing her eyes, almost as if she has fallen asleep-suddenly decided to take a nap in the middle of your classroom, in the middle of the afternoon, because geometry is just so wearisome, and she falls into your arms, kissing you full on the mouth, and you, supporting her slender frame, kiss her back, and back, and back, and then her father walks into the room and says, "What the hell are you doing to my daughter?"
Hah! You didn't expect that, did you? I apologize, but I just couldn't help myself. Rule number seven-I have every right to start off telling a story about a menage a trois and then suddenly switch gears and tell a story about a geometry teacher getting brought up on sexual harassment charges and losing his job and being sent to prison, where all sorts of dreadful things happen, and if you'd like I'd be glad to tell you all about them in lurid detail. No extra charge for that.
Did I mention what rule number six is?
No? Oh, that's too bad.
Rule number six, then-you must never criticize anything I say or do. I think this bears repeating. You must never criticize anything I say or do. I know what I'm doing, and even if it seems like I've lost all control and I really should not be out talking about sex to strange men in hotel rooms, rather that I should be home in bed watching soap operas with all the doors and windows locked and a thick blanket wrapped around my body, and my psychotherapist's telephone number poised on redial, you must not say a word about it. You must behave as if everything is as it should be. Even if I were to suddenly begin sobbing in the middle of a story and tell you that someone in my family died this morning, someone quite close to me-my mother for instance. Even if I were to suddenly begin discussing how much I loved her and how I am completely lost without her, and how I am really psychopathically sad, and this whole sex-talk business is simply a reaction to a repressed childhood and an overbearing mother, and now that my mother has died I no longer feel the urgent need to rebel and I don't know why the hell I'm in your hotel room because it all seems so futile and idiotic, and just plain bad.
The main reason you are not allowed to criticize me is because I am extremely sensitive. I know I might not seem it, but the truth is, I am. It might seem unlikely to you that I go home and think about you and all my other clients, the millions of men I've seen in my many years of business, but in fact I do. I think about each and every one of you. I keep a file on you. I carry this file wherever I go. You probably want to know what I have in this file, but I'm not going to tell you. That would be breaking the rules. That's rule number nine, perhaps. I'm not sure. I'm losing track. But I will tell you a few of the things I keep on file about you. For instance, if you prefer domineering women, if you loved your mother too much, if you think all women are whores and that only your mother is truly good and pure and clean, and that if you keep yourself pure for her she will finally see your goodness and kiss you on your lips, take you to her bedroom-the one with all those pink woolen blankets and lace, and pictures of the children, the one with your father's ties hanging limply in the closet, smelling of the 9:07 p.m. train from Grand Central Station, the vanilla-scented bedroom where the secret of procreation is kept, the origins of your very own DNA, and there, there, finally knowing that you have been good, that you have saved that little corner of your brain, your heart, your soul for her alone, she will take you back to whence you came.
You see, I keep track of these things. Plus what's your favorite color, ice cream flavor. What your pet peeves are, whether you prefer blondes over brunettes, if you take cream in your coffee, if you've ever had a fantasy involving the laundromat and a millionaire businessman who walks in because he's lost, busy on his cell phone when he sees a young girl wearing only her underwear because that's all she's got and the rest of her clothes are in the dryer, and she lives in Santa Cruz, and you, movie mogul from Hollywood, think, wouldn't she be good in your next picture? So you eye her there, in the middle of the laundromat, sitting there on top of the vibrating Westinghouse Superspin in nothing but a pair of slightly tattered thong bikini underpants and a white lace bra that barely covers ample brown breasts straining to burst out of the thin latticework of fabric, and she smiles at you, whispering, "Hi, my name is Cherise. Would you like to know the ins and outs of doing your laundry here at the Suds and Gossip? Believe me, I know the ins and outs because I've been doing my laundry here since I was a little girl about seven years old, with my mom. She used to be this exotic dancer in San Francisco until she moved me and my three brothers and two sisters here to Santa Cruz. She said we'd have a healthier lifestyle, but now she's cut her hair, dyed it green, pierced her navel, and joined some weird religious cult."
