Venus Envy (18 page)

“Having a lesbian friend doesn’t mean you’re gay. Come on.” The pump rang behind her. She withdrew the nozzle.

“Why
take the chance? Life pleases me right now. I had no choice but to dump you and Kenny.”

“Why is it so hard for you to tell the truth?” She gripped the nozzle until her knuckles were white.

He put his hand on her gas pump, leaning on it. “Frazier, people don’t deserve the truth. Look around you. Do you want to tell the truth to that bozo behind the counter in the store? His I.Q. hovers at his body temperature. Do you think the so-called average American thinks about anything else except his stomach and his dick? As for the American woman, she doesn’t think at all. If she did, there would have been riots during the
Hill-Thomas hearings. You girls are conditioned to be fucked over. It’s normal for you. Why, tell me why, you would want to share precious information about yourself, about your business, about the world with these disasters on legs?”

Frazier’s jaw clenched and unclenched. “Maybe I don’t think the average American is so stupid. Maybe I think Jefferson, Madison, Franklin, and Washington were right.”

“They were hardly average and every one of them was rich. Democracy, like most beguiling ideas, is impossible to practice. If you read the Bill of Rights to ten people, picked at random, off the streets of Richmond or San Francisco or Lincoln, Nebraska, for starters they’d tell you it was too radical. Secondly, the assholes wouldn’t even know it was the Bill of Rights. Shit, give them a Bill of Wrongs and Bill of Goods and keep the common man away from the voting booth. Tell them nothing. You had to go and shoot off your mouth or your pen. Damn, Fray, we could have enjoyed a fabulous life.”

“Lying?” She waved to the man in the store, indicating she’d be in soon.

“No, protecting our interests. Let me tell you how life works in America, honey. Michael Milken sits in prison. Bad. Right? Wrong? It’s not a high-security place so he doesn’t have to rub shoulders with the men who stink. He doesn’t have to worry if he bends over to pick up his soap in the shower. He has only to sit and wait because when he is released he will still have about a hundred and twenty-five million dollars and that’s after he settles the lawsuits. The savings-and-loan debacle is the theme song of the Republican Party and no one is batting an eye, Michael Milken least of all. Drexel Burnham Lambert, his former employers, will pay out about one-point-three billion on the lawsuits and the poor
dopes in the streets will pick up the tab on the S and L con. And you want to tell the truth? Michael Milken has shown the way, along with a host of others. While they’re cleaning out the till the administration is making august pronouncements about economic recovery. The truth will not set you free. The truth will not win you any admirers. The truth just gets in the way.”

“Guess I agree with you about the National Administration of Federal Neglect”—she sighed—“but not about the truth.”

“It’s not even Federal Neglect unless you’re black or poor or female or all of the above. This is about greed and they haven’t bothered to legalize it, which at least the Internal Revenue Service has done about its thievery. This is outright bold robbery with barely any punishment, and as long as that wonderful average American you seem to trust doesn’t fight back, those folks will keep stealing. Wake up, Frazier. Only fools tell the truth.”

“Billy, I can’t live and be that cynical.”

“Okay, forget the larger issue. Think about being gay. Half the women you meet will be nervous. The other half will also be nervous but secretly furious that you haven’t made a pass at them. You will be accused of doing things, all sexual, of course, that you never did. If you date a younger woman you will be accused of being an older, manipulating, seductive lesbian who preys on the young and innocent. If you date an older woman they’ll say you’re looking for a mother. If you date a woman you’re own age they’ll say it’s like being sisters and won’t last. You can’t win. The Born Agains, those wonderful people with fish on everything, will assault you at every possible convenience and guess what, other lesbians will accuse you of not being gay enough. No
respect. No support. No nothing. I don’t want that kind of life.”

“I don’t either but I’m not sorry I wrote those letters.”

“I am.” He glanced at the man in the store. “Look at that guy. He’s so ugly he’s a Dairy Queen.” That meant he fucked cows.

Frazier laughed. Billy was heartless yet funny in his cruelty. The fellow behind the counter would surely have difficulty attracting a female companion. “Billy, will you ever grow up?”

