The Mammoth Book of International Erotica

by Maxim Jakubowski

  Kathy says the last time I was on my stomach. We made it three times tonight and that last time was really nasty. He was rubbing my neck&back and it felt really good; I was just relaxed and we were talking about things like normal people do; but I was more into his hands and the things those hands were doing. He had his hands on my ass. He reached down to put his mouth there; his tongue was there. I felt a chill. I wanted him. I let him take me. As he touched me, as he screwed me, I closed my eyes and thought of a film that’s soft around the edges.

  Cynthia says I can’t stand the stress anymore; work work work; that’s all I ever seem to do. People yell at me at work – everyone yells at me. CYNTHIA!!!! The customers, too. My boss. My boss’s boss. No one is satisfied. All for the buck, the mighty green buck. The necessity of currency. Look at those people on the news! Scrambling on the trading room floor, the Dow-Jones Industrial Average. People on Wall Street we will never meet having nervous breakdowns as they mess up our lives in ways they may never know. I think I would be happier if I had more control over situations.

  Kathy says you remember what I said the other night. Cyn? I said now look at us: two single girls and no dates; no one asks us out anymore.

  I say but two good-looking single girls.

  Cynthia says modify; I get asked out, but by creeps. Jerks. Older men, too. I should say old men. I bet my boss would like to do me; he hinted at it on occasion. It’s sexual harassment but who cares? If I slept with my boss – if I had – would things be different now?

  Kathy says no one really asks me out; maybe I scare men.

  I say you do – you scare the shit out of me.

  You better be joking.

  I’m mortally terrified of you!

  Hey!

  Cynthia says the world is running out of men, that’s all; suitable men, i.e.: desirable men, i.e.; there will always be creeps&jerks&dirty old coots. I got fired from my job, that’s why I’m home early.

  Kathy says what?

  Cynthia says they said you’re fired and I said well I quit. But I guess maybe it would’ve been better that I was fired, so I could collect unemployment.

  Kathy says why, I thought –

  Cynthia says crap biz; I just couldn’t take it any longer. I said screw you all and they said you’re fired, bitch.

  Kathy says so you have no job?

  Cynthia nods saying another thing to make me less desirable. But I do have some money in the bank, and I’ll get a severance check tomorrow. I have to go out and look for another job; that’s the part I hate. But where am I going to find a job? Maybe I should go back to school and get a degree finally.

  Kathy says you should; you could get financial aid like I do.

  Cynthia says I was never any good in school. Not in high school, not in my two years of college. I was born to work; I’ll work until I die.

  Cynthia stands, stretches, takes her glasses off; she says I think I’m going to take a bath; a nice, long, hot bath; that’s what I’m going to do.

  Cynthia goes to the bathroom, closes the door. We hear the water running.

  Pause.

  Pause.

  Pause.

  Kathy says I feel – I feel bad for her.

  I say yes so do I.

  She says I know what you are thinking.

  What?

  You – you want to go in there.

  In?

  There.

  The bathroom?

  Yes.

  I say do you want me to?

  She says I think I do. I want you to go in there. Will you please go in there? Make her feel better the way you have made me feel better.

  I get up. I go into the bathroom.

  I return to the living room an hour later. Kathy is asleep on the couch. I lift up her legs, sit, place her legs on my lap.

  She wakes, sits up, yawns.

  She says I fell asleep.

  I say I see that.

  She asks how long was I asleep?

  Not long.

  I was having this dream.

  Umm.

  I was – I dunno if I can say. I felt like a spy in this dream; felt like I was witnessing top secret images; felt like I should’ve been enjoined or disbarred from seeing what I was seeing.

  I say enjoined? disbarred? where do you get these words?

  I go to college.

  Oh.

  She says in this dream I was in Heaven; I was in the halls and chambers of Elysium. You knew – you could feel – that at one time there was peace, eternal accord, but it was not so everlasting anymore. No more. Peace was gone, it took a hike. The angels were fighting among themselves – they were . . . I’m, I’m not sure if I should reveal all this to you.

