Fourteen
My love life depends entirely on my
in-laws. Latching onto the musical instruction bandwagon, Grandma Darlene
decides to take Laura and her brother to the San Francisco Symphony (the
program features a cello concerto). Grandpa Richard tacks on a Sunday tour of
Alcatraz, which means a hotel stay Saturday night. The only remaining obstacle
is Jessie.
It’s
Wednesday night. We’re washing the dishes. Through everything, this is the
ritual that remains. But I’m nervous. It’s been a long time since I wanted
something this badly. The words are running through my head: Jess, would you mind if I went bowling
Saturday with Marty? He’s been pretty down after his divorce and…
“…I should just spend the
night.”
“Beg
pardon?” I say.
Jessie
looks at me with a touch of anxiety, as if she’s been caught at something. She
repeats her request.
“Helen?
Saturday night? She’s been awfully down since her Mom died, and I thought a
night of chick-flicks would be just the thing. And, since it’s all the way in
Hollister, I was figuring I should just spend the night.”
I’m
sure I’m looking overloaded, trying to keep all the expression from my face,
but I do manage a half-smile.
“Sure.”
She
leaves me to dry the silverware, walking away with a lift in her step. This has
to be the longest relationship Damon has ever managed.
Pisarro’s getting cryptic on me.
Her email reads, Map to my condo follows.
7 p.m. Walk right in (don’t knock). Report to the kitchen for instructions.
It’s
a new-looking building, three blocks uphill from the main strip of San Carlos.
The layout’s a little wacky. From the front gate, I have to walk downstairs,
then take an elevator three stories back up. I’m wandering the walkway, trying
to figure out the numbering system, when the next door takes an irrational leap
to Pisarro’s address.
I
do what I’m told and barge right in, a clean entryway of large white tiles and
black grouting. The tiles continue leftward into the kitchen, a modern
confabulation of blondewood cabinets and gunmetal appliances. At the right is a
tiled counter separating kitchen and dining room; this is where I find my
instructions, written on the back of a postcard from New Orleans.
Drink a half cup of coffee
(warming on coffeemaker behind you). I want your nerve endings open. Report to
mantelpiece for further instructions.
I take my
java to the living room, divided from the dining room by a stand-alone
fireplace. Note number two is on the back of a postcard from Milan, taped to a
long, barbecue-style lighter. I sit on the couch before a smoked-glass coffee
table (balanced on the back of a bronze female nude) and read the following:
Light the Duraflames in the
fireplace. Find the CD player and press play. Adjourn to my balcony, enjoy the
view, then enter the door to the right. Proceed to the number one. Do not
remove your clothes until you see red. Do not speak.
The
Duraflames start up easily. The CD player produces Pavarotti. I carry my coffee
to the balcony, which provides a stunning view: the downtown strip, the train
station, the downbending arch of the San Mateo Bridge, the East Bay a band of
rhinestones shimmering in the cold. I finish my coffee, Pavarotti telling his
poet’s life to Mimi on the garret floor. I toy with the idea of stopping right
here. My destiny lies on the far side of this door; how deliciously tantalizing
to leave it unopened, to leave it perfect. I’m fooling no one. I turn the knob;
I walk in.
I’m
expecting candlelight; I get a lamp, casting the room in sepia. On a large bed,
over a spread of gold and copper, lies a black form. The head-piece is a kind
of mesh, allowing breath, but the rest is thicker. I sit on the edge of the bed
and find that the bodysuit is spotted by numbered patches. I touch the fabric
and find that it’s velvet.
“We-ell…”
“Sh!” A
single, harsh spurt. She’s serious. I raise an apologetic hand, and proceed to
number one.
It’s a
six-inch square over her stomach, held at each corner by a knot of string. I pull
them loose and lift the fabric to reveal a field of light olive skin, marked by
a tangle of cubic snakes. A crossword! I notice a clear filament, tied to one
corner of the opening, trailing all the way off the bed. When I pull it, a
black pen peeks over the bedspread and crawls my way. It’s a permanent marker –
evidently, Dr. Pisarro wants this memento to last.
But what
of clues? I search the opening for more filaments, then I notice the patch of
fabric, its inner skin tattooed with words:
1.
Pepper __________
2.
Spanish explorer
3.
Prurient literature
4.
Cupid’s weapon
5.
Dependable
6.
Nibble
7.