You, movie mogul that you are, all the way from Hollywood, are not thinking about the Westinghouse or the spin cycles or the Fab with Fresh Lemon-Scented Borax, but instead you are concentrating on her thighs, so brown and firm, and her ass, perched there-just perched there-and how dry your mouth feels and her blond ponytail, all sun-bleached, and the tension growing in your belly, and how you could get her to Paramount Pictures, talk to her about a career, about how she would be beautiful on the screen, but what's the point really? It would be too much of an effort, and after all, here you are in the Suds and Gossip, and the universe is demanding that you seize the day, so you move to the table, lean against the folded, freshly washed shirts and faded work pants, jeans, and towels that belong to someone else who has gone across the street to the 7-Eleven to buy a pack of Camels and a Bud while the rest of his wash tumbles in the dryer. You lean against the table and suddenly find yourself in front of her, the brown girl with the ponytail, worshipping at the shrine between her legs, licking up the last juices of a ceremony you don't quite understand, while she pats your head and says, good boy, that's a good boy, although you are not sure whether she is saying good boy or good dog.
You feel a little excited about that. The dog part. Don't be embarrassed. I know these things. It's my job. I'm a professional. I'm absolutely attuned to all the nuances and subtleties of my work. I'm completely intuitive and psychic. I read minds. I analyze handwriting. I know the zodiac. I know your sun sign, your moon sign, your rising sign. I know when Mercury is going retrograde, and when Jupiter is entering your sun sign, and how you become so sensitive whenever Uranus gets anywhere near Pisces.
I know what you had for breakfast this morning. I know when you've had too much sodium, when you should cut down on the caffeine. I know what you did in the bathroom of the lobby. I know what you called your mother's sister when you were twelve years old and didn't know better. I know you feel guilty about the day you called your father a big fat jerk. I know when your moon is out of phase. I know about the lie you told when you wanted to get out of that engagement. I know when you last saw your psychotherapist. I know about the thing you did on the side of the garage when you were eight and you thought no one could see. I saw you.
And I know when you haven't called for your weekly appointment because you're sitting in the corner of your kitchen, crouched between the refrigerator and the stove, wearing nothing but your Calvins, shivering and shaking. And I know about that week you did nothing but watch Hitchcock's Vertigo for twenty-four hours a day, staring bleary-eyed at your television set as Kim Novak plummeted from the bell tower again and again and again.
Rule number ten. You are not allowed to buy clothes exactly like mine and then go out and get a wig and walk around New York City as if you were me, buying flowers in Chelsea, a latte in the Village, and a coffee-table art book at Rizzoli's in Soho. You are not allowed to pretend you are me and you are having a nervous breakdown, a kind of Vertigo remake with a little sexual identity confusion thrown in, where I become Jimmy Stewart and you're Kim Novak, and I follow you all around town while you buy flowers and visit an ancient graveyard and act very, very mysterious, and I slowly fall in love with you because I am heartbroken from accidentally falling off the roof of a very tall building, and I have lost my nerve, and you have lost something too-not exactly nerve, but the same thing in a way-you, a woman-slash-man hired by a faithless, murderous husband to do away with his wife, making me the fall guy, through my own cowardice the unwitting murderer.
Rule number seventeen-I will not murder for you. I will not commit a crime for you. I will not die for you. I will not pay your bills, get you out of debt, steal a brand-new car for you, talk to your mother, get your twenty-three-year-old daughter to move out of your house, and I will not, absolutely not, poison your wife for you. So don't even ask me.
Now, you're probably growing a little discouraged, thinking, all these rules-where's the fun? What's the point? Why am I paying these kinds of prices to be with a woman-and not even a movie-star type, but an ordinary woman-if there are going to be all these rules?
Here is my answer to that: these are the rules. And there is no fun. So get the hell out if that's what you're after. Get out! Hello? I said get the hell out! Why are you still here? I know why. I know exactly why. Yes, I do. Come closer. I'll tell you why you're still here. It's because you've been bad.
