Full Frontal Fiction (15 page)

I pray during my punishment. I pray so hard I drown out the horrible whipping sound. I pray that God or Satan or whoever won't let them see how sinful and repulsive and bad I truly am. I pray something won't let them see what my mother knows and has tried to punish me for, but which only worsens. And the tears that eventually come burn through me and only heighten it all. For hidden in my bunched-up jeans is my erection, like a gleaming badge of guilt, waiting to be discovered and ripped from me.

The belt is slamming into me all over, my back, ass and thighs. The tears are streaming, and confessions of every sin and every evil thought or action I ever did or almost did pour out from my mouth. I cry harder and harder as the truth washes over me. Even as he takes the belt to between my legs and the pain is unbearable, I am still excited. Excited as hell, though my thing has long been cured of its ability to have erections. I beg for it, harder and harder, so perhaps I can outrun it, but, like my shadow, it is next to me. It follows me. It is permanently attached. As I hang from the gray bars, swaying, wet and throbbing, I recognize the scent from earlier as blood. His switchblade at my crotch slices like I begged him, to try and help save me. One hand caressing, one hand cutting.

I remember when I saw Peter Pan when I was little. Afterward, the other kids wanted to reenact the battles of the Lost Boys, pirates and Indians. All I could think about was the part where Peter Pan sits still while Wendy takes a sharp needle and, with concern and maybe love, sews his shadow onto his feet. And I wonder if his pain excited him as much as it excited me.

I hang here, all the old voices still bleeding in my ears. I watch my shadow, solid like a police outline of a dead body, and I pray. Maybe one more slice, just one more, will sever it forever.

Flare

BY MARCIA ALDRICH

HE HADN'T TOLD her. He had put his mouth on hers, and he hadn't told her. He had put his tongue inside her mouth, keeping it there, and he hadn't told her. At first a small bump in the middle of her upper lip. At first a mild crescendo, nothing more, in the middle of her upper lip. At first a slightly fuller lip, a crescendo, not unattractive, nothing more. Then, the bump grew, it grew into a large sore, a loud crescendo in the middle of her upper lip. More than full looking. The bump was growing hard and tight with what he hadn't told her, it was growing into a large sore. She was cleaning the large sore tight with what he hadn't told her; her tongue was diligently working the crescendo, darting completely to the sore in the middle of her upper lip. She was tonguing it, learning the touch of what he hadn't told her. The sore was growing, ready to pop. She had a sore the size of a cherry tomato growing on her upper lip. She was growing a cherry tomato on her upper lip, ready to burst. She was trying to talk but the cherry tomato was getting in the way. She was slurring, she was slow sliding into language. She was still trying to talk when the sore began popping. Not just one clean swift pop. The sore that was finally ready to pop began popping. It was popping extravagantly as if there was no end to its popping. It could go on popping all day. At first a liquid something like nail polish remover but not nail polish remover began to ooze. It began oozing out of the sore. Air made it burn like his mouth on hers. She wanted to put her mouth in snow. There was burning and there was wanting to put her mouth in snow but there was no snow.

She thought, That's the last of it. The sore would disappear now. She was home and the sore was multiplying. It was filling up again and spreading even though it had popped. Why didn't it snow, a huge blizzard, snow covering the whole world. She wanted to open the door and put her mouth in snow. It was October. The sore was spreading to all the corners of her mouth, opening like fiery tulips in the fleshy flaps of her mouth. They were erupting on the roof of her mouth, a field like the one they had rolled in—Indian paintbrush on fire. They were not disappearing. She stood at the mirror looking at her sores. She did not show her sores to others. Rashes on arms or legs are not pleasant nor desirable. But they are different from sores on the lip. Rashes on arms do not arouse suspicion or shame. Sores on intimate places spread, invite suspicion, even shame. Sores spreading on other places make something private public. There are places that speak for us and there are sores on these places. Her body was turning on her, turning on itself.

She went to the doctor and said, Look at my mouth, it is turning on itself. The doctor said a word that surprised her, a word she never associated with herself. There was nothing to be done. Once the sore begins, there is nothing to be done. There never is, the doctor said, there never is anything to be done. She opened her mouth, but no sound was coming out. Unexpectedly a sore will appear for the rest of your life.