  Why not?

  I was . . . entrusted. If I told you . . . well, I don’t even remember what happened in the dream, so I guess it doesn’t matter . . . Tell me . . . tell me . . .

  What?

  What happened.

  I say it was your dream; I wasn’t there.

  She says in the bathroom, I mean.

  I say Cynthia is in bed; she’s sleeping.

  Kathy says I wanted to go in there; I wanted to go in there and be with you two. Instead . . . I fell asleep and went to Heaven.

  I say she took a bath.

  Kathy says I want all the details.

  There are none.

  There are always details.

  I say I went in there, I went into the bathroom, and I said to her I’ve come to help you. She said you did: well thanks. And she said that she wanted to take a bath that was very warm and with plenty of tiny little bubbles. I thought that was a very good idea. Clean the skin, clean the body, clean one’s hair. She said she didn’t want the water to be too hot; just wanted it relaxing hot; very very warm.

  Kathy says I know what she means.

  I asked if she wanted my help; if she wanted me to assist her in bathing.

  She said?

  She said help should never be refused.

  Yes, that sounds like something she would say; so she took a bath?

  I say she ran the water; we both watched the tub fill; she put in bubbles and the bubbles formed quickly, like a protective layer, like some kind of nest, or armor to hide in.

  Kathy murmurs thousands of tiny little bubbles . . .

  I say I recall, as a child, I would take bubble baths with my toys.

  Kathy says I’ve only taken showers all my life; I don’t take bubble baths; I never have; maybe I’m deprived; maybe someday I will take one.

  I say she said my name; Cynthia said Mike and I asked her if she wanted me to leave and she replied that she thought I was going to help her; so I offered to undress her.

  Did you?

  No. She turned away from me, as if shy; she, yes – demure. She took off her top first; that blouse. I only saw her naked from back, her back, a naked back. Saw her tan line. Noticed a small mole on her back – small&dark. She then removed her skirt, as well as her nylons. I could see her breasts now.

  Kathy says they are bigger than mine.

  I say a little bigger but not that much.

  What color underwear did she have on?

  Pink.

  She likes pink, always has. How girlish of her, hm? Me, I dig green. Army green.

  I say she looked at me for a moment; there was no expression on her face; then she took the underwear off.

  Kathy says she saw you naked a while ago, so now you have seen her.

  I say she doesn’t have any pubic hair; she shaved it all off.

  I know.

  You know?

  She told me.

  She told you?

  Kathy says she said I hate having a hairy bush.

  Oh.

  I guess the hairs bug her.

  Yes; that’s what she told me too.

  Kathy says actually I have seen her naked too.

  You have?

  Yes; we’re roommates; we’re both girls; at least I think we’re girls; we’re close friends, after all.


  I say yes, yes you are; you are friends.

  Goon.

  I say naked, she stood before me naked; the bath&bubbles were ready. She put a foot in to test the temperature, just the sort of image you’d expect. She said it was just right and I knew she’d say that, like a perfect little postcard with dialogue balloon or something; then she got in.

  Kathy says all those bubbles . . .

  I say she rested into the bath; this is when I approached her.

  She says so you went to her.

  I knelt by the tub; asked how she felt; she said she felt much better.

  I guess a bubble bath can do that for you.

  I said to her I want to help.

  Kathy says that’s what you wanted; you went in there for that; I wanted you to go in there and do that; make the connection.

  I took a washcloth in my hand. First, I washed her back. Then her front. Cleansed her breasts. Her breasts were in my hands; nipples were pink took one nipple between my fingers – ever so gently – and caressed it; I wanted to make love to that single nipple.

  And what did she say?

  She didn’t say a word.

  Sometimes she can be the quiet type.

  I washed her stomach; she stood up then, turned around and I washed her ass.

  Kathy says you like a nice ass.

  She had a nice ass, yes; she turned again and I washed her shaved pussy; her cunny; her box. Washed her thighs&legs. Even washed her feet, although I was unworthy.

  And her hair?