And you know it. And I know it. Remember? I know everything about you. I even know you like to make a squeaky grunting sound when you're in the throes of orgasm. That only the thought of a small mouse nestled inside a chunk of Swiss cheese and the cat, Sylvester, poised atop the refrigerator with a cartoon anvil, waiting to drop it on the unsuspecting Tom and Jerry, will get you in the mood. That when you are rubbing yourself up against a woman, you are thinking about Chips Ahoy chocolate chip cookies and Bosco-flavored milk on a TV tray, about that afternoon in February when you stayed home from school sick as a dog and your mother leaned down to kiss your steaming forehead and you inhaled the fragrance of day-old Chanel No. 5 as your eyes were glued to Looney Tunes, and your little boy heart went thump-thump-thump from the heat and closeness of your mother's breast.
By the way, I've talked to your mother.
In fact, your mother is waiting outside the door for you, and she's got a big paddleboard and bottle of castor oil.
Just kidding. I mean, about the paddleboard and the castor oil. Not about talking to your mother because I did talk to your mother. Would you like to know what she said? Of course you would. She said: get on with it. Get over it. Grow up. She told me she's gone to Tahiti to live out the rest of her life among the natives, like Gauguin.
Now don't go and imagine your mother prancing naked among the palm fronds. That's called regression. No, instead imagine this-she's gone. She's happy. She's dancing among the orchids and lilies, wearing a nice little modest floral muumuu. She's drinking a daiquiri with a little paper parasol stuck in it. She's writing a novel. She's taking up singing. She's painting pictures. She's scuba diving. Collecting sea shells. Making pottery. Writing a screenplay. She's bought a video camera. Become a lounge singer. She's taken up with a hotel manager named Maurice. She's happy, laughing. And she's not thinking of you. She's forgotten all about you.
She's not watching you. Therefore, you are free. Free. Yes, free. You don't have to make love to a clone of yourself. You don't have to have sex with a rubber doll, a pinup girl, a cyberspace babe, a voice on the telephone, an Internet surfer girl, a dominatrix in leather lederhosen, a girl in a fancy apartment on East 92nd Street who only wants you for your money because that's all you have to give since your heart belongs to Mommy. You don't have to look for a woman who is so different from Mommy-a different race or religion or height or hair color- that looking into her eyes at night will not send you into Oedipal Shock Syndrome. You don't have to run the moment someone mentions marriage because marriage means Mommy and Mommy means death.
I know, you panic as soon as a woman is nice, as soon as she kisses your steaming forehead, as soon as she coos in your ear. You think of mice and cats with an anvil poised above their heads. You want to kill. You don't want to kill. Or you want to watch the Super Bowl for twenty-four hours or read a 1,500-page science fiction novel, or take your weed whacker out and mow down innocent dandelions, their little yellow heads severed and lying lifeless on the edge of your driveway waiting to be flushed down the sewer with one burst from your big, long garden hose.
I never orgasm. Don't ask me why because I'm not going to tell you. But it's good for business, don't you think? If I were in the middle of a story, talking about sex, and I suddenly found myself aroused (I do occasionally get excited, but I can control myself), but suppose I was overcome by excitement and threw myself down on the floor, ripped off my panties, spread my legs and began fingering myself, frantically searching, groping, trying to locate the button that releases all this pent-up emotion and passion, and I were to scream as the rivers crash through the barriers of my psyche and pour down through my head and breasts and legs and the center of my being as I writhe and moan for a full twenty minutes about how good-good-gooood it feels to finally--fi-nal-ly-let go, twisting and screaming on your hotel room floor, clawing at my own breasts, pummeling my center, tasting my own juices, as I press my fingers in and out and spread my own creamy substance over my thighs and breasts and stomach, my eyes rolling backward in their sockets as I speak in strange tongues and scream out my mother's name, to stop-stop-stop. Please.
My mother died this morning.
Did I mention that?
I said I wasn't going to reveal anything personal, but I thought you might like to know, since we're on the subject of mothers anyway. Everybody said to me, "Go to work-it'll take your mind off of it." So here I am. I loved my mother. I can imagine her in Tahiti right now. She taught me about sex. I probably have my professional life to thank her for. Sex, she said, is li\e ice cream. It tastes good for a while, but when all is said and done it's a sticky liquid mess and it gets all over the sheets.
I wish you had known her. I wish she had taught you about sex instead of me.
Kiss me.
Now.
Please. Kiss me.
