The Mammoth Book of Short Erotic Novels (42 page)

“She’s a strange one,” Barry said.

“Well,” I said.

“Fucking her?”

“You could say that.”

“I had a feeling,” Barry said. “Well, fucking is a good thing. There are plenty of fuck opportunities around here.”

“She’s kinky,” I said.

Barry had this look on his face. “Really?”

I knew that look. “You didn’t fuck her, did you?” I asked.

“Well,” Barry said, drinking his beer. “Not exactly. Look. OK. This was last year. It was two a.m., the bar had closed, she was sitting in my car with me. We made out, she was
reaching down my pants. Then she stops and says, ‘I can’t.’ ‘You can’t?’ She said, ‘I can’t.’ And that was that. There’s always been this
strange tension between us since. So,” he asked, “how kinky is she?”

I told him.

“Wow,” Barry said. “Hey, it’s my birthday next week. Big party at my place. Do bring Alexia.”

“Don’t get any ideas.”

“
I
never have ideas.”

Alexia called the next day. “I guess you should know something about me.”

“You’re an alien?”

“Sometimes I think so,” she laughed. “No. I mean. I’m manic depressive, I mean.”

“Who isn’t?”

“I’m serious. I get into these bad funks sometimes. That’s why I haven’t gone to class.”

“It’s not me?” I asked.

“A little bit, I suppose,” she replied. “It’s mostly me. My screwed-up head. Do you want to come over?”

“Of course I do.”

“In maybe an hour? I need to straighten up a bit.”

“An hour,” I said.

An hour later, I was there.

I kissed her; it wasn’t a long one – she pulled back.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” I said.

She had the fridge stocked with beer, and we sat on the couch and had a few. The TV was on, no sound. It was an awkward moment again.

“I need someone,” she said. “I’m not sure if now is the right time.”

“I’m never sure,” I said. “I need someone, too. We all do, right? That’s what I’m told.”

“I’m twenty-eight and I feel like I haven’t done shit with my life. OK, OK, so I’m getting my Master’s, but so what? Me and a million people. I have all these
things in my head that I want to do. I want to write novels like you. I have novels in my head. I just don’t know how to write them. And movies. I have screenplays in my head, whole
movies.”

“Just sit down at your computer and write them,” I said.

“Easy for you to say. Maybe you can do that. I can’t. I tried, I mean I really tried. I can’t. And that’s what drives me crazy. That and a zillion other things. I really
do want to make movies. I have a camera. It’s hidden away: you haven’t seen it. I have a camera, I have ideas, I want to make movies. Write books. Compose songs. Maybe even act, you
know? So many things. But I’ll never do these things.”

“You don’t know that.”

“That’s what the little voice in my head says. The Devil on my shoulder. ‘Alexia, stop fooling yourself, you could never do those things.’ And my parents, they
don’t care – they think it’s all silly. ‘Alexia, an artist? How sweet.’ They don’t even think much about my getting an MA. ‘You already have a
Bachelor’s, Alexia, why waste your time further?’ They just want me to get married. Before I’m thirty. ‘You need to get married soon, you know,’ my mother says. You
know, you know – when I told my mother about you, when I said, ‘I met this great guy,’ she said, ‘Is he husband material?’ You know what I said?”

“
He
’
s a pervert
,
Mom!
”

“I’m the pervert. ‘No,’ I said, ‘he may be for someone else, Mother, but he’s not Jewish.’ ‘Not Jewish,’ my Mother said, ‘why are you
wasting your time. Alexia?’ And that’s just it, Nicky –
wasting time
. I’m always
wasting
time. I don’t mean you. I mean in general, my life in general
– I always feel like I’m wasting my time! I should be –
doing
something else, I think. I envy you, in your way, how you’re always spending your time writing this and
that. This is what makes me so depressed – I feel like I’m getting old and I’ve done nothing.”

“You’re not old.”

“I feel like it,” she said. “And yes, I need to get married, right? Find a nice Jewish man who’ll take care of me, and bear his fucking children for him. Lose my
virginity, keep my secret desires hidden, for surely he’ll be offended. And I won’t have to
work
. He’ll take
care
of me; I’ll stay home and raise the kids. OH
FUCK, NICKY, I DON’T WANT THAT KIND OF FUCKING LIFE! THAT’S NOT ME!! BUT WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?!? MY PARENTS EXPECT THIS OF ME! MY WHOLE FAMILY DOES!! ‘WHEN IS ALEXIA GOING TO GET
HER HEAD STRAIGHT AND MARRY AND START A FAMILY LIKE
NORMAL
PEOPLE DO???’ ”

I held her. She hit my chest with her fists . . . not hard.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said, wiping tears.

