Paramourn

Turning On Red-2

CRUSHED

Vashti returns and it’s obvious something is gnawing at her. She looks at her hands, looks at me, then gushes, “I think what I was trying to say before is that ever since two weeks ago I can’t get you out of my head. It’s like every time I turn around I hope you’ll be standing there. I even started getting here early at quarter of nine every day, and staying an extra fifteen minutes later.” She laughs nervously. “I guess I’m sounding like a total nerd.”

“No, not at all.”

“It’s just…back in school…I don’t know how to say this.”

“Back in school…?”

“I had the worst crush on you. Everybody did back then.”

My orange juice almost hits the cook in the face, I’m coughing so hard. Crush? Everybody?!

“Don’t look at me like that. If there was a list of the top three guys you would’ve been on it. I’m trying really hard not to say stuff like dream boat and heartthrob—okay, I really need to shut up now.”

Heartthrob! Dream boat!

There’s an awkward silence. Clearing my throat once or twice doesn’t help matters. “You’re kidding, right?”

“You remember that time in biology, when we were dissecting frogs?”

“Damn, I forgot about that. You made me do the cutting.”

“So I could stand next to you and watch. I kept inching closer and closer.”

“Is that how it happened? When I whacked you with my elbow?”

“Well, your elbow had been brushing against my…uh…chest first, but I guess you didn’t notice that part. I almost creamed my panties.”

Jesus! I was chopping frog guts and she was going for the big O! “For real?”

“For real. You could’ve ruled the school, could’ve been a big time pimp if you wanted.”

A freakin’ big time pimp even!

“And you just went around blowing it off. You were so cool about it that we all wanted you even more.”

“Cool or ignorant? I had no freakin’ idea!”

“Yeah, right!” She laughs and slaps at me. “You’re so bad, making fun of me.”

Something swells inside me, a Zeppelin called ego. It’s ballooning up, sucking in all the hot air the world has to offer. Our conversation moves on to less dangerous subjects, and for a while I’m able to forget this weirdness.

Then Laura takes a seat on my other side, all seriousness now, and says to Vashti, “Look, Ash. If you can share him with me I can share you with him.” After waiting a few seconds for a response, she adds, “So? Should we all go back to my place?”

Did I hear that? At age 30 is dementia already setting in?

They’re a couple!

No. No, that can’t be right. What are the chances? The n*****s of both women are erect—we have visual confirmation of oncoming threesome.

What is purported to be every man’s satori moment is more like looking up the ass of a dead dog with fleas at the foot of a tsunami. My eyes ping pong back and forth between Vashti and Laura, and I contemplate other parts of me ping ponging between them. Somehow this all seems wrong. Damn wrong.

Vashti’s face brightens. Her verdict comes in the form of a thumbs-up accompanied by a sultry wink.

And just what the hell happened to my wife, anyway? Craning my neck around doesn’t help locate her over in the other half of this place. Could be all this posturing is just to convince somebody, maybe myself, that I actually give a damn about my wife right now.

Laura looks at me expectantly and I tell her she’s bad. “You have no idea,” she jokes, downing the rest of my coffee.

I may have a rat loose in my brain, but that means at least I’ve got company. The way Dan Rather looked when we went to war with Afghanistan you could tell his rat had gotten loose, left him forever. It’s better to be host to all the trouble in the world than be an empty shell holding nothing. “f**k it. Let’s get outta here.”

FREAK ON, FREAK OFF

The way I pictured this threesome playing out was me penetrating them, not the other way around.

Vashti sighs. Stabs. “Come on, hold still. I’m almost done.”

“Well it just, I dunno, kinda hurts.”

My words get lost in the moment. “Laura?”

“I’m coming already!”

Vashti pokes the coldness around, trying to be as gentle with the metal tip as possible. “There’s no need to be snippy. I’m just saying is all.”

Laura appears in the doorway with a bottle. “Found this old hydrogen peroxide. Ought to do the trick.”

Another minuscule flake of rust falls into the plastic baggy. Inside me it felt like a boulder, like my head was Mt. Everest during an avalanche. “That all?”

“Pretty much.” Vashti takes the peroxide and finishes cleaning up the wound. How lucky is it that she’s a nurse?

“Aren’t you gonna kiss it and make it better?”

“Don’t be gross.” Her hand is a shock wave on my cheek. So she likes to play rough, huh? I knew Vashti was a perfect match for me. After slapping me she adds, “Remember. The hospital.”

“I know, I know, soon as we’re done.”

“Promise?”

“I already did.” Never had stitches before. Wonder what that’s like? Are they going to tighten up my scalp like a corset and compress my brain until it hemorrhages, my eyes until I tear uncontrollably, my sinuses until snot bursts out of my nose? Jesus, what a thing to have happen. A mess of mucus at any given time…it would be better, I guess, during a boardroom meeting than while eating, or—worse still—sleeping. My wife would find me in the morning suffocated by my own boogers.

Laura’s hand flickering in front of my face is accompanied by, “Hell-oooo?”

“Leave the man alone, he took a good one to the head.”

It’s true, and it’s kind of Laura’s fault. We were exiting Wolf’s Head when she got my attention with some corny joke. I look to her and WHAM the back of my head impacted with one of those iron pump things that keep doors from slamming. Ramming into the actual doorway itself is never as bad, because it strikes the top of your head, which is better equipped for crash landings.

