To the Last Man I Slept with and All the Jerks Just Like Him

by Gwendolyn Zepeda

  In Heat

  He is behind the house. He is big and white and I want him bad. I walk by, pretending not to see. He wants me bad, too, now.

  He fights with the others. He hurts them and they run away. I roll on the concrete in my lust. He comes to me, bleeding, ready. “Get away!” I say. “You disgust me!” He takes me, anyway. It is so good, I scream.

  The same thing happens again. They are all good. White, black, and orange. I am tired and I tell them to go away. I mean it this time, so they go.

  I am so, so hungry. And I itch. I call to the woman so that she will feed me. I touch her. Sometimes she scratches me, but sometimes she’s lazy. I touch her because sometimes she scratches me.

  I had a hard night, and now I have children.

  My children are hungry. I will feed them. They are dirty, too. I will lick them. I play with them and hold them while we sleep.

  I love my children, but they get on my nerves. They need to find their own food.

  My children keep eating my food. They need to learn how to call the woman and make her feed them, too. I’m hungry. I love my children but they’re pissing me off. Who is that? Is that someone who used to be my child? Get out of here! Get your own food! Go find your own house!

  Finally, I’m getting some rest and there is enough food for everyone.

  I see a gray cat. I want him bad.

  To the Last Man I Slept with and All the Jerks Just like Him (Revised)

  When is it going to be enough for you?

  Anything you wanted, I gave you. You wanted me to be yours alone. I was. You wanted me to live with you. I did. You wanted me to take care of you, the frightened child. I cared. You wanted me to give you space. I gave it.

  You wanted to be the smart one. I shut my mouth. You wanted to be the funny one. I shut my mouth. You wanted me to prove my love. My friends wonder why they never hear from me anymore.

  I do love you. I do want us to be happy. That’s why, every time you say that things could be perfect—that you could love me better if I would just change myself or rearrange my life—I do. All I want is for us to be happy together. Baby, I’m tired of fighting, too.

  I do whatever you want. Isn’t that enough?

  I let you do whatever you want. Isn’t that enough?

  I won’t do anything unless you want. Isn’t that . . .

  I’ll be quiet and wait for you to tell me what you want. Is that . . .

  Just correct me when I’m wrong. Just show me when I’m wrong. You just make me see I’m wrong. You make me understand. I know I’m too stupid to do it on my own. Tell me louder if you have to. Scream it in my ear. Throw the bottle against the wall if it helps you make your point.

  Shake some sense into me. I know you don’t want to hurt me, you just want me to understand what it is that you . . . Shake me. Hit me. I run. Call me back and explain it all again. I think I almost understand . . . Don’t you see, baby? I think I finally understand what you want. No . . . hit me again. I stay, waiting. Drag me by my hair. Hit me until I understand. Tell me why I’m always wrong, why I’ll always be too stupid to understand, why I’m too worthless for anyone else to try to take the time to make me understand, why I’m lucky you’re the only one who cares enough to try to make us happy, why you hit me, slap me, kick me, beat me, bite me, burn me, scream at me, laugh at me, ignore me, humiliate me, love me the way I obviously don’t deserve.

  I forgot—what was the question again?

  The Bus Driver

  Every afternoon you fall for his sad black hair and haunted eyes.

  This isn’t a pale, corporate, middle-class, white dough-man like you can see every day at your desk high in the sky. This is a man who will sweat. The only kind you’ve ever known. You look at him and he looks back. His eyes make you ache.

  He’s a bus driver.

  Your best friend says, “He’s a bus driver. God, please don’t tell me you’re gonna get all crazy over a bus driver. Why can’t you pick somebody decent for once? Or, better yet, why can’t you just be by yourself for a while? Just sit back and wait. You only find love when you’re least suspecting it. Don’t be desperate. Desperation shows. Just be happy and self-confident and the right man will come along.”

  She doesn’t really say all that, but you can tell by her face that she’s thinking it. Again.

  “I gotta go. Me and Julio have to look at halls for our reception.”