I know it's against the rules. I know I said no touching, but my mother died today and your mother is in Tahiti. Do you remember the tune for Tom and Jerry} Would you sing it to me? Please.
That's right. Sing to me, and get me a drink. Make it hard- vodka on the rocks. And then, come here. And kiss me.
Oh, I'm sorry. Time's up.
Jamie Callan's work has been published in Story, Buzz, American Letters and Commentary, and The Missouri Review. She teaches writing at Yale University, New York University, and Fairfield University. She's recently completed the novel Hollywood Slave Girl Tells All.
"Talk About Sex: An Orientation," by Jamie Callan, © 2000 by Jamie Callan, first appeared in The Missouri Review, vol. 23, no. 1 (University of Missouri, 2000). Reprinted by permission of the author.


text:
One day Joe woke up with a headache so violent it made a red curtain hang in front of his eyes. He blinked several times, but it wouldn't go away. He sat up. He moved his head. He opened the newspaper, even though trying to read any of its print made the red curtain throb.
LOS ANGELES (AP)-Children were greeted with hugs, love, and performing clowns today as they returned to the Jewish community center that was a place of terror just six days earlier.
Joe was glad he didn't live in Los Angeles. He lived in Chicago, near Rogers Park. The neighborhood was home to rehabs, furniture moving companies, people on SSI, gangs, and women who worked for tips.
Joe thought about the performing clowns cavorting around the murder scene. Which made him remember Susan's clown outfit, the one with bright red suspenders holding up a red garter belt and white fishnet stockings.
Thinking of this gave Joe a hard-on in spite of the now-blinding headache. He dialed 911. Joe briefly marveled over having a hard-on in spite of the fact that something was obviously very wrong with his head. This was the last thought he had for a long time.
When Joe came to in the hospital three days later, a nurse was there at his bedside, emptying a tube full of his urine. "They removed the tumor from your brain. It was the size of a grapefruit."
Joe wondered why it was that tumors were always compared to fruit. He wondered if the nurse liked to have sex with fruit. Susan did.
Joe met Susan at the rehab where he worked as a janitor. No one really knew how Susan had gotten to the detox. She'd been left in the waiting room, sedated, with her hands bound behind her back by a handkerchief.
She was half Iranian and had a beautiful nose. She wore lots of cheap jewelry that turned her skin green. Her hair was so long it touched her ass.
She suffered severe withdrawal from heroin. Three days off the stuff and her hormones were raging.
Counselors at the rehab caught Susan trying to have sex with virtually all the rehab inmates, male and female. One day, Joe found her in his broom closet. With his mop. She was leaning forward against the Band-Aid-colored wall. She had inserted the mop handle into herself from behind. She had her long black skirt bunched up over her ass.
When Joe walked in, she froze. Then she turned her head and looked at him. Her eyes were black hot coals and impossible to read. Joe slowly backed out of the closet. He went down the hall and into one of the counselor's offices, where he mechanically started emptying the trash, paying absolutely no mind to the counselor who was in there.
About ten minutes later, Joe went back into his broom closet. He knew she wouldn't be there anymore. He carefully picked the mop up and licked its handle. It tasted like sugar.
Joe had been raised in a motorcycle gang in Oregon. He was first laid at age twelve, by Martha, his half brother's common-law wife. She was four feet eleven inches with kinky blond hair and facial tattoos. One night she just crawled inside Joe's sleeping bag and started sucking his dick. Once he was hard, she hoisted up her denim miniskirt, straddled him, and rode up and down on him so vigorously he was sure she was going to break his dick off. When Joe tried to kiss her, she slapped him so hard his lip bled. He was so afraid of her he couldn't come. But she did, making a horrible sound like a wounded moose. A few minutes later, as she was crawling out of Joe's sleeping bag, his half brother came over. He made a clucking sound in his throat and then laughed. Joe thought maybe his half brother would kill him. But he didn't.
The next day Martha fell off the back of Joe's half brother's bike and rolled under a truck on the highway.
"You killed her," Joe's half brother accused that night. How Joe had killed her, he wasn't sure. And it was never mentioned again.
