Full Frontal Fiction (5 page)

Flight

BY ROBERT ANTHONY SIEGEL

MY FATHER HAS GOTTEN HIMSELF into some kind of trouble involving money and the law, and for the first time I can remember, I have a role in his life, that of confidant. We spend large chunks of the nighttime hours riding around town while he formulates his plans: compromise, counterattack—all depending on the fluctuations of his mood, which are extreme, from tears to rage and back again. I listen and egg him on toward the more fantastical choices—because at sixteen I'm not aware that they are fantastical, and because they give me the chance to go on more car rides. I am especially pleased when he decides that we are going to skip the country together. “Fuck 'em,” he says, his face a pale green in the light from the dashboard. “We'll drive up to Canada, then fly to Israel. No extradition, immediate citizenship under the Law of Return.”

“When?” I ask.

“Tomorrow.”

But the next day he doesn't show up. I talk to his answering machine, stare into his darkened windows, bang on the door. My valise feels like a ton of rocks in my hand, but I carry it all the way up the Avenue, to Violet's house. Violet is the girl I have been—not dating—no,
circling
is the better word. I am, in general, a circler.

Violet and I sit on the couch in her basement, talking, but I can't really listen because my brain is full of my father's darkened windows—that blackness.

“Running away?” she asks, looking over at the valise in the corner.

“Moving in. Your parents won't mind. Will they?”

“Funny,” she says, and I am caught off guard as she leans toward me. I see her face approaching mine, growing larger and larger till it fills my vision, and I smell the sweet scent of her, then I feel her lips against mine, a very light pressure, hardly more than a tingling in the skin. I almost draw back, not because I don't want this but because it's too much, too much and yet not enough.

“How's that?” she whispers. I'm not sure if I actually hear her or am merely feeling her breath on my face, the shape of her words on my skin.

“Wow,” I say, a little drunk with the sensation.

She moves back to look at me and her eyes are huge with interest, a childlike curiosity at the effect of her experiment. She looks like a kid who's just built something amazing with blocks that may tumble at any moment. “One more time,” she says.

We kiss again, her body against mine, her arms around my back. It is a strangely anchored feeling, like climbing a tree and coming to a fork in the branches, the kind that allows you to wedge yourself in and dangle your legs, suspended in air with no danger of falling. And yet it feels like falling too—falling without the pain of landing. My lips move but no words come out; I can hear the click of our mouths, the rhythmic huff of our breathing. “Umh,” she says, “mhrr,” and I know exactly what she means: bird, sky, branch, lips. I can feel her hand reaching under my shirt, palm against the skin of my back. Everywhere she touches tingles.

So this is getting laid. I am falling and I am in the tree, watching myself fall. My father is in Buffalo, carrying a tote bag full of money and a passport with a new name on it. He is eating room service with the TV on. He is in his big white Caddy, driving toward the Canadian border, Niagara Falls a silent roar beyond his window. The world is neither good nor bad but huge and a father can get lost in it.

“Stop,” she gasps, sitting upright. “Take this off.” She begins to work at the buttons of my shirt, fumbling. She looks a little cross-eyed, dazed, like someone coming out of a movie theater into daylight. The buttons come slowly, one after another, and then she is sitting with the shirt balled up in her hands, looking at me with that same expression of curiosity.

“Now you,” I say, and begin lifting the T-shirt over her head—to stop the staring, really. I see the white of her stomach, the black lace of a bra, the curve of her throat. And then her face again, smiling through a mess of hair.

“Scared yet?” she asks, brushing the hair from her eyes. It is my first indication that we're playing chicken. She sits with her back straight and shoulders squared, clearly aware that of our mutual toplessness hers is the more powerful.

“No,” I lie.

“Well, then.” She lifts her hands to the black band of cloth between the lace cups of her bra, undoes the little hook that holds them together. “How about now?” she asks.