“It’s all right,” I said.

“It’s
not
all right. You didn’t come over for this.”

“No, no, it’s all right.”

“You came here to fuck. So let’s fuck.”

“You don’t seem in the right –”

“No,” she said, “I
want
to fuck.”

We went to the bed, took some of our clothes off, kissed a little. She wasn’t into it, I wasn’t into it.

We lay there.

“Barry McGinnis is having a birthday party next week,” I said.

“How old’s he going to be?”

“Forty-eight, I think,” I said.

“I thought he was fifty.”

“I’m not sure.”

“You know what,” she said.

“What?”

“I’m so pissed off at my whole family, everything, all of it,” she said. “Fuck my heritage, fuck tradition. I feel like losing my virginity. Do you want to do that? Fuck
my pussy? You can if you want.”

“I’d like that,” I said. “I never deflowered a virgin.”

She laughed. “That sounded so silly, ‘I never deflowered a virgin.’ ”

“It’s true.”

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re melodramatic, sometimes?”

“No.”

“You are,” she said. “Deflower on.”

I got on top of her.

“Wait,” Alexia said.

“What is it?”

“I can’t.”

“I have condoms in my car,” I said.

“It’s not that,” she said. “I’m scared all of a sudden,” she said. “I can’t.”

“Well,” I said, “OK.”

I rolled off her.

“Nicky, I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

“It was a wild moment in my head.”

“I know.”

“I’ll suck you off,” she said.

I woke up to the sound of shattering – something. Breaking. And cries. Alexia. She was cursing, and sobbing. In the kitchen. I went to her. There were broken plates and
glasses all over the floor; Alexia was naked, standing there, her feet bleeding. Her face streaked with tears. She just looked at me. She cried out, and broke the rest of the plates.

I went to her, cautious. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I need help,” she whispered.

I held onto her, and took her to the living room. She was trailing blood on the floor. I went to the bedroom, found her robe, brought it to her.

“My medicine,” she said.

“What medicine?”

“You need to call my brother,” she said. “It’s bad.”

“What? What?”

“Just call my brother, he’ll know what to do.”

She gave me a number, and I called. An office. I told the man on the other line I was a friend of Alexia’s – “She told me to call –”

“She’s at home?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I’ll be there.”

Half an hour later, a man in his early thirties showed up, in a suit. He looked a little like Alexia. Alexia was curled up on the couch. He went to her, and helped her up.

“Come, now,” he said. “Everything’s OK.”

I felt stupid standing there.

“It’s OK,” her brother told me. “It happens. I can handle it from here.”

And they left me there. Alexia and her brother departed in his car, and I was alone in her place, with broken plates and glasses and a bad energy lingering.

I tiptoed through the kitchen, like a mine field, and got myself a beer. I needed a beer. And another. She had vodka, and I had some of that. I waited. Weren’t they coming back? It was
night. I finished the vodka and beer and I was drunk and went to sleep. I dreamed Alexia’s ghost came to visit me. “
Hello
,
Nicky
,
I
’
m dead
.” I
woke, sweating. I went back to sleep. I kept thinking she’d come in any minute, and join me, and we could make love. In the morning, I was still alone. I took a shower, washed up. In the
bathroom cabinet, I found a large assortment of pills. I didn’t know what they were all for. I knew what Prozac was for.

I remembered her brother’s number and called it, told him who I was. “I was just wondering if she’s OK,” I said. “I’m worried.”

“Oh, she’s just fine,” her brother said. “I took her to the hospital.”

“The hospital?”

“Yes. It happens sometimes. They bandaged her feet. She’ll be okay. She’ll be out in a few days. She has her medication. You’re a friend of hers?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a nice friend.”

I locked her place up, and went home.

I went to Barry’s birthday party alone.

Barry’s party was well-attended – faculty from the school, students, writers, odd friends here and there. I drank, and I intended to get quite drunk. There were plenty of drugs going
around, mostly pot and speed and I heard somewhere that someone had acid, but I couldn’t find the acid. I think Barry was on acid – he was acting like it – and he’d done a
lot of speed as well.

