Chicken

by David Henry Sterry

  GET THE MONEY UP FRONT

  GET THE MONEY UP FRONT

  GET THE MONEY UP FRONT

  Only the newest greenhorn in Greenhornville doesn’t get the money up front. This is what separates the rank amateur from the hardworking professional. You’re not here to have a good time, Charlie, you’re here to get paid.

  But Rainbow has produced nothing, and I can tell she’d be just the sort who’d get all bent if a guy mentioned something as crass as cash.

  So I sit and stew as Rainbow gazes into the crystal ball of my palm.

  I’m thirteen, Newbee Newboy again. Since none of these Dallas hayseeds’ll give me the time of day, I find myself staring through the window of life at the party where everyone’s having a marvelous time.

  In English class the teacher announces she wants to do a dramatic reenactment of The Diary of Anne Frank, the heart-wrenching tale of one girl’s humanity shining in the face of unthinkable evil. Volunteers for acting in Teacher’s pet project will get extra credit. Whoever’s interested should come when school’s over at three to audition.

  Anne Frank don’t make me no never mind, as they say in Big D. But the idea of acting in this thing sparks me. The whole rest of the day, that voice which is never wrong keeps whispering that I should show up.

  At three o’clock, six of the hottiest of hottie thirteen-year-old babies in Lyndon Baines Johnson Junior High School sit in English class arguing about who’s best suited to play Anne Frank, our tragic doomed heroine.

  My mouth drops open. My tongue plops out. It’s all I can do not to bust out laughing as I slide like a fox into the debutante chickadee henhouse.

  Rainbow stares still at my palm. At this point I’m thinking she’s a Charlie Manson groupie with a garrote she’s gonna use to sacrifice me and the goat in the backyard.

  I’m starting to have serious doubts about Rainbow. About this whole line of work. I’ve got enough money. I could excuse myself like I’m going to the bathroom and walk out and just drive. Where? My mom in Oregon? Dad in Dallas? Nobody wants me. This is where the whole thing breaks down for me again. I don’t tell anyone. I can’t ask.

  ‘You’re a very old soul …’ concludes Rainbow.

  You said a mouthful there, sister.

  ‘… and you’ve lived many lives … you were an explorer and sailed all over the world … and you were a sultan with many women. You were a mighty warrior in battle, and you were a slave on a plantation …’

  Rainbow looks into me like she has periscopes that go through my eyes.

  That’s when I notice her for the first time. In all the confusion I haven’t really seen her. She has deep eyes, steel-colored with flecks of cobalt. A big Scandihoovian Bergman madly suffering but eternally hopeful face. I half expect Death to walk out of her bedroom and challenge me to a game of chess for my soul.

  ‘You’re here to learn a lesson, and I’m here to teach you …’ says Rainbow.

  Okay, it’s a hot-for-hippy-teacher thing. I’m all over it. I breathe easy.

  ‘Do you know what tantric sex is?’ Rainbow asks.

  I could dish some semicoherent gobbledygook about ancient mystic Asian sex, but she wants me to be the blissfully ignorant manmoonchild, so naturally I oblige.

  ‘No, I don’t …’

  Rainbow hands me a smile, and leads me through a translucent tie-dyed cloth door into a bed with a room around it. It’s the biggest bed I’ve ever seen. Overhead, high in the tall pointed ceiling, is a skylight, where incense curls up thick from fat Buddha bellies; candles toss soft little drops of light everywhere; elephantheaded Indian gods with massive genitalia copulate with lionheaded goddesses; statue women stare with dozens of breasts; a halfman halfbull is inside a godhead with a doghead; Japanese paintings of Jade-looking beautybabies having intercourse in every position imaginable, one leg up over an ear, the other wrapped around a head; old postcards of cherubenesque honeys Frenched and doggied; a guy goes down (or would that be up?) on himself; and a shrine of rosebudvaginas and phalluspeni smiles. Pillows and cushions plump velvety; blankets, fur, and fat cloth make me feel like a cat, and I want to roll around getting my belly stroked while nubile handmaidens feed me catnip.

  A sculpture of a vagina starts talking to me: ‘Hi, David, welcome to the party, come on in.’