“The secret of youth is arrested development.” He grinned. “I know, you think I’m hard. I’m not. I see the world exactly as it is. Americans want an uncrucified Christ. In the meantime, they crucify anyone who shows the least bit of brilliance, the least bit of individuality. And, baby, that’s you. Even more than me, that’s you. How dare you be an independent woman? How dare you be rich? You’d better suffer.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “It would have been so perfect.”

“No, it wouldn’t.” She covered his hand with hers. “Because you didn’t love me. I don’t think I would have minded so much that you weren’t in love with me. Like you, Billy, I have always been suspicious of romantic love. It looks too much like a narcissism shared by two, but I would have liked to have been loved by you, loved for myself. So let’s part neutral. Don’t be angry at me, if you can help it. I’ll try to remember the good times and we had plenty of those.” She started for the cashier inside the store.

He reached out and pulled her back. “The higher emotions aren’t necessarily in my realm but I’ll try. I won’t be seeing much of you, for obvious reasons, so let me fill up your gas tank. One last present, okay?” Billy’s face, when he smiled, radiated such handsomeness.

“Okay.” A tear ran down Frazier’s cheek.

Billy pulled out a gas card. “I envy Christ. He was born before the credit card.” He walked to the store and waved with his back to her.

Frazier slid behind the wheel and drove away. She gave up fighting the tears. What the hell, no one could see her. She would miss him, miss his linguistic brilliance allied to total disenchantment, miss his take-charge attitude and I-can-do-anything outlook. She would miss the kisses even if they were Judas kisses. And she had to think about what he had said to her, because she lived in a country where her love was a felony.

How savage to be persecuted for what was best within you. Maybe Billy was by far the wiser person.

T
HE FIRST THING FRAZIER NOTICED WHEN SHE UNLOCKED THE
front door of the gallery was the smashed window-pane. When she found the rock, which she picked up with a piece of paper in case of fingerprints, she recoiled in disgust. Painted on the rock in red letters was the word
QUEER
. Well, that was one way for word to get out.

She placed the rock back where it had landed and then double-checked her inventory. Nothing was touched. However, Dionysus’s wine cup sat on the floor in front of the Olympian painting. Frazier rushed over to the painting. Again she declined to touch the cup. But there it was, a handsome golden goblet filled with wine. In the painting Dionysus now held sumptuous grapes in his hand.

Frazier shook her head, opening and closing her eyes as if to clear them. The cup shone; the wine beckoned, emitting an unearthly radiance.

She ran to the phone and called the police, and the next call she made was to security. She needed a better system. How could someone get into the gallery and put an extremely valuable gold cup on the floor without tripping the alarm?

This made no sense at all.

When Mandy arrived, Frazier, nearly the color of the gallery walls, grabbed her by the hand and pulled her into the interior room.

“Look!”

“At what?” Mandy glanced around. “That light won’t be in for a while. I ordered a dozen.”

“Goddam, son of a bitch, I can’t stand this!”

“Oh, Frazier, some people are real ass-wipes. It was probably a kid that threw the rock.”

“Not that. There was a gold goblet right here filled with wine.”

“You mean like the one in Dionysus’s hand?”

“Yes!”

Mandy pointed to the painting. The cup was poised in the right hand of the strangely handsome and disturbing god. “I don’t remember him smiling that broadly.”

Frazier trembled. She was losing her mind, or maybe someone wanted her to lose her mind.

“Boss, come on. You need to sit down. You’re more upset than you realize.”

“Mandy, it was right there and he had grapes in his hand instead of the cup, and the cup was filled with wine. I mean it and I don’t make things up.”

“I know you don’t.” Mandy soothed her and it was true. Frazier was straight as an arrow that way. “But let’s sit down, okay? And the police will never believe you, so we’d better concentrate on the rock. You know what I mean?”

Frazier knew exactly what she meant. They’d write
her off as a hysterical woman, an overimaginative artist or queer and aren’t all queers artists? Oh, shit, she didn’t know what to think. She whispered, “Mandy, I swear to you on the blood of Leonardo, the goblet was sitting in front of the painting, and the wine, well, it sparkled.”

“I believe you—thousands wouldn’t.”

Mandy’s ready humor and genuine support pulled a smile out of Frazier and she allowed herself to be led into her office.

“It was there.” Frazier clasped Mandy’s shoulder.

“Maybe you should consider leaving your subconscious to science.” Mandy slipped her arm around Frazier’s waist. “Something’s going on in there.” She tapped her finger to Frazier’s forehead.