When Joe was sixteen, there was a massive raid of the motorcycle gang, and most of its members were indicted on murder and narcotics charges. Joe fled. He started hitchhiking east and got off in Chicago. Some guys jumped him and stole his shoes. One of them put his dick in Joe's mouth and came on his face. Joe went to a Salvation Army and slept there one night.
He ended up in a detox and was ultimately given a job as a janitor there. One night, he got picked up by a tiny stripper at a bar that some of the detox workers frequented. She wasn't stripping there, just getting drunk. She didn't even talk to Joe before putting her hand on his crotch. She took him home and told him to shut up and turn over, and she rammed stuff up his ass. First a finger. Then a hair brush handle. Then she ripped the arm off a smiling plastic doll and rammed it up his ass. Joe didn't protest. He watched her jerk off. She didn't put anything up her own ass. Her name was Jolene.
He saw her a few times a week for several months. Then she was murdered. The cops never figured out who did it or why. She was found stabbed in the bathtub in her apartment.
Now Joe hadn't had sex in two years. Every time he fucked someone, they died.
The day after the mop incident, Joe found Susan in his broom closet again. She was completely naked but didn't have anything inserted inside herself.
"What are you doing?" Joe asked.
"Nothing," Susan said.
She stood up and turned her back to him. She was so skinny her shoulder blades poked out like razors, but she had a nice shape, hips rounding out slightly from a miniscule waist.
She bent forward and smashed her cheek against the Band-
Aid-colored wall. She had extremely long straight black pubic
hairs that parted to reveal the pinkness between them. She
turned her head and looked at Joe with hot coal eyes. Joe didn't
move. He didn't even put his hand to his dick that was so hard
and distended it hurt.
"That's a really bad idea," Joe said to her after eternal seconds.
"Yeah yeah yeah," Susan said and then arched her back and wiggled her hips slightly.
"Do you need a place to live?" he asked.
Susan straightened up and turned around and her face turned little girl.
"Yeah."
"Okay. You can live with me," Joe said.
An hour later, Susan had packed up her plastic bag of belongings: two pairs of panties, a black T-shirt, and a bra.
The moment they set foot inside Joe's small two-room apartment, Susan lay down on the floor and fell asleep. After sitting there watching her sleep for a few hours, Joe gently scooped her up and put her on his twin bed. An hour later she woke up and went back to the floor. She was still asleep in the morning when the phone rang and one of the counselors from the rehab called to tell Joe he'd lost his job. Consorting with the patients was strictly against the rules. But Joe didn't care. He had Susan in his apartment.
When Susan woke up she was horny. She didn't even brush her teeth or take a piss, she sat up on the floor and reached for Joe, who was sitting in the only chair he owned, a plastic armchair the color of avocados. She put her hand on his crotch and Joe made a face.
"What, baby?" Susan said.
"Don't do that."
"What's the matter?"
"I don't wanna."
"Yes you do," Susan purred, feeling the big lump in his pants.
"No," Joe said.
Susan peeled off her shirt. She had an orange bra on.
"I got this in France at Tati," she said, running her hands over the bra. "Tati is this amazing cheapo store they got over there. Kind of like our Kmart or something, only the underwear is nice cotton. You can't find nice cotton underwear at Kmart," she said, defiantly, as if expecting Joe to contradict her.
"I realize that," Joe said, even though he didn't. "Why were you in France?"
"Come on," the girl said, taking off the bra and teasing her dark brown nipples so they stood up like angry blueberries.
But Joe wouldn't do anything.
Over the next few weeks, Susan tried a lot of things. She got outfits. First just run-of-the-mill things like vicious red teddies and garters and stockings and fuck-me pumps. She would dance in front of Joe in his tiny apartment and Joe would watch but he wouldn't touch. She got a nurse's outfit. It was starchy and hard when she rubbed up against Joe's skin while he tried to sleep. It gave him a hard-on but he still wouldn't fuck her. He didn't want Susan to die. He thought maybe even telling her about it, about the curse of the women he fucked, could kill her.
Then Susan got the clown outfit. It was the stupidest, craziest thing any girl had ever done to or for him. The tenderness of that stupid crazy gesture almost melted his resolve. But not quite.