“Maybe.” I stare for a while trying to make the connection between all the pictures I've seen and these real things, Violet's breasts. They are instantly familiar yet completely new too, and I feel as if I've been waiting for them a long, long time. I lean forward to touch a nipple with my lips. I can feel her hands in my hair. Her body sways and my mouth fills. My father is flying, eating packet after packet of peanuts, the tote bag sandwiched between his legs. He looks out the window and sees clouds reflecting pink and gold. He tells the woman next to him that he is a salesman, a sex therapist, a professional wrestler. The world is huge and anyone can get lost; it's hard to fasten on.

“Oh,” says Violet, a sound of surprise. I take my mouth from her breast; the nipple glistens with saliva. I follow the space between her breasts to the top of her stomach, kissing, kissing to the rivulet of hairs down toward her belly button, the waist of her jeans. “Hey, that tickles.” She squirms free, gets up from the couch, stands over me, her hair in her eyes. I reach for the button of her pants, unzip her zipper, start pulling them down. Her body sways with my tugging. She watches with a distanced curiosity as her pants clear her hips, her thighs, bunch at her ankles. She is not wearing any underwear. “I'll fall,” she says.

“I'll catch you.”

I am down on my knees now, my hands on her hips, steadying her. I am face-to-face with the architecture of her pelvis, the tuft of hair that I have dreamt of and wondered about. Of course, of course, I tell myself, this is how it would have to be, this is how women are made. I look up at her face and see that her eyes are squeezed shut, as if it's the scary part of a movie. I kiss the sharp edge of her hipbone, the shallow plane of her pelvis, the shaggy patch of hair. I follow the curve downward between her legs.

“No, don't,” she says. “I'm serious, I'll fall. Oh.”

The smell is rich and shocking, like the breath of a cave. I feel her sway over me like tall grass, her warm thighs pressed to my ears.

Once abandoned, you will always be a thrown-away thing. You will never be able to possess or hold, will never understand the rituals by which people bind themselves to others. Everything is as fluid as air or water; names are to be changed, money to be hidden. Doors give you an irresistible urge to leave, just for the feeling of leaving. And you watch for this same urge in others: the thinking ahead, the absent laugh, the counting of money. You know people have thoughts they don't tell.

She sits down on the edge of the couch, a sticky look on her face as if she's just woken up from a long sleep. She lifts her feet and I remove the bunched up pants from her ankles. “Your turn,” she says. “Stand.” I stand up and she unzips my zipper, begins to peel both pants and underwear down my legs. I am careful to pry off my shoes as she works, to step out of the pants when they reach my ankles—I am suddenly worried about looking ridiculous. But there is no helping it: I glance down at my sickly white legs, how they end in brown socks. It's hard to imagine that they're really mine, these limbs, that I stand on them. Is this getting laid, this nakedness? It's like losing your body.

She holds me at the back of my thighs, then takes my penis in her mouth, so quickly that I'm barely aware of it happening. It's not the sensation I expected, not explosive but gentle, like the pull of the water at the beach when it tugs the sand from between your toes. You want to follow, and you want to stay. “Not too much,” I hear myself mumble. “I want to take off my socks.”

“Leave them on,” she says. “They're sexy.”

She laughs, lying down on the couch. It is an invitation and I follow, spreading myself on top of her, careful for the sharp points of elbows and knees. “I've never done this before,” I say.

“I know. You look like you're in shock.”

“I just thought I should tell you.” The truth is that I am vaguely worried about hurting her somehow—or hurting myself.

“Don't worry,” she says. And I try not to as she slips me inside herself with a single easy motion. But it's a startling moment: suddenly my penis is gone and we are attached. I hesitate, rest my weight on her hips, then begin to move. I have to tell myself to move, actually; there's nothing natural or automatic about it. It is awkward, awkward, like trying to write left-handed, but I find a rhythm of sorts, a careful bumpy rhythm, and things seem to be going okay. It's a precarious, perched feeling, moving over Violet. I'm fucking, I tell myself, as if the word could sum up the mystery of this thing and of how I got here, naked on the couch with Violet. I'm fucking!

