Eve, and there were girls at this party, and I got drunk at this party, and I was talking to some of these girls who were also drunk, but, although I think I could have, I did not get into a situation where I may have spent the night with any of them, for at my place, my home, I was alone and always alone, it was my area of solitude, and I kept thinking that night: my God, I might be alone for the rest of my life. I guess Christmas- time can get to you like that. When I returned from the party, I expected a message on my answering machine, from my mother, but there was none. I went to bed. The room was spinning. I wondered why she had not called. I had a dream that night; yes, Kathy, I too can dream – I dreamt that my mother amp;father came to see me and they said we’re really disappointed in you, son; we know what you did and the price you had to pay and are paying even now. They said they were saddened by the horrible things I had done, the acts committed, the crimes realized. They said you should not have abandoned Beth and left her to the wolves. I protested, I defended my innocence like a man facing the guillotine. I said I hadn’t done anything, that I was merely a victim of circumstance; I was only acting on my fears amp;needs so how could I be held accountable for being human? I said I was fragile. That speeding car, her swiftness with a knife, that violent night on an alien lawn under a full moon of dismay, none of that was my goddamn fault! I woke up from this dream and for some reason I felt my parents were dead. But no no no, I told myself, it was a dream and everything was okay. I told myself that my mother would call; she’d call and I’d go over and I’d have a good dinner that Xmas. I could just smell that food. So I waited for the phone call. Maybe they did hate me for some reason, I thought; maybe there was some validity to that dream. So I phoned home; I broke down and phoned over there to find out why they had not phoned me. My mother answered; I felt relief. She was sick, she said she was sick. The flu. My father as well, she said. They were both sick, felt very bad. I asked aren’t you going to make that big Xmas dinner? because I was very hungry and she said no, she said they were both too sick to eat and they couldn’t even get out of bed. I did not confess that I was hungry. She said well, merry Christmas: it doesn’t really feel like Christmas, does it? I said no. You see, I didn’t have any money. After I got off the phone, I looked into the fridge for something to eat. I had a few hot dogs and an apple and an orange. I watched A Christmas Carol on the TV; bah humbug and all that usual stuff. I knew this food would not be enough but it was all I had. I never felt… well, I told myself that this would never happen again; I’d never allow myself to be this lonely again; to be that lonely. Then, I’d never have to be hungry. And I would never face the full moon with such antipathy.
Kathy mumbles, eyes closed, she mumbles Christmas… family… always the same… my sister… but I love her… and my father… no matter what.
Cynthia caresses both of Kathy’s legs and says you have nice limbs.
Kathy goes ummmmn, thank you.
Cynthia says they’re beautiful.
Kathy says do you like?
Cynthia says to me hey don’t you think she just has the sexiest legs?
I say huh? oh yeah: sexy.
My mind is still on the story.
I say her legs have always turned me on.
Cynthia says this is one thing that has always made an impression on me about you, Kathy: these legs. Lesjambes de vous if my French is correct. The shape; the muscles; the tan; wonderful, wonderful columns.
Kathy says that feels good, your hands there; your hands are smooth.
I say girl hands.
Cynthia says I like touching you, I like the way you feel.
Pause.
I say I see the two of you making love, it’s very clear in my mind; I see you both undressed, on a bed; maybe Kathy’s bed. You are touching her, Cynthia, as you are touching her now, only more so, and it is obvious that you care a great deal for each other; you could be deep in love. You are both kissing, passionately necking, and holding onto one another. You make love in this room, which is dark, the only light comes from the screen of the word processor, the words amp;sentences of the text flashing on you, your naked bodies. I am sitting in a corner, sitting in a chair, smoking a slow smoke, and watch; I watch your sex, lighting one cig after another. I do not join, for this is something between the two of you. In fact, I am not invited; I only watch.
Cynthia says I can see that, too; I can see it just as you describe; I can feel it; I can taste it. I want that, I want to make love… Kathy? Kathy… Kathy?