Inside her mouth she could no longer see where the sores had flowered. They had burst and disappeared. The sore on her upper lip had disappeared, but there was a scar, a crescendo of tissue, where what he hadn't told her lived.

Third Party

BY JAY MCINERNEY

DIFFICULT TO DESCRIBE precisely, the taste of that eighth or ninth cigarette of the day, a mix of ozone, blond tobacco and early evening angst on the tongue. But he recognized it every time. It was the taste of lost love. Alex started smoking again whenever he lost a woman. When he fell in love again he would quit. And when love died, he'd light up again. Partly it was a physical reaction to stress; partly metaphorical—the substitution of one addiction for another. And no small part of this reflex was mythological—indulging a romantic image of himself as a lone figure standing on a bridge in a foreign city, cigarette cupped in his hand, his leather jacket open to the elements.

He imagined the passersby speculating about his private sorrow as he stood on the Pont des Arts, mysterious, wet and unapproachable. His sense of loss seemed more real when he imagined himself through the eyes of strangers. The pedestrians with their evening baguettes and their Michelin guides and their umbrellas hunched against the March precipitation, an alloy of drizzle and mist.

When it all ended with Lydia he'd decided to go to Paris, not only because it was a good place to smoke, but because it seemed like the appropriate backdrop. His grief was more poignant and picturesque in that city. Bad enough that Lydia had left him; what made it worse was that it was his own fault; he suffered both the ache of the victim and the guilt of the villain.

His appetite had not suffered, however; his stomach was complaining like a terrier demanding its evening walk, blissfully unaware that the household was in mourning. Ennobling as it might seem to suffer in Paris, only a fool would starve himself there.

Standing in the middle of the river he tried to decide which way to go. Having dined last night in a bistro that looked grim and authentic enough for his purposes but which proved to be full of voluble Americans and Germans attired as if for the gym or the tropics, he decided to head for the Hotel Coste, where, at the very least, the Americans would be fashionably jaded and dressed in shades of gray and black.

The bar was full and, of course, there were no tables when he arrived. The hostess, a pretty Asian sylph with a West London accent, sized him up skeptically. Hers was not the traditional Parisian hauteur, the sneer of the maître d'hôtel at a three-star restaurant; she was rather the temple guardian of that international tribe that included rock stars, fashion models, designers, actors and directors—as well as those who photographed them, wrote about them and fucked them. As the art director of a boutique ad agency, Alex lived on the fringes of this world. In New York he knew many of the doormen and maître d's, but here the best he could hope for was that he looked the part. The hostess seemed to be puzzling over his claims to membership; her expression slightly hopeful, as if she was on the verge of giving him the benefit of the doubt. Suddenly her narrow squint gave way to a smile of recognition. “I'm sorry, I didn't recognize you,” she said. “How are you?” Alex had only been here twice, on a visit a few years before; it seemed unlikely she would have remembered. On the other hand, he was a generous tipper and, he reasoned, not a bad-looking guy.

She led him to a small but highly visible table set for four. He'd told her he was expecting someone in the hopes of increasing his chances of seating. “I'll send a waiter right over,” she said. “Let me know if there's anything else I can do for you.” So benevolent was her smile that he tried to think of some small request to gratify her.

Still feeling expansive when the waiter arrived, he ordered a bottle of champagne. He scanned the room. While he recognized several of the patrons—a burly American novelist, the skinny lead singer of a Brit Pop band—he didn't see anyone he actually knew in the old-fashioned sense. Feeling self-conscious in his solitude, he studied the menu and wondered why he'd never brought Lydia to Paris. He regretted it now, for her sake as well as his own; the pleasures of travel were less real to him when they couldn't be verified by a witness.

He'd taken her for granted—that was part of the problem. Why did that always happen?

When he looked up a young couple was standing at the edge of the room, searching the crowd. The woman was striking—a tall beauty of indeterminate race. They seemed disoriented, as if they had been summoned to a brilliant party that had migrated elsewhere. The woman met his gaze—and smiled. Alex smiled back. She tugged on her companion's sleeve and nodded toward Alex's table. Suddenly they were approaching.

