False Allegations

shoulder. 'What you just said?'

'No. That's not a lie at all, Bondi.'

She was still another minute, looking at me steadily. Then she started to roll her hips to the music, standing in place, the spike heels riveted to the carpet. She reached back and pulled the zipper halfway down as she turned. Her back was bare.

She did the whole routine, prancing in a tight circle. All she had under the dress was a black thong and the sheer stockings. She moved back so I could see all of her: a graceful swan's neck, small, rounded breasts with tiny nipples sitting high on her chest over a sharp–cut waist, slightly flaring hips, long smooth legs. A model's body with a stripper's curves. She worked it hard, a clear coat of sweat popping out to the soft–pounding music.

It was a real dance—she never left her feet until she dropped to her hands and knees. Then she crawled over to me, head up, purring like a tigress. When she got close enough, she pulled down my zipper as easily as she had her own.

The first time was quick. Hard and quick. She recycled faster than I did, but she was patient. Then we went slower, quieter.

I think I fell asleep then, but I wasn't under very deep.

A couple of hours later, she prodded me awake, her nose rubbing my chest. 'You don't… start things much, do you, honey?'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, we've…done it, a few times, right? Tonight and…before. When you first came here. And I still don't know what you like.'

'I told you—I like you.'

'I don't mean that, luv. I want you to like what we do, too.'

'I do.'

'But what do you like best, honey? I've got…toys and stuff. For fun. Stay here.'

She got off the bed and walked out of the room, swaying slightly. Not putting on a show—like she was getting her bearings. When she came back, she was wearing a white domino mask, a white leather riding crop in her hand.

'You want to try this?' she whispered, standing next to the bed. 'The Brits say they invented it, but some of us Aussie birds like a little touch–up too…sometimes.'

I reached over, took the riding crop from her hand. Tossed it over my body to the floor on the other side of the bed. 'Take off the mask,' I said, tugging her down beside me.

When she came around, her face was puffy. Slightly double–chinned, soft and round, with little jowls showing. Her lipstick was gone. Her eyes were slitted. She made a growling sound, like she didn't want me to wake her up. I took one of her tiny tight little nipples between my teeth, just holding it there. She locked her hands behind my head, holding it in place, made sweet noises.

Later, she cat–stretched from where she was lying on her back next to me in the big bed in her room. She leaned all the way forward and touched her toes, then turned herself over so she was on her stomach. 'Give us a rub, will you?' she purred.

She leaned into the back rub so hard I could feel every vertebrae on her spine. Then she nestled into me, arms around my lower legs. I thought she was going to sleep, but she slithered toward the front of the bed, then hooked a smooth hard thigh over me and sat up, straddling me. 'See? It pays to be nice to me,' she giggled over her shoulder, bouncing into another dance.

Still later, her head on my chest. I thought she was asleep until she said, 'I could have done that too, you know?'

'Done what?'

'The implants. Sybil makes more money than I did, just because of those things. They're way too big, you know. She's gonna have to have them cut out in a couple of years.'

'You look perfect the way you are,' I said. Thinking about Vyra, an old girlfriend of mine. Vyra with her thin, curveless body. And those enormous breasts that looked grafted on. The breasts were as real as Vyra's sadness about men only liking her for them. I wondered if Bondi would have liked no–implant, all–natural Vyra better than surgically enhanced Sybil. Somehow, I didn't think so.

'No I don't,' she said, her voice hard and resigned. 'Not for the club life. That's the first thing they look at, you know? 'Take off your top, girlie—let's have a look–see.' That's what they say. I can dance, you know. I mean, really dance.'

'I know.'

'But it doesn't matter, not a bit. They all want the giant boobs. The managers, I mean. Sometimes they strip us all down, like a bloody meat rack. And they'll tell you, right to your face: go get the work done. They all know doctors. Some of them, they'll even let you work it off, you know? Front the money for the implants.'

'And grease a little on the price.'

'Of course. All the dancers have to do it eventually…except the Oriental girls. They like them to be small, like little girls, even. I don't know what that's all about.'

'Yeah you do.'

'I guess I do. Maybe that's why Thailand's such hot stuff. Back home, they all take trips over there. I heard you can get real little girls in Bangkok.'

'Little boys too.'

'Ugh! I hate—'

'Me too,' I said, stroking the back of her neck with two fingers.'

She was quiet for a bit. Then: 'Burke?'

'What?'

'You're right, you know. What you said. It is a lie. I hate lies. That's why I—'

'I know.'

'You say that a lot, don't you, honey? 'I know.' But the way you say it, I almost believe you do.'

'I'm careful when I say it, Bondi. And it's true when I do.'

'Is Burke your first name? That's a Brit name, you know. Or maybe it's Irish…Is it your first name or your last?'

'It's both, actually.'

'Oh God, I heard about stuff like that. Your mother must have had some sense of humor.'

'Yeah, Mom loved her jokes all right,' I said. Thinking about the indifferently typed letters on my birth certificate, the one I'd had to commit a crime to see. In the institution they sent me to when I was a kid. I'd used a screwdriver on the file cabinets in back of the social worker's office. Looking for my father's name—one of the older kids said it would be there. My father's name turned out to be UNK. My mother hadn't even bothered to give me a name. The fucking State had done that: Baby Boy Burke.

Maybe it was something in my voice—she stayed quiet for a while after that. I listened to her breathing. It smoothed out and settled down, but she never flirted with REM.

'Burke?'

'What?'

'Can we tell each other the truth?'

'I can,' I lied, holding her closer.

'It's true,' she said softly. 'He's there. Across the street. Watching. At least, I think he is.'

'But…?'

'But it wasn't my girlfriend who told me. That he lets other people watch me, I mean.'

'Who was it?'

'A woman. A big, hard woman. Not fat, really. Just…muscular. Pushy, too. Like a bloody man, she was.'

'A lesbian, you mean?'

'No, silly. They're women too. This one wasn't like that. She came right to my door. Rang the bell. She said her name was Heather. Heather, huh! Some name for a creature like that, I tell you! She had orange eyes.