Radical

by E. M. Kokie

  “Like”— she leans closer —“what if I said, ‘Can I touch your . . . vulva?’ ”

  We both laugh, her face burying in my neck.

  I think about that. About saying anything about . . . there.

  “Vajayjay?” she asks, her hand trailing up my ribs.

  “No way.”

  “Hooha?”

  “Like, yeah”— I swallow as her hand moves over my chest —“please, please touch my throbbing hooha?” She laughs again, and I feel it like she’s laughing inside me. “Yeah, no.”

  “Then what?” Her fingers trace some pattern across my chest and then slide down, retreating and then circling around up my side, closer again, and down again, until my breathing is following her fingers, the pattern. Deep in and then held until her fingers trace away, then exhale. Over and over. Until it feels like her fingers are everywhere. “How about the good old labia and clit and vagina?” she whispers.

  “Whatever you want.” Don’t stop. And then her hand is touching my chest. Flat on my back, there’s barely anything to hold through the layers of my clothes.

  She kisses my cheek, and my neck, and her hand burrows under my shirt, under my tanks.

  “Do they need to be this tight? And two of them?” she asks when she can’t quite get her hand under my tanks. “It’s not like you need that much control,” she teases.

  But she’s wrong. “They’re more comfortable than your torture devices,” I say, taking them off and tossing them over the side of the bed.

  She cups my breast, barely a rise in her palm.

  “I don’t like any bumps under my shirts,” I say.

  Lucy kisses my jaw. “They just seem really tight.”

  “I like how they feel,” I say against her hair.

  Her lips on my throat. “Like a hug,” she says.

  Like armor.

  “You smell good,” she whispers.

  “So do you.”

  She kisses my shoulder, my chest, and lower.

  “Hey.” I pull at her dress. “You, too.”

  She stands up so she can strip off her dress and her bra, and then waits for me. I take off my shorts and underwear and toss them on the floor, trying not to squirm when she looks me over before climbing back into bed. She’s beautiful, and soft. Her skin is warm where it touches mine.

  Then she’s doing things to my breasts that I didn’t know would feel good, despite how many times I’ve tested the theory. We didn’t go here in the car. I’m gasping at how good nails can be. Her mouth is even better. I arch up, making stupid noises, but I don’t care. I had no idea it would feel this good, that I’d feel it everywhere.

  She doesn’t ask for permission, not with words, but her fingers are tracing a new path, down my ribs, along my waist. She pauses, giving me a chance to stop her, waiting. I don’t stop her. Not when her nails scratch over the skin of my belly, or when her fingers slide down between my legs. She pulls her hand away and moves so she’s leaning over me, and then puts her hand back without any of the slow, careful seduction. I move to give her more room and then gasp as every nerve flares.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.” She kisses my shoulder.

  Her fingers keep going, even when my whole body is moving in every direction.

  “I don’t think I can . . . I . . .”

  “Just feel,” she says.

  “I can’t . . .” But I can, maybe. Maybe.

  We lose the rhythm, then the place, but she clamps her legs around my thigh and her fingers get there again. I stop feeling anything because I’m feeling everything, until everything goes tight and hot and I can’t breathe and I let go with a wail. Loud. I cover my mouth, groaning again, but she stays there until I push her hand away.

  “Too much?”

  I can’t talk, but she gets it, scratching her nails lightly on my skin, snuggling closer, kissing my neck. Her sticky fingers slide across my ribs to my side. I don’t mind at all.

  Lucy grabs a glass of water off her nightstand and takes a sip, then she hands me the glass. I down the rest in one long swallow.

  “Good,” she says. “Only nine thirty.” She grins and pushes my hip so she can pull the sheet out from under me and then over us. I let her pull me close and bury my face in her chest.

  My hand does fit perfectly above her hip.

  She touches a bruise on my shoulder.

  I roll my head to look. Cammie’s boot; she kicked my shoulder during the drill.