“Do you mind if we join you for a moment,” the woman asked. “We can't find our friends.” She didn't wait for the answer, taking the seat next to Alex, exposing, in the process, a length of taupe-colored, unstockinged thigh.

“Frederic,” the man said, extending his hand. He seemed more self-conscious than his companion. “And this is Tasha.”

“Please, sit,” Alex said. Some instinct prevented him from giving his own name.

“What are you doing in Paris?” Tasha asked.

“Just, you know, getting away.”

The waiter arrived with the champagne.

Alex requested two more glasses.

“I think we have some friends in common,” Tasha said. “Ethan and Frederique.”

Alex nodded noncommittally.

“I love New York,” Frederic said.

“It's not what it used to be,” Tasha countered.

“I know what you mean.” Alex wanted to see where this was going.

“Still,” Frederic said, “it's better than Paris.”

“Well,” Alex said. “Yes and no.”

“Barcelona,” Frederic said, “is the only hip city in Europe.”

“And Berlin,” said Tasha.

“Not anymore.”

“Do you know Paris well?” Tasha asked.

“Not really.”

“We should show you.”

“It's shit,” Frederic said.

“There are some new places,” she said, “that aren't too boring.”

“Where are you from?” Alex asked the girl, trying to parse her exotic looks.

“I live in Paris,” she said.

“When she's not in New York.”

They drank the bottle of champagne and ordered another. Alex was happy for the company. Moreover, he couldn't help liking himself as whoever they imagined him to be. The idea that they had mistaken him for someone else was tremendously liberating. And he was fascinated by Tasha, who was definitely flirting with him. Several times she grabbed his knee for emphasis and at several points she scratched her left breast. An absentminded gesture, or a deliberately provocative one? Alex tried to determine if her attachment to Frederic was romantic. The signs pointed in both directions. The Frenchman watched her closely and yet he didn't seem to resent her flirting. At one point she said, “Frederic and I used to go out.” The more Alex looked at her the more enthralled he became. She was a perfect cocktail of racial features, familiar enough to answer an acculturated ideal and exotic enough to startle.

“You Americans are so puritanical,” she said. “All this fuss about your President getting a blow job.”

“It has nothing to do with sex,” Alex answered, conscious of a flush rising on his cheeks. “It's a right-wing coup.”

He'd wanted to sound cool and jaded. Yet somehow it came out defensive.

“Everything has to do with sex,” she said, staring into his eyes.

Thus provoked, the Veuve Clicquot tingling like a brilliant isotope in his veins, he ran his hand up the inside of her thigh, stopping only at the border of her tight short skirt. Holding his gaze, she opened her mouth with her tongue and moistened her lips.

“This is shit,” said Frederic.

Although Alex was certain the other man couldn't see his hand, the subject of Frederic's exclamation was worrisomely indeterminate.

“You think everything is shit.”

“That's because it is.”

“You're an expert on shit.”

“There's no more art. Only shit.”

“Now that that's settled,” said Tasha.

A debate about dinner: Frederic wanted to go to Buddha bar, Tasha wanted to stay. They compromised, ordering caviar and another bottle of champagne. When the check arrived Alex remembered at the last moment not to throw down his credit card. He decided, as a first step toward elucidating the mystery of his new identity, that he was the kind of guy who paid cash. While Alex counted out the bills Frederic gazed studiously into the distance with the air of a man who is practiced in the art of ignoring checks. Alex had a brief, irritated intuition that he was being used. Maybe this was a routine with them, pretending to recognize a stranger with a good table. Before he could develop this notion Tasha had taken his arm and was leading him out into the night. The pressure of her arm, the scent of her skin, were invigorating. He decided to see where this would take him. It wasn't as if he had anything else to do.

Frederic's car, which was parked a few blocks away, did not look operational. The front grill was bashed in; one of the headlights pointed up at a forty-five-degree angle. “Don't worry,” Tasha said. “Frederic's an excellent driver. He only crashes when he feels like it.”

“How are you feeling tonight?” Alex asked.

