Butterflies in Heat

by Darwin Porter

  "Let's put it out," he said. He never saw her front part, and didn't have to look into her eyes as he did his work. Deeper and deeper, he took the plunge. Lola screamed once, but it was mostly moans reaching his ears. He rode in further, exploring more.

  The bedsprings were rusty and creaky—providing just the kind of rhythm he needed to do his job. She'd brag later about having had him—he knew that. But the joke would be on her. She'd never really have him. He gave them sex, but he'd never give of himself. Not to Lola. Not to anyone.

  The rhapsodic sound of her voice, the way her body was turned on, the way she needed what he offered—everything blended to make him a man again after that nightmare in jail. Riding to his finish, he was the one groaning now.

  Immediately recognizing the signs, Lola started to protest, "Don't, don't, lover man. Make it last all night."

  Yet her contracting and pulling only goaded the inevitable. Soaked with sweat, he tensed—holding back as long as he could. But his release was violent, spasm after spasm. His energy drained, he collapsed on top of her.

  She turned her head around, wanting to be kissed.

  Ignoring her at first, he started to pull out. His job over, he'd earned his supper. After all, he didn't kiss fags. But the compelling hunger of her eyes—unlike the desperation in Ralph's—told him he'd better satisfy her in that way. Pressing toward her, his mouth met hers. He was quick and efficient. But also thorough, competent in his job. Kissing her was no more unpleasant than many duties he'd been called upon to perform.

  The nails of her right hand dug into his back. "I need you!" she cried. "No man has ever made me feel like that. No man. Don't ever leave me, please."

  "Fuck, Lola," he said, slowly pulling out of her body—even though her muscles were fighting his going. "Who's gonna leave? I'm gonna stick around a while."

  In the middle of the night, she rubbed her butt up closer to his. It was good to have someone young and alive with her tonight. All those nights listening to the commodore's snoring was more than she could bear.

  In some ways, Numie was like a son-lover to her. All her life she'd wanted a son, and had cursed nature for making that dream impossible for her.

  He'd come into the bar when she was at loose ends. She was fearing life was passing her by. She certainly wasn't getting any younger, and the commodore's days were clearly numbered. The prospect of her own aging—faced with that empty bed—was getting too much for her.

  Numie had been more than just a robot moving inside her only hours ago. She thought he was really falling for her. She could just tell. Chalk it up to her woman's intuition. Of one thing she was certain: she wasn't just a job to him, another performance in a lengthy career. After all, he'd kissed her—and he didn't have to do that.

  He'd satisfied her sexually, but he'd also awakened other longings in her—longings she'd tried to forget. She needed deep down involvement with another human being, and just not for sex either.

  She'd seen desire well in Numie's eyes when she had stood practically naked in front of him. It must have been exciting for him to view a body such as hers. She could just imagine some of the tricks he'd turned-probably all with pudgy middles and everything sagging. Her breasts hadn't altogether fallen yet, and she'd strictly watched her diet. Her figure had remained trim. When Numie grabbed her breasts, she knew she'd turned him on. Her only disappointment was that he had failed to take one of them in his mouth. She loved to have that done.

  Reaching over in bed, she stroked his smooth thigh with her hand—not enough to wake him up, just enough to make contact with him. Then she pressed her mouth gently against his. He moved, but didn't wake up.

  How exciting he was to her!

  She snuggled next to him, resting in the cradle of his arm.

  Through this man lying beside her tonight she could rediscover her own long-lost girlhood.

  She just knew it.

  At six o'clock that morning, a loud banging was heard from downstairs.

  "What the hell?" Numie asked, turning over and sinking deeper into the satin-encased pillow.

  "That's my nephew," Lola said sleepily. "Be a sweetie and let him in. He's come for that cat."

  "What a time to wake up," Numie said. "Why don't you give him a key?" Nude, he stumbled out of bed and made his way down the steps into the bar.

  The first rays of light were breaking through the glass panes of the door. The calico cat still slept on the bar. Taking the night latch off, he pulled back the door.

  There on the early morning sidewalk stood Castor Q. Combes.

