* * *
I’m having them meet me at my house. Better here than at Javier’s apartment. I’m nervous. It’s my first time being with two men. I don’t care who they are. I should have arranged to have this experience with strangers, but I don’t think I could do it. I know my limits. Even with these two, whom I’ve slept with already, it’s going to be tough. I’ll drink liquor and do some lines before they come. I have to act totally normal, in control: my money, my commands. Two men at my service. It’s going to be hard. The mind, already formed, keeps functioning, telling you what your identity is. Today I want to erase myself, not be me or another person—not be anybody, as if I’d never existed.
The doorbell rings right on time. I’ve gotten myself dolled up: dress, makeup, perfume. When they come in, they look at me, kiss my cheeks in greeting. Maybe I’m too stoned. Maybe I calculated wrong when I was trying to figure out the right quantities to put me in the mood. Maybe I got ahead of myself and it would have been better to do the coke with them, as a team, all together.
Today’s arrangement didn’t include dinner, so I’ve just prepared some snacks. Javier looks awful: upset, agitated, pale. He’s going to have a terrible time. I should send him away and just be with Iván. Iván’s a bastard without scruples, morals, or fear. He knows his life is shit, but he doesn’t aspire to anything better. If I’d hooked up with him instead of Javier, we wouldn’t have made it two weeks. He doesn’t have the patience it takes to deal with me. Javier does—he wants a better life, so he’s prostrated himself, agreed to anything I wanted. He’s a sheep.
We spend a while drinking and chatting idly. I quickly start feeling drunk. Inevitably, Iván’s the one who initiates the action. He looks at Javier, and Javier looks at me. Iván gets up from his chair and takes off his shirt; his torso is as slim as in a crucifixion icon. Then his pants, his underwear. He’s naked. Javier and I look at him, but he goes straight for his target: he pulls me to my feet, removes my sweater, unfastens my bra, sucks hard on each of my nipples, making me shiver. He pulls down my panties and starts tonguing my genitals. I feel my legs wobbling. Suddenly Iván kicks Javier.
“Wake up, man!” he mutters.
Javier gets undressed and comes over to me. He grabs my shoulders from behind with both hands. I feel his hot mouth along my neck, while the other man is still between my thighs. I fall, literally fall on the sofa, my legs weak. I hear them whispering. One of them grabs my arms, the other my feet, and they carry me to the bedroom. They lay me down on the bed. I let them. I have no will of my own. Then the assault begins. Mouths suck me. The tip of a penis trails up and down my spine. They penetrate me. They thrust in and out, they lick me. I don’t know what part of my body is boiling; I feel something like a river of hot lava flowing from between my legs. I can’t stop, I don’t want to stop. I forget who I am. I’m facing a powerful monster, a monster with a thousand limbs. It’s impossible to fight it.
I’ve come so many times, I end up as limp as a wet rag, unable to move. I don’t hear anything, don’t open my eyes. I remain curled up in a fetal position. I think I fall asleep, but I’m not sure. I hear them murmuring, very far away.
I’m thirsty, really thirsty, and I wake up searching for water in the darkness. I think I’m alone, but I’m not. The light in the hall comes on, and I see Javier go out, naked. He comes back with a glass of water. He helps me sit up; I drink.
“Are you OK?” he asks.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“Iván left.”
Unfortunately, he stayed. What I need is to be alone in my house, resting, reliving the experience I’ve just had.
“Wouldn’t it be better for you to come back tomorrow, Javier?”
“It’s very late. Can’t I stay and sleep with you?”
“I’m worn out.”
“I thought we could wear you out a little more.”
He comes nearer, starts caressing me between my legs, kisses me. He’s like a dog: he needs to mark his territory, eliminate the traces left by the previous dog, reclaim his property. I cover myself up with the sheet.
“No, please.”
“Sweetheart . . . ”
“Leave me alone, Javier, I’m begging you.”
“All right, don’t worry. I’ll just take up a corner of the bed; you won’t even know I’m here.”
“I’m asking you to leave me alone, to go home. I’ll call you.”
“But Irene, if we’re going to start a new life, why do you care if I sleep here? I won’t bother you, and in the morning when you wake up, I’ll be here.”
I got up, went to the living room, and opened the box where I keep a duplicate set of house keys. I grabbed them and stuck them in the pocket of his jeans, which were lying on the floor. I looked up to find he’d followed me and was watching me in disbelief.
“See? You have the keys to my house now. Happy? You can come over tomorrow and have breakfast—you can even take out yesterday’s trash. Do you feel more fulfilled now that you’ve started your new life? Now please leave.”
“I don’t understand your attitude, Irene. We talked about this.”
I see her in the half-light, naked. Her hair is tousled, the makeup around her eyes smeared. I see the expression on her face, and it’s rage that she seems to feel, overpowering, unbridled rage.
“We talked about what, Javier?” she yells. “It’s no use talking to you. You don’t understand, you don’t listen, you just stick with the bullshit in your head. You don’t care about other people—you set up a parallel reality and live there, happy as a clam. You don’t even see yourself! That’s how you’re able to be so ridiculous.”
