House of Holes (10 page)

“Yeah, and since then I’ve only had three good comes,” said Zilka, “and they were all in my sleep. I used to come so big. I used to shout and kick, sometimes even fart if I was by myself and really bearing down. Now I can’t come at all. Nothing to rub against. I still think about sex a lot, though, and I still get incredibly turned on. It’s about as frustrating a situation as you can get.”

“So what are you going to do?” said Shandee.

“Well, a few months ago I was dancing at Carbon Fiber in Chicago, and this girl Cheyenne who’d also had her clit stolen at the same airport said she’d heard the Pearloiner had gotten in big trouble with the FBI, finally, for abuses of her authority, and that she’d gone AWOL and somehow managed to sneak over into the House of Holes, where she’d been making a nuisance of herself—stealing more clits, of course. So Cheyenne and I decided to track her, and that’s when I came here and met Lila, who said she’d help if she could. I worked the Penis Wash for a month—that was a kick. Now I’m a greeter.”

Shandee was moved. “We must help you get your clit back,” she said, socking her fist. “You can’t just have that pleasure stolen from you. You have rights!”

“Thanks,” said Zilka. “If you spot a woman with big hair and spike heels and a jar full of stolen clits, let me know. Precious baggage.”

They were still for a moment, listening to the clink of plates from other tables. The warm wind sang in the gorse.

“Thanks for telling me,” said Shandee.

“I guess it’s time for me to take you to the Penis Wash, eh?”

The Penis Wash happened in a concrete-floored room. Five recessed floor tracks emerged from five openings in one wall, their low archways covered by flaps of cloudy plastic. Men lay face up on massage tables that rolled slowly forward on the tracks. Drifts of foam moved on the shiny wet floor. A sound of clinking filled the air; the massage tables were being drawn forward by loops of chain under the floor. The soap smelled wonderful.

Each woman had a washing station, with several pedals to control the spray of water.

“The right pedal is soapy water, the left pedal is rinse water,” said Zilka. “Enjoy.” She left.

Shandee tested the sprayers and the pedals. The water was warm. A man emerged through the dangling plastic flaps and was slowly pulled toward where she stood. A preliminary curtainlike blast of warm prewash water drenched him, and as he reached Shandee’s station and came to a stop, he lay dripping, strapped to the table, his eyes closed. Shandee looked at the other women, who were all busily spraying their men. The speakers were playing something without words and with lots of twelve-string guitar. She cleared her throat.

The man opened his eyes and smiled at her. “Hi,” he said.

“Hello,” said Shandee. “Welcome to the House of Holes. I guess I’m supposed to spray you. Are you okay with that?”

“Yes,” he said. He closed his eyes again, and she sprayed him all over with soapy water and then began scrubbing down his chest with her orange sponge mittens. She reached his genitals and scrubbed his short, thick penis, which lay against his stomach, lengthening, and his balls, which were warm and heavy and loose. Then she scrubbed down his legs and back up to his balls again, trying to maintain a professional frown. She noticed as she straightened that his penis was no longer lying back, but was now pointing diagonally at a corner of the room.

She sprayed, rinsing it. And then, with a clink of dragger chains, the massage tables lurched into motion.

“Bye,” she said.

“Bye, thanks,” he said.

Another man emerged through the flaps. She washed his penis. Then another. Most of the men lay quite still. One tried to grope her, and she said, “Oh, stop it,” and sprayed water in his face.

More men to be washed. She was really starting to get into the rhythm of it. Just when she felt relaxed, Ruzty appeared. He was propped up on an elbow, looking around for her. When he came through the flaps he broke into a relieved beaming smile. He wasn’t quite so muscly as some—built more like a snowboarder than a bodybuilder—and he lay with one knee up. “I’m so lucky to see you,” he said.

“I’m lucky to see you. I thought about you yesterday. I did rude things to an orange.”

She gently put his knee down and washed his stomach. She washed his legs. She didn’t touch his cock, although it was the most beautiful cock she’d ever seen. It lay there.

“This is pleasant,” he said. “I’m lying here while a woman scrubs me.”

She scrubbed his calves and thighs.

“Uh, would you mind also washing my private places?” he said.

“Oh, I’d like to, but I’m afraid I can’t,” said Shandee.

He looked at her with eyebrows raised.

“If I start washing your private places,” Shandee explained, “I’ll get carried away and want to jerk you and watch you come, and you heard what Lila said—we’re not allowed to.”

He made a whimpering sound. “Just look at my cock. Look at how bad it needs you. Is it really true that you don’t mind that it curves?”

“Believe me, I don’t mind,” Shandee said. “Your cock is a revelation. Some have a hammer, and some have a sickle.” With this she pressed the spray pedal and drenched Ruzty’s body with warm soapy water. The cock still stood, hunched over, proud and pale and purple tipped. She sponged his forehead gently. “You poor thing,” she said. She hit the spray pedal again and drenched his balls with warm unsoapy water, watching them metamorphose. His mouth was open so she kissed it, and then she looked down at his cock again. She simply couldn’t stop staring at it.

“Just hold it for one second, will you, please?” he said. “I’m quite desperate.”