“Don’t say that.” Frazier was frightened.

“You’re assuming it’s something bad. What if it’s something wonderful?”

“Well, what in the hell would you have done if you’d seen the damned thing?”

“Drained it dry.”

H
HONEY, RELAX.” SARAH SAXE’S LIP GLOSS GLOWED IN THE
dim light of a flickering candle. Her blouse, unbuttoned but still tucked into her jeans, revealed two good points about Sarah.

Carter leaned against the brass headboard of the bed, his cowboy boots dangling over the side of the down comforter. Whatever Carter’s other faults, dirtying the furniture wasn’t one of them. “I am relaxing.”

“Then why are you clenching your jaw?” She caressed his jawline, five o’clock shadow adding to his rugged appeal.

“Ah, nothing.” He ran his finger between her breasts, the skin, soft and sugary, distracting him.

“I can tell something’s nibbling at you. It helps me if I can talk about stuff. Go on. It will do you good, and me too. I hate to see you worried.”

Carter admired Sarah’s profile. “That goddam Aston-Martin
Volante will cost forty-five thousand dollars to fix. Billy wants it shipped to New York City in a goddam boxcar and the entire machine repainted, not just the front where I messed it up. He says the black metallic paint is impossible to match so the whole car has to be repainted. Son of a bitch. Yancey Weems’s damages are less expensive but he’s worse than Billy. That silly sack of shit told me I was acting out and needed to understand my hostilities. Said I needed therapy. Flaming carpetbagger.” Carter struck the pillow with his fist.

“Maybe therapy isn’t such a bad idea.”

“Not you too!” Carter started to shout but she put a finger over his mouth and then licked his lips and her finger.

“Sex therapy.”

He rolled his eyes in relief. “Yeehaw! I feel better already.” Then he tightened up again.

“Let me rub your shoulders.” Sarah had anticipated her evening with Carter the entire day and she wanted to enjoy his company. She never minded doing little things for Carter. The act of loving made her happy. Whether the object of her devotion was worthy or not wasn’t as important as the devotion itself.

“You know what else?” Carter sat up and swung his legs off the bed. “Some asshole threw a rock into my sister’s store. Painted ‘Queer’ on it.” He angrily pulled off one boot. “If I catch the creep I’ll tear his balls off—if he has any.” He nuzzled Sarah’s hand as she rubbed the top of his shoulders, kneading into the deltoids. “That feels good, baby.”

“I thought you were upset about Frazier’s being a dyke.”

“Upset is the wrong word.
Rejoicing
is the word. Finally I wasn’t the loser, you know? I mean, I can make fun of her and give her a hard time but no one else can.”

“Why don’t you take off your other boot?”

“Oh, yeah.” Carter pulled off the worn boot. It hit the floor with a thud.

Sarah reached around and massaged his pecs. She gently pulled him back onto the bed, propping him up on the pillows. Using her fingernails, she ran her hands between his pecs, finally resting her left hand over his crotch.

Carter considered this an excellent idea and he slid Sarah’s blouse from her shoulders. Deftly he flicked the right sleeve off her upper arm.

“What kind of girl do you think I am?” She unbuttoned his 501’s.

“The kind of girl I like.”

“I can see that.” Sarah unbuttoned the last little button, reached in and wrapped her fingers around an ever-swelling cock.

“Thank you, Jesus.” Carter closed his eyes while holding two perfect breasts in his hands.

Sarah, still in her jeans, vaulted onto Carter, rubbing him between her tight thighs.

They drove each other crazy until finally he couldn’t stand it anymore. He lifted her up, placed her on the bed, and yanked her jeans right off her smooth body.

That was act one. Carter and Sarah plunged into every available orifice. If their nostrils had been big enough they would have tried that too.

She loved to tease him, to keep him hard but not let him come. Carter possessed stamina. He needed it tonight.

After forty-five minutes of unfulfilled ecstasy, Sarah disappeared into the bathroom. When she reappeared all Carter could do was murmur, “Oh, my God.”

She wore black pigskin chaps with fringe, black cowboy boots, and a long black quirt hung around her
neck like an unclasped necklace. Rawhide thongs dangled from her left hand. The chaps framed her pocket of pleasure, a visual instruction that drove Carter nuts.