I must have said it out loud, because Violet laughs. “You are,” she says. “We are.” She has a look on her face as if she were standing at the prow of a ship, watching the sea come forward. Her hands are on my back and she rocks in time with my motion, lifting her knees in the air, breathing deeply. “Oh, yes. There. There. There.”

Where? I want to ask. We are moving somewhere separately together and I want to know. My father is in Tel Aviv, sitting on a bench overlooking the sea, shocked by the Middle Eastern sun. This strange place is the Homeland, and these are Jews, carrying guns, shouting at each other in a language, both soft and guttural, he can't understand. His tote bag is almost empty now. Citizenship is automatic under the Law of Return, and it is this same law that brings him to the bench every day to watch the light burn on the water. He takes out his passport, just to check his name, his picture. It's easy to mix up who you are and who you're trying to be. One slip and the mistake is made.

“That's good,” says Violet. “Yes, there. Keep going.”

But I've gone too far already, past the stopping point, and when it is over I lie very still, my eyes closed, listening to her breathing— to the fact of her. I do not move because I can't bring myself to uncouple.

When to Use

BY STACEY RICHTER

THE MOST OBVIOUS time is after menstruation. But you'll want to use it other times as well—after nervous tension has left you not-so-fresh, to wash away contraceptive jellies or creams (check your contraceptive instructions first), after intercourse (of course, this product is only a cleanser, not a means of birth control), to flush away built-up secretions that cause odor or anytime you want to feel clean and refreshed. Remember, this product is to be used for hygiene; it is not recommended as a method of expressing regret for joyless or ill-advised sexual encounters. It is possible, even with repeated use, that some women may not feel clean and fresh. Certain somebodies may look at themselves in the mirror after proper use and notice a halo of taint, an aura of having been “ridden hard and put up wet.” If, for example, you've been doing it with a drifter in a parked car behind a bar, with your shoes up against the window, your pantyhose shackling your ankles and your bra pushed up into your armpits (and, furthermore, if you suspect there are a couple of guys standing in the parking lot, smoking cigarettes, drinking beer and watching—and in your drunken state you like this), then this product may be ineffective, despite the light raspberry scent. We recommend you discontinue use entirely if overwhelming sensations of guilt and humiliation ensue when your regular boyfriend finds out. And why would he find out? Because everybody saw you either leaving, sucking face or actually doing it with the weird, over-tan guy with the tattooed forehead, and of course all the products in the world will not restore you to “clean” or “fresh.” A word about relief: This product does not support the idea of “do-overs,” as when playing pool and missing the ball entirely, in which case certain women feel the right to call out “do-over” and shoot again without penalty of any sort. We consider this cheating. Therefore, it doesn't make it better if, on the night in question, your regular boyfriend was off “taking some time to think about things,” which means, as we've learned in earlier sets of instructions, that he's off thinking about how badly he wants to dump you and start “seeing” one of your very stacked friends. Who knows? Maybe he would have stayed if you hadn't drunkenly turned yourself over to the first unwashed mouth-breather who made suggestive comments about the shape of your ass. But it's too late, there shall be no do-overs, and you're destined to remain pathetic, manless and a known slut. You will be largely ignored by your social circle, with the exception of certain guys in shiny shirts who've begun to stare openly at your inadequate breasts. You may start to fantasize while walking or driving around, grief-struck and miserable, about a fresh, clean start where everything is suddenly crisp and blank, like bleached bed sheets, newly washed chalkboards, refinished floors—the ultimate do-over. These instructions have this to say about that wish: Ha! You should be so lucky. Let's face facts, little lady. It's girls like you who force us to include warnings like Do Not Administer Orally. We're not going to let you out of this one that easy.

