I ask her about work. She says she has a gallery opening on track, much more smoothly than anticipated, and it makes her happy. It’s some kind of modern art affair, and the pieces are by this dude who paints popular children’s cartoon characters with skulls for faces—“It’s some fake, edgy stuff I don’t understand,” Kate says. “Something about the evils of commercialism. Oh, and they’re selling the art on T-shirts that cost sixty dollars.”
We get to her apartment, and there’s a doorman who greets her by name, which I marvel at. She lives way up high, on the twenty-fifth floor.
She opens the door. It’s… cozy. There’s a partition between the kitchen and bedroom areas, but it has a giant hole in it so you can see right through. She’s put a shelf there like a pretty beehive, decorated with succulents, books, and a neglected scarf. The bed is simple, wood-backed and blue-sheeted, messily made up with a corner flipped open where Kate probably crawled out of bed in the morning.
“Oh, it’s…”
“Small?”
“I guess? But it’s really nice. I can never seem to figure out how to make a place homey, you know? Other than buying furniture that sorta matches, and putting books up on shelves. But you look like you’ve really moved in here.”
“Where do you live?”
“Hell’s Kitchen. It’s a one-bedroom, bigger than this.”
“Rent must be killer.”
“Not really, actually. The landlady’s son died in the building, and ever since then it’s been cheaper.”
“That is… sad.” Kate goes into her little kitchenette, which is really just a fridge and stovetop occupying the corner of the room. She opens a cramped cabinet. “I have ingredients for pasta. Can you make pasta?”
“Yeah, of course!”
The conversation peters out when I start boiling water in a pot. I bump into Kate when I turn around to ask where things are—she goes, “Oop,” then laughs, and it’s just a little awkward. She offers to chop vegetables; I almost say I’ll do it, then my vision swims, and I remember how little sleep I’ve gotten. So she handles the knives.
She lightly touches my waist as she moves behind me, just to let me know she’s there, ostensibly. I’m grateful to her, for playing the role. Subtlety has never been my strong suit, and I’m even worse at it strung out on coffee and nightmare-sleep. It’s like trying to navigate the world drunk, except your eyes hurt from being dry and there’s no happy buzz. Sensations are delayed, but not dulled.
Part of me just wants to bury myself in Kate’s skin. Another part of me is too tired at even the thought. As I turn to grab a spoon, Kate opens a cabinet—right into my head.
“Oh my god! I’m so sorry!”
I’m laughing, mostly to keep her from being embarrassed. Then I realize I’ve been laughing too long, and it’s getting creepy now—but when I shut up, that’s creepy too. I turn away quickly, going back to what I was doing, which was stirring the pot. Kate reaches up to brush a piece of onion stuck to my cheek—I move away without thinking. Eventually it’s kind of like she’s chasing me and I’m running away—am I running away? I try to do the opposite, to stay still, but then I’m stiff as a board, taking up too much space in a kitchen that’s not mine.
Cooking seems to take forever. What’s usually a winding-down activity for me feels like a punishment, and not the sexy kind. Why do I feel like this? What is so different about this, why can’t I just connect to Kate as easily as I did on our first date? Was that a fluke? Gods, please don’t let it have been a fluke.
I twirl the noodles all nice with a fork before setting them on two plates, sprinkling a little parsley on top. We sit down next to each other at a little plastic table that Kate unfolds in front of the bed, each with a glass of water, a placemat, and nice utensils, like we’re having another dinner date despite the cheap plastic and the cramped quarters. We clink glasses of water and each take a bite.
…Oh.
Oh no.
I put my head in my hands. “Oh, gods. I forgot the salt.”
Kate’s voice is sympathetic but uncertain. “It’s okay, we can just… add it now?”
We damn well can’t add it now, but we try anyway. I watch Kate twirl a generous amount of spaghetti onto her fork and take a big bite. The next twirl is less generous, but she braves on, chewing more aggressively as if that’ll help. She’s brought the third bite up to her lips when I interrupt her with, “Listen, do you want to make ramen? I’m so sorry I fucked up the spaghetti, but I can do ramen all fancy with an egg.”