  Maybe he’s not just a bus driver. Maybe he’s secretly an artist. And you’re not desperate, either. You’re just. . .

  Your mother says, “He probably has a pregnant girlfriend at home. He probably deals drugs. He probably picks up old ladies at bars, gives them the best sex of their lives, then steals their purses. You always pick men like that—men like your goddamned father.”

  (No, she didn’t say that. Your mother’s dead, remember?)

  He doesn’t have to do those things. Or, if he does do those things, it’s probably only because no one ever loved him. If you had the chance, you’d . . .

  Your father says, “He probably just wants to use you for your money. Don’t let him, honey. Hey, do you mind running down to the store? We ran out of beer.”

  He’s drunk. What does he know?

  Maybe you don’t mind buying a few lunches, a few dinners, even a few shirts or gallons of gasoline, to be with a man this handsome who’s starving for your love. Money is something you can spare on love. Maybe he’s secretly a musician and you can snuggle on the couch as you watch your favorite movies and he can write songs for you and you can help him get a better job . . .

  The face on the magazine says, “Yeah, sure he likes you. If he has a fetish for fat asses. Not to mention your acne and chin hair. Why don’t you whiten your teeth before you get carried away imagining that a man would find you attractive?”

  It’s airbrushed. Don’t listen.

  Maybe he doesn’t mind your fat. Or maybe he actually likes the way you look. Maybe he sees your inner beauty. Maybe he sees that you’re secretly an artist . . .

  The devil says, “He’s watching you. He thinks about you every night. He wants to squeeze your fat ass in his hands and laugh in your face while you come. And it’s gonna be the best fucking sex of your life. Go get him. All it takes is a six pack. A bottle of tequila. A bag of weed. Just show him the money. Hell, show him your panties. He’ll know what to do. Sure, he’ll treat you bad, but you can treat him bad, too. When’s the last time you felt good mixed with bad, instead of just bad? Do it. Do it now. Do it all night. Call in sick tomorrow. Quit your job. Drive to Mexico. Fuck everybody. Drink. Come. Laugh. Don’t comb your hair. Kill somebody. Who cares what you do? Nobody cares about you. Do whatever you want.”

  No . . . no . . . There’s a rosary at home, in your dresser drawer. Don’t listen to the devil.

  You twist and sweat, alone in your bed. Maybe . . . maybe . . . maybe . . .

  Your high heels click down the street. Don’t listen, don’t listen, their rhythm says. Don’t think, don’t think, they say when you walk faster.

  The bus door opens. Don’t look, don’t look.

  The bus driver says, “Hi.”

  What do you say?

  You say, “Hi. I love you. I know you don’t love me yet, but please say you’ll come with me and let me love you. I know no one else sees the good in you, but I see it, and I know that you’ll be able to see the good in me. I’ve been dreaming about you for weeks. I’ve been carrying around this love, these dreams, this sickly sweet baby-talking affection in my chest. Nobody’s ever appreciated it before and it wells up inside me, just waiting for the right man. Let me love you. I know I can make us happy. I’ll do everything. All I need is for you to look at me and say that you believe it. I love you. Let me make you happy.”

  The bus driver looks straight ahead. He pulls the crank that closes the door and drives his bus down the street. He’s not looking at you anymore.

  He doesn’t hear you.

  But I hear you. And I kno
w exactly what you mean.

  To the Last Man I Slept with and All the Jerks Just like Him (For Real this Time)

  Ithought you were supposed to be the brave one.

  I thought you were the brave one, motherfucker. You keep on telling me how you fought in the war, how you fight in the bars, how you fight in your mind every Saturday night after you’ve had your beer. You make the big bucks. You swing the tools. You’ve got the upper body strength. You’re not a pussy, because pussies are weak, right?

  Am I supposed to admire you because you hit people to make a point? Am I supposed to be afraid of you because you hurt people, because you’re afraid that if you don’t, one of your kind will call you a faggot or, worse, a woman?

