The Mammoth Book of Short Erotic Novels (52 page)

“God, you are fucking beautiful,” he said.

She cocked her head, shiny black hair swishing against her breasts. “You want my ass, my tits, my cunt?”

“God, yes, I want,” he murmured, “but how about a drink first? Or, better yet, a joint?”

“No drinks,” she said, “just fuck. No drugs, just fuck. You understand?”

“Right, I got it,” said Nicholas, more perplexed than ever.

So Sonny Valdez had sent him to a place where neither drugs nor alcohol were part of the picture. The very bizarreness of such a scenario made him uneasy.

Someone further along the row was requesting the girl’s services. She crawled past Nicholas, long hair sweeping the carpet, ass uptilted, the pierced lips of her vulva hanging meatily
between her legs.

As Nicholas looked after her longingly, he was aware of a hush and a collective intaking of breath on the part of the men around him. He turned toward the stage, where a voluptuous, big-hipped
blonde with enormous, low-swaying breasts had emerged from behind the curtains. She wore red leather, high-heeled boots that laced up the back of her thighs to below the knees. A black leather
thong that made a pretense of covering her crotch disappeared into the crack of her ass. She looked yielding and smotheringly soft, like loamy earth from which a man might not emerge without a
struggle. To Nicholas, who preferred his women firm and muscular, she would have merited no more than a glance, but the audience appeared entranced, almost mesmerized. As one, they murmured,
“Myriam.”

She undulated her lush body along the edge of the stage in rapt silence – no catcalls, no whistles, nobody rising to thrust a bill under the thong. Silence – tense, awestruck,
respectful – reigned.

She selected an overweight man from the third tier. Haltingly, as though the sex-steamy air must hurt his lungs, he lumbered onto the stage. Began to remove his clothes with trembling
fingers.

Nicholas watched, at once fascinated and repulsed. The guy was no sex-show stud, that was obvious. With agonizing self-consciousness, he undressed, then stood naked, hands flopping nervously
over a pendulous abdomen. To Nicholas, he looked pathetic and ridiculous. The woman ran her hands along his chest, arms, crotch. He didn’t move: nor did his dick, which peaked softly, shyly
from beneath the mound of belly. The only rigid thing about him was his spine, the vertebrae of which seemed to have been fused by pure panic.

Without further preliminaries, Myriam lay down on the mattress, legs spread, back arched. The fat man knelt ponderously over her, his body language and facial expression suggesting he was
placing his dick onto a guillotine. Even at this distance, Nicholas could see his hands were trembling, his dick so soft it might have been squeezed out of a toothpaste tube.

Nicholas squirmed, finding the guy’s public humiliation almost too painful to watch.

Myriam played with the man’s penis for a few minutes, using her hands and mouth: but, if anything, the exercise seemed less about an attempt at copulation than a graphic demonstration of
his utter inability to get an erection.

Finally, the two reversed positions, with Myriam guiding her partner down onto the mattress while she squatted above him. Slowly, with almost balletic grace, she removed the thong and lowered
herself so that her parted lips touched the crown of his penis where it rested slack against his enormous belly. The oiled muscles of her thighs and abdomen flexed powerfully. Six, twelve times in
eye-blink fast succession. Then, again. The fat man gave a little cry. Slowly, like a snake being charmed, his dick began to rise. From what Nicholas could see, it looked like the muscles of
Myriam’s pussy were tugging at it, lifting it erect, then sucking it inside her.

The fat man started to buck and moan. Soaked with sweat, he puffed and grunted. Tears rolled down his cheeks as his cock disappeared inside. She settled herself on his hips, shut her eyes, and
rested motionless. The man beneath her began to shake and sob. Finally, Myriam eased herself up and released his cock. It popped back against his belly, majestically erect.

The hush of the room erupted into cheers. Some of the masturbating men rushed to the stage and surrounded Myriam, anointed her with their semen. One came on her face, another spurted onto her
breasts; thickly clotted strings of it were in her hair and glistening on her thighs.

Amazed, but also disappointed, Nicholas turned to the scrawny, blemished-faced man next to him. “So
that’s
all she does, she cures impotence?” he said.

