PARADOXIA (7 page)

T
he beautiful reptilian creature began to puke, hanging her head between the twin beds. A violent retching produced copious explosions. An oatmeal consistency, brightly colored in every shade of curry, puddled on the hotel carpeting. I continued to spank her ass in rhythm with her expulsions. Too drunk to stop.

My male cohort, a drunken musician, was admonishing me for showing no respect for the sick. I snickered, “She's not sick, she's just too high …” as I continued to slap, pinch, bite her lushly plump ass cheeks. It was no worse than what he'd done to me on any number of occasions. We'd get together once every few weeks, consume enough Jack Daniel's to stimulate blind rage and fuck each other's brains out. It was fine by him when I was the object of distorted lust, but he couldn't bear paying witness to his own abuse employed on a third party. Maybe he was just pissed off over the fact that our lithe lesbian plaything had agreed to accompany us to our room, under the condition that she would not be penetrated. Anything else, to me, seemed fair game. He lost it when my hand was replaced by my belt, welting glorious patterns on her ripe buttocks. He rushed me, tackling me off the bed, both of us landing in the thick, stinky puddle whose still-steaming heat felt almost erotic. His huge frame, well padded with the remnants of baby fat and alcohol bloat, made it impossible to escape from the two-foot-wide prison I was wedged in between the two beds. He smothered my mouth with his massive hammy fist, smearing a small trail of her puke on my cheek. He whispered, slurring, “Lay off her. Pick on someone your own size.” He outweighed me by sixty pounds. I gently reached under him, deadlocking his porky cock and balls. Twisting. He was so drunk, he mistook it for foreplay. Covering my mouth with his stale cavity, deep-throating me with his pickled tongue. I sucked.

He stood up, hoisting me with him. He was one of the few men who could actually fuck with more mastery the more fucked-up he was. Straight, he was useless. Blind drunk, one of the best, awesomely powerful. With one hand he released the beast below his belt. With the other he ripped my flimsy panties off, the silky fabric scratching me tender. He grabbed me under both knees, lifting me high up in the air like a small toy. Slamming me down onto his prick, sticky from our little wrestling match. With brute strength exaggerated by the alcohol, he pummelled us into a mutual orgasm, throwing me down when he was done, onto one of the twin beds. Wagging his finger at me as he left the room, he instructed me not to fuck with her, she, who was still racked with dry heaves, spasming on the adjoining bed. I lied and promised I'd let her sleep it off. Throwing a glass or two at the door the second he walked out. Typical prick, couldn't stand to see his own tricks employed elsewhere.

I returned my attentions to the fine chubby ass still clenching and releasing itself in spastic rhythm. Beating at it now with my shoe. As if punishing her for the heroin/alcohol cocktail whose evil effects continued to rack her body. The spasms slowly subsided, rendering a rather fetching stupor. “Enough, please,” she managed to mutter, excusing herself to the bathroom. Dragging pale white feet over the trail of broken glass she was too stoned to feel. She would tomorrow, a memento of an evening when all other details were blurred. It's always easier to remember that which pains, especially when the physical scars sing testament to a blurry recollection.

* * *

I had often been accused of latent misogyny. Usually after misguided three-ways. The men involved, recognizing my masculine tendencies, were seemingly disturbed when forced to witness their own reflections. In truth, I did enjoy abusing women, but no more than I myself enjoyed being abused … One male friend went so far as to warn me of the possibility that one day I would actually murder another woman if I wasn't extremely careful—if I didn't watch out. He was fearful that my obscene fascination with Ted Bundy, Ricky Ramirez, and Richard Speck would worm its way into my psyche with the most disturbing of consequences. He reasoned that I was merely trying to kill the woman inside myself, that part of me that had borne the brunt of prolonged incest, whose unresolved pain had manifested itself in sadism, pedophilia, and nymphomania. That through sexual abuse and humiliation, I was merely reliving again and again my own torture. I insisted he drop his faulty Krafft-Ebing prognosis, that pleasure was always piqued by small dollops of pain, and I would never do to another woman what I wouldn't encourage done to myself. Besides, if I were to actually take the trouble to murder, there were far too many men much more deserving. Like himself. That killed the conversation. Again, horrified to see himself painted in the mirror in front of him.

