In Dark Corners (43 page)

It had been your favorite drink at Chula Vista. You didn't like milk or coffee, and the Kool-Aid was always too weak, watered down…You'd spent six years at the California Youth Authority facility south of San Diego, long, difficult years. Those first years often violent, spent defending yourself.

But you'd met Father John there, and he'd been more than just a Priest, kind of like a mentor, helping you learn to cope with many things, including the teasing and ridicule of the other boys because of your 'funny talk,' and the hair thing. Eventually he'd even managed to help you with your speech—taught you how to relax, breathe deeply, focus, and speak slowly. He stimulated your desire to read books, suggested titles, helped you begin your self-education. And even though you'd never directly mentioned the Voices to Father John, under his positive tutelage, they'd gone away. You hadn't heard either of the Angels whisper in over four years.

The bell jingles at the door, interrupting your reverie.

Someone slides onto the stool next to you.

For a moment you consider gulping down your drink and leaving. You have avoided most human contact, including even the most casual, since being released from CYA three months ago, especially eliminating any contact with the females at your job at the hospital. But you sneak a quick glance right and freeze.

She is wearing a bright yellow blouse with cutoff sleeves, exposing her shoulders, her underarms…and
reddish-blonde kinky hair
.

You can't tear your gaze away.

"What can I get you, lady?" the cook is asking.

You glance up at him, then quickly back to the woman.

She points at your glass. "Is that iced tea, he's drinking?" she asks, smiling at you.

You look at her more closely.

The bright clothes and hairdo—reddish brown and spiked real short—seem more appropriate for a younger person, and are at odds with her facial features, her makeup not quite hiding the crow's feet at the corners of her eyes or the faint lines radiating from the sides of her mouth when she smiles. But it is her eyes that really give her away. Even with the green shading and careful black lining, her brown eyes are dull and flat…as if they've seen too much.

She's really old, you finally decide, maybe even forty or so.

The cook nods, still wearing the same bored expression.

"Then, I'll have the same," she says, looking more closely at you. Her voice seems genuinely warm and friendly, making you feel better about her ancient eyes.

She takes a sip of her drink. "Hmmm, pretty good." Still facing you, she says, "Hot, ain't it?"

You nod, looking away shyly. You should leave. Just get up and go, now.

But you can't resist sneaking another glimpse at her exposed armpit and the untamed curly reddish hair that contrasts so dramatically with the manicured lighter spikes.

"I just got off at the Golden Pheasant Club, up the street," the woman continues in her friendly tone, adding, "a beverage server." She takes another sip of tea, before saying, "Elva, who's my best friend, she says that earlier it was almost a hunnerd outside in the shade, and she notices stuff like that. Course it was cool at work, air-conditioning and all. But we weren't too busy. God, must still be ninety outside, though. Weird this late at night. Doan you think?"

You nod your head again, saying nothing, just staring at your glass of tea, wondering about a cocktail waitress
not
shaving her underarms. Some kind of feminist thing, probably. There is lots of stuff like that in the magazines.

Then, she is actually making contact with your arm. "My name's Mary Ann," she says in a lower, confidential tone.

You feel a sense of panic, staring at her outstretched hand. But her position gives you a clear view of the hair in her armpit. You suck in a breath.

"I-I-I'm Sam," you say hoarsely, silently thanking Father John that you aren't completely paralyzed by the 'funny talk.' "W-work at the h-hospital laundry," you add, pointing back down the street in the direction of Sutter General. It comes out pretty well, everything considered, and you feel a slight surge of confidence.

Mary Ann shakes your right hand, grinning. And you even think you see a faint glimmer of life in her flat, dark eyes.

After the introduction, she leans real close, so close your nostrils are flared by the overpowering smell of her perfume, and she whispers, "I've got some sun tea at the apartment. Beats this stuff all to hell. Got a nice little fan, too. We could be more comfortable…you know?" She sits back straight on her stool, holding her glass of tea in her left hand, with her eyebrows lifted questioningly.

