by C. D. Payne
“Jiri Mestan seems to think you’re not a woman.”
Mrs. Fulke colored and looked at her crud-caked shoes.
“Why, why whatever do you mean?” I gulped.
“Your passport identifies you as a female, but to be frank, Morag, your appearance leaves this open to question. As your employer, I have to be concerned that you might not be who you claim to be.”
“It’s true that my voice is not as bird-like as it once was,” I admitted. “But I used to smoke unfiltered Camels—the cigarettes, not the animals.”
“It’s not just your voice, Mrs. Fulke. Frankly, your mannerisms are rather masculine.”
“That’s not a very complimentary remark,” I said, offended. “What would you like me to do—undress?”
“OK, if you don’t mind.”
Damn. She would call my bluff. My reeling mind grasped for a Plan B.
“Well, Madame Poco, I must confess there was some, uh, confusion when I was born. My parents made the difficult decision to raise me as a girl.”
“I see. And yet you have a son?”
“Actually, Stanley is my nephew. My dear departed sister was much less, uh, ambiguous.”
“And Mr. Fulke?”
“He was a very understanding gentleman. He had no complaints in that department, if you must know.”
Now it was Madame Poco’s turn to blush.
“That’s fine, Morag. I understand. We circus people are very welcoming to persons, uh, outside the norms. I’ll tell Jiri to mind his own business.”
“Thank you, Madame Poco. I appreciate it. Your caravan is very nice. And so spacious.”
“Why thank you, Morag.”
“Should you ever require the services of a maid, I’d be happy to apply for that position.”
“Oh? Well, uh, I’ll keep that in mind.”
“I wouldn’t smell so bad then, you know—not having to associate with animals all the time.”
“Yes, I understand, Morag. I know how taxing your current job can be.”
She gave me a smile and we shook hands. A very firm grip for a woman. Kissable lips too. Some wrinkles, but not yet at the appalling stage. Yes, no doubt about it. I could do her.
6:12 p.m. “Resourcefulness” has been announced as the theme of tonight’s Tour de Wife contest. We are to gather in the cookhouse after the evening performance. As a former Cub Scout, I feel particularly well-equipped in that category. Only two more contests to go after this one, and then dearest Reina will be mine. Though we may not be able to marry for some time, I expect our intimacies will progress immediately to a higher plane (or, as you rigid moralists may fear, to a more horizontal plane).
11:53 p.m. A difficult evening. My poor wrists are rubbed raw. Not surprisingly, the committee’s test for “Resourcefulness” was a bit more sadistic than even my scoutmaster’s. The three combatants were made to lie down in the cookhouse tent. Then our ankles and knees were tied and our wrists bound behind our backs—all with strong nylon slip ties. We were left on the ground trussed up like turkeys while everyone else exited chuckling. First person to emerge unfettered from the cookhouse would be the winner.
Now it’s one thing to wiggle out of ropes. My old pal Lefty and I used to borrow his mom’s clothesline and tie each other up occasionally for sport. Even our tightest knots never held for long, because a rope you can work back and forth to loosen. But those nylon ties hold fast no matter how much you squirm. And their narrow edges can cut into your flesh. So we three grubs rolled around on the grass looking for something sharp to rub against. The folding tables and chairs were either aluminum or plastic—too soft to cut tough plastic. And all the sharp-edged cooking implements were locked up tight in the commissary caravan that closed off the open end of the three-walled tent.
Tarkan was the first to get lucky. Under one of the tables he scrounged up an unused kitchen match. Jiri spotted him trying to light it with his teeth.
“Tarkan, no!” he shouted.
I translated Tarkan’s mumbled reply as, “Fuck off. It’s my match. I found it first.”
“Yes, but what you do with it? Match won’t burn long enough to help you. I tell you what. I get cigarette butt from ashtray. Then you light my cigarette.”
“Jiri, can’t you forget about smoking for one minute?” I demanded.
“Shut up, Mrs. Fulke,” he replied. “Tarkan, you light my cigarette, I burn off your wrist tie. Then you free me. We cooperate and go out together. We share first place.”
Tarkan thought this over.
“OK, Jiri,” he mumbled. “Go get a cigarette butt. The longest one you can find.”