  “Let me guess: training.”

  “Yes.” I don’t say more, hoping she’ll just let it go.

  “With them. And others.”

  I can feel a ripple of something and wait for whatever she’s going to say next. Her lashes pet the skin near my neck, tickling me.

  “Cammie should have taken the clippers to Karen’s mullet while she was at it,” Lucy finally says, and I don’t like the sound of her voice. “She’s like a bad stereotype of the militant butch.”

  “Actually, I think Karen’s straight.”

  “No way!” Lucy rolls over so she can see my face. “You’re serious!”

  “I mean, not that I’ve asked,” I say. “But she looks at guys.” Especially Carl. She could be bi, I guess.

  “Huh,” she says, but there’s still an edge to it.

  “Karen’s really cool,” I say. “She can shoot anything. And she was one of the first ones to welcome me in.”

  “In?”

  Crap. How to talk about Clearview without talking about Clearview? “When I first started going to the club, Karen was the first one to start inviting me to things, and she’s picked me up a few times when I didn’t have a ride. And she’s really good.”

  “Someone should give her some soap. Show her how to get the crud out from under her nails.”

  “She works. Hard,” I say. “And trains hard. Today, probably both.”

  “And I wouldn’t know anything about either?” Lucy asks, daring me to say it.

  I just shrug. As far as I can tell, Lucy’s never had to work, outside of what sounds like silly little pass-the-time summer jobs. She’s used to getting what she wants.

  Whatever that was with Cammie is about me, but her nastiness about Karen is something else. Something ugly. Like the girls in the ice-cream place were about me.

  I’m probably more like Karen than Cammie. Hell, Karen’s family is probably better off money-wise than mine. Would Lucy still want me if she knew that my working at the station might be a permanent thing?

  “And your club. Cammie’s in it, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you all shoot guns. A lot.”

  I don’t bother to answer again.

  “Do you carry a gun?” she asks. “Have you — when we’ve been out, have you been carrying a gun?” Her eyes bug out like she just realized that was a possibility.

  “No,” I say. “I don’t carry a gun.” She still looks worried. “I can’t. Not until I’m older.”

  “But you own guns, even though you’re not supposed to.”

  “You’ve never had beer? Or wine coolers? Fireworks?” I ask. “Pot?” I add, pleased when her face gives her away. “Had someone else buy them for you?”

  “That’s different.”

  “Not really. All that stuff is legal somewhere, some of it anywhere if you’re a little older. Technically, the guns are in my dad’s name — probably like how your car is in your grandparents’ name? — but I use them, yes. They’re mine.”

  “No one gets killed by wine coolers.”

  “Yeah, ’cause stupid-ass sixteen-year-olds never drive drunk. Or drink until they pass out. Or drink until the girls pass out, and then the guys —”

  “It’s not at all the same thing,” Lucy says.

  “No, it’s not. Most of the people I know would never be as reckless with a gun as most people are with cars. Or alcohol.”

  “But you don’t carry one.”

  “No.”

  She stares at my face for a moment and then see
ms to accept it. “Good. I hate guns.”

  “Have you ever shot one?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.”

  “I don’t need to do that again,” she says, just in case I was wondering. “Ever.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine,” she says.

  I can see her turning additional scenarios over in her mind. But I wait for her to make the next move. To keep talking or to cuddle down again or to put on our clothes.

  I trace my fingers over her thigh and up her hip so it can settle in that perfect curve above her hip. I smile when I hear her exhale, giving up the talk for now.

  We kiss some more. Touch some more. Nothing too serious, just touching. It’s enough to be able to touch her.

  I can’t help but think about teaching her to use a gun. Showing her how safe it is if you know what you’re doing. How good it feels to know you can protect yourself. How awesome the rush is when you pull the trigger and hit exactly where you intended.

  “What are you thinking?” she asks, kissing just under my chin.