Painting
I fill in Grinder,
Pisarro, erotica, arrow, reliable, bite and art, holding steady on my quivering canvas as she fights the tickles. I blow
my letters dry and proceed to number two.
Number two
is a half-sock on her left foot. I pull it off to liberate five pedicured
tootsies and a slip of paper reading Dresser. Upon said dresser I find five colors of nail polish, and set
carefully to my work. After ten minutes, Pisarro’s piggies are silver, bronze,
emerald, hot pink and metallic blue – a strange array if ever I saw one. I blow
them dry and run a finger down the middle of her sole. She squirms in protest.
I locate
number three on her right forearm, tugging a Velcro patch to reveal a strip of
skin, one inch by three, the mound of the flexor muscles descending toward the
elbow. No instructions. Being a student of patterns, however, I find a
rectangle of paper Scotch-taped to the inside of the patch. But not just paper
– sandpaper. Scrawled across the back are the words Draw blood.
Game or no
game, I’m going to need some confirmation. Then I feel Pisarro’s left hand,
patting my shoulder, and I know exactly what she wants. Playing soccer, I would
sometimes dive across bare soil, and small rocks would tear at my skin. Days
later, I would run my hand over the ant-size scabs, and feel an odd tingle of
pleasure.
I begin
slowly, not wanting to go any deeper than necessary. The paper draws white
scratch-lines, blushes of pink, then beads of red as the sand breaks through. I
wipe my thumb across the blood and lick it off. Pisarro shivers. I blow my work
dry, and move on.
Number
four is a prize, and Pisarro has treated it accordingly. The circle of felt over her left breast is secured by four
loops, threaded through eyelets on the surrounding fabric and held in place by
tiny combination locks. The back of each lock confesses its numbers on a strip
of white tape, but still it’s five minutes before I can unwrap my present, the
lovely mound and tan areola that triggered my lunacy four months ago.
So close
to the promised land, I am not about to break a rule, so I check the inside of
the patch to find the word Nightstand. Upon said
nightstand, I find a spatula and a small gift-wrapped canister. I open the lid,
dip my finger into its creamy white contents and lick off a dollop of vanilla
frosting.
Five
minutes later, I have completed the finest birthday cake in my 42 years, hiding
the final sliver of flesh with a painterly stroke. I see no reason to forgo my
pleasure any longer, so I lower my mouth with the intent of cleaning every
inch.
I am
taking my time, paying extra gratuities to Pisarro’s eraser-tip nipple, when
her stoicism begins to burst. She squirms against me and opens her legs to
reveal the number five. I tear away the Velcroed patch to unveil a carefully
shaved arrow of pubic hair, aimed at Pisarro’s butterfly-wing labia, beaded
with moisture. By this time she is bucking, and I am desperate for
instructions. The inside of the patch reads Shoebox, foot of bed, and I’m there in a flash. The box contains several phalluses and a
bottle of massage oil.
Pisarro
isn’t going to make it. I start with the handle of a paintbrush, then a tapered
candle, going slow, trying to back her off. Next is a peeled carrot, then a
zucchini. A dildo of clear plastic. She waves her arms in the air like a gospel
singer. I insert the anatomically detailed vibrating penis and her breath turns
into bird-like shrieks. She explodes. I hold her torso, watching her pelvis as
it describes arcs in the air.
I slide
next to her and hold on to her breast as she comes back down. I’ve known all
along that number six resides over Pisarro’s mouth. I take off the patch, and
receive my invitation with a delighted shiver. I back off the bed and shuck my
pants, cup my hand beneath the black, faceless head and lower my cock to
Pisarro’s red lips.
After three times, I’m feeling like a college kid, enjoying Pisarro’s
body as a whole, as we curl together before the dying Duraflames.
“The library.”
“Ye-es?” she says. She
nudges her butt into my groin.
“Got erections there
all the time in high school. All that beautiful forced silence. That’s what I
was thinking tonight when you shushed me, like some dominatrix librarian. Man!
I could smell the card catalog.”
“You must have been a
fun study partner.” She pulls my hand to her breast; I see the scratches on her
forearm, already clotting. “I didn’t really think I could pull this off,” she
says. “But how often do you get the chance to make a first time so memorable?”
I stretch upward to
Pisarro’s ear and whisper. “You’re an amazing creation.”
“Thank you,” she
replies. “And Mr. Grinder has earned his name.”
“So long,
Mary-Margaret.”
“Good-bye.”
Photo by MJV
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