  And in the center of it all a big picture of a dark man with long black curly hair and brown magnets for eyes keeps staring at me. He’s hard and soft at the same time. I’ve never seen the guy, but he looks familiar, like he’s the kind of guy who could set you straight if you’re floundering around. And I’m so very full of flounder presently. I make a mental note to find a wise, kind, benevolent guru teacher as soon as I leave Rainbow’s. I’m still looking.

  ‘That’s Baba Ram Wammalammadingdong,’ says Rainbow.

  I’m sure she didn’t really say that, but that’s what it sounds like to me, all Dr Seussy.

  ‘He’s the master of sensual enlightenment.’

  That’s what I wanna be when I grow up: master of sensual enlightenment.

  ‘Sexual transcendence can only happen when the shock absorbers are open and connected to the life force that flows through all living things,’ says Rainbow.

  Much later I realize it was my chakras that needed opening, not my shock absorbers, but at the time I could care less. I’ll open my shock absorbers, my athletic supporters, my cookie jar, whatever she wants. I just need to get paid, and I need to get paid now. I’m seeking enlightenment through cold hard cash.

  ‘Why don’t we start by meditating?’

  Rainbow settles into a big comfy-womfy cushy cushion cross-legged, and motions for me to do the same.

  I balk. I’m naturally curious by nature, I’m very interested in the whole third-eye transcendent sex thing, and picking up some exotic kinky Eastern sex tips would be grand, but I have got to get my money up front.

  I sigh quiet. I know for a fact it will not help us achieve harmony with the life force that flows through all living things if I tell Rainbow she needs to pay me now.

  I am more than a bit dithered.

  But just when things are looking their most dodgy, the gods smile upon me, and Rainbow, God love her, knows what I need and cannot ask for.

  ‘Oh, shit, you need some bread, don’t you?’ she says.

  I could’ve cried. I see this as a clear-cut sign that I’m being taken care of by something bigger than myself.

  Rainbow gets out of cross-legged, rummages through an old macramé bag, and returns with four skanky twenties, a nasty ten, a funky five, four filthy ones, and a bunch of loose change, then hands me the whole kitandkaboodle.

  I’m starting to dig this crazy chick. I can see her scrimping and saving to give herself a treat. Me. I’m the treat for my trick. I vow then and there to be a pot of gold for this Rainbow.

  The only role that absolutely must be played by a boy is Mr Frank, Anne’s father. So by virtue of the fact that I show up, I become Mr Frank. And in the instant I’m handed that role, I become, for better and for worse, an actor. I have no idea what the teacher’s name was, or which of the adorable thirteen-year-old Dallas girls ended up playing Anne Frank, or any other character for that matter. All I know is that I’m Mr Frank.

  It’s fun being Mr Frank. But being surrounded by all those gorgeous, popular, really nice-smelling beauties is delicious. And much to my amazement, they all seem to like me now.

  In the scene, Mr Frank’s supposed to celebrate. During rehearsals, Teacher keeps telling me to celebrate more, but I don’t know how. We don’t do much celebrating where I come from. The night before our performance I’m watching television. Herschel Bernardi does some crazy Greek dance where he throws his hands up in the air and shakes his booty. The lightbulb goes off over my head.

  This is how Mr Frank is gonna celebrate.

  ‘The key to opening the gate that leads to the garden of earthly delights is a woman’s pleasure.’

  Rainbow pauses to make sure I got all
that.

  ‘The key to opening the gate that leads to the garden of earthly delights is a woman’s pleasure.’

  She looks at me for a long time, so I understand how serious this is.

  So I think about it seriously. It’s comforting to have someone telling me what to think about. I don’t have to make any decisions, and right now, decisions are just disasters waiting to happen.

  Garden of earthly delights. A woman’s pleasure. A woman’s orgasm. Tumblers click in my head, a lock snaps open, and I see the light. A woman’s pleasure is the key to sexual ecstasy. Now that I have my money, I’m keenly interested in this whole thing.

  ‘A man can have multiple orgasms … most people don’t know that, but it’s true. And I can show you how to do it,’ Rainbow says with absolute conviction.