Long walks sucking up every inch of the city. Stalking the vibrancy of certain blocks, whose lonely stoops I would haunt under night's shadow. 2nd Street between A and B. Delancey Street at Chrystie. Rivington. The West Side Highway. 37th Street in Hell's Kitchen. East 116th. 110th at Central Park, upper Broadway. Sneak into hallways, basements, onto the roof. Down the fire escapes. Eavesdrop through door frames on dinner conversations, drug deals, arguments, cooing, crying children. Decoding the building's history from overheard stories.

Fascinated by the frequency with which the atmosphere would alter. Every few feet, consumed by a different texture, taste, smell. An urgency. The city itself a vampire, a massive sucking vortex. Feeding on you, coaxed through its side streets. Another ghost in the machine. A whisper on the radar screen. An invisible star passing through a dead man's galaxy.

I
was introduced to Johnny by mutual friends. He was up for the weekend from St. Petersburg, Florida. Accompanied by his childhood sweetheart, a hot ditzy blonde who spoke in baby talk, dressed as kinderwhore, and drove me up the fucking wall. By the end of their two-day visit I had already engaged her in a brutal cat fight, which split her lip and blackened her eye, and fucked him in the bathroom of the same bar where the brawl took place, sealing my victory as I wrangled him away from her. Yeah, what a fucking prize he was. Full-blooded Irish iron worker, full-blown alcoholic with serious case of Brando damage, fueled by narcissistic rage. Played every scene as if the cameras were rolling, caught up in his Hollywood dreamscape. Which made it nearly impossible to focus your attention anywhere but in his direction. He put on more of a show than I did. Had to have him.

Johnny sent Jeanie packing back to Florida. Convinced we were the love story of the century, a classic couple in the Burton/Taylor tradition. He connived one of his St. Pete buddies to take us in for a few months, until he found work and we could sort out our own rat trap. Bunked with the gay antique dealer occupying the back bedroom so small only a fold-out cot and a thirteen-inch black-and-white TV had any breathing space. Spent nights at filthy old men's bars, hustling eight-ball for a deuce a pop. Scoring Seconals at the clinic on Second Avenue, we'd wash 'em down with cheap vodka, play a few games, pick up some chump change, and screw for hours waiting for the gray waves of static snow to appear on the screen in the corner of the room which lulled us into unfit sleep.

Eight-ball kept us full of alcohol and cigarettes, but we weren't making any leeway with the supposed rent we owed, nor the money we were trying to scramble up to find our own place. Johnny suggested I get up my own hustle, could make a lot more money for a lot less work, if I was willing to throw a little pussy down. Didn't tell him I was ahead of the game. Had a few regulars who I already milked with sex for dollars. He was too jealous. Okay if he thought of it, he'd go ballistic if he knew I'd already been there.

We had fifteen bucks left. Enough for a couple of sandwiches, small bottle of Smirnoff, and a pack of Marlboros. Hiked up to Midtown on the east side.

Stuck my thumb out. The fourth passing car pulled over. Sixty-some-year-old black man in a faded caddy. Lied and said Second and St. Marks, hoping to steer the conversation our way. Didn't take long till we settled on fifty bucks and a cheap motel in Jersey. The old man pulled out a few joints of decent Jamaican, which he lit on the other side of the Holland Tunnel. Went to a place he knew, tucked off the main drag, called The Rite Spot. Pity the fool that went there for shut-eye. Three out of the ten rooms vibrated with the vagrant sounds of someone else's nightmare. I was about to enter into my own. The pot and vodka took the edge off. Needed it to.

The dingy room smelled of Lysol and roach spray. A faint undercurrent of bathroom mildew mingled with disinfectant. At least the bed was clean, a lopsided queen-size complete with brown floral-patterned quilt which looked like a leftover from a Jersey garage sale. Johnny gravitated to the TV set. Nursing the vodka while fucking with the old black-and-white's antenna, trying to tune in an old episode of
Felix the Cat
. “Big John,” the john, settled himself in the center of the crumbling bed and with a wink motioned me over. I blessed him with the most innocent smile I could conjure, extending my open palm in his direction. He slipped the money in my hand, closing my fingers around the crumpled fifty. Gave my wrist a dainty kiss with thick lush lips the color of aubergines. Pulled me on top of thick girth which swelled with each breath like an over-inflated beach ball. Big hard belly to bounce against. Fat, dry fingers made rough with work grabbing handfuls of plump ass. Baritone voice whispering instructions, encouragements. Black eyes bloodshot, but full of spunk and sparkle.