This is where I connected with Hanna.

Hanna was in the same class with me as Alexia, plus another class, and I’d never really taken note of her. She had tattoos, punk-style short hair dyed red, green, and blue, and wore baggy
nondescript clothes. At the party, however, she wore a low-cut, short dress, showing a good portion of her milky white skin and assorted tats. Some time during the party, a good four hours into it,
we started talking, and when we weren’t talking, she was staring at me from across the party. She was pretty drunk (and on acid, I found out later) and I wondered what the sudden interest
was. Well, I didn’t care. I found myself sitting on the outside stairs and talking with her, and we got closer, mentioning how we liked each other, and then we were kissing.

“Oh,” she said, looking down. “Oh, I’m drunk.”

“Me, too.”

“Kiss me again, man.”

I did.

“This is funny,” I said. “I had no idea you liked me.”

“Neither did I. I just found out tonight. Maybe it’s the acid.”

“You have acid?”

“I took acid. You want to fuck me?”

“Yeah.”

“We need to find a place to fuck.”

We searched out and discovered Barry, who was swaying about, a beer in both hands.

“Barry,” I said, “we need a place to fuck.”

“Well,” Barry said, “you should use the guest room.”

We were all hanging onto each other, so we wouldn’t fall.

“Thanks,” Hanna said, and kissed Barry. He kissed her back. Then they were kissing quite passionately.

I smiled. “Maybe we should have a threesome.”

“Hey,” Barry said, “I’m there.”

“Really?” Hanna said. “God, Dr McGinnis, I’ve been wanting to fuck you for a long time.”

The three of us went to the guest room. It was dark, and we fell to the bed. Barry and I were all over Hanna, undressing her, kissing her, touching her. Hanna kept saying how much she wanted us
both. Barry sat up and said, “I can’t do this. What am I doing?”

“What?” Hanna said.

“If my wife walked in, she’d kill me,” he said. “I’m in enough trouble as it is.”

The last I saw his wife, she was lying in the grass, on acid, staring at the stars.

“Damn,” Hanna said.

“Some other time,” Barry said, and kissed her. He left.

“Come here and fuck me,” Hanna said, and I got on top of her. After a minute, she said, “Wait!”

“What is it?”

She got up and ran to the bathroom, closing the door. I listened, heard her throwing up. I left the bedroom and rejoined the party, which was starting to scatter at this point. Barry’s
wife was still on the grass and Barry was snorting a line of speed in the living room.

“Back so soon?” Barry asked.

“Hanna’s sick,” I said.

“Ah, ah,” he sniffed. “Well, really, look, Nicky, this threesome sounds like fun: we have to do it a different time.”

I suddenly realized I didn’t think sharing a woman with Barry, as much as I liked him, would be my thing.

I made myself a tequila tonic, and went outside. I sat on the stairs.

Hanna joined me. Her dress was back on. “Sorry ’bout that.”

“You OK?”

“I’m OK.”

“Sure?”

“It happens. I’ve puked before.”

“Can I have a kiss?”

“I puked.”

“That’s OK.”

We kissed. She didn’t taste like anything bad.

“The party seems to be ending,” I said.

“Parties end, you go home.”

“I’m too drunk to drive.”

“I can drive.”

“You’re on acid.”

“I’m coming down,” she said. “That puke sobered me up. I can drive, believe me. You want me to drive you home?”

“That’d be nice.”

We said our goodbyes, and got into her car, a small two-seater.

“You want to come home with me?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

She lived in the graduate housing section on campus, a studio apartment, really, which was packed with books, CDs, clothes, a water bed, and a Fender electric guitar – not to mention a
single goldfish in a bowl that, Hanna told me, had no name. It was around three in the morning when we got there.

“I feel so weird,” Hanna said, “and I feel so good.”

We lay on the waterbed, kissed and touched.

“Does my goldfish look weird to you?” she asked.

“Looks like a goldfish.”

“I think he may be getting sick,” she said. “I’ve had him all year.”

I remembered that it was almost the end of the school year – I’d entered the program in the spring semester. Summer was close. I hadn’t felt this since high school –
summer, no school, what to do? I wanted Hanna.