“I feel like dancing,” Frederic said. He began to sing Bowie's “Let's Dance,” drumming his hands on the steering wheel as Alex climbed into the back.

Le Bain Douche was half-empty. The only person they recognized was Bernard Henri Levy. Either they were too early or a couple of years too late. The conversation had lapsed into French and Alex wasn't following everything. Tasha was all over him, stroking his arm and, intermittently, her own perfect left breast, and he was a little nervous about Frederic's reaction. At one point there was a sharp exchange that he didn't catch. Frederic stood up and walked off.

“Look,” Alex said. “I don't want to cause any trouble.”

“No trouble,” she said.

“Is he your boyfriend?”

“We used to go out. Now we're just friends.”

She pulled him forward and kissed him, slowly exploring the inside of his mouth with her tongue. Suddenly she leaned away and glanced up at a woman in a white leather jacket who was dancing beside an adjoining table. “I think big tits are beautiful,” she said before kissing him with renewed ardor.

“I think your tits are beautiful,” he said.

“They are, actually,” she said. “But not big.”

When Frederic returned his mood seemed to have lifted. He laid several bills on the table. “Let's go,” he said.

Alex hadn't been clubbing in several years. After he and Lydia had moved in together the clubs had lost their appeal. Now he felt the return of the old thrill, the anticipation of the hunt—the sense that the night held secrets that would be unveiled before it was over.

Tasha was talking about someone in New York that Alex was supposed to know. “The last time I saw him he just kept banging his head against the wall, and I said to him, Michael, you've really got to stop doing these drugs. It's been fifteen years now.”

First stop was a ballroom in Montmartre. A band was onstage playing an almost credible version of “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” While they waited at the bar, Frederic played vigorous air guitar and shouted the refrain. “Here we are now, entertain us.” After sucking down their cosmopolitans they drifted out to the dance floor. The din was just loud enough to obviate conversation.

The band launched into “Goddamn the Queers.” Tasha divided her attentions between the two of them, grinding her pelvis into Alex during a particularly bad rendition of “Champagne Supernova.” Closing his eyes and enveloping her with his arms, he lost track of his spatial coordinates. Were those her breasts, or the cheeks of her ass in his hands? She flicked her tongue in his ear; he pictured a cobra rising from a wicker basket.

When he opened his eyes he saw Frederic and another man conferring and watching him from the edge of the dance floor. Alex went off to find the men's room and another beer. When he returned, Tasha and Frederic were slow dancing to a French ballad and making out. He decided to leave and cut his losses. Whatever the game was, he suddenly felt too tired to play it. At that moment Tasha looked across the room and waved to him from the dance floor. She slalomed toward him through the dancers, Frederic following behind her. “Let's go,” she shouted.

Out on the sidewalk, Frederic turned obsequious. “Man, you must think Paris is total shit.”

“I'm having a good time,” Alex said. “Don't worry about it.”

“I do worry about it, man. It's a question of honor.”

“I'm fine.”

“At least we could find some drugs,” said Tasha.

“I don't need drugs,” Alex said.

“Don't want to get stoned,” Frederic sang. “But I don't want to not get stoned.”

They began to argue about the next destination. Tasha was making the case for a place apparently called Faster Pussycat, Kill Kill. Frederic insisted it wasn't open. He was pushing L'Enfer. The debate continued in the car. Eventually they crossed the river and later still lurched to a stop at a club beneath the Montparnasse tower.

The two doormen greeted his companions warmly. They descended the staircase into a space that seemed to glow with a purple light, the source of which Alex could not discern. A throbbing drum and bass riff washed over the dancers. Grabbing hold of the tip of his belt, Tasha led him toward a raised area above the dance floor that seemed to be a VIP area. Conversation became almost impossible—which was kind of a relief. Alex met several people, or rather, nodded at several people who in turn nodded at him. A Japanese woman shouted into his ear in what was probably several languages and later returned with a catalogue of terrible paintings. He nodded as he thumbed through the catalogue. Apparently it was a gift. Far more welcome—a man handed him an unlabeled bottle full of clear liquid. He poured some into his glass. It tasted like moonshine.