  Multiple orgasms? Hell, I have one and it nearly kills me. But I’m crazy curious to see if I can incorporate some clitoris into my penis.

  ‘There’s a line where your orgasm is, it’s kinda like a waterfall. See, it’s like you’re in a beautiful warm river, and the current is pulling you along, and you’re headed toward the waterfall, you’re getting closer and closer … until you’re hanging right there on the edge of the waterfall, but you’re not letting yourself go over. You just get inside your own orgasm, and you can stay there as long as you want, as long as you don’t release. Do you know what “release” means?’

  Yeah, I think I got the idea.

  ‘No, what do you mean?’ I ask.

  ‘Your release is your ejaculation. So you can orgasm without ejaculating,’ Rainbow says carefully.

  And the weird thing is, I know exactly what she means. River, waterfalls, release, the whole shebang.

  ‘I know it sounds totally … far out … but if you can wrap your cosmic mind around this, you’ll always have lots of groovy lovemaking in your life. You probably won’t get it tonight, but it’s something you can always practice. By yourself, with a partner, doesn’t matter. In the words of Baba Ram Wammalammadingdong, “Practice makes perfect.”’

  I’m starting to like this Wammalammadingdong guy.

  During our dramatic presentation of The Diary of Anne Frank, with all eyes upon me, I do my crazy Greek dance where I throw my hands up in the air and shake my booty. Well, the roof tears off the sucker, and that Music Man feeling lights me up like the Fourth of July on Christmas morning.

  Somehow I’ve managed to transform the heartbreaking tragedy of the Franks into a showcase for my comedy stylings.

  That moment turns me from an odd-duck newcomer into a dashing ladies’ boy.

  And I owe it all to Anne Frank, martyr and symbol of all that is good in human beings.

  ‘Wow, that sounds … far out.’ I’ve never said ‘far out’ before or since, but Rainbow eats it up like wavy gravy with a tie-dyed spoon.

  She takes off her robe. She’s the only sexwork customer I ever have who takes off her clothes while I still have mine on. And for an old broad (again with the proviso that anyone over the age of twenty-five is old) she’s got a rip-roaring body. Supple muscles firm lithe and graceful, breasts slung low, with big brown nipples in the middle. I make a mental note that as far as books go, don’t judge them by their covers.

  I now become aware that Rainbow’s posing for me. Not vulgar or ostentatious. Subtle and proud. She seems to be one of those rare people who’s actually comfortable with her own naked body.

  ‘You have a beautiful body …’ I would’ve said it whether it was true or not, but in this case it is true, which does makes it easier.

  She likes it. She’s not desperate like Georgia or Franny, but she likes it.

  ‘Do you want me to take my clothes off?’ Just trying to keep the customer satisfied.

  ‘Do whatever makes you happy,’ says Rainbow.

  Wow. Whatever makes me happy. No one says that to me in real life, never mind when I’m chickening.

  Seems like if you’re gonna learn to orgasm without ejaculating, you should be naked. So I take off my clothes. Rainbow sits opposite me cross-legged on that continent of a bed. I try, but I just can’t get the cross-legged thing going. My grandfather’s coalminer soccerplaying legs are just too unyielding. I’m tugging and pulling, cuz I’m trying to suck it up and play through the pain, but damn, this shit hurts.

  ‘Don’t do it if it hurts. Don’t do anything that hurts …’ Rainbow flows. You gotta hand it to the hippies, when it comes to peace and love and all that business, they really know their shit.

  Rainbow shows me how to deepbreathe, and we deep-breathe until we feel the life force flowing through us. I don’t actually feel the life force flowing through me as such, but she does, and that’s good enough for me. The crumpled bills in my pocket are filling me with the life force.

  Rainbow and I ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhmmmm for about a fortnight. Eventually I do feel a little light-headed, like when I first smoked a cigarette. But, hey, if she wants to pay me to breathe and say om, that’s rolling off a log for a chicken.

  Finally when Rainbow is om’d out, she takes my hand, places it on her breast, looks me in the eyes, and with a hypnotic smile shows me how to roll that mammoth mammarian poolcue tip between my thumb and forefinger, and it gets bigger and tighter, until it feels like it’s ready to pop, while she makes airsuck sounds of pleasure.