The Finish Line

BY DENNIS COOPER

Dear Dennis,

I was glad to hear from you, don't worry about it. Whatever fucked-up shit came down between us, it doesn't matter anymore. I don't even remember what the problem was. People change, that's right. I figured you were off doing your own thing and didn't remember me. I've fucked so many people over, I don't expect anybody to give a shit. I've been in AA off and on for a couple of years, and they make you think about what you do, and so I'm better about not going over people's boundaries, like they say. I'm sorry for being a shithead a lot of the time back then. I make people into my dad, and then I have these big expectations that are just stupid. I wish I didn't do that, but I still do. I just fucked up this thing with a guy here in Portland, although I have to say the guy was as much of an asshole as me. I don't have anybody right now, and I get fucked up when I'm alone. I was clean for four months, but now I slipped and everything goes to hell when I'm using. So your letter came at a good time, because I've been feeling like nobody gives a fuck. I'm sleeping in my van right now because I don't have anywhere to live, and I'm getting tired of it. I was doing pretty good for a while there. I got married to this woman, Carla, and we had a daughter. I was with her for about a year and a half, and that was a good time in many ways, but I couldn't play it the way she wanted me to play it, so she kicked me out. That's over. She has a restraining order against me, which I deserve because it got kind of crazy toward the end. I don't know if you want to hear all this shit. You seem to think I'm somebody special, and you always did, no matter how much I fucked you over, which is why I loved you like I did. But it hasn't worked out that I'm so special. That's probably why I was such an asshole to you, because you thought I was so special, and I knew I wasn't, but I wanted to believe it, so I wouldn't let you have what you wanted, because if you got me for real, I just knew it would change. But then it got fucked-up anyway, and later I thought I was a total asshole for not just giving you what you wanted, because it wasn't that much to give, and you were so nice to me, and I should have given it to you, because it's probably the only thing I could have given you to thank you and show you that I cared. But I didn't, so I've always felt like an asshole. I wanted to do it, you know. I was just scared that you'd think big deal, because let's face it, that's what happens. It's not like I've been a saint since I last saw you. I try not to let people have me because it always fucks me up, but then I don't keep jobs very well, and I need money, so I let people have me, just so I can get by, and so that I have something in my life. So I'm not scared of that shit anymore. I don't have big hopes about it. I still had big hopes about it when I was with you. I just thought if I waited until I got out of high school, and had my shit together, it would be better for both of us. Then that time we started to do something, and I freaked out, I thought I blew it. I didn't have my shit together, and now I don't think I'll ever have my shit together, so I feel like an asshole for freaking out. I don't know why you wrote to me, and I'm trying to understand why. The day I got your letter I went to a meeting and told them about it, and asked what they thought. Those people all think I'm a fuckup, because I slip all the time, so I don't really care what they think, but they said maybe I hadn't blown it with you, and that I shouldn't just blow you off, and that I should write you back, and be honest with you about my circumstances and my addiction and so on, and see what happens. So I'm trying to be honest with you, but that's not something I'm good at. I'm trying to think about this, and not just say if you still want me you can have me as long as you give me some money. I told them that's what I wanted to say, and they said that I should say that I love you, and I want to be with you, and not say the money part. Really, I don't care about the money part except that I have nothing right now. So they said I should be honest with you, and that's honest. Sometimes I think the people who go to those meetings aren't being real. It's not real to think you're going to say, I love you for who you are and we should be together. I already blew that, and I'll be honest with you, I think the drugs are always going to be a problem for me. So what I'm thinking is, I could come stay with you for a few days and just see what happens. I was thinking of driving down to LA anyway and trying to get some money out of these guys I know there. I guess I'll just drive down in a couple of weeks and call you, and if you want to see me, cool. If you want to have me, that's cool, and if you feel like giving me some money afterward, that's cool, but I'm not expecting it. You said you don't know what you want with me now, and I don't know what I want either, not just with you but about everything. I know I want to go score, and I can do that, that's easy. I know I want you to have me, if you still want me, and you said you do. I don't remember if that serial murder shit you were into bugged me. Maybe I was scared that you were going to kill me, but I don't think so. I haven't thought about that shit for a long time. But I don't live like that anymore. When I shoot dope, I don't think if I do too much I'm going to overdose. I do as much as I feel like it to get as high as I can. When I let some fucking asshole have me for money, I don't tell him what he can't do, I just go with whatever he wants, because it's bullshit otherwise. I got married and had a kid because I wanted to be with Carla, and she wanted that, and I went for it. If you're still into that weird shit, that's the way it is. If I'm going to let you have me, then you have me. If I don't wake up the next morning, that's the way it is. You were the nicest person to me I ever knew, and I just fucked you over left and right, thinking I had to protect something. There's nothing to protect anymore. I gave it a shot, and it's not happening. If you want me, you can have me. I used to be so into understanding myself, but now I just want to do things, and not understand them.