  I’m braver than you will ever be. The difference between you and me is that I have the guts to say that I’m afraid. I’m not so scared of what others think that I have to hide it when I get hurt. I don’t have to get drunk to have an excuse to cry. When I hurt, I cry out loud. I call all my friends on the phone and say, “Ow. I am hurting.” I rip off my bodice and go bleed in the middle of the street so everyone can see my wounds while I go to pick up my laundry. I BUY MY SANITARY NAPKINS AT THE DRUG STORE AND I DON’T CARE WHO KNOWS IT.

  I hurt, I cry, I bleed, and then I pick myself up and move on. I don’t take it out on someone smaller than me. I don’t numb myself with chemicals and then cry and hug my buddies and then form a gang with them so we can beat up another gang of crying drunk guys at a bar. I don’t make up elaborate games so I can hug my buddies and touch their asses and then throw a football and go break the bones of a team of other guys who hug each other and touch each others’ asses.

  I tell my friend, “You look pretty.” If we feel like it, we cry. I don’t call my buddies and say, “Hey, let’s form a special club for men only where we can wear special uniforms or make secret rules and then gang-rape women and beat the shit out of faggots and then lie for each other so it’ll last forever.” I know you do all that just so you can get drunk enough to play one of those games involving our penises (that aren’t homo because you say so.) Then, late at night, right before you slip into a drunken stupor with blood on your fists, you can finally look down at my buddy and think, just for a split second, “You are pretty.” Or whatever it is that you guys do. I don’t understand it. All I know is that it isn’t brave.

  My pussy is braver than you. I let you fuck me and then my pussy will push out one of your kind (and, yeah, it hurts— you know it does) and, as long as you stay out of my way, I’ll make him a better man than you even know how to be.

  You wanna know the bravest thing about me? It’s that even though I know how you are—how all your type is— how you, in the name of bravery, will hit me, rape me, degrade me, clitorectomize me, and make sure I get paid less than you. . . . Even though I know all that, I’m still brave enough to go outside. I’m so brave, I go out every day and talk to you, listen to you, buy from you, date you, work with you, dance with you, marry you, care for you, defend you, and put up with your bullshit.

  Not anymore, though. Hell no. This is the end of the line. I’m not putting up with your weakness anymore. I don’t need you. I never respected you. I’ve learned my lesson and now I hate you.

  You’re a coward.

  Get away from me.

  Aunt Rosie

  For years I believed what they said about Aunt Rosie and repeated it mindlessly to myself and others, like something you mutter in church. “He treats her that way because she lets him. I wouldn’t let no man do that to me.” I laughed at my uncle’s jokes and let him kiss me on the cheek. I shook my head along with the others when he yelled at Aunt Rosie and she scurried to bring him another beer.

  He continued to yell at her and call her names while I grew up, moved away, and got a man of my own. My uncle yelled and forced my aunt to scurry at his will until, full of tumors and Budweiser, he exploded. She cried hardest at the funeral. Her strength, it seemed, had lain in holding out until he died.

  If I had problems of my own, my strength would have been secrecy. No matter what happened, no one would ever say that I let it happen. No one would say that I deserved what I got. If I had problems, I would be strong, taking it like a man—or, like a woman, actually—keeping up the front with no whining. I would have taken it until I was filled with anger, fear, and poor self-esteem, and then—right before I exploded—I would have escaped and gone back home.

  When I got back home, I saw that Aunt Rosie had changed. Now she laughed. She wore small tiny clothes in blazing colors, drove fast in a pick-up, and danced all night long. She had fun times with men. Very fun times with lots of men.

  I only saw her for bright flashes at a time. The phone would ring and, if she weren’t pressed for time, she’d pick it up and murmur the quick, sweet lies I’ve heard murmured to me so many times. “Yeah, baby. You know I do. Yeah, I’ll be there. Uh huh, me too.”

  The rest of our family told me that she had fun with men every single weekend and sometimes even in public, too. I smiled. They told me again, explaining it more slowly this time so that I would know to snicker, instead, or to roll my eyes. But then I only sighed.