  “How kickass you’d look shooting my dad’s Remington.”

  She growls and starts to pull away, but I haul her close again. “I’m not saying you should. I’ll never pressure you to touch a gun. Ever. But it’s a nice image. For me. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Well, it’s never going to happen.”

  “Okay.” I imagine us out back near the pond, how it would feel to help her find her stance and —

  “You’re thinking about it right now!” she yells, but it’s mostly teasing — mostly.

  I shrug and lean in to kiss her neck. “It’s a nice fantasy. I think if you got comfortable with holding a gun, like a light rifle, even, or our twenty-two — it’s really compact and light — you might actually enjoy shooting. It’s fun.” The Bobcat. I put my palm against hers — she’d probably feel least threatened by the Bobcat.

  “I’ve been hunting with Grandpa.”

  “Using?”

  There’s a long pause. “A gun.”

  She’s shown her hand.

  “What were you hunting?”

  “Deer.”

  “Did he load two shells at a time or one?”

  “Two.”

  “Two barrels or one?”

  She pauses, thinking, and then says tentatively, “Two.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Eleven.”

  I can see her. “Your arms were barely long enough, right?”

  “Yes.” She’s not enjoying the game. “Grandpa had to help me.”

  “Right. That doesn’t count. You would have felt totally out of control. It probably scared you more than if you’d never handled a gun.”

  “My position remains unchanged.”

  “Okay.” I rub her side with my hand until she relaxes. “I meant what I said. I won’t ever ask you to shoot a gun, or even to come shooting with me, if it bugs you.”

  “I don’t want to even be around one. Ever. I mean it,” she says, looking me in the eye.

  “I get it,” I say.

  “Good.” She snuggles closer, her fingers tracing a pattern on my arm. “I don’t think I’ve ever known someone who’s into guns.”

  “Your grandfather shoots.”

  “He has one gun for hunting. Keeps it locked up. Hates handguns.” I can see her thinking. “It’s not just shooting. You say training like . . . it’s more.”

  Careful. She’s acting too casual, but that question’s been brewing for a while.

  “Survival skills,” I say. “Being able to survive in the woods, find water, what to eat. Shelter. Make fire. Like . . . extreme camping,” I say, even though if someone else called it that, I’d take them down. “When I was little we’d go on a two-week trip every summer, two weeks of hiking deep into the forest, camping, fishing, making do with what we could find and forage. Hiking in areas you could only get to on foot.” I loved it.

  “And now?”

  “And now . . . it’s more than camping.”

  Lucy stares at the ceiling. “Why?” she finally asks.

  “So we know how to take care of ourselves, just in case.”

  “In case,” she repeats. “In case . . . you’re attacked. Or . . .”

  “Attacked. Threatened.” The world goes to hell. I try to figure out how to say it. “There’s some sort of catastrophe. A crisis that threatens order.” She doesn’t say anything, and I feel like she’s waiting for me.

  “Wow,” she finally says, shaking her head. “If my friends could see me now.” She laughs under her breath, and I get that there’s a joke or something in there, one not meant for me. For stupid, backward me.

  “Look,” I say. “I get you don’t see it. That you think this is a load of crap. That’s fine. I’m not going to try to convince you. But you could show the same respect.”

  We lie there in silence. I want to get up, but I don’t want her to watch me get dressed, and then I’d have to wait for her to get dressed. And it seems important that I hold this ground. Plus, she’d have to drive me home, which would make the storming away pretty pathetic.

  She’s tense beside me. Probably thinking the same thing, that it’s my move. But it’s not.

  “I’m not trying to pick a fight,” she says, and I laugh. “Hunting rifles I get. Maybe even some other kinds of guns. But, like, those automatic weapons, or semiautomatic, or whatever? Those things that hold rounds and rounds of bullets? They have no purpose except to kill people.” She looks at me. “Right?”

  “Having them is a strong defense. And then if need be . . . you have to know you can use them.”