I say Kathy?
Cynthia says hey…
I ask is she asleep?
Cynthia says she’s asleep.
I say she’s dreaming now.
Cynthia says I have a story too and she looks at Kathy, still cuddling Kathy’s legs and she says well maybe she’ll hear in her sleep and have dreams about my story and she asks do you want to hear my story, Mike? I tell her that I do. Cynthia says I have been thinking of this story, this story of mine, and trying to figure out where it begins. Where it begins, I believe, is some years ago, three, no, four years ago, on my twenty-first birthday, I had just turned the big two one, the legal drinking age, the age I could get into bars. I didn’t know Kathy then, but I would soon, I would meet her at the school. I was going to college then, before I realized that I wasn’t made for academics and was doomed to the working world. But these girlfriends of mine, Nicole and n, they decided to take me out. They were already twenty-one. So they took me out to one of those places where exotic male dancers dance; you know, men with all those muscles and have all that oil on their hairless bodies and perfect tans and perfect teeth. I won’t get into the details other to say that I enjoyed myself; what woman would not? Wd been drinking, my friends amp;I, wd been drinking and smoking a few joints. I was pretty high, and when I came out of this bar where these good-looking men danced their dance, I was horny. I was really horny and mad that I didn’t have a boyfriend. I had a boyfriend not too long before that, and he was good in bed l admit, but he was a real jerk, a creep, and this is why I dumped him, I said later days to you, boy blue. Anyway, I was mad that my desire would go, on my twenty-first birthday, unquenched. Gretchen must have seen this on my face, she suggested maybe we could go to a bar I could pick up a hunk not unlike the hunks we had seen dancing and, in fact, maybe I coulve picked up one of the hunks who were hunk-dancing, and had some fun. (You see, it was announced in that club that it was my b-day and one came up and wiggled his naked ass at me and told me I could touch him, so I did, I reached into his g-string and felt his dick amp;balls but his dick, although warm, was limp because he was probably used to this all the time.) But I said no to Gretchen. I’m not, and never have been and nor will I ever be, the kind of girl who goes into a bar to pick up a dick. So – drunk, stoned, horny and alone, I went home. I was still living with my parents at the time. It was dark, everyone was asleep, and I went to bed. I got into my nightshirt, I went to bed and, well, masturbated. I had fantasies of those men. I fantasized (almost ashamed to tell you this but I will) I fantasized that they were all in my room, a dozen or so of them, and they were all naked amp;hard, standing in a line, each one taking his licentious turn, a good twenty minutes or so from each, on me, in me, just the sort of naughty birthday present that only exists in your subversive head-thoughts, and so thas how I satisfied myself, finger to clit, dreaming of being gang-banged by a bunch of muscle-bound men I did not know, unknown faces amp;cocks in the dark. I mention this episode because where it really started – you could call my night out with the girls the prologue to this tale – was the next morning, which was Sunday morning. I woke up and looked out my bedroom window and saw, in the backyard, a beautiful boy. My bedroom window looked onto the backyard and this young boy, wearing cut-off shorts only, was mowing the lawn. I know who it was: Daniel, the boy next-door. I used to baby-sit him, when he was just a kid. But looking at him, I saw that he was a kid no longer; no, this boy was no boy but on the edge of being a man. Perhaps he had been lifting weights, as boys his age start to, for he had the beginnings of a fine definition on his chest, stomach, and arms; but certainly not as much, as abundant, as those exotic dancers the night prior. He had a nice tan, too, and I remembered that Daniel made his spending money by mowing amp;tending lawns around the neighborhood. My fathes health was poor, and I don’t have brothers, so we hired Daniel to mow amp;tend the back amp;front yards each week. Paid like fifteen bucks, I think. I had seen him before, many times, but why was I now seeing him in this light? – I mean, why was I checking him out like meat? He was only thirteen. Yes, thirteen. I remembered