No, no, Sam Boy
, one of the old Voices suddenly whispers in your head. Of course you recognize the Light Angel, even after all this time.
Remember that other woman and all the trouble
…

But you ignore the Voice, unable to keep yourself from staring at the few strands of kinky hair barely exposed now; and you can't keep your mind from wondering about her secret hair. What does it look like? Is it reddish-brown, too? Thick or thin? Soft or coarse? Maybe even wiry, like her underarm?

The sense of alarm turns to excitement.

So, again you breathe deeply, and you nod your acceptance.

She reaches in her purse and leaves money for the teas. Then, boldly, she grasps your arm. "C'mon, Sammy."

You stand up, following her lead.

"Oh, my, you are a big boy," she says, smiling and winking suggestively. And though you've never heard the word spoken in your entire life, her
lascivious
stare makes you shudder, as if the bold gaze were capable of rendering you completely naked.

***

Mary Ann's third-story apartment, just down the street from The Red Impala, is hardly more than a bedroom, with adjoining bathroom and tiny kitchen. But she turns on the fan, and it complements a slight breeze blowing in the window. She pours you a glass of tea, as promised, turns out the light, "so it's cooler," and excuses herself to go to the bathroom.

You actually begin to relax slightly, thinking it might be all right. Maybe the Light Angel is wrong. Mary Ann's just lonely, not a bad person, interested in doing bad things. And you tell yourself convincingly that you are a good person too, with only right thoughts in your head…
except
for the erotic image of her underarm hair that lingers in your mind, like a festering sore.

Then, she is standing in place in the opened bathroom door, stark naked. You are unable to keep your gaze from sliding down to her crotch—

You gasp.

Her secret hair is dark red and bushy…and not just a tiny patch that can be covered with a hand, but thick and spreading out, growing along her inner thighs, and even a thin dark line up to her belly button.

You groan…

She moves across the room, reaches up and takes your face in her hands, at first kissing your lips wetly, then forcing her tongue between your teeth and into your mouth.

You are stiff with fear now because bad things are indeed happening, just like the Angel suggested.

"I'll bet you're
big
all over," Mary Ann says, her voice changed to a hard, husky whisper.

She tries to touch your stocking cap, but you manage to brush her hand away. So, she lets her hands slide down to your work shirt. She unbuttons it and strips it off. Then your pants. You are like a statue now, unable to resist. She kneels and pulls down your shorts—

"Ohhh!"

Her expression is a mix of surprise and shock, as she abruptly stands back up.

"No," she gasps loudly, still staring down at your hairless crotch, your limp member. "What, wha…" Mary Ann just shakes her head, staring at you for some explanation.

You are silent, paralyzed with fear and shame.

After a few moments she reaches up and peels off your stocking cap, exposing your bald head. Finally, in her regular voice, she says, "Who shaved all your hair, Samson?" She chuckles at her own cleverness, nodding.

You want to tell her that you haven't been shaved. That the hairless condition is something you were born with, a rare state called
alopecia
by the doctors. But you are completely tongue-tied now, unable to speak. Silent, naked, hairless, vulnerable—like the other time; and you hope the Dark Angel will
not
speak again this time.

Her hand reaches out and touches you down there, and you flinch, chilled by her cool fingers.

Then, Mary Ann begins to really laugh.

She laughs and points at your shriveled, limp member. "You are truly
weak
, aren't you, Samson?" And she laughs at her own cruel joke until tears stream down her cheeks.

By this time you have partially recovered from your paralyzed state and are struggling back into your clothes, even managing to pull your stocking cap into place, covering your baldness. And you try to shout over her laughter,
Not Samson, Samuel
. "N-N-N—" But it's no use. Even stamping your foot down solidly doesn't break the stammer. "N-N-N…"

Your exaggerated 'funny talk' and obvious anguish only make the woman laugh harder, until she's actually howling, like some kind of a crazed animal. Finally, unable to stand the mocking sound, you head for the door with your hands over your ears, pausing and glancing back over your shoulder. Even the sight of her remarkably thick red bush can't hold you in the tiny apartment; and you jerk open the door and run down the stairs, fleeing from her howling.