  “That’s crap,” she says, sitting up again. “You don’t need a fifty-round or hundred-round or whatever-capacity-bullet thing.” She waves her hand dismissively. “You don’t even need fifteen rounds for defending your home.”

  “You do if the threat has them. Or if you are outnumbered. To defend against a superior force from a distance that keeps you and your loved ones safe. Yes,” I say, “you do.”

  “And you really think you might need to defend yourself or your family against . . . what, an army? The army?”

  There’s no way that I can answer that question without pushing her further away. I could tell her about the theories, about multinational corporations. Dirty bombs. A glass broken on a subway and a whole city goes down in hours. I could tell her about how few times in history anyone has seen revolution or invasion coming, and how much harder it will be to see it next time. I could talk about surveillance and tracking and how the phones and computers aren’t safe. I could talk about the money — how even the money has electronic tracking signatures and too much of it is just data in a computer. I could talk about how close I think we are to crisis. I could mention the DHS and ATF and DEA and a host of other things short of an army that could threaten us, threaten anyone. But nothing I say will make this better.

  “You do.” Her eyes go wide, like she’s seeing me for the first time. I don’t like how the look feels.

  “If we don’t need them, why is the government trying to make them illegal?”

  “Because they are dangerous as shit!”

  “Or maybe because they are the best defense we have.”

  “Wow.”

  Somewhere in there, we both sat up. We sit there in silence, staring at our reflections in the mirror over the dresser.

  “How old were you the first time you shot a gun?” she asks.

  “Six.”

  “Six? Your were six?”

  “It was a small pink rifle. I hated it. I wanted the camouflage one my brother got to use.”

  We stay there in silence, but I can almost hear her brain working.

  “I will never have guns in my house around my kids.”

  “You want to have kids?” My turn to be shocked.

  “Yeah,” she says. “Someday.”

  Wow. I thought one of the benefits of being with girls was you didn’t have to have kids.

/>   “Here,” I say, grabbing my shorts and finding my phone. I pull up YouTube and scroll through my favorites. I play her the video from the school that teaches survival skills — a woman, teaching a group of women how to protect themselves and get away from an attack. And the one from the same school showing techniques for getting out of a city and to safety on foot. And then one of the three gun competitions, with the women who look like pro golfers shooting targets around obstacles for points. Then one of my favorite videos of girls shooting, the youngest a sweet-looking kid who can pop all of the balloons on her target from crazy far. “See, not scary. Not crazy or anything. And very cool.”

  “I guess cool, and no, not scary, but . . . that’s not really all you do, right?”

  I pull up the YouTube channel for the girl in Texas who does all the training videos. But halfway through the first video, I realize this isn’t helping.

  “Okay, wait.” I find the video of the guy who forages and shows you how to find things to eat anywhere — even in the middle of a city. “It’s about being prepared. Like insurance. That’s all.” The video’s long and she seems to be interested, so I go to the bathroom and then get us more water, and when I get back, she’s still scrolling through my phone.

  “So . . . less weirded out?”

  “Yeah,” she says, but I don’t believe her.

  “It doesn’t have to have anything to do with you.” She looks doubtful. “Really.” And it won’t. Soon she’ll be off to college, and then who knows, but she won’t be here.

  We cuddle a little closer under the sheet, and kiss, touch a little, but that’s it. And then we get up and get dressed before her grandparents can come home and catch us for real this time.

  It’s after eleven when Lucy drops me off at the house. I let her drive me all the way up to the house, because it’s not like I can tell her not to after telling her earlier I don’t care who knows.

  “Door to door,” she says. She’s waiting for a kiss.

  The house is all dark except for the light we leave on in the living room when someone’s not home yet, so I let her kiss me.

  It was slow for a Tuesday anyway. The whole summer’s been slow, too slow. And when an inept tree guy takes out the power to the station, it means an early day for me. No sense in all three of us staring at the walls.