The man glared at him. “That’s what you think the guy’s problem was, a limp dick? He had stomach cancer. That’s what she was pulling out of him, the cancer.”

Afterward, Nicholas waited until Myriam emerged from a bathroom off the hall. Nothing glamorous now – she wore a baggy white shirt over black tights. Blonde hair clipped
back from her round face. Her only make-up a smudge of mascara and a dab of fuschia lipstick.

Nicholas blocked her way. “A man named Sonny Valdez claims you cured him of cancer.”

“Oh, does he?” Her cool green gaze washed over him. The scent of her, gardenia with undertones of musk, filled his head.

“I have AIDS,” Nicholas said. “Can you help me?”

“If you want it badly enough.”

“How much money?”

“How much is your life worth to you?”

“Two cents on a good day. Cut the crap, lady, how much do you want?”

“Nothing,” said Myriam. “If I heal you, then you make a gift to me. Whatever you think is fair.”

“That’s a funny way of doing business.

“This isn’t a business.”

“And I won’t do it in front of an audience. It has to be in private. Just you and me.”

She smiled. “A lot of people feel that way. But the sexual energy of others is important for the ceremony. It makes the healing faster. If you’re shy about –”

“I’m not shy,” said Nicholas. “But I’m not performing for a bunch of perverts, either. I already know what that feels like.”

“You know so much, then maybe you don’t need me.” With surprising strength, she put a hand on his chest and shoved past him.

Contrite and frightened, he went after her. “No, wait. I’m sorry. Please. I need your help.”

She glared at him a moment, then her features softened and she drew a long, slow breath. “Tomorrow night, then. Not here, though. Never in the same place twice. I hope you have a good
memory. I never write anything down.”

“It’s good enough,” said Nicholas, and she told him an address.

“Take your clothes off and lie down with me,” said Myriam. They were in a third floor efficiency of a squalid hotel off Dundas Street that catered to transients,
addicts, and hookers, who rented the rooms by the hour. It occupied a tiny nook between a take-away Chinese joint and moss-encrusted St Benedict’s Cathedral on the corner and, although
Nicholas had cruised this area a hundred times, he didn’t remember ever noticing the place before.

Now, awkwardly, as though he were stripping for some unpleasant physical exam, Nicholas undressed and crawled into bed next to Myriam. He laid a hand on her breast, but she only continued
staring at the ceiling, her expression meditative, pensive.

“Now what?” he said angrily.

“Do you believe in God, Nicholas?”

“No.”

“Do you believe that
I’m
God?”

“Of course not.”

“That
you’re
God?”

“What is this? Is this about getting it on or are we having a fucking prayer meeting?”

She turned onto her side, breasts lolling in great vanilla mounds. “You’re here because you believe – even a little bit – that I might have the power to cure you. That
isn’t rational, Nicholas. And clearly you’re a rational man, who doesn’t believe in God, who doesn’t expect miracles. So maybe you’re just here for one last good
fuck.” She traced a fingernail around his nipple, teasing it erect. “So what are you waiting for, Nicholas? Don’t you want to fuck me?”

“Damn right,” he said, affecting his old bravado from the past, but unconvincingly so. As her fingers played with the curls of his chest hair, fear did a counterpoint jig on his
spine.

“I told you what’s wrong with me,” he said. “You don’t want to use protection?”

Merriment danced in her green eyes, in the creases at the corners of her smile. “I already have protection, Nicholas.”

She pulled his face to hers, kissed him long and wetly. Tongue rimming the roof of his mouth, the tender edge of his gums. Licked his eyelids and throat, filled his ear with the heat of her
breath. Her meaty body felt heavy and powerful. Her smell enveloped him, old odors and fragrances, scents of passion and longing and loss. He wanted to fuck her and he wanted to weep, and the
juxtaposition of those two conflicting sensations brought up his anger, a sense of brute self-preservation.

He rolled her over, got on top and thrust her open. So she didn’t need protection from his disease? Fine: maybe she needed it from him. He rammed his way inside her. Their skin squeaked
together. He could hear the thumping of their bellies, the slurp and sputter of moist flesh.