“Oh, okay,” she said. She held his cock in her orange sponge mittens. In a flash he grabbed a sprayer and sprayed her shirt.

“You!” she said. She looked down. The dark buttons of her nipples were visible through the white fabric.

“Watch what your nipples do to me,” he said, and he tightened his cock muscles so that his scythe squirmed and nodded like some strange plant.

“Whooo!” said Shandee.

“Take off the mittens and hold it, please, please!”

“I’m going to get in trouble, but okay.” She pulled off her sponge mittens and held her hands under the soapy water till they were slippery. Then she took hold of Ruzty’s cock, which was as hard as a summer squash. She splayed her fingers and moved them over his balls and then over his stomach. She could see his thigh muscles tighten. His cock was straining, and she had to stroke it. She took it in her hand and felt its thickness and its sense of certainty. It was like the Arch of St. Louis. It had one thing to say to the world: “I am a stiff swervie.” She slid her hand up to the tip—it was like sliding over a steering wheel—and slid it down again, enjoying the sheen of the soapy water on his cockknob.

“This is a big, beautiful dick you’ve got, Ruzty,” she whispered.

“Thank you,” he said. “You’re nice to say it.”

She began moving her hand slowly, then faster. “Ooh boy, I want this dick inside me,” she said, “I want to be fucked by this dick, I can’t help it, it’s so perfect. It’s literally THE perfect dick for me.”

She gave it a number of good quick pulls and then she noticed that Ruzty was quivering and trembling. Suddenly he said “Ohhhhhhrrrrr” in his beautiful accent, and several white glops spouted from the end.

Immediately there was a buzzer and a ringing. “Uh-oh,” said Shandee. She blew Ruzty a kiss.

“Bye-bye,” said Ruzty.

An assistant named Krock appeared and led Shandee away.

“Why in heaven’s name did you wank him off?” Krock asked.

“I didn’t mean to. He begged me, and I obliged him.”

“Did you take off your sponge gloves?”

Shandee nodded. “We had a rapport. I’m sorry.”

Krock reassured her. “I think it’ll be okay. Lila will give you your reassignment tomorrow.”

“Is there any chance that I’ll be able to see him again?”

“You never know,” said Krock. He gave her a sly look. “I’ll put in a good word for you.”

“Thanks.” Shandee shook her head wistfully. “I really wanted that cock of his so bad. God, I still do. I can’t stop thinking about it. I had to hold it. I’d give that cock everything.”

“I wish people said that about my cock,” said Krock, as they reached the lobby of Shandee’s hotel.

“I’m sure it’s nice,” said Shandee.

“Do you want to see it?”

“Um—” Shandee checked the wall clock. “No, thanks. Dave’s arm is going to be needing his meal.”

Rhumpa Unbuttons Her Shirt

R
humpa was her name, and, yes, she paid a visit to the House of Holes. The people she was staying with in New Haven were wealthy and under-read. Although they were middle-aged, their minds were very young and she couldn’t take them seriously. She saw a pepper grinder in the middle of the table, and while they talked about the price of tires she unscrewed the little knob on the top, and when it came off she lifted the wooden part off the central spindly thing and looked inside, where she could see in the shadows of peppercorns. She thought, The peppercorns are waiting to be ground up. They’re still round, like little dry planets, but not for long.

Rhumpa held the machine to her nose and smelled the distant sharpness of the pepper, which made her smile. And then the pepper grinder got bigger and she jumped down into it and fell through tumbling peppercorns, and she smelled a hundred dinner parties of the past.

Then she was herself again, but standing on the porch outside the House of Holes. She rang the buzzer. A man with a bag on his back answered. He introduced himself; his name was Daggett. He took her into a small room with a round wooden table and, referring to a clipboard, began asking her questions. He asked her to describe her ideal man.

“I like men who are intelligent and witty,” Rhumpa said. “Also kind to animals and interested in other people and able to hold a conversation of a reasonable length.”

Daggett frowned and looked at his clipboard. “It says here that you favor a man with a heavy, dark dick. It quotes you as saying, ‘Some nice things are just not possible with a small, pale dick.’ ”

“Where did you get that piece of information?” Rhumpa asked, outraged.

“During reassembly they do a spectrum analysis,” Daggett said. “They screen for diseases, of course, and comb through for lurid thoughts. What’s your ideal sexual encounter?”

“Oh, touching, kissing, caressing,” Rhumpa said, at a loss.

“It says here that you would favor having three Italian airplane pilots in uniform shoot their comeloads onto your belly while you cup your clitoris with a wooden spoon.”

“They don’t necessarily have to be Italian,” Rhumpa said. “And they can be race-car drivers if that’s easier.”

“Because of your interest in pilots, we thought you might be a good person to fly one of our pornsucker ships.”

Rhumpa asked what a pornsucker ship was, and he explained. “It’s an airplane that flies around sucking up bad porn from cities.”

“Why?”

“Because bad porn is bad porn—it’s depressing and drowns out good porn. We store it, letting objectionable content settle out. The less porn there is overall, the more likely people are to come to the House of Holes.”

“How sordid,” Rhumpa said. “I don’t want to spend time doing that.”

“Oh? It says here that you’d definitely like to steer an airplane with your crotch.”