She laughs out loud, her lipstick stained off her lips from eating. “Oh, thank god.”
Something kind of cracks—and we just burst into laughter, all the weird tension of the spaghetti-cooking popping like a balloon. We get out two king-sized bowls of Shin ramen and dump them all into a huge pot. Nothing has to be perfect anymore—I stop feeling like I’m performing, like I’m putting on a show. I crack an egg badly and get yolk all over my hand; she laughs and cracks one perfectly. I grab her wrists and she play-wiggles out, going, “Ew!”
“Ha, now we’re both slimy!”
“I swear, if you give me salmonella—”
I feel it again, the cracking of the facade from our date, the ease with which we can just exist once we remember how good we are together. And when the ramen finishes, it tastes delicious. I have to let go of the metal chopsticks after leaving them in the hot broth too long. Kate spills a little on the plastic table we’re using. Halfway through my bowl, I start sniffling—which is ridiculous, I eat spicy ramen all the time—and then I’m relieved to see her doing the same. She hands me a box of tissues from the bedside table.
“Oh, my stomach is going to hate me for this,” I say, blowing my nose as she follows suit. I turn to look at her; her nose is reddened from the tissue, her makeup wiped off in that one spot. I don’t think she’s noticed. I spot an orange fleck on the corner of her mouth and pull another tissue to dab it off. “Here, you have soup on your—”
She jumps, and grabs my hand. I startle.
“Oh—sorry,” I say.
Kate is blinking, her chest rising and falling. “No, I—”
She holds my hand, gently. And we just stay like that, her holding my hand near her face. My stomach is doing this hot, swirly thing, and not just because of the ramen.
“Hey, can I kiss you?” I ask. I could have worded it more romantically, but it just spills out, way too casual, in a way that makes me want to kick myself.
But her lips part and she breathes out, “Yes.”
I’m not nervous. I rarely am, moments like this. It’s like my brain shuts off the part of me that could get overwhelmed and freeze, and I just plow on blindly, unable to gauge my status, only able to keep moving. Is it stupid? Is it good? Is it bad? I don’t know. I can’t know.
So I kiss her to find out.
The kiss is soft, tentative, and wet with chili powder. When we break apart, she laughs and plucks a tiny piece of seaweed off my lower lip.
“You taste like ramen,” she says.
“You taste like ramen.”
“At least I don’t taste like cat food.”
“Oh no!” I cover my face. “You remembered that!”
“You think I could forget?” But she’s still leaning in to kiss me again, sucking on my top lip and sliding her tongue against mine so that I start to fumble, getting hot.
When we pull apart, I mumble, “Hey, do you want to—you know—”
“Probably have to rinse our mouths first. But… are you down?” She holds my hand and tugs me across the studio, to her kitchen corner. “Here, I have mouthwash—”
“Mouthwash? In your kitchen and not your bathroom?”
“Kitchen and bathroom. I don’t like having gross breath after eating.”
We’re talking rapidfire, as if we can fill the seconds with more words to stretch them out, pretending we’re not quickenin
g our steps, like our blood’s not pumping and we’re not racing toward the same horizon.
“Why don’t you just brush your teeth?”
“Haven’t you heard of overbrushing?”
“Over-what?”
Is she nervous? Am I nervous?
I stand against the narrow counter next to the stovetop and knock back a cap of antiseptic, swish it around, and spit it into the sink. I pour another cap and hand it to her. She gargles it and spits it out. She comes back up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “So, what do you—”
I’m already hoisting her up to the counter by her waist. She gasps at that, hands fluttering at mine—I let go instantly. “Sorry, was that okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, totally—”
I cover her mouth with mine, a little desperately, pressing her close. She smells like vanilla and brown sugar, tastes like spearmint, and when I fumble open a button on her blouse she pops the next two with slim, quick fingers. She’s warm—bodies generally are, you really can’t distinguish someone’s identity by touch alone, does it really matter—and she startles when my hands touch her bare collarbones. They must be colder than I thought. I could apologize—but she’s warm and I don’t want to stop touching her—fuck, fuck it.