I'll talk to you,

Gregg

Dear Dennis,

I'm coming down to Los Angeles next Tuesday. I have something to do that night, and then I'll call you and come over. It's perfect because, check this out, I've got this plan where I can steal a shitload of heroin from these guys down there. They think I'm buying it to sell, but fuck them. I've got it all figured out. So anyway, it'll be cool because I'll just come stay with you, and they won't know where the fuck I am, and I'll have all this dope for us to use. I used to believe in all that Buddhist crap, and then I sort of got out of that, but this whole thing is working out so great, I can almost believe it again. I'm so fucking high. I hope you can read this. When I got your last letter, I had to go celebrate, and fuck those AA guys who say they're my friends. You don't know the bullshit I've had to put up with, about accepting that I'm a fucked-up, helpless person. I started to believe it, so thanks for reminding me that I'm cool. Yeah, I'm not fat, Dennis, don't worry. I'm fucking skinny as hell, but I could still go score with some guy right now, if that answers your question. I've got no problem getting guys to pay for it, as long as they don't give a shit about the tracks. I can still pass for sixteen. I bullshit guys that I'm sixteen all the time, so you don't have to worry about that, and I'm not going to worry about it either, because sometimes I can get really depressed about what I've done to myself, and I'm so sick of feeling like I blew all the shit that you and other guys used to think I was going to do with my life. You used to say I was going to be a great artist, but I haven't done anything in a long time except try to get through every fucking day without killing myself. I tried to kill myself twice last year, if you want to know. The second time I almost did, and I used to be sorry it didn't work, but now I'm excited. Maybe I won't blow this thing with you. I feel like I have a chance. I've fucked up every good situation I've ever been in, and I decided that was because they were all bigger assholes than me, but you're not an asshole, and you know my problems, so maybe you won't be disappointed, because everybody's always so fucking disappointed with me. If you want to know, I was planning to steal that dope to kill myself, so this is great timing on your part. Thanks for giving me another chance. If I blow this, then that's it. You can go serial killer on me, and I won't even care. It would be better if you went serial killer on me than if you threw me out like everybody else has. Hey, I'm just fucking high. You're going to hear from me soon anyway, so I'll sign off.

Later,

Gregg

Dear Dennis,

Thanks for calling me back the other day. It was a weird conversation, but I'm not going to worry about it. I'm sorry I got pissed off. I just had this idea in my head that you'd send me the money and I'd buy the bus ticket, but I don't blame you for thinking I'd use it to score. You're probably right. Ever since my van got stolen, I've been pretty on edge, so anyway I'm sorry again. So go ahead and buy me a bus ticket, and tell me when to be on it. If you don't mind driving me to those dealer guys' place, that'd be cool, since I'm not going to have wheels. I won't get you involved. You can just wait in the car. Anyway, I'm sorry about the shit on the phone. I was just jonesing, but a guy up here traded me dope for my ass, so it's cool. He said he had a really good time with me, so you don't have to worry about being disappointed with how I look now, if you're worried about that. Don't stop believing in me, Dennis. It was just a bad day. Thank you.