  Yes; I put shampoo in her hair, my fingers did their walking on her scalp, all that blonde hair. Then she sat back in the bubbles. She said too bad I don’t have a rubber duck. We both laughed.

  Kathy starts to softly sing rubber ducky, you’re the one, you . . . you make bathtime – la la la la lahh la lots of fun . . . rubber ducky la la la la . . .

  I say I just stood there, looking at her. Then I knelt again. She stared at the wall. We did not talk.

  Not at all?

  But then we did talk; a little bit of talk.

  What did you talk about?

  I say nothing much; I don’t recall; I remember every other detail except what we talked of. I’m not sure how long this lasted. She stood up again and she had all these bubbles on her body. She stepped from the tub. I took a towel and dried her. Dried her from top to bottom, covering the same ground I did as I cleaned her. I helped her dress. First, the pink panties; it was nice to slip them on her, snug them around that ass. She had some PJs there that she was going to wear to bed. I put those on her. I took her in my arms, picked her up like a small wife or child. Like a child. Like an infant in my arms, I carried her to her room. I saw that you were asleep on this couch. I carried her to her bed. Drew the covers up to her neck. She looked like a turtle. I kissed her on the forehead. I came out here and found you still asleep. I sat down, putting your legs on my lap. You woke up and told me of a partial dream about war bound angels. Then I told you this story.

  Kathy says maybe I should have gone into the bathroom with you.

  Maybe.

  Then I wouldn’t have slept or dreamt.

  Tell me about your dream.

  I forget the details; I’ve forgotten the dream.

  I ask were you watching TV?

  I was sleeping.

  Oh. Yes . . . Did you dream?

  I think so. I dunno.

  Cynthia comes out of her room, rubbing her eyes.

  She says I couldn’t sleep.

  I say you seemed so peaceful in your bed.

  Cynthia says I was lying there and I closed my eyes but I knew I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t want to sleep. I didn’t want to have any dreams. I never have nice dreams so the ones I do have I’m afraid of. Why is this? I deserve something nice now&then.

  I tell her to sit down, to sit next to Kathy.

  Cynthia sits.

  I say you two look right together sitting there like that.

  Cynthia says we’ve been friends for a long time.

  Kathy says yes, a long time.

  Cynthia says to her I took a bath, Kathy.

  Kathy says I know.

  He helped.

  He told me.

  He’s helpful&kind.

  He can be.

  Cynthia asks what’s on the TV?

  Kathy says I dunno; I was sleeping; I had this very strange dream.

  I stand, look at them, and sit on the other couch and look more; I say she had a dream about angels.

  Cynthia says really?

  Kathy says I don’t recollect all the details.

  Cynthia says maybe if you went back to sleep you’d dream about it again.

  Kathy says maybe I could go back.

  Cynthia says I hate sleeping; too easy an excuse to hide and I hate excuses.

  Kathy says I guess I could return to that time, I guess I could. I dunno if I’m sleepy or not. I dunno.

  Kathy yawns.

  Cynthia says I was in my room, in bed, in my rented room but a bed that belongs to me; I closed my eyes; I thought I don’t really want to be here. I wanted to be somewhere else.

  Kathy lies down, her legs stretched across Cynthia’s legs.

  Kathy asks am I asleep yet?

  I say it’s hard to say.

  Cynthia caresses one of Kathy’s legs.

  Kathy asks am I dreaming again? now? tell me.

  Cynthia says it’s hard to put your finger on it.

  Kathy goes ummmn; she says can someone tell me a story? then maybe I’ll sleep.

  Cynthia says I don’t know any stories.

  Kathy yawns again and says I dunno . . . I’m just not ready to die yet.