  "Violet eyes," the boy shouted. "You owe me money."

  "Castor, you little informer bastard. Come on in."

  "You owe me a dollar," Castor said. "You didn't finish the tour. And watch who you're calling bastard, white boy"

  Behind the bar Numie searched under the cash register. Some crumpled bills were left from last night. He tossed Castor three dollars. "There," he said. "Now that evens the score."

  Castor fingered the bills carefully. "I hope this isn't counterfeit." Then he went over and picked up his cat from the bar. "He's mine. I've been loaning him to Lola at night to catch a big rat in this bar. But I always come and get him in the morning to feed him. I don't let him stay here during the day 'cause I don't want no cat of mine associating with the white trash who come to this bar. Which reminds me. What are you doing here?"

  "Just dropped in for a drink."

  Castor seemed satisfied with that explanation. "I've got to warn you about my aunt, Lola La Mour. That's not her real name. You'd better put on your clothes when you're around her. She's a queer. I won't let her touch me or even get near me."

  "Thanks for the tip, Castor baby," Numie said, guiding him to the door. "If she bothers me in any way, I'll call the sheriff."

  "No, you can't do that," Castor said. "He's one, too."

  "Then I'll have to handle the situation myself."

  Castor eyed him suspiciously for a moment. "Come to think of it, you're one, too. Now, get on, cat," he called as he slowly

  sauntered down the shabby street. He kicked an empty beer can, sending it dancing across the cobblestones.

  Another day in Tortuga.

  Chapter Eight

  That night Numie was sitting at a quiet corner table at Commodore Philip's. A glow from within was warming his blood. That and the third double Scotch Lola had placed on his table.

  Under her blonde wig, Lola was at the bar, laughing and talking with the few customers.

  Impulsively, Numie slammed down his drink. What was he doing shacking up with a black drag queen? Had he come this low in his search for a bread ticket?

  Getting up, he walked to the men's room. There he stood—not really needing to go, but somehow wanting to get out of the bar. He was alone in the toilet. The smell was foul, yet he remained almost by compulsion. Maybe from force of habit.

  So many nights spent—wasted!—in a latrine. A dangling cock—was that what Numie Chase had to offer to the world? Was it all? He feared it was. No one had ever wanted friendship. No one ever saw talent, ability. The whole world was on a sex trip. He wasn't on the sex trip. They were. Everyone he met.

  Head spinning, he propped his elbow against the wall. All those faceless men who'd stood beside him at latrines were on the march tonight. He could hear their voices, the dialogue changing little from town to town:

  "New York's a pretty quiet place tonight, huh?"

  "Not much doing in Atlanta tonight, huh?"

  'This Washington goes to bed at nine o'clock, huh?"

  "How about a drink?"

  "How about a drink?"

  'The chairs in this fleabag are uncomfortable—we'd better sit on the bed."

  "Sure is hot in here. Better take off your things."

  "I've got a wife and three kids."

  "I've never done this before with a guy"

  "A drink?"

  "A drink?"

  A sudden rap, and Lola was throwing open the door.
"Just checking," she said, "to see that you're not being molested."

  Straightening up, he zipped up his pants and headed out. "Yeah, I'm alone," he said.

  From out of nowhere popped Tangerine—a red hibiscus in her orange hair and an extra coat of blood-colored lipstick on her mouth. "Lola," she called, "the last of the red-hot mamas is gonna shake it tonight."

  "If you shake that thing, the hinges will come apart!" Lola said. She embraced Tangerine across the bar, then mixed her a drink. "Go join that stud in the corner. Mind you, gal, I said join—don't touch."

  By then Tangerine's back was turned. She was moving fast toward Numie's table.

  "How you doing?" asked Tangerine.

  "Fine," he said. He neither welcomed nor resented Tangerine's presence tonight.

  She plopped down in the next chair.

  No question about it: Tangerine was Halloween. She was a masquerade party. The tinsel on a tree. The ribbon on a package. More than that, too.

  "I just had to see you," she said.

  "You heard about my getting busted?"