“Great, Tarkan. We be partners. But you promise to free me too. Right?”
“Sure, I promise.”
“Hey, what about me?” I called.
“Mrs. Fulke, go fuck yourself,” said Jiri, working himself upright, flopping down on a table, and nosing through an ashtray.
“Why these cheap fuckers have to smoke their cigarettes so far?”
He lurched over to another table and located a half-smoked Gauloise. Then the two conspirators got nose-to-nose on the ground, and Tarkan swiped his match against a chair leg. On the third try, it flared into life—nearly setting his moustache on fire—but soon Jiri was puffing away madly on his butt.
“Hey, go easy on that,” cried Tarkan, spitting out the match and swiveling around to present his wrists to Jiri’s face.
Soon I smelled the acrid aroma of burning plastic.
“Hey, don’t burn me!” yelled Tarkan.
“Sorry, I can’t see this close up,” mumbled Jiri.
In less than a minute, Tarkan’s hands were free and he was rubbing his wrists. Then he grabbed the cigarette from Jiri’s lips and burned through the ties around his knees and ankles.
“OK, Tarkan, now you do me,” said Jiri.
“Oh, right. I almost forgot.”
Tarkan bent down, applied the lit cigarette to the back of Jiri’s neck, then snuffed it out on the ground with his foot.
Much bellowing from his injured partner as the backstabbing Turk exited the tent.
“Did you really believe you could trust that fink?” I asked, rubbing my wrist tie against the dull steel edge of the commissary bumper. With luck, I thought, I might be free by morning.
“Shut up, Mrs. Fulke!” screamed Jiri, nosing around in the dirt.
Miraculously, he managed to revive the stepped-on butt and soon was inhaling restorative tobacco poisons. He then bent forward and burned through his knee tie. Progress, I suppose, but only Violet could contort far enough to reach the critical ankle and wrists ties. Jiri spat out his butt (it was down to the filter) and rolled over near me. He kicked up on the metal steps that folded out under the commissary door, placed his feet between the steps and their frame, and leaned his knees against the top step. With a startling snap, this leverage action broke his ankle tie. He then maneuvered his wrists into the same position and shoved back against the step. From the intensity of his scream, I gathered that he cut through some skin as well as his wrist constraints. But the resourceful guy was free as a bird. He clutched his bleeding wrists and walked over to me.
“Poor Mrs. Fulke finish last,” he taunted. “Now we see if you really a lady.”
And then the cad rudely thrust a probing hand down the front of my pink stretch pants. Yes, he found the prize in the Cracker Jacks box. I lunged to bite him, but he pulled away too fast.
“Mrs. Fulke is no lady,” he sneered, wiping his blood on my blouse.
“If you tell anyone I’m a hermaphrodite,” I hissed, “Madame Poco will never sleep with you again.”
“You are very sick person, Mrs. Fulke. I never let any Fulkes touch my Reina. Never! Now I go murder that lying Turk.”
Another knockdown fight just outside the tent. Lots of grunting, cursing, and flying fists impacting noses, eyes, mouths, etc. It went on for some time while forgotten Mrs. Fulke lay on the ground in post-molestation wretchedness. At last t
he fight wound down, and someone remembered the missing third-place finisher.
An unresourceful failure, I never freed myself from a single bond. But where is it written that a good husband should be like Harry Houdini? It seems to me the whole point of marriage is to get yourself thoroughly shackled, not to liberate yourself through unprincipled treachery. Later, I brought up this point with Reina, and she said the committee’s original plan had been much more extreme. They were going to truss us up, drive 20 kilometers out into the boondocks, and dump us in some pitch-black field. Very sick, as Jiri would say. The new rankings: Tarkan - 28, Jiri - 32, Mrs. Fulke -32.
The fistfight turned out much like the first one: Tarkan got a few bruises and rowdy Jiri was beaten to a pulp. Couldn’t have happened to a more deserving cretin.