“Where is this coming from, Irene? Is something bothering you, something I’ve said or done . . . ?”
“You, you bother me! Always making plans for new lives, always trying to redeem me like a missionary! Don’t you remember who you are, what you do for a living, how we met, what we just did with your buddy?”
I honestly didn’t know how to process what I was hearing. I decided the most important thing was to remain calm. Irene was angry. After our three-way, the intense pleasure, she was now feeling guilt, shame, all the sensations she thought she’d left behind.
“You know what I think, Irene? I think we should have some tea and calm down a little. And maybe it’s better if I don’t sleep here tonight. I’ll go home.”
I expect her to unleash more abuse, but she doesn’t. She opens the wardrobe and puts on a robe. She goes to the kitchen, and I follow. I see her put water on to boil and prepare the teapot. Great, the storm is over, the clouds are clearing. I go to get dressed—having her see me naked will only make things more complicated. When I return, she’s sitting there at the kitchen table. Wrapped in her robe, with her hair tousled and a steaming mug in her hands, she looks like a housewife who’s recently gotten out of bed. I smile at her. I stand in front of her, where my tea is waiting for me.
“Feeling better?” I venture to ask.
She doesn’t respond. She looks at me, expressionless, but she seems to have exorcised all her demons, to be at peace.
“Look, Irene, I think these kinds of sexual experiences are always a bit traumatizing. It’s left a sour taste in my mouth too. In the heat of sexual passion everything’s fine, but afterward . . . ”
She interrupts me with a chuckle. I don’t know what to make of it. She keeps wordlessly drinking her tea. Her expression has gone blank again. I feel a vague twinge of fear. I finish my tea in a hasty gulp. I get up and give her a kiss on the forehead. As I head for the door, I say, “I’ll call you tomorrow. If you want to see me before that, call me any time.”
Before I cross the threshold, I hear her voice: “Javier!” I turn around and see her enigmatic smile.
“They didn’t choose you for the job.”
I have a hard time understanding what her words mean, but it
finally clicks.
“How long have you known?” I ask.
“Don’t you want to know why they didn’t choose you?”
“Go ahead, tell me.”
“My friend called—you didn’t have the right profile, which is a nice way of saying you didn’t measure up. I asked why not, and he answered, very contrite, ‘What’s the firm going to do with a high school teacher, Irene?’”
“How long have you known?”
“Since yesterday. I didn’t want to ruin our fun.”
Now what I see on her face is a smile of simple mockery, pure spite. I snatch up the sugar bowl from the table. It’s metallic and solid, weighs a lot. I go up to her and hit her on the temple with the dense, heavy object. Sugar flies everywhere. She doesn’t cry out, doesn’t try to defend herself. Her face crumples and her body slides off the chair onto the floor. I crouch down and keep hitting her in the same place, harder and harder, with increasing intensity. I’m not nervous or upset. I’m calm. I hear her skull crunching, her temple is swollen, blood is trickling from her ear, her eyes are rolled back. The smell of blood makes me stop. I start shaking uncontrollably from head to foot, especially my hands. Standing up, I suddenly feel unable to move. Just like in nightmares, I’m nailed to the floor and my legs refuse to obey me. I take a number of deep breaths, shake my head, and start running.
* * *
Holy hell, where am I, who am I, and all that jazz. I look at my cell phone, which is charging on the nightstand. 5 A.M. 5 A.M. and the teacher is calling. It hasn’t even been two hours since I went to bed, three hours since I left him—what the hell does Javier want? I decline the call, but then the doorbell starts ringing and the telephone again too. I go to the intercom.
“Please open up, it’s Javier!”
“Shit, man, it’s 5 A.M., I’m zonked. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Please open the door!”
The tone of his request worries me. I open the door, and he gallops in like a runaway horse. I’m alarmed—I’ve never seen the teacher so nervous, so out of sorts. He’s as white as a goddamn wall and panting like a tired dog. I could tell things were fucked up, so I started up my good-dad act and invited him inside.
“Oh my god, oh my god!”
“All right, man, calm down. Come in and have a seat. Do you want a drink?”
But he was in no mood for calming down; his hands were shaking.
“I killed her!” he blurts out.
“What the hell do you mean?”
He dropped onto the sofa like a bale of hay and covered his face with his hands. He sobbed like a child, but he didn’t answer me, the bastard. I started to get pretty anxious too, so I said to myself, “Calm down, Iván.” I thought about the icy-cold waterfall tumbling onto my wrists. What does “I killed her” mean? Knowing the teacher, it could be anything. For example, maybe the chick said something rude, he roughed her up a little, and that seems to him like the ultimate aggression. He feels like he’s practically left her half dead, but she’s maybe just a bit bruised.
“How did you kill her, Javier? Tell me what happened.”
“With a heavy metal thing—I hit her on the head over and over again. Blood was running out of her ear.”
“Holy shit!”
Holy fucking shit! The dude really offed her! If what he’s saying is true, he offed her, damn it. The quiet ones are like that—when their rage finally spills out, they turn into real monsters.