  I have a story. I tell her, I tell both of them, this:

  One Christmas, I went hungry. I lived alone, as I do now, and there was no one in my life, unlike there is now. Usually, I went home every Christmas for a family dinner. I really looked forward to those family meals because they were the rare times I ever ate well. Ever since I was on my own – since I was twenty – let’s say I left home, well not like that, I mean to say that my parents kicked me out of the house when I was twenty, they said it was time for me to grow up and go outside into the real world, and so I lived day to day when it came to food; each day I went out to get lunch I lived on pizza, taco shop specials, submarine sandwiches for a buck-fifty, that sort of thing: this was the extent of my nutrition. None of the girls I knew (I say this with a laugh, waiting to see if Kathy might contradict me) knew how to cook. (I laugh again:) I used to say I’d marry the first girl I met who could cook; who could keep me well-balanced with all the USDA approved daily requirements, the four basics and whatnot. No, I did not eat well, except when I went home – went home on Thanksgiving&Christmases&sometimes my birthdays. Turkey&ham&mashed potatoes&vegetables&candy yams&biscuits that were warm to touch&taste, melting butter on top. Just thinking about it now, thinking about it makes me want to go home&feast, to just go home where it’s safe. Safe, yes, and warm. Sometimes, at home, you just don’t have to think about things. Anyway, one Christmas I didn’t go home for dinner. The ritual had always been: my mother would call the day before and ask what time I’d be coming over tomorrow and I’d say well, what time do you want me over? and she’d say whatever time would be fine. Sometimes I’d go early, sometimes late, depending how I felt; but I could taste that dinner in my mouth, I could feel it in my stomach, I could perceive the wine that went along with it, and I’d know that, that night, I’d go to bed feeling okay with the night, because I’d had, yes, that rare healthy meal. But this one Christmas in question – and it wasn’t long ago – she didn’t call; my mother, I mean to say, did not call. I kept waiting&waiting but the phone did not ring. I had gone out to a party that Christmas Eve, and there were girls at this party, and I got drunk at this party, and I was talking to some of these girls who were also drunk, but, although I think I could have, I did not get into a situation where I may have spent the night with any of them, for at my place, my hom
e, I was alone and always alone, it was my area of solitude, and I kept thinking that night: my God, I might be alone for the rest of my life. I guess Christmas-time can get to you like that. When I returned from the party, I expected a message on my answering machine, from my mother, but there was none. I went to bed. The room was spinning. I wondered why she had not called. I had a dream that night; yes, Kathy, I too can dream – I dreamt that my mother&father came to see me and they said we’re really disappointed in you, son; we know what you did and the price you had to pay and are paying even now. They said they were saddened by the horrible things I had done, the acts committed, the crimes realized. They said you should not have abandoned Beth and left her to the wolves. I protested, I defended my innocence like a man facing the guillotine. I said I hadn’t done anything, that I was merely a victim of circumstance; I was only acting on my fears&needs so how could I be held accountable for being human? I said I was fragile. That speeding car, her swiftness with a knife, that violent night on an alien lawn under a full moon of dismay, none of that was my goddamn fault! I woke up from this dream and for some reason I felt my parents were dead. But no no no, I told myself, it was a dream and everything was okay. I told myself that my mother would call; she’d call and I’d go over and I’d have a good dinner that Xmas. I could just smell that food. So I waited for the phone call. Maybe they did hate me for some reason, I thought; maybe there was some validity to that dream. So I phoned home; I broke down and phoned over there to find out why they had not phoned me. My mother answered; I felt relief. She was sick, she said she was sick. The flu. My father as well, she said. They were both sick, felt very bad. I asked aren’t you going to make that big Xmas dinner? because I was very hungry and she said no, she said they were both too sick to eat and they couldn’t even get out of bed. I did not confess that I was hungry. She said well, merry Christmas: it doesn’t really feel like Christmas, does it? I said no. You see, I didn’t have any money. After I got off the phone, I looked into the fridge for something to eat. I had a few hot dogs and an apple and an orange. I watched A Christmas Carol on the TV; bah humbug and all that usual stuff. I knew this food would not be enough but it was all I had. I never felt. . . well, I told myself that this would never happen again; I’d never allow myself to be this lonely again; to be that lonely. Then, I’d never have to be hungry. And I would never face the full moon with such antipathy.