Not even when he came home from work one day-he'd gotten hired on as a housekeeping aide at the seedy Heart of Chicago Motor Court not too far away-and found Susan in bed with another girl, a chubby Spanish girl with a lascivious red mouth, and the two of them relentlessly ate each other and inserted fingers and vibrators into each other. Joe just made eggs. He and his hard-on.
And then Susan started shooting dope again.
Pretty soon she had gone through all Joe's money buying dope. She would shoot up all over her body and Joe would just watch. He locked her in the bathroom one day to try and make her kick her habit but she just jumped out the third-story window.
A few days after jumping out of Joe's bathroom window, Susan resurfaced.
She was at least ten pounds thinner and her eyes were huge and full of pain.
"I'm sorry, baby," she said when Joe opened the door and let her in, and he folded her into his arms and felt her bones poking into him.
"It's all okay," he reassured her, but after a minute she grew fidgety and then Joe went and sold his stereo to get her some dope.
In a week, Susan had pawned everything Joe had, which wasn't much. When his apartment was completely barren, Susan left. The next morning, Joe woke up with the headache.
After the surgery, as he lay in his hospital bed reflecting on what life would be like now that he'd had the grapefruit taken out of his head, Joe glanced at a newspaper and saw that the singer Carnie Wilson was having her stomach taken out and having a new one put in. This one would be the size of a peanut.
Carnie Wilson was quoted saying: "I am so obese I could die."
Maybe the grapefruit from Joe's head could try shoving itself inside the peanut in Carnie's stomach. Thinking about it gave Joe the first hard-on he'd had since Susan had left.
When Joe got out of the hospital he didn't want to go home. Home would remind him of Susan and of the grapefruit. He wandered the streets for nearly twenty-four hours straight and then, completely exhausted, he went home. There was an eviction notice taped to his door. He would have to find a job soon.
Two days later, when Joe was walking and wandering as he'd taken to doing, he bumped into a woman on Wilson Avenue whose hands were smeared with tattoos of the motorcycle gang who'd raised him. She was stocky with brassy blond hair. She had on a Black Sabbath concert T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. Her arms had loose meat hanging off them. She noticed Joe staring at her tattoos and she started talking to him.
"I ain't running with them anymore, though," she said after Joe asked her about the motorcycle gang's Chicago offshoot. "I got a good job. I'm a lifeguard. Lotta old people come in there and dog paddle and I sit there. They let me smoke too. No one says shit. Sometimes my husband comes in and we sit there and get fucked up and the old people don't care," she said.
"I'll hook you up if you want," she told Joe after a while.
"What's that?"
"They need a weekend lifeguard. I'll hook you up."
"I can't really swim."
"I'll teach you," she said.
A week later, the woman, whose name was Denise, let Joe pass the lifeguard test and then hired him as part-time lifeguard. Five days a week, Joe sat in his room watching the little black and white TV he'd found in a Dumpster on Astor Street. On weekends he was a lifeguard.
Denise started hitting on Joe. One Saturday, when he came in for his shift and went into the tiny office where he was to sit for the next nine hours watching old people dog paddle, he found Denise sitting there, smoking a Kool. She was wearing cut-off shorts and a tank top. She had enormous breasts. They seemed to have a life of their own. He reflected that if Denise were to travel, a separate passport would have to be issued for her tits.
"You wanna come over tonight? Stewie's out of town," Denise said to Joe, taking a languorous pull on her Kool.
"Oh," he said, frightened.
"Oh? I make you an offer and 'Oh' is all you got for me?" 1 can t.
"You can't what, boy?" Denise hissed through her very small teeth.
Joe thought about how her teeth were so tiny and her tits so huge. Her maker had clearly been having a bad day when her number had come up.
To quell any more nastiness, Joe agreed to come by her place that night.
When he got there, she was wearing nothing but skimpy mesh underpants that rode up her strange flat ass. When Joe didn't instantly grab her and throw her down and fuck her, she flew into a rage. She looked horrible when she was angry.
Finally, as she was calling him a cocksucking pussy, Joe reached down inside the panties and put his finger inside her. She shut right up. He pushed her down to the floor. He moved the crotch of the panties aside and stuck his dick in her. She said: "Baby, baby, baby" and her hips wiggled and her eyes rolled back in her head. The moment Joe came, he pulled out of her, hoisted his pants back up, and left. He figured her death was imminent. He didn't want to see it.