I removed his shoes, slipping them beside the bed. Helped him out of his pants, folding them over the plastic chair near the window. Felt like he deserved a little pampering. Hard-working old man with an eighth-grade education, who raised himself up and out of the slums of Trenton, scrimping and saving with his wife of thirty-three years to open a dry cleaning business in Newark a few years back. Hard-luck story with a middle-income ending. Treated himself to a girl now and then 'cause the wife just couldn't keep up with him anymore. Arthritis. I could barely keep up. Pulled out every trick I knew. Sucked and fucked him till I was raw, worked his prick every way I could. Still wouldn't come. Big John was making sure he got his money's worth.

There were three minutes left on his hour. Johnny had turned away from the set and for the last twenty minutes was stroking himself off, watching me work on Big John. I was between his legs, ass stuck in the air, tonguing huge balls whose fragrant perfume of African Musk, baby powder, and Zest made me swoon. A dizzying aroma whose intoxicating aerosol filled the entire room with a unique bouquet. He smelled of perfect sex.

His huge paws encircled the purple head, twisting foreskin up and over. Then down and around, exposing a delicate pink under the prick's ridge. The black shaft, fat with excitement, being tortured mercilessly with a frenzied squeeze. Shiny sac lapped at, slurped on, sucked in, nearly swallowed until the low-belly moan of near orgasm grumbled, tumbling out from between clenched teeth. He exploded all over my face and hair, crying out for Jesus, Mercy, Mary, and Joseph, gluey white gruel which smelled of bleach, the beach. Johnny came too, pulling my face around to catch a second coating of sea-spray on lips and nose.

Big John gave us a ride back into the city. Gave me his card with the number from the dry cleaners on it. Told me to call when I was strapped for cash. We'd work something out. We made a date to meet the following Friday. I talked him into lending me a small advance. I found an apartment on East 12th, only seventy-five bucks a month. Needed a down payment. He peeled off a baker's dozen in twenties. Sweet trick.

The apartment was in a back building, its courtyard on either side of the entrance piled high with garbage. The result of fires on both sides of the six-story brick shithouse. Insurance arson. No one else saw fit to move into the dark brown cave, whose last tenant had committed suicide by electrocuting himself with the television set. His dead body lay rotting for days, his face turned into dog food by his only companion, a rabid German shepherd whose tongue at first tried to resuscitate before hunger and teeth took over. The spark from the TV had burned a small black hole in a paint-by-numbers African mambo scene. The dead stain on the floor left its ghostly mark even after two coats of fresh paint. Nothing could kill the smell of death which seemed to waft in at odd intervals. When the afternoon sun swelled, so did the smell. A Santería botanical on Avenue B recommended a small glass bottle, illustrated with crude skull and cross bones,
POISON
stamped in bloodred child's scrawl. The stooped old woman who ran the store assured me through broken English that yes, even the stench of death would magically disappear if I used three drops, three times a day, for three days. She was right. It was the only curative.

Johnny got his own gig hustling “dates” at a queer escort service that specialized in S/M. That lasted until he got a little too turned on by a submissive trick who thought he wanted to have the shit kicked out of him. Until he did. The trick threatened to press charges, but couldn't risk the exposure. Worked as a security guard at the courthouse. Couldn't stir up too much shit. Suffered through the fractured collar bone collecting sick leave and kept his fucking mouth shut. End of job. Johnny went back to hustling pool, petty thieving, and small-time blackmail. He'd pick up on octogenarian men or women, trick with 'em once or twice, and weasel enough information out of them to be bought off in bribes. We somehow managed to pay the bills, eat occasionally, stay constantly stoned on Seconals, and drink religiously. What else was there to do?