  "Found out this afternoon," she said. "From Anne. She called Lola at the bar."

  "I'm surprised. Leonora didn't know me."

  "Leonora has to have her little dramas. Too bad, too, 'cause she could have got you out. Just like Lola did."

  "She can have her dramas at somebody else's expense from now on," he said bitterly.

  "Well, you're okay, and Yellowwood won't bother you again. Let's don't talk about Leonora no more. I'm much more fascinating."

  "You certainly are." He sighed to himself, praying that Tangerine wasn't yet another woman on an ego trip.

  "I've got to talk to you. I'm really sorry Anne put down your profession like that the other night. I don't think nobody should go putting down nobody else for the way they earn a living. Whatever your work is—just so long as it's honest—it's okay with me."

  'Thank you, baby. That's good to hear." Was she being condescending?

  "I really liked you, and I've been trying to figure out how I can help, 'cause I know you're broke."

  "Really, I'm fine."

  "Don't pretend with me. You can let it all hang out. I've got twenty dollars on me, and I could sure use your services."

  'Tangerine," he said, laughing, "surely you're joking." No sooner had he said that than he regretted it. After all, a man who went to bed with Lola La Mour might also go to bed with Tangerine Blanchard.

  The hurt on her face was instantly apparent.

  "I didn't mean it that way," he apologized.

  "You think I don't need loving?"

  "Of course not! Everybody needs loving."

  "Let me tell you something. The last time I went to bed with a man was so long ago I can hardly remember—he said that part of me stunk. That's right, stunk! What every girl wants to hear. He wouldn't go to bed with me, got up and put on his pants"

  "C'mon," he said, "I don't want to hear it."

  Ignoring his request, she went on. "Know what I did? scrubbed myself every which way. I even used Ajax one time. But it didn't help. That smell, I can't get rid of it. I do stink. Men won't touch me."

  "Stop it!" he said. He gripped her wrist to make her pay attention. "You don't stink," he said slowly—certain that she heard his words now. "Don't let some bastard lay that kind of shit on you. The guy was a son of a bitch. He probably hated women. Forget it!"

  She was almost crying. "You know what I've had to do? I'm not proud of it, and I'm not trying to shock you or. make you sick at your belly, but I've longed for a little loving so much. I used to have a big German shepherd." Her voice broke off. She started to weep.

  "Don't cry ... Please"

  "I'll give you twenty dollars"

  "Honey, I can't accept" He felt trapped. "Lola is very jealous."

  "You and Lola?" she asked, taking his hand. "I didn't know, really I didn't. If I had known, I would never have barged in like this. I'm so happy for you all. I would never break up a relationship or interfere in no way. You've got to believe that. I'll go and apologize to Lola."

  "I don't think you'd better," he said, restraining her.

  "Well, okay, but if making it with me is out of the question, why don't you come back to my place for a spaghetti dinner? Lola won't mind."

  "Now that's an offer I can accept." A great burden lifted, he reached for his drink.

  She bounded to her feet and wobbled across the bar toward Lola. "You won't mind if I take that good-looking boy friend of yours home for dinner?"

  "Not if you bring him back," Lola said. "He needs some nourishment. Just make sure you feed him some protein. And don't let him drink too much."

  "Drunk or sober," Numie interrupted, "you're gonna get it."

  Lola squealed.

  "You trust me with Tangerine?" Numie asked.

  'Tangerine is the only one in town I'd trust you with," Lola said. "Tangerine hasn't had thoughts about sex since Harding was in the White House. Why, she'd even qualify to take up a collection for the Salvation Army."

  He smiled at her, rubbing her chin with his thumb. "If one of your johns comes around, I told you what to do."

  "I know what to do," Lola said. "Hey, lover man, here are the keys to the Facel-Vega. From now on, you're the man in the driver's sea t."

  He made his way out of the bar. His back to Lola, he could drop the pretense. He'd behaved exactly as she wanted him to—the aggressive and jealous lover.

  Moments later, a mountain of a woman under a citrus-orange peak was being transported up a dark street in a car much too small for her.