But we’re here now. Laura’s house. Her walls are lined with urban abstract and avant expressionism. The furnishings could be described as minimalist. On her coffee table are What Color is the Hole in Your Parachute: Survivor II and Invisible Monsters II: The Faceless Boogaloo and Flight Club: Tender vs. Tyler and the director’s cut of Fight Club Cubed.

She leads me to her bedroom matter-of-factly. It isn’t the heat of passion, it’s acclimation to this new facet of our acquaintance. Showing me the bed is like showing me a bland piece of unwanted art down at the gallery. Taking off her shirt is like rolling down the window of her car. Nothing out of the ordinary. Aside from the bed there’s a mini entertainment center, a heap of used clothes in the corner, and a half-open closet. We turn to each other. Vashti enters behind us.

“So.”

“So.”

“So.”

Outside the window a large feral dog is having its way with something. Laura slaps Vashti on the ass and tells her to set the mood, so she pops in a video cassette. Sweaty porn squirms to life on the screen. You can tell it’s from the 80’s by the cheesy soundtrack, the teased hair of the c**k teasers, the fact that the c***s are actually trying to deliver memorized lines, the fact that it was shot on film not video. Vashti and Laura giggle, maybe because of the bad acting or maybe they’re nervous. I join in for the same reason(s).

We’re ten-year-olds again, watching our parents’ porn and embarrassed that we’re doing so with members of the opposite s*x present, worried that maybe Mom or Dad will get home early and catch us.

One woman, she’s got a brunette’s legs up and is banging her own breasts against the brunette’s crotch, proclaiming that—unlike a man—“I can f**k you with my t**s!” I swear to God.

My eyes wander to the real-world women on the bed, who insist they never tried that one before.

“Sorry Ash, but my nippies aren’t that long,” Laura giggles.

Nippies?

I join them on the bed and we bullshit for a while, occasionally stopping to critique the actors or laugh at the dialog. Mostly it feels innocent. Then Vashti gives me this look behind Laura’s back. She’s full of hunger and secrets, the look says, full of naughtiness, a dark, writhing thing unexpected from her.

She sucks at Laura’s neck, eyes on me, then slides her tongue down along the edge of the bra strap; Laura’s bra is green, boobs large but not excessive—unlike my wife, whose massive t**s have become strangers to me. It’s easy enough to force the blonde wife from my mind by watching this exotic show. Vashti’s brown skin on Laura’s creamy yellow makes an interesting contrast. On television two couples are gratifying each other. Next to me Laura stands so Vashti can slide her jeans off. The pink panties that come into view so totally don’t match her bra.

Vashti grabs Laura’s ass and says, “Feel that.” My hand encompasses the remaining cheek. Together we squeeze and pull and mash. “Nice, huh?”

“God damn.”

“She’s always had a nice, tight little fuckbunny ass.”

And here I thought Vashti was the sweet, quiet one.

She continues to probe Laura’s body, eliciting moans and shivers. Then her hand is swallowed by pink panty fabric. “Ooh. She’s primed and ready. You better start ravishing her.”

“Ravishing?”

Zulu men in full tribal regalia have surrounded our porno protagonists, heralded by crappy synthesizer action music. Outside Laura’s window, the dog’s ferocious growling reaches a crescendo. There may or may not be flies hovering near the pile of clothes.

Vashti situates herself on a chair in the corner. “You two go ahead. I’ll just watch.” This seems queer, but she works really hard to convince me it’s fine. Maybe this is how people normally do this type of thing? It wouldn’t be cool to come off like some kind of square. I stand to get undressed.

Laura is naked and grinning like an alligator. “Finally!” She throws herself at me, clings to my front, her teeth snagging my chest, my shirt, anything she can get between her lips. The warmth of her on me is a revelation, as is the heat of her groin grinding against my leg.

It takes all of three seconds to rip my clothes off.

She grabs me while my boxers slide past my feet. Out of balance we crash to the mattress, rolling back and forth and over, kissing lips and cheeks and noses and foreheads and throats. Her hot little porno bod is burning up.

Vashti speaks up. “Oh my Lord. You’re like a monster on top of her.”

I am.

“What have we here?” Laura’s fingernails slide over my c**k.

“Mr. Peeper’s ready to come out and play.” f**k—why did I have to say that of all things?

“Uh…Mr. Peeper?”

“Aw, that’s cute,” Vashti giggles.

Laura rolls onto her side. “Looks like Mr. Peeper’s in luck. There’s a vacancy at Motel Cunny.”

We’re eight-year-olds playing doctor again. But who cares about lingo? Mr. Peeper’s been on the road a while and needs to check in for some R & R.

My palm glides over the soft black sheen of her hair, which is faintly crunchy and slips from under my skin like dead leaves on a steep slope. My fingers slide over her cool thighs, enjoying the friction. Then I find the source of her excitement—my God, she’s like a busted faucet. In the back of my mind a corny old line replays: your pipes need work and I’m the plumber. My eyes can’t help moving, guilty-like, to Vashti in the corner. She makes a shooing motion with her hands, as would a mother with a reluctant child on the first day of school.