Bad woman, bad woman
.

Two blocks from the apartment, you slow to a walk, the woman's taunts left behind, lost in the street noise; but your heart thumps rapidly against your ribs, and you choke off a sob of frustration, your eyes moist with the tears of shame. At the same time you are thankful that the Dark Angel had not spoken.

***

The humiliating aspect of the encounter with Mary Ann is gradually pushed to the back of your mind with all the other affronts, almost forgotten. You tell yourself that you are grateful, that you were fortunate enough to escape before she could do something real bad. You try to lose yourself in your reading. But you cannot forget her marvelously luxuriant secret hair. You see it in your mind's eye several times a day, at your work on the big extractor at the laundry; you dream about it at night; and every time you pass a female on the street, you are unable to keep your gaze from dropping to her crotch, wondering curiously about her secret hair: its texture, color, and thickness; just knowing what is there underneath the flimsy dress or blue jeans makes your blood rush with excitement. You develop a permanent ache, an unfulfilled longing.

So as the days go by, what had been a fascination all these years turns to an obsession; and every night after work you roam the streets, searching for open windows, hoping to spot a woman unclothed, revealing her hidden hair. A small chance of success, as there are few ground floor apartments in your section of the city, even fewer with windows at the street level; and your efforts go unrewarded. In the end you are even picked up by a squad car, the questioning policemen eventually letting you go, but threatening to arrest you for prowling if they catch you again around any of the apartment buildings. Fortunately they weren't able to check and find out about Chula Vista—your records have been sealed.

***

You give up the random wandering around at night. But you decide to try something you've heard the men at work joking about.
T & A.
A burlesque club downtown, showing mostly X-rated film, but each night featuring one live exotic dancer.

***

You sit up front, right next to a ramp running perpendicular to the stage, splitting the theater in half. You are next to an older man, who gropes himself noisily whenever the couples on the screen engage in sex. You feel cramped, disgusted by the sleazy film and the man's behavior, but there are no nearby vacant seats. And you cannot just get up and go, not until the live performance. You are trapped. The films leave you unfulfilled, showing mostly bare breasts and behinds, and focusing on a number of sex acts. Dirty, filthy films. Bad, bad, bad. And only fleeting glimpses of secret hair.

Between movies, the old man wants to engage you in conversation, as if nothing has happened, as if he's just an everyday film buff.

"Hey, man, howja like that last one, huh?" he asks, elbowing you in the arm. "Didja see the lungs on that blonde…Man, could she give head?" He doesn't really care about an answer; he seems to be in a kind of trance-like state of perverted, sexual excitement, his gaze still locked on the gray screen.

Suddenly, the man in the worn tuxedo is back on stage with his microphone in hand. "And now, ladies and gents, the featured attraction of the evening," he is saying, as the drummer in the band pit in front of the stage does an exaggerated roll. "Here now, from Hong Kong, the exotic Dragon Lady."

The lights go out…and one big spot centers on a woman in a red gown, matching gloves and high-heeled shoes, with stunning Chinese features and beautiful shoulder-length shiny black hair.

She turns around slowly, her backless gown revealing a huge iridescent tattoo covering her entire back—the main body of a dragon, its lower half curling down across her partially bared buttocks then out of sight.

She begins to dance, her motion indeed serpent-like, graceful except for the occasional sudden gross bump made with her hips and pelvic area…

Your pulse picks up as she begins to take off clothing: her gloves, her earrings, her necklace, and then her shoes; finally she steps out of the red gown, but clutches the garment in her arms, covering her breasts…Slowly she lets the gown slip from her grasp to the floor.

She is completely undressed except for two tiny red dots covering the nipples of her breasts and a string that holds a larger red dot over her crotch. For tantalizing minutes she dances around the stage in this attire, making a number of exaggerated pelvic bumps. Then, after discarding the breast dots to cheers from the audience, she turns her back, the light shrinking to a small spotlight; and she steps from the stringed circle covering her crotch, the fully exposed dragon shimmering luminescently on her backside in the dimmed light.