The Chosen

doubted that she was referring to his eloquence.

Mr. Buluski had prepared a glazed roast duckling, baby potatoes with bell peppers, and succulently steamed fresh asparagus stalks. The four of them then, as they dined, exchanged opinions upon such intense topics as the future of the Middle East, the difference in inflation rates during Republican and Democratic administrations, the ozone layer, and the possible psychological explanations for Michael Jackson’s addiction to plastic surgery. All the while, Zyra, who was not especially inhibited, felt distinctly embarrassed. Even psychopathic murderesses were not accustomed to dinnerside chats in the nude. This new insight into herself at least struck her as interesting. Events, however, became a trifle more interesting when Mrs. Buluski, large bare breasts bobbling, promptly stood up, remarked “Let me get out of these hot things,” kicked off her pepper-red high heels, placed her rather large derriere on the dining table, and began to masturbate with one of the larger stalks of asparagus. Mr. Buluski was then appropriate enough to comment: “You should see her when I serve corn on the cob.”

What a world, Zyra thought. There were all kinds, that was for sure. At least these two loose-screws were more diverting than the usual acquisitions; rednecks, prostitutes, runaways. Zyra had seen her share of bizarre things in her time, but she could never recall witnessing a portly woman with heart-shaped pubic hair masturbate with asparagus. No, she’d never seen such a thing in her life. Maybe I should try it someday, she considered.

Lemi wasted no time in sampling this new preparation for vegetables. Meanwhile, Mr. Buluski rose and suggested to Zyra, “My dear, shall we adjourn to my parlor of passion?’’

“Lead the way,” Zyra said.

He took her down the hall to a black-and-white art deco bedroom. Her body felt levitated when she lay back on the slogging waterbed. She looked down at herself from a ceiling mirror; it was fun watching this eccentric, reedy man do things to her. She thought of astral projection, of doppelgangers. Mrs. Buluski wasn’t kidding about her husband’s prowess of tongue—Zyra watched her own eyes thin lewdly in the mirror, vising his cheeks with her thighs. Her orgasms issued as a steady, tender pulse of waves. Mr. Buluski seemed delighted. Through a variety of positions, then, he eloquently muttered lines from some of the century’s greater poets: Stevens, Pound, Eliot, Seymour. Zyra’s next orgasms pulsed deeper and more precisely; she felt something in herself letting go.…

This realm of release wasn’t enough. Each abrupt, quivery climax left her groping for more.

It’s never enough, she thought through a sheen of sweat.

She sensed the approach of his own release, as one often wakes undetermined minutes before the alarm clock. He seemed surprised by her strength, and the vitality of her resolve when she pushed his bony body off of her, lay him back, and let his orgasm spurt warmly down her throat and into her stomach.

Then she said: “I have a surprise for you…”

And quite a surprise it was. Indeed, no, there was never enough, was there? That’s what made Zyra who she was. Mr. Buluski’s poetical quotes quickly changed over to high, wavering screams. He screamed long and hard through the delivery of her surprise. The screams provided a sweet icing for the finale of her desire, and she came yet again as she watched herself strangle Mr. Buluski in the overhead mirror.

Never enough, she pondered.

Mr. Buluski’s face turned dark blue above the ligature of the lamp cord. As more time went by, the face began to swell, much like a balloon. For a moment she feared it might pop.

She dragged him back out by the ankles.

“Have a good time?” Lemi asked.