10.11.2002

Make Me Tonight

Yesterday I came home feeling good. I had the phrase, “That Evening Sun”, in my head as I walked from the Graham Ave subway with a spring in my step. “That Evening Sun” is a short story by Faulkner, one of the few things I was able to read and digest during my second, and longest, stay in the ward, back when I was twelve. Sometimes, when I'm feeling especially confident and/or elated, I get an image of a black woman bending under a fence with a basket full of laundry immaculately balanced on her head. It must be a residual from the drugs they fed me. Suffice to say, I felt good. The sky over Brooklyn was grey: long, low-lying shadows abounded. I took a picture of a plastic fork all by itself on the sidewalk, and then one of a small wooden pencil—the kind used to mark bowling scores and fill out racing sheets—also all by itself, on the freshly painted concrete base of the tire air pump at the Mobil station. The world was full of objects like these—things in and of themselves, composed and ready for an artist to discover them. Anxious questions about whether or not I was really that artist didn’t cross my mind.

I think my lightheartedness was a direct result of coming out of the closet about my hetero crush. I went home and ate a small bag of Pirate’s Booty and wiped my hands on the futon. Leaning back I considered taking a jog and got as far as taking off my pants, before I engaged in a full hour of furious, unrelenting masturbation. I kept bringing myself to the edge of coming and then bringing myself back down again. I wanted to make it last—I played the same fantasies over and over. Ridiculous office scenarios that got me insanely hot.

Maybe the three of us caught some weird breeder germ…my pussy aches so badly my entire abdomen feels clenched around an unbearable hollowness. Is this a sign that I’m ready to conceive—hence the dick dreams? Da horror! Da horror! Perhaps this is some kind of chemical aberration, comparable to a serotonin imbalance? Or is the old disposed witch of nature rearing up her ugly, metaphysical crown? “Thought you could forget about me, didn’t you, my dearies!!!” My boss has four kids, all boys. He oozes with virility—not the muscle bound kind, but the real deal—like the vibe you get when you know the cup of coffee being poured comes from a fresh brewed pot. I can’t explain it. It’s in his hands—in the just right amount of hair poking out from under his sleeve cuffs and the way that his neatly clipped (but not buffed) nails are naturally super-white. It’s in the way he slurps at his glass of water but never dribbles on his shirt. It’s in the fact that he has a slight gut but doesn’t feel the need to suck it in. It’s sexy, but I can’t explain it.

Perhaps I’m sick of always explaining. Everything has a neatly tied bow on it, even my most disgusting truths. This is something that doesn’t make any sense.

…Except that we’re two beings in the woods, smelling each other and liking what we smell. Simple fucking enough—maybe the most simple thing in the world. When he comes by to look at a problem we’re careful to give each other enough room to move around and type on the keyboard and reach for the mouse or the notebook or the pen or the volume on the speakers. We’re too careful. But then not careful enough because I swear there’s some kind of magnetic attraction, pulling us close and repulsing at the same time. I know he feels it as well. There are practically blue-white sparks in the air between us. And if we do touch—even the slightest brush—I jump, he jumps, both with alarm that’s barely perceptible, all covered up by the never-ending flow of idiot words spilling out of both of our mouths. Nervous chatter that I’ve only ever had before with supermodel types. Unbearably beautiful, otherworldly tall women, with miles of legs and alien bone structure. I talk my head off when I’m around them, anything to take the attention away from the fact that I exist. I feel if they were too concentrate on me for more than a second they’d laugh in my puny round face.

But this guy…he’s a guy…he wears work suitable trousers and doesn't swing his hips when he walks. And all I can think about is falling against him, and feeling him get hard. Right there, in the office, or in the elevator, stalled between floors just after the next disaster has struck.

He thinks I’m a sweet girl…that must be part of it. He doesn’t know who I really am. With someone like him I get the chance to go from sweet to debased all over again. Like a virgin, or close enough.