Black Silk (35 page)

He liked the color blue, he said. His mother bought it for him to wear when he was in water, he said. Which was often. He
liked the water. He liked the blue thing his mother bought him. He liked the way it fit so nice and tight around his (yes,
me too). He liked the way it slid so slowly off his (but of course. And I did too). He liked the way the blue shone in the
sunlight and the way it glistened when he dove into the water. When he parted the water. When his form streaked through the
water and he moved his legs and there was no smell, no sense of smell, only his open mouth and his legs, arms, moving. Stroking.
Only watermovement and darkness there. His belly flat between the strokes. His open mouth moving through the water. His open
mouth tasting it. Between strokes. His mouth moving above his legs, above the water’s mouth, in darkness, yes, and light.

Smell it, you said
Why, I asked
Because you like it, you said
Because you like it, I said
Yes. Yes, I really like it, you
said
You want me to smell it. You want me to breathe in, I said
Jesus, yes, you said. You groaned. Jesus yes. Yes yes yes
yes yes. As I did, and you did,
and no one ever knew. Because we can’t ever tell. O no.

And so a dance. A dance of the afternoon. A two o’clock dance, a move out of dusty corners, a move of hips. Moves when all
the others were away. Away swimming, getting wet. Wetting their mouths, soaking their thighs. A dance that began when we were
thirteen and fourteen years old—began not quite with the blue globes, though they were there, but with “A skirt!” I almost
shouted. Lying on my back, on that small camp bed that fit only one. “Where did you get that?” A skirt that you had stolen
from—from her? The one whom you would later kiss while I watched? From her? “Do you like it?” you said. “Jesus Christ,” I
said. A skirt. The blue globes (though I didn’t know it then) beneath. Shining. Beckoning.

Yes, I liked it. Just that way. The way the blue thing your mother bought you fit so slyly, ever so slightly, around your
hips. They way it breezed, ever so slightly, when you did what you always did. “Wear it,” I said, quietly, very quietly, as
you watched me holding myself. Lying on my back. “Wear it,” I whispered, as you climbed above me, stood above me, dancing
over my “Face,” you said. “Over your face. Look up,” you said, “and tell me what you see.”

“I see everything,” I said.

He was dancing over my face. They were all away, away at two o’clock in the afternoon. Wetting themselves. Splashing each
other’s back parts, each other’s chests. Away as he danced over me, as the skirt swished around his hips. As I saw everything.
The blue globes beneath. Beneath the skirt. And everything pressing beneath them. I could see his ankles, his thick-to-thin
ankles, on the bed on either side of me. His feet, at that time without shoes. Without the high heels that, while again dancing
over my face, he would wear years later, in that secret place we kept, where groceries crackled in paper bags and the furniture
sprouted dust. I could see his ankles as I would see them years later, when, on those nights that were still to come, long
after camp and the bed that fit only one, long after hidden afternoons when they all were away wetting themselves with their
shouts and splashes, long after the rings we would eventually place upon fingers in pledges to other people who would never
know, long after the children we would each beget who also would never know, he would come to that place, that secret place
that had begun long ago with a dance whispered out of dusty corners at two o’clock in the afternoon, and once more dance over
my face with a skirt that swished about his hips, that swished to reveal—only now and then—the blue globes, and all that pressed
behind them, beneath them. He would dance years later, as he danced only yesterday (but I will never tell), with those black
patent-leather high heels wrapped tightly about his ankles. Those shining high heels close enough to lick. He would dance,
and still, when the desire came, he would command me to “Smell it,” he would say, and I would. Clutching myself. Smell it,
O my God, smelling it as my face disappeared behind the blue globes and they, yes, they, became all and everything. Became
my face.

No, we can never tell. He can never tell how much he enjoys when I “Smell it,” he said, and “I’m smelling it,” I whispered,
and “I know,” he groaned, holding my head there. Keeping my head there. He can never tell. Not ever tell the one who now delights
in the rings about their fingers that both share, nor the many others who share merge reports and analyses, spreadsheets,
of his days—the days when he thinks of me, I know, and of how, on some night soon to come, far away from the children he begat
and the she who bears the ring that matches the one he wears, far away from the children I begat and the she who loves my
smile as I delight in her face, I will smell him I will smell him I will “But just kiss it,” he will say some night, “just
this one, or twice, or three times.” “What would any of them say if they knew?” I ask one night as he dances over me, trying
to aim everything for right there, just there. “If they—”

“But they’ll never know,” he says—and though I cannot see him entirely, for the darkness of that place that is this one, I
know that he is smiling, that he will soon laugh—yes, laugh the way he always does when he comes down over me, when the skirt
billows over my face, when he knows that I am closing my eyes as he closes his and smelling it, taking it all in, about which
we will never tell “anyone,” I say. Say to the darkness. To the globes, that will become (but not for the first time) my mouth.
Open my mouth.

The first time, you wanted me to touch them. You put them in my face.

They were wet. And I
Yes. Was thirteen
years old. Was fourteen
years old. You were fifteen (sixteen?)
years old. You were
“swimming,” you said,
“swimming. That’s why they’re wet.”

“They’re blue,” I said. “Front and back. I like the color. Blue like—”

“Don’t say it,” you said. “Just put your face there, and—”

“Smell it?” I asked.

“Yes,” you said. “There. Right there!”

That was camp. When we were twelve or thirteen or fourteen years old. By the time I was seventeen and you were

“Eighteen!”

I thought with purest secret pleasure as you danced over me and I thought about doing so much more—yes, so much more than
merely kissing it. You were eighteen and had graduated from lifting first one leg, then the other. From laughing so uproariously
when you did what you did, and I breathed in. From sticking it out so that the blue globes, especially when it was time for
you to do what you did, touched my face. From balancing over me just that way, gently, ever so gently, so that, when it was
time, when you next wanted me to, I would inhale all of it and reach up just that way—yes, still lying on my back—to kiss
the blue globes that would be “wet,” you whispered, “yes. For you, always wet. Like the first time when I came in from swimming
and they were—”

“Soaked,” I say, remembering.

No one else ever inhaled. Ever smelled. You promised me that they wouldn’t. You promised me that you wouldn’t do that with
“Her,” you said, “no, of course not. Are you crazy? How could I? She would think that I’m the ultimate—”

“Pervert,” I said. “Yes.”

“Yes,” you said, blowing out the candle next to the place where we stretched, fully prepared. And then it happened, you did
it, did it without lifting a thigh or arching your back (yes, even while lying on your back), it was one of your most reckless,
and you commanded me to “Smell it,” you said. And I did, O yes, but of course, as you pressed down upon me and kept me there.
Covering my face. Covering. Allowing me to breathe in. Ensuring that I thought only of you and what your she or mine or any
of the children we had begotten would say if they could “see us,” I thought, closing my eyes. Sucking silent air.