But the instant that he entered her, he felt her grasp him almost to the point of pain, her inner muscles pulling him inside. Tugging his penis, but also something else – his essence, his
energy, his very Nicholas-ness – for which his dick seemed to be becoming the conduit. The sensation that he was in the process of ejaculating not just his infection, but his very soul,
galvanized all his energy into his thrusts. He fucked her desperately, with the savagery of a man trying to dig his way out of prison, and she was the passage to freedom, to hope. Carving her out
with his cock, widening her up until her cunt seemed to expand to suck in the whole world. She was wet and dark and hot, and somehow he was not only fucking her, but seeing her from inside as well
– she was a black galaxy pulsing with what seemed at first to be stars, but what he realized were sperm, countless millions of seething, glittering sperm aswarm in her hothouse interior.

The energy built toward an orgasm. Not yet, his ego protested. For some perverse reason, he wanted to impress this woman, this harlot, this hooker, this bitch, he wanted to fuck her like
she’d never been fucked. The excitement intensified, not just in his cock, but at the base of his spine. White energy that burned and blazed, stoking the fire that kept his cock hard as he
fucked her and fucked her and fucked . . .

Then suddenly, there was no one fucking her at all or getting fucked. Nicholas – the fiction of Nicholas – was drowning in Myriam’s depths. What remained was pure silence, a
crystalline nothingness marred only by the swelling of his own primitive terror.

The white radiance of sexual energy blazed like a fiery tree from the base of his spine. It consumed him, reduced him to ashes.

There was a swishing noise, like fabric rustling, and the sensation of light entering the room with a rush, but he didn’t dare open his eyes.

For a moment, it seemed every question was answered, every terror assuaged, every evil forgiven. There was no separation. Ecstasy thrilled through his body, his soul. His soul – for he
knew now that he had one, that it was his soul that was real, nothing else, not the Nicholas shell he’d accepted as his true self all these years.

He cried out as he came, opened his eyes, and then recoiled from the shock of what he saw – rows of naked men and women observing him in all his fear and vulnerability. He was no longer
fucking Myriam on a bed in that miserable hotel room, but back in the basement room where he’d first seen her, performing on stage before an audience of aroused and worshipful voyeurs.

Slowly the watchers filed up onto the stage and began the ritual Nicholas had seen the night before, only tonight it no longer disgusted him – their semen streamed into his mouth, his
hair, mingled with the come on his own cock, and he didn’t object, didn’t feel soiled or outraged or betrayed, but threw his head back, opened his mouth, and drank their spillage along
with Myriam.

“God,” he breathed, “what happened?”

And she smiled up at him exultantly, and said, “Yes. Exactly. God happened.”

The day after the experience with Myriam, Nicholas went to two different clinics and had his blood drawn. A week-long wait for the results at the first one, five days at the
other. He could have gone back to Detroit, but the idea never even occurred to him. As long as
she
was here, he would be, too.

Am I in love with her?
Nicholas thought
. Am I in thrall to her?

Not to Myriam herself, he decided, but to the experience she’d given him. For the first few hours after their lovemaking, the wondrous sensation had lingered. His reality shifted. He felt
whole, he felt one with all of Creation. Entranced by the feeling, the
knowing
, that he was not defined by his skin or his mind or his name, Nicholas, but that God Himself was playing
peekaboo, peering out from behind his eyes looking at God peering back from the eyes of everyone else. Love suffused him. He no longer hated Sonny Valdez, no longer regretted his past or longed for
some fantasy future. For the first time in his life, he felt happy and whole.

Then, gradually, the ecstasy faded and Nicholas became just Nicholas again – separate and lonely and flawed, but longing now to return to that place he had briefly visited.

He returned to the boarded-up storefront and banged his fist on the locked basement door. No one answered, and a passing policeman finally stopped by and shooed him away, thinking him tipsy, but
harmless. He went back the next night and slept on the stones by the door, but no one came. Nor the night after that or the next one.

Despondent and heartsick, he asked about Myriam, but the few people who admitted to knowing her said only that she moved around. Here a few days, then somewhere else.

On the fourth day of useless searching, furious and frustrated, he picked up a hooker and took her back to his room, where he tried to recreate the experience he was seeking. When that failed,
he found another young woman and did coke with her before they had sex. On coke, Nicholas could stay hard almost indefinitely. But nothing happened, except that both he and the girl were sore the
next morning.