  I don’t point out to my family members that they’re full of shit because the last time I did, everyone uncomfortably joked that my uncle was there, floating around that house, listening. His own daughters said so. They said they heard his angry rumblings at night. But I wasn’t scared that he would fly up and slap my face. I figured the very most he could do was knock over a cheap vase whenever he got a well-deserved eyeful of Aunt Rosie exercising her basic rights as an human being in America.

  “I don’t care if you hear me, Uncle Joe! You know you treated her wrong!” I called floor-ward. Everyone quivered. But Uncle Joe couldn’t deny my words, so he didn’t say anything at all.

  However, since that day, I no longer push the subject. If I did, I’d have to back up my arguments with examples from my own life. And that always leads to them telling me, “If you were having problems, you should have told us. We would have . . .”

  They would have helped me, they claim. They would have stopped it. They would have kicked my husband’s ass.

  They say that stuff and then I very clearly imagine/remember them (her own daughters included) saying, “He treats her that way because she lets him”—this time meaning me.

  So I let them change the subject. I watch Aunt Rosie run out the door in a furious rush to fit in one more good time, before it’s too late. I don’t tell her what I really want to say, maybe because I don’t want to remind her of the times that I did the same shit everybody else did. I guess I’m ashamed of the way I used to be.

  I turn to my own children. “Don’t listen to ghosts,” I say. “And go give your Aunt Rosie a kiss before she goes. Tell her to have a good time.”

  To the Last Man I Slept with and to Everybody Else

  Ispent a lot of time trying to make you the hero. I helped you hold up your front by smiling and nodding at your stories and excuses. I saved you again and again from feeling less than a man, from loneliness and despair, and from the opinions of my friends.

  I just realized who the real hero is here.

  You wanted to be the rock star, the ninja, the cowboy in black. I wanted to be with those people so I pretended they were you. But secretly, I have always been all of those things. I kept it a secret for you.

  I’m the rock star. I’m the brave warrior. I’m the clever girl who grows up to win fame and fortune. I am the queen. And I always have been.

  For years, I could have shown myself as the hero and gotten the credit I deserved. Instead, I’ve been wasting my time and energy on trying to save you. And now I don’t have a damned thing to show for it.

  And now I don’t have any more time to lose.

  I’m going to go out into the world and be a hero. If you want to, you can watch.

  low Brow

  My Lord Alpha Male

  Chapter 1

  Miss Chastity
Fairbody looked around in dismay as she alit from the post chaise. Surely this was a very odd part of town in which to find a modiste.

  Dusting off her pelisse, Chastity’s firm little chin jutted out in a gesture of determination that those who knew her would have recognized all too well. Rough part of London or not, she would be a silly peagoose to back away now and give up the job of assistant modiste, losing the only chance to make a respectable living that had materialized since her father had finally drunk himself to death after gambling away the family estate just six short months ago.

  Stubborn wisps of dark, golden, auburn hair escaped from her bonnet, curling into tendrils around her enormous violet eyes. There was no doubt that Chastity was a beauty, had she but known it. Not even the hours spent in front of her mirror, staring at her own reflection while a maid labored over her hair and continually murmured compliments, had managed to affect her modest opinion of herself.

  Finally plucking up enough courage to actually move, Chastity stepped towards a small man covered in soot and said in her low, musical voice, “Excuse me, but I wonder if you could tell me . . .”

  The chimney sweep was precluded from answering by the sudden interruption of a formidable shadow falling across his face. Chastity glanced toward the source of this awe-inspiring shade, and immediately regretted doing so, as her heart leapt into her throat and then fell all the way down to her tiny slippers.

  Standing before her was a—a man . . . Oh, but what a specimen of man he was! From the top of his midnight black hair to the soles of his gleaming Hessians, he radiated the very air of elegance. His powerful shoulders strained the blue superfine of an exquisitely tailored coat. His buff-colored breeches clung to his muscular legs so closely . . . each manly bulge outlined by the thin cloth . . .