Gregg

Dear Dennis,

I guess you know by now that I didn't make it down there. I tried to call you, but either you don't want to talk to me or you're out of town or something. I fucked up, okay? What do you expect? That's why I want to come down there and see you, because I'm a fucking mess on my own. I'll do whatever you say. If you send me another ticket, I won't sell it. I swear on my life. Please write me back. I love you. Do you know how hard it is for me to say that?

Gregg

Dennis,

Your letter got me really pissed off. I wasn't going to write you back, but I thought about it, and I feel like I don't have a choice. I've really, really fucked things up here, not that you give a shit obviously. So yeah, whatever you fucking want. I'm just worried you don't love me anymore, because you haven't written that in a while, and that's all I've got to live for right now. So if you could just tell me that you do, that would be cool. I'll probably come anyway, but that would help, because I am kind of scared. You're getting pretty heavy on me, and I don't really have a problem with that, but the whole thing for me is that you love me, and if you don't anymore, then I don't know what the fuck to do. If you love me, I'll do fucking anything you want, don't you know that? I fucking swear. I don't know what you want me to say about your rules. I feel like I don't know what answers you expect, and I'm bad when I don't know what people want, because I always make the wrong decision, if it's up to me, but I guess you're saying I have to answer or you won't bring me down there and give me money and all that, so here you go. (1) Fine with you making a reservation so I won't be able to sell the ticket. I won't even get off the bus to take a shit, okay? The thing is, I don't have any ID except for fake ID, so make the reservation or ticket or whatever for James Ravell. It's a long story. (2) I think I answered that. (3) I think it's really unfair of you to ask me that, because you know how hard it is for me. I told you I love you. All I can say is that the only person I've said that about is my daughter. You make me feel like I'm important. I'd be upset if you were dead. If someone fucked you over, I'd fuck them over. I've jacked off thinking about you holding me in your arms and telling me the kinds of things you said in your letters a while back. I don't know what else to say. I'm going to come down there and be with you even though it scares the shit out of me, and part of me is worried you're going to kill me. I mean, I'm not really worried, but you know what I mean. That's a big fucking sacrifice on my part, so I guess that must mean I love you. (4) The heroin deal's not going to happen now probably, because I sort of fucked it all up, so you don't have to worry about that. (5) I ask myself that question every fucking day. I don't think I'm worth shit. You're the one who thinks I'm so great. So I don't know how to answer that question, because it seems like a trick question to me, but then I can be really paranoid. I'm worth all this shit because I'm your friend, and because I'm going to let you do shit to me that I would never let anybody else do, and because you probably couldn't get anybody else to do that shit with you, and because I'm great-looking like you said, okay? (6) I already told you that you can have any kind of sex you want to with me, but, if you don't mind, I don't want to talk about the details anymore. Yeah, whatever you want, Dennis. Go for it. I've been in jail enough times that I think I can deal with whatever you're talking about. Remind me to tell you sometime about the shit I went through in jail, because you'd probably really get off on it. Imagine someone who looks like me in jail, and figure it out. (7) You don't have to worry about me taking off, as long as I have my dope, and you have a TV and maybe a VCR. So does that answer your rules? Now get me the fucking ticket, Dennis, so we can be together. No offense.

Gregg

Dear Dennis,

You're going to be pissed off, but I have to change the plan a little. Just read this and you'll see why this has to happen, and why it'll be great for both of us. I fixed it so I could see those dealer guys after all, but they can't do it on Monday night, so I changed the bus ticket for a different day, and I'll call you from a pay phone near their place when I'm finished with the deal, because you shouldn't have to hassle with it anyway, and it's safer for both of us if I deal with it myself. So I'll call you, and don't be pissed off, okay?