“Fuck what?” she asks. I didn’t know I’d said that last part out loud, but I’m already sinking, pushing up the hem of her skirt. It’s tight and I hear a single stitch pop before she wiggles to get it up herself—then I pull down her tights, only to find another pair of tights.
“I said I was cold, didn’t I?” she huffs, pushing down the second pair. I could laugh, but instead I seal my lips to her underwear, and she goes “Ahhah—”
The fibers are dry on my tongue, but I feel the outline of her hard clit straining through the fabric. I use a hooked finger to pull her panties to the side; she’s wet, trimmed low-maintenance style so her short, coarse hairs are plastered to her outer lips with sweat and cum. I flutter my tongue against her, slipping up and down—taste her, just a little to start—
“I-inside, fuck me inside—”
I slip my tongue into her and she’s scorching hot, the sour-bitter taste of her thickening. She bucks her hips and groans, frustrated—so I pull my tongue out, suck two of my fingers down to the third joint, and glide in. This is good, this is simple—I curl my fingers and she cries out, simple cause and effect. Just let me do this for you, for me.
I need her to come. I need to make her come and if I don’t I’m gonna scream. It’s not her fault, I know that, but I just need to be in control of something right now, I need to be useful to someone right now and this is all I have to give all I ever have to give—
She yelps as she comes, in short, sharp, stuttering bursts. A cabinet door knocks against the wall as she hangs onto the handle for dear life—and I don’t stop, the lactic acid burn in my wrist just making me go harder, until she grabs me by the wrist and gasps, “Stop, stop stop, oh fuck fuck fuck,” and I stop.
She leans back, panting with her eyes closed. I delicately wipe some sweat off her forehead, with the hand not covered in pussy juice.
“You stone?” she says.
“Hmm?”
“Are you stone? Because I want to put on a dick and fuck you, right now.”
“Oh—no, nope, not stone at all, totally a dick-loving bottom.”
She starts kicking off her double-layered tights where they’re still tangled around her ankles. “We’re not done. I don’t usually let someone take me by surprise like that, now I’m all riled up and you are in a lot of trouble, cutie.”
I grin, helping her peel off her tights. “Oh, so I was handsome yesterday, and a cutie today, huh?”
She hops off the counter and grabs me by the belt buckle, push-pulling me toward the bed. “You’re gonna be whatever I want you to be, babe.”
She has my belt open before we reach the bed, and the plastic table gets shoved into a corner as we topple onto the mattress. I kick my pants off, and she grips my bare thighs hard enough to make them cramp—I shiver, licking my lips, grabbing the hem of my sweater to pull it over my head.
I freeze. My hands won’t move. When I try to peel my sweater off, it feels—oversensitive, raw, painful, almost. Like—like I’m trying to peel off a layer of skin.
“Can I… keep this on, do you think?” I ask. “It’s not you, I’m just—I’m having this weird flare-up—”
“Yeah, sure! You mean, to cover—?” Her eyes go to my neck, where the turtleneck hides my scar.
That wasn’t what I was thinking about, but it makes for a good excuse. I nod.
“Yeah, of course, whatever makes you comfortable.” She kisses my cheek, and I smile—then moan as she slips down to the underside of my jaw, licking wetly. “And I think sweater sex is pretty hot.”
She grabs a box from under the bed as I shimmy off my underwear; she pulls from it a harness, jockstrap-style, with a swirly blue dick already fitted onto it. I bite my lip when I see it, reaching down to rub my tingling clit, feeling how wet I already am. Kate pulls out a condom packet. “Here, let me,” I say, reaching for it.
She kneels on the bed and I bend down with the condom in my mouth, held between my teeth with my tongue pressed into the reservoir tip. It tastes rubbery, as condoms tend to do—eh, at least there’s no spermicide on it. I press my tongue to the tip of her dick through the rubber, then use my teeth to unroll the condom onto her shaft—I end up with all of her in my mouth, nudging the back of my throat, the bitter taste of lube coating my palate. I crane my neck to look up at her, blinking innocently.