WEDNESDAY, August 17 — Despairing Jiri had to suck his breakfast through a straw today. His swollen lips are too sore for normal eating. Also swollen is his horribly discolored left eye and the knuckles of his right hand. He must have landed some blows on sturdy Tarkan, though you can hardly tell to look at the brute. The renowned Cirque Coco-Poco band may be achieving even more musical lows today. At least Jiri is in solid with his employer, assuming other parts of his body were not similarly ravaged.
More bad news for Jiri. This morning the committee announced the results of their on-going spying effort. It turns out the theme of the secret Tour de Wife contest was “Helpfulness.” Lots of groans and boos from the company when Donk divulged this. Yeah, I agree. That’s a pretty dull virtue to sneak around in hopes of spotting. I was expecting something more intriguing like “Sophistication of Musical Tastes” or “Ability To Live with Large Cud-chewing Animals.”
Believe it or not, Tarkan was named “Most Helpful.” The committee cited his assistance to Reina in hitching and unhitching her caravan, leveling said vehicle, hauling birds and props, and running errands in town. He also was observed bringing her home-cooked Turkish snacks and offering her his hand when traversing “difficult terrain.” All classic “get-in-your-pants” subterfuges if you ask me.
Mrs. Fulke placed second and was commended for “assisting Reina with her laundry, grocery shopping, and bathroom cleanup.” Rude, self-centered Jiri awarded honorable mention for “passing the salt at table when requested.” The latest rankings: Tarkan - 33, Jiri - 33, Mrs. Fulke - 35.
Of course, it’s a lot easier to be helpful when you have a doting Turkish mother preparing your snacks, and you don’t have to spend 12 hours a day cleaning animal cages. Clearly, I was robbed. But I’m still in the lead. And even if I come in second in the final contest tomorrow, I still finish tied for first. Mrs. Fulke is sitting pretty in Fat City. Yes, tomorrow we’re playing for all the marbles, as the sports commentators invariably say.
2:47 p.m. I fear Jiri may have spilled the beans about Mrs. Fulke’s alleged hermaphroditism. Lots of peculiar sideways glances directed my way from members of the company. I kept having to retreat to the doniker to check if my makeup on correctly. It was. And now receiving frosty reception from other gals encountered therein. Captain Lapo suddenly giving me the cold shoulder too. What’s it to him if I am a “chick with a dick”? He was never going to get anywhere near my pants anyway.
4:27 p.m. Ugly incident in the monkey cage just now. Mrs. Fulke was shoveling away when who should appear on the scene but Madame Poco in the company of several elderly Frogs and two gendarmes. I gathered that the old dames were local Béziers animal rights busybodies inspecting conditions at our circus. Not an offensive turd in sight, but they had to dawdle to make faces at the cute baby monkey. Charmed by their attentions, Number 14 decided to demonstrate his developing dexterity by leaping onto Mrs. Fulke’s chest. Before I could react, the little pervert pulled down the neckline of my blouse, reached in a hairy paw, and plucked out a great white lump of bra padding. This he carried back to his mother, who chuckled approvingly and gave it an exploratory sniff. Meanwhile, the humans gaped at me in open-mouthed astonishment. I smiled uneasily and pulled up my blouse. Damn, how was it possible I had grown a forest of chest hair overnight? Madame Poco said something in French, the old ladies tittered, the cops peered at me suspiciously, and they all wandered off in the direction of the bear cage.
Paul was right. Once again the littlest monkey had stabbed me in the back.
7:12 p.m. Very quiet around the old folks’ table in the cookhouse at dinner tonight. I fear controversial Mrs. Fulke may be making everyone uncomfortable. Most difficult to be an outsider even in circus culture. Madame Poco giving me dirty looks too. I stared at my plate and gobbled down my food in record time. Then I was out of there fast.
Ostracized once again by my peers. And just when I was starting to feel at home.
11:09 p.m. I was holed up in the camel van with the light out when someone knocked on my door.
“Who is it?” I called, fearing the worst.
“It’s me, Morag. Reina.”
I put down my oranges and let her in.
“What are you doing, Morag?” she inquired.
“Juggling in the dark. Marcel told me it’s a good way to practice.”
“I talked to Madame Poco, Morag.”
“Oh?”
“She said you told her you were a hermaphrodite, but now she doesn’t know what to believe.”
I sighed, Reina sighed. At a loss for words, I kissed her instead. She didn’t seem to mind.