His violent sexuality landed me in the hospital on more than one occasion. We had been lying in bed quietly arguing about my girlfriend Connie. Johnny swore I wanted to fuck her, had fucked her. He could smell her on me. I told him to stop dreaming, he was far too romantic, to fuck off, and besides, what the fuck did it matter, what fucking business of HIS was it who I was or wasn't fucking? Oh, it was fine if I fucked geriatric black men to pay the rent, but I wasn't allowed to play with my girlfriends. To this he took great offense. Stabbed me once, casual as popping a beer can. Just reached over and stuck it in. I didn't even see it coming. Didn't even feel it go in. It wasn't till he pointed out to me that I was bleeding that I had a fucking clue. He had punched me in the left side of my belly, a closed fist lanced around a thin stiletto. Didn't even feel it. A stupid momentary rage bathed in pathos. Then he handed me the knife. Weak smile on twisted lips. I had my chance, could have laid him out right then and there. Could have gotten away with it. Self-defense. Domestic abuse. Crime of passion. Justifiable homicide. Involuntary manslaughter. Had my chance to taste his death. Let him live, fool.

I stuffed a pair of white cotton boxers into the small bloody hole three inches from my navel. Floral patterns blossomed in bright red. We got dressed and walked the twenty-odd blocks to Bellevue, fresh out of cab fare. Sad tin cans rattled a sick little ditty. The only song that broke the eerie still of predawn. I started to trail little tears of blood for blocks before we reached the emergency room. I wondered if thirsty sparrows would sup on my life force. Imagined dogs' bloody paw prints leading helter-skelter up Second Avenue. We picked up the pace, both of us still in a Seconal-induced stupor. The reason for our calm. After the storm.

The emergency room was dead empty. Unusual for Bellevue, a crumbling roach-infested throwback, part psychiatric prison, welfare hostel, VA stronghold. Hard to tell the patients from the doctors. All vacantly wandering the massive labyrinthine halls in manic drug-induced torpors. I had been there many times before. Visiting friends who had voluntarily checked themselves in to take advantage of the unlimited supply of mood-altering drugs, or to detox from mood-altering drugs. Or simply to be supervised before further hurting themselves or anyone else. At the time, whether it was city-run or not, you could always receive treatment at Bellevue, no matter how broke you were. Of course, the quality of the treatment was questionable at best. The last time I had been there, a mad Russian Jew claiming to be an M.D. had performed cryosurgery on me, cauterizing with nitrogen what he had assessed as precancerous cells growing on my most sensitive nerve centers. I still believe it was just a ploy to make me suffer for what he perceived as my terminal indiscretion. His scaly face leering as he hopscotched back and forth under the hose inserted into my body, grumpily exclaiming, “It's going to be much more painful if we are forced to operate,” his wet mouth twitching in glee as I writhed in agony.

I collapse at the front desk, clutching my belly. Cascades of wet red staining the yellowed linoleum. The head nurse rushes over trying to staunch the flow with snowy gauze. Takes one look at Johnny and decides to separate us, forcing him to wait in the visiting room while she ushers me into a dirty cubicle, littered with the bloody remains of a just-released casualty, victim of random gunplay. The doctor stumbles in unshaven, crusty, suffering from lack of sleep, caffeine jitters, and a pounding migraine. Inspecting the wound he questions how, why. I lie and say attempted robbery, hoping somebody else isn't in the lobby questioning my amour. After deep swabs to my bloody gash, he shoots the area with a local anesthetic and proceeds to stitch it closed. A quarter-inch more and my pancreas would have been punctured.

I ask for some painkillers, although strangely enough I still don't feel any pain. Seconals still coursing through my blood stream. I lie and tell him I'm allergic to codeine and Tylenol, hoping for something stronger. It works. The nurse escorts me back to the lobby where Johnny's being questioned by two men in blue. I hear him feign ignorance, claiming he just walked me over. I butt in and give the cops a standard lie, two black junkies looking for quick cash, didn't have any, so they stabbed me. They let it slide. All stabbings, shootings, attacks of random violence are subject to police scrutiny. Yeah, right, sixty-two seconds of questioning and the case is closed.