“Where did it happen, at her house?”
“In her kitchen.”
“And you left her there? You shut the apartment door and left her there?”
He weeps and keeps weeping, without answering, but it seems like he’s nodding. Jesus H. Christ! Suddenly I realize I’m in my pajamas, the ones with Donald Duck on them. It feels inappropriate. I go to my room to change and think about what the hell to do.
When I return, the teacher hasn’t moved. He’s still saying, “Oh my god, oh my god” and making a sound like a wounded animal.
“You don’t have the key to her house, do you, Javier?”
He reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out some keys. Lucky thing, too!
“She gave me these keys before . . . She told me I . . . ”
“Stop thinking about what she told you. You need to drink some coffee and smoke a joint—you’re useless like this. Come on, hurry up! And stop fucking crying!”
“Are you going to call the police?”
“Are you nuts, man?”
I quickly make two cups of coffee, asking him if he ran into anyone, if anybody saw him. He says no.
We headed to the chick’s house. I parked a few streets over and we walked the rest of the way. Nobody was out at that time of night. We went up the stairs to the apartment. I was carrying rubber gloves in my pocket that I’d grabbed from my kitchen. I opened the apartment door. Total silence. The teacher went in ahead of me. And there she was, yeah, lying on the floor, her skin white or greenish . . . dead. The first dead body I’d ever seen, holy shit. She looked pretty rough, with dried blood gumming up her hair. A goddamn slaughter! The hell with the quiet, polite ones! The hell with bookworms!
I rummaged through the kitchen cabinets and found more rubber gloves under the sink. I handed a pair to Javier. In another, larger cabinet were the vacuum cleaner and the mop, along with a few bottles of bleach and rolls of paper towels.
“Now let’s get to scrubbing, man! We don’t have police records, and we need to keep it that way. I’ll take care of the kitchen, and you get the living room. Everything we’ve touched, everything. And then bleach the hell out of the floor. And focus, man! Save the freak-out for later! By the way, you were wearing a condom tonight, right?”
“I flushed it down the toilet.”
“Great, perfect, me too.”
We started cleaning like a couple of deranged housemaids. The entire kitchen. The entire living room. I finished first, so I moved on to the bedroom. When I saw the bed, with its tangled sheets, the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. The three of us had been having sex there just hours earlier, and now she was lying in the kitchen, stiff and cold. I went to look for a garbage bag and stuffed the sheets inside it; we were taking those with us.
Two hours later, we were done. They’d have to search hard to find any trace of us, and neither of us had a record. Clean as a whistle.
We tossed the keys down a sewer grate and went back to my place. I cut up the sheets and burned the pieces in the bathtub, one by one so we didn’t smoke the place out. The rubber gloves too. Maybe we didn’t need to take so many precautions, but it couldn’t hurt—I’ve seen a lot of movies, and they can nab you over the tiniest thing.
The teacher did OK during our cleaning frenzy, but afterward he started to fall apart, muttering, “My god, my god, what have I done?” Before he took up crying again, I said to him, “Look, it’s eight-thirty in the morning. Let’s take the car and go get breakfast across town to clear the air a little.”
Clearing the air wasn’t my only goal—out in public, the teacher would have to pull himself together and stop bugging me with his whining.
We went to a bar near the wholesale food market where you can get a great meal. It was packed with office workers. The truth is, after all the work we’d put in on so little sleep, I was starving.
We sat down at a table in the middle of the bustling crowd. The teacher said, “Now they’re going to find her.”
“But it’ll take a while. She said the maid was on vacation. Anyway, don’t worry. Nobody’s going to report her missing—she doesn’t have any family. They’re never going to connect her to us.”
“What about Genoveva?”
“Genoveva? You think she’s going to go to the police and tell them she suspects two prostitutes that she and Irene were screwing? No way, she’ll keep as quiet as a fish.”
<
br /> “What about Irene’s friend who gave me the job interview?”
“Shit, teach, that dude’s never going to figure it out! He’s not going to make a connection between the friend of a friend and a killer who snuffs her during a wild night of sex and alcohol. And we left the liquor bottles and coke there, so the police won’t dig too deep. A girl without any family who’s living that kind of lifestyle is basically asking for it, right? I don’t think they’ll worry about it too much.”
We ordered two plates of fried eggs with potatoes and bacon. The yolks were runny and split open over the potatoes, and the bacon crunched in your mouth. And the beer—the beer was cold, powerful, went down cool and refreshing and warmed you up at the same time. What a breakfast, man. The best one I’d ever eaten! Then we got some nice strong coffee and two spectacular slices of Galician almond cake.
The teacher tucked into the food as eagerly as I did. He was hungry too, what the hell. He was looking better, so, while ordering another coffee, I thought it was time to ask him:
“What happened back there, Javier? What did she do to get under your skin like that?”
He hung his head. I thought he wasn’t going to answer me, but eventually he looked at me sheepishly and said, real quiet, “She told me they hadn’t picked me for the job, and then she laughed at me. Then I realized she’d been laughing at me the whole time, from the very beginning.”
Naked Men Page 40