The next day Joe didn't show up at the swimming pool. He didn't want to be hearing about Denise's death. He stayed in for a week straight.
He pulled the phone out of the wall. He cooked up a big batch of rice, the only thing in his cupboard, and subsisted on that.
On the eighth day, he went by the detox where he had once worked. The detox people agreed to hire him back. Patients came and went and sometimes Joe wondered if Susan would appear again.
One day, Joe was walking home from the detox when he saw Denise coming down the street. She was with another older woman. A short woman.
"Joe, babe, what's up?" Denise said.
"Hi," Joe said, and his heart stammered.
"You look pale, what's wrong?" Denise asked.
"Joe?" the other woman said, scrutinizing Joe.
Joe looked nervously from Denise to the other woman.
"Joe, did you used to live in Oregon?" the woman demanded.
"Yes," Joe said tightly. The woman was Martha, his half brother's common-law wife, the first woman whose death was on his head.
"I thought so. How you doin' kid?" Martha said, and she pressed her short squat body up to his.
Joe stood frozen.
He didn't understand.
Just a day later, watching a movie on TV, he saw the stripper, the ex-girlfriend who'd turned up murdered. She was playing a nurse on a TV movie that had been filmed just a few months earlier.
Joe consulted with one of the counselors at the detox, who then hooked him up with a shrink.
"I thought I killed everyone I slept with," Joe told the shrink, a small man with close-cropped dark hair and an extraordinarily long nose.
The shrink was fascinated and told Joe he ought to come in three times a week. He then had many colleagues talk to Joe and take pictures of his brain. They concluded that the grapefruit's position inside Joe's brain had triggered an extreme sexual guilt complex. Now that it was gone, so was the complex. Joe needn't think he killed everyone he fucked anymore.
The detox hired Joe back. Eventually, Susan did come back through. At first he didn't recognize her. Her hair was shorn short and she was dressed in vivid colors. But she still wore the cheap jewelry that turned her skin green.
She pretended not to recognize Joe. He cornered her in the hall when she was heading to the bathroom.
"Come live with me. It'll be different this time, I promise you that."
Susan just laughed at him, a hollow lifeless laugh. She wordlessly walked ahead into the bathroom. Joe left her alone for the rest of the day. He tried again the following day.
She just laughed again though. She wouldn't speak.
One night, when all the other patients were in the TV room, catatonically staring at the big screen TV, Joe ran into Susan in the hallway. She was sadly shuffling down the hall. She was wearing a limp blue bathrobe.
"Susan," Joe said, planting himself in front of her.
"You sent me off the deep end, Joe," she said, looking up at him with her lifeless eyes.
"It's all a terrible mistake. I had a grapefruit in my head. I loved you. I didn't want to kill you."
"You're insane."
"No. It was the grapefruit."
"Joe, you need help."
"Let me show you," he said and he forcefully took hold of Susan's bony arm and led her toward the broom closet.
"You have to leave me alone," Susan protested when he'd gotten her in there.
"Look," Joe said, putting his hands to his head and parting the hair there to show her the scar. "There was a thing in my head. A tumor. I can explain everything."
She just looked at him with those hollow eyes. He put his hands on her shoulders and forcibly flipped her around. He leaned her forward so that her cheek pressed against the Band-Aid-colored wall and her ass arched out. He bunched her limp blue robe up over her hips. He parted the incredibly long straight black pubic hairs and kissed her and licked her. He put his fingers inside her. He rubbed his painfully distended dick against her ass. She finally turned her head and looked at him and a fragment of life had come back into her eyes.
Maggie Estep has published two books, Diary of an Emotional Idiot and Soft Maniacs: Stories. Her third, The Woman Who Ate the Sun-a crime novel involving Coney Island, horse racing, a stripper, and a pianist-will be published in 2002. Maggie lives in Brooklyn, plays classical piano, and hangs out at racetracks, cheering on long shots. Visit her online at www.maggieestep.com.
"Joe," by Maggie Estep, © 2000 by Maggie Estep, first appeared in Gynomite, edited by Liz Belile (New Mouth from the Dirty South LLC, 2000). Reprinted by permission of the author.