Flesh And Blood

No sign of the groom.

Beckwith cupped his hands into a megaphone. “Paging Dr. Deathray! Dr. Deathray to center stage, stat. Come on, Phil, show yourself, boy!”

Chants of “Phil, Phil, Phil, Phil…”

Then: “Here he is!”

Thunderous ovation as the crowd rippled and Phil Harnsberger, clutching a martini glass, was expelled from its midst and shoved next to Beckwith.

Balding and normally pallid, with a pink-red mustache demeaning his upper lip, the radiotherapist was flushed incandescent. His smile was a paranoid smear, and he seemed on the verge of tipping over. He had on a black T- shirt so grossly oversized that it skirted past the knees of his slacks. A yellow cartoon silk-screened across the front portrayed a hefty, leering bride gripping a leash that tethered a pint-sized groom prostrate before a hanging judge and looming scaffold. A bold legend protested: I Dint Kill No One, Yer Honor, So Why the Life Sentence?

Beckwith slapped Harnsberger on the back. Harnsberger flinched and tried to down some martini. Most of the liquid ended up on his chin, and he wiped himself with his sleeve.

“Sterile procedure!” someone shouted. “Call the fucking JCAH!”

“Fucking germ culture – stat!”

Beckwith slapped Harnsberger again. Harnsberger labored at smiling.

“Hey, Phil, hey, old guy – and I do mean old – speaking of which, it’s about time you lost your cherry!” Stooping, Beckwith pretended to search for something on the floor, examined Harnsberger’s cuffs, finally straightened and picked the olive out of Harnsberger’s martini. “Ah, here it is! Turned green from disuse!”

Whoops from the crowd. Harnsberger smiled but hung his head.

“Phil,” said Beckwith, “you may be pathetic, but know we love you, big guy.”

Silence.

“Terminador?” said Beckwith. “Do you know it?”

Harnsberger muttered, “Sure, Jim-”

“You know what?” said Beckwith.

“You love me.”

Beckwith backed away. “Not so fast, Lone Ranger!” To the crowd: “Don’t ask, don’t tell is okay for those fruits in the Navy, but maybe someone should inform the bride!”

Harnsberger flushed. Wild laughter. Beckwith closed back in on his target, going nose to nose. “Seriously, Phil, you’re sure you’re having a good time?”

“Oh, yes, absolutely-”

Beckwith reached around and delivered yet another backslap, hard enough to cause Harnsberger to drop the martini glass. Beckwith crushed the glass underfoot, ground the shards into the carpet. “Like the Jews say, mazel tav – happy batch-day, Phil. Sure hope you’re enjoying your last meal – er, last rites. Grub to your satisfaction?”

Harnsberger nodded.

“Get enough to drink?”

“Yes-”

“’Cause none of us want you pissed off and beaming that death ray of yours down at us, Philly.”

Shouts of agreement. Harnsberger simpered.

Beckwith said, “That’s also why none of us want to be around when you get the bill!”

Momentary panic in Harnsberger’s eyes. Beckwith slapped him again. “Scared you there, huh, boy? Nah, don’t get your co-jone-jones in an uproar, it’s all taken care of – lifted it out of patient funds.” Beckwith rubbed an index finger against a thumb and winked. “Sorry. No kidney transplants for Medi-Cal patients this month!”

Peals of merriment.

Beckwith took hold of Harnsberger’s arm. “And now, for the piece de resistance, Phil. Pieces. So to speak – Sure you’ve eaten enough?”

“I’m sure, Jim.”

“Well…” Beckwith grinned. “Maybe not.” He flourished an arm. Nothing happened for a moment; then the lights dimmed and music surged from behind the giant TV. Warp-speed disco beat, louder than the porn score.

The crowd parted, and two women in long black trench coats pranced into the clearing. As Beckwith slipped from view they positioned themselves on either side of Harnsberger.

Young women – tall, shapely, coltish, stepping high on spiked heels. Wide-smiling – tossing the smiles as if dispensing candy – they rotated their hips, thrust their pelvises, made the exaggerated moves of trained dancers. Long mass of coal black hair on one girl. Her partner’s coif was white-blond, boy-short, gel-spiked.

Synchronized butt shakes as they flanked Harnsberger, rubbed his neck, kissed his cheek, bumped his hips. A pair of tongues flicked the radiotherapist’s ears, now crimson. His face was polluted with arousal and fear.

The girls stomped and shouted, stroked their crotches, pretended to go for Harnsberger’s fly, threw back their heads and pantomimed openmouthed laughter, began shoving him gently between them – back and forth, the way baby jackals play with a rabbit.

The music took on even more speed. Off came the trench coats; the girls wore identical black leather bustiers, black thongs, garter belts, and fishnet stockings.

Several beats of bump and grind. I stared along with everyone else, caught a side view of busty profiles, heard the girls whoop and laugh as they continued to tease Harnsberger. The black-haired girl tickled his chin, veneered herself against him, ran her hands over his head, messed his hair. The blonde took hold of his face, kissed him long and hard on the mouth as he tried to wriggle away, hands flying wildly. Suddenly he succumbed to the kiss, getting into it. He was reaching for the blonde’s rear when she shoved him away, did an athletic squat, danced back up to him, shook her head from side to side, peeled back a bustier cup and flashed a nipple, let the leather flip back up.

The black-haired girl joined her for more crotch rubbing and prancing. Both bras teased down on cue, now shed and tossed to the crowd.

Full, young breasts bobbled and rotated. The girls pinched their nipples hard, bent low, dropped to perfect splits, bounced up, danced wildly, played with their G-strings.

Pointing at Harnsberger and moving in on him, but this time they guided him offstage and returned, just the two of them, holding hands. The G-strings popped, snapped back on firm, flat pubises.

A bit more genital hide-and-seek, then the black-haired girl got down on all fours, rotated her buttocks, pulled at the blonde’s ankle. The blonde stood there, shaking her head no, pouting, feigning resistance. Hoarse screams of encouragement from the choir. Everyone paying attention.

In a flash both girls were naked but for garter belts and fishnets. The music slowed to languid sludge in a too- sweet key, and they began caressing each other, vamping, stroking, kissing, tongues lizarding.

The black-haired girl sank to the carpet, lay on her back, arched her pelvis. The blonde shimmied between her partner’s legs, lowered to her knees, bowed her head prayerfully, grazed the dark girl’s abdomen with platinum spikes.

Tonguing the dark girl’s navel. The dark girl writhed.

The blond girl looked up, placed a finger on her lip, as if contemplating what to do next. A big-eyed travesty of innocence, holding out her hands as if seeking counsel from the crowd.

The crowd cheered her on.

She tilted her head back to the dark girl’s crotch, began to dip again, raised her face. Kneeling in place but not moving as the dark-haired girl, still bucking, took hold of her arm and urged her down.

The blond girl studied the audience. Took in the entire room.

Turning my way, giving me a full view of her face.

Long, oval face beneath the silvery spikes. Pale eyes under plucked brows, dominant but perfectly proportioned cleft chin.

Recognition was a splinter in my chest.