“Oh, I am going to mess you up,” she purrs, grabbing me by the head and pushing me down further.
For the next hour, my mind just blanks out. To be honest, I don’t even remember all of it. But it’s good, and the toxic shit just pours out of me in buckets of sweat and lube and cum. I only really retain photographic snippets—like three of her fingers crowding my tongue, the way she folds me in half so the backs of my thighs burn in the outline of stocking seams, the way she slides under my sweater with both hands to grab my waist and thrust harder. I find my way back somewhere around the time she shoves down one side of her harness to shake her clit furiously until she comes—good thing too, because I was just starting to get unbearably raw.
Eventually, we’re both face-down on the small bed, her head tucked into the natural pillow of my armpit, my other arm dangling over the side.
“Was that as good for you as it was for me?” I mumble into the pillow.
She laughs, cackles, really. “Oh, it was great for me. I didn’t think your voice could even go that high. What about you? I don’t think you got to come after that first time—?”
“Oh, don’t worry about that, I am way too tired to come right now. You fucked me real good.”
So good that I’m getting sleepy. Sleepy is bad.
She’s cuddling me and it feels good, but the whole time I’m just trying to think of a way to get to the pill bottle in my coat. It’s especially bad because I can’t even tell her I need to take a pill—I remember, painfully, that I lied to her about taking drugs on our first date. And maybe this is just the post-sex endorphin crash, but I don’t feel so good about it.
She falls asleep with her hair in my mouth, snoring like a buzzsaw. I get up cautiously, picking my way to the chair where my coat is. I swallow two pills dry, then regret it by the way they stick painfully in my throat, and hastily swallow some water.
“Harry?” Kate calls, her voice croaky and soft with sleep. “Where’d you go?”
“Water and pee, UTIs and all that.”
I sneak into the bathroom, just to add credibility to my excuse. I catch my reflection in the mirror—even in the dim light, my face is flushed. That’s kinda cute. I press a hand to my cheek, feeling how warm it is, and try a smile—ooh, no, not so much teeth. And don’t open your eyes so wide, what are you, a corpse? There
. That’s nice. Handsome, like Kate said. See, you can keep it together. You can be normal. Look how nice it is to be normal.
I go back to the bed, and Kate buries her face in my arm. And then I do that thing I do after I’ve taken a pill, drifting off without drifting off. I stare at the popcorn ceiling, memorize it the way I’ve memorized other ceilings, the shape of Kate’s standing lamp being burned into the space behind my eyelids. My eyes sting like they’re dry and tacky, but I can’t close them. It’s this state of painful, too-much existence, a state of having no function, no wants other than rest, and a complete inability to access that want.
I’d forgotten how much taking these stupid pills sucks.
My phone rings from the chair. I almost ignore it, and I would if I could fall asleep. But Kate starts to stir, so I sneak out of bed to pick it up. It’s cold; I wish I had pants on, but I can’t seem to find them.
Unknown number. I stand in only my sweater in the middle of the room, and I answer in Korean just in case it’s a telemarketer. “Yeoboseyo?”
“H-hello?”
The caller sounds young, startlingly so. I snap out of it. “Yes?”
“Is this—Harry—Harry-something Lee?”
I keep my voice hushed, so as not to wake Kate. “Harrietta Lee, yeah. Who is this?”
“P-please, don’t hang up, I don’t have anyone else to help me—”
My reflex is to comfort, even without calculating the risks. “Hey, hey, it’s alright, I’m here, I’m not leaving. What’s wrong?”
“I—can I meet with you? Please? I can’t—can’t really explain this over the phone, but I heard that I could trust you, that you know about this kind of thing, please, just—”
My heartbeat is speeding up and my gut is collapsing, caving in like a dying star. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Everything is wrong with this call.
“—Please, I think this is about—I don’t know if you’ll believe me, just please don’t hang up—”
“Demons?” The word just comes out of me.
Silence on the other end. Then a sort of wracked, muffled sob, like the caller is covering their own mouth.
Flytrap Page 9