  I can smell her now, Rainbowing as she makes my hand the axis between her legs around which she gyrates, nestling my head into her neck and whispering, ‘Kiss me soft …’

  I eat her neck like a fruitcake while she revs in growly moans, everything moving in rhythm like a well-oiled sex machine, the fur blanket softly soft as she guides me like an air-traffic controller. Then Rainbow replaces my hand with my mouth and she huffs and she puffs like she’s gonna blow the house down, jimjamming and earthquakeshaking.

  I smile inside. I’m getting a crash course in the fine art of a woman’s orgasm, and I’m getting paid for it. America – what a country!

  ‘Now I’m right there,’ she pants, ‘… if I let myself, I’d go right over the waterfall … but … I’m … not … I’m gonna stay … right here and let the … waves roll through me … there’s one … slow down … Stop!’ Rainbow squeezes, fists clenching and unclenching like a baby breastfeeding, ‘… now slow … there’s another one … ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh … God …’

  Rainbow lets rip with a top-of-the-lungs scream. A huge little death. When she collapses at the tip of my tongue, I understand for the first time what they’re talking about, as time warps, Einstein smiling somewhere, eternity in a second, infinity in a grain of sand.

  I think of busting my ass in the grease of HFC. I think of my father slaving away at the explosives plant. I think about my grandfather shoveling coal down the mine. I won’t be getting black lung disease from this. If having sex for money was always this good, I’d still be a hooker.

  When I’m eleven, Alabama is ranked fiftieth in the nation in education. My mom becomes so desperate she decides to enroll me and my brother in the best school in Alabama. The oxymoronicality of this is lost on no one. The only rub is that we have to pass the extremely rigorous entrance exam. My folks promise that if we pass the test, we can have some cool thing of our choice. My brother wants a wide handlebar bananaseat Stingray, the coolest bike on the planet. I want a brand-new set of golf clubs. I like how shiny they look in the sporting-goods store.

  Tense anticipation grips our house in the days leading up to The Test. Are we good enough to rub elbows with the crème de la crème of Hueytown, America?

  The extremely rigorous test takes all day. It’s rough terrain and grueling, but we’ve been trained well. Not just in facts and figures, but in succeeding American style, while failure breathes hot on your neck and those around you wither. It takes a week to get the results back. Longest week of my life.

  We pass the test. There is much rejoicing.

  Unfortunately, that summer my dad gets transferred, so we can’t attend the best school in Alabama. But
my mom and dad make good. They get my brother his cool wide-handlebarred Stingray with the big bananaseat, and they get me my shiny new golf clubs.

  Rainbow gets out of the river and dries off on the sunny shore, while I stand next to her, nakedly rolling my big huge rock up my big huge mountain.

  After a brief intermission, Act II begins. She pulls me into the river, takes me right to the edge of the waterfall, and then stops. The most important thing, she says, is to turn off your mind, and feel your body. You can’t think and swim at the same time.

  Once a man plunges over the waterfall in his barrel, of course, it’s all over for him. For a while at least. So you have to be very careful and really pay attention. I practice getting right on the edge and just sticking there. And it’s good. When she does something particularly compelling, I feel the spray in my face and the pull of the fall, and by God, quivers do quiver me, then I quickly pull myself back.

  Rainbow’s my Seeing Eye sexdog.

  ‘Wow, that was groovy …’ I say, when it’s clear we’re done.

  Groovy? I can’t believe that came out of my mouth, but as usual I’ve ceased to exist in my need to please.

  I don’t know what to do now. Should I hang out? Are we friends? I think for a minute. I still don’t feel that creeping mudslide of depression I always get after I chicken. I’m just a little confused, that’s all. But looking around, I can see myself moving right in here and being the sextoy for all of Rainbow’s old greatbodied freakyhippie babies. Sounds like fun, I think, as I grab at another salvation flotation device.

  ‘I have something for you …’ Rainbow’s sweet as you please, slipping on an old soft tie-dyed robe. I follow at her heels like a naked chickenpuppy. She reaches in a drawer and I’m expecting a nice fat juicy tip. Twenty, maybe fifty. Instead Rainbow pulls out a feather.