“All we have to do, Reina, is make it through another month with the circus. I’ll think of something to tell Madame Poco.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know yet. But I’m a resourceful guy.”
“Are you? As I recall you came in third.”
“Don’t worry. And I plan to be way more helpful than Tarkan too.”
“Frankly, Rick, so far you haven’t been.”
“Reina, do you want to marry some guy who burns people with lit cigarettes?”
“Tarkan said that was an accident.”
“It was no accident. I watched him do it. It was very deliberate.”
“I should never have agreed to this contest, Rick. It’s brought out the worst in all of you.”
“I think it’s been very educational. And don’t forget, darling, I’m in the lead.”
She didn’t pull away when I cupped my hands around her breasts.
“Rick, this has been the strangest summer of my life.”
I kissed her hungrily; she pushed her body against mine. Many minutes later, we came up for air. She rested her head on my shoulder and hugged me close.
“What are you doing, Rick?”
“Caressing your nipples through your shirt. How does it feel?”
“Rather dangerous. I advise you to stop.”
I was never one to take unsolicited advice.
“Why doesn’t it feel like that, Rick, when I do it?”
“I don’t know, darling. I think it has to do with the way the brain is wired.”
“Very curious, Rick. There seems to be a direct connection between my breasts and . . . and another part of my body.”
I made an educated guess and placed a hand on that part. She moaned and nibbled lightly on my ear.
“Remind me again, Rick,” she gasped, “how old you’ll be when I’m 40.”
“An equally ancient 38,” I replied, stroking lightly up and down with my middle finger.
“Oh dear,” she sighed. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.”
And then I felt her body go quite rigid as the cataclysm approached and finally engulfed her. She clung to me as ripples of energy coursed up and down her body.
“My God, Rick,” she said at last. “Did you do that to me?”
“Well, it wasn’t the camels.”
“Are you, uh, equally excited?”
“Oh, you might say that.”
“Can I see it?”
“Sure.”
I pulled down Mrs. Fulke’s stretch pants and displayed the desperately over-stimulated organ. Reina studied
it with interest in the dim light.
“I don’t see how it could fit.”
“It will, take my word for it.”
“Shall I touch it?”
“Sure.”
“It’s very warm and hard.”
She gave it a few tentative strokes.
“If you keep that up, darling, you’re going to get a nasty surprise.”
“I don’t mind, Rick. I want to see how it works.”
Seconds later I demonstrated the process in its explosive entirety. Reina seemed to find it most fascinating.
“And you propose to do all that inside me someday?” she inquired.
I kissed her and pulled up my pants. “Yes, darling, that is my greatest dream.”
THURSDAY, August 18 — I’m writing this in a small café in Bèziers, where I’m enjoying the customary French protein-free breakfast. Decided I better avoid the cookhouse for a few meals since I haven’t thought of anything to say to Madame Poco. I’m hoping she’ll lose interest in the subject. After all, she’s a busy circus manager, and Mrs. Fulke is merely her lowest peon. I’m sure she has more important things to worry about.
The businessmen of Bèziers come in looking sharp in their neat dark suits and stand at the counter, where they drink their café au laits and read their newspapers. I envy their orderly, established lives. I wonder what, if anything, they think of the old lady in the corner typing on her laptop. Would they be surprised to learn she is a famous video star on the lam? Do they dread going to the office or do they look forward to their jobs? Do they wish they had more exciting lives in Paris, or are they content with their sedate small town? Hard to tell their states of mind since the French not big on smiling. Would I trade places with them? Sometimes I think I might.
Another anniversary coming up. Tomorrow it will be one year since I met Sheeni Saunders at that trailer park at Clear Lake. One year since that cute stranger whispered “Your robe’s open” as I passed her by the men’s shower. Three provocative words and my life ran straight off a cliff. What a ride it’s been, and how I wish she were here sharing this table with me. She would sip her coffee and read the newspaper—pausing now and again to inform me indignantly of the idiocies going on in the world. I would smile, and admire the passion with which she spoke, and feel again a sense of pride that this marvelous person chose to associate with me. But if I linger on this subject, I’ll only depress myself.