  Behind the wheel, Numie was in control—riding high.

  Tangerine lived on the top floor of a dilapidated, two-story frame house. Instead of panes, some of the windows had cardboard stuck in to keep out the rain and mosquitoes. They probably didn't.

  Entering her apartment, he was surprised to find a man-sized hole in the hallway. You could see through to the apartment downstairs.

  "I tried to cover it with boards, she explained. Then, one night I broke a toe in the crack. Now I just let it be." With despair she looked at her reflection in the hall mirror. "My mama never repaired nothing. Why should I?" Frowning, she brushed back her orange hair.

  He walked across the wooden floorboard and stared down at the hole. "You could fall in—any damn time of the day or night. How are you supposed to get across?"

  "Easy," she said, laughing. 'There's two ways. Slip by on the narrow side. Or else squeeze. Which, of course, I can't do since I got so damn fat. So I leap over. Like this." Picking up the skirttails of her flowered dress, she jumped. The flesh left her body, shooting out in all directions. She landed on the other side; and the house shook.

  "Have to cross this hole to get to the john," she said when she caught her breath. "Wouldn't dare try that at night though. Shake my buddies downstairs out of bed. So I use a slop jar—the same one my mama used. It's all she left me."

  He laughed loudly. She was wonderful!

  "Go in and take a seat," she said. "I've gotta get busy with dinner."

  In the living room, he sat down on a flea market sofa.

  "Don't let one of those springs ruin your married life," she called in.

  "Dammit, Tangerine! You sure this sofa isn't another one of your family heirlooms?"

  She stuck her head in. "Help yourself to a drink. There's a smidge of bourbon left over there on the table. Don't bother with glasses. Us Georgia gals like our liquor straight."

  'Thanks." At the table, he took the practically empty bottle. Holding it to his lips, he drained it.

  Head spinning, he settled back on the sofa to think of Tangerine. She was a clown. A sad one. But she could laugh at herself. Something he couldn't do.

  The way she brought everything out in the open—nothing seemed unmentionable. Or anyway, once mentioned, it lost some of its shame.

  If he could get close enough, maybe some of what she had would rub off.

  Just then, she burst int
o the room with a plate of spaghetti for his lap. Meatless spaghetti out of a can. She poured two glasses of red wine.

  He smiled his thanks.

  'Tell me something," she said, "what in hell did you end up here for?"

  "I wanted a new chance," he said guardedly, fearing the immediate personal tone the conversation had taken. "What more can any man ask?"

  She settled back on the floor with her legs propped up in the air.

  He was startled—unpleasantly so—to see she wore no underwear. Turning his head, he tried to answer her question better. "I really don't know why I hitched a ride here. It's as far as my thumb would take me, I guess."

  She propped her fleshy body on her elbows. "Tell me something, what are you running from?"

  At first, he resented the question. She was prying, and his business was his own. Then he decided her intentions were good. Deliberately stalling, he pulled out a package of cigarettes and lit one. He offered it to her. When she refused, he puffed away on it for a while, then asked: "What makes you think I'm running away? You can run toward something, too."

  "You're running away," she insisted. "No doubt about it. I can always tell a mile off. No wonder. Seen enough young men on the lam in my day." She leaned back, using her hands as a pillow.

  The cigarette burned his hand before he felt its heat. "Hell," he said, "I've always been running from something. Must have inherited that from myoId man."

  "Oh, my God," she yelled, heaving her fleshy body from the floor. "I forgot the dessert." She raced toward the kitchen. "It's burning."

  He didn't really hear her, couldn't care about dessert. How unlike his old man who had always insisted it be served at the beginning of a meal "in case I die before I finish eating."

  He still remembered the big Nordic ape. Got his blond hair from him. Also, his cock. Every time he got a beating from the old man, he'd look into those eyes—crystal blue and cold as a northern lake in winter.

  Even though he'd looked like an ape, he worked in the fields like an ox. He always walked a little stooped forward from having spent his life earning a dollar for some man other than himself. If anything, he'd shown Numie how stupid it was to be somebody's slave.