The Virgin of Flames

by Chris Abani

  There was another memory. On hot nights, when the fever burned too hot in her, he would go into her room to wrap a wet blanket around her, but she would be masturbating hard and furious and fast, her legs splayed wide open, fingers peeling the pink and brown of her, a smile on her face, and she wouldn’t stop, even when she could see him standing there not knowing where to look, wanting to and not wanting to, nauseous from his own curiosity. And then he would flee, chased by her maniacal laughter and loud groans.

  But he couldn’t tell Sweet Girl any of that.

  “Why don’t you tell me about your family,” he said instead.

  She pushed against him and stood up. “You know, I don’t talk about my family. They betrayed me when I needed them most, because I was different. They disagreed with my life choices, said I was unnatural and threw me out. What is more unnatural than throwing your child away, cutting yourself from yourself?” she said.

  He stood up and squeezed her hand.

  “How did you get this up here?” she asked.

  “It’s a spaceship,” he said.

  The wind hadn’t let up. If anything it had gained velocity. It was tearing at the branches of the trees and was blowing even more and more ash down on the city, and from the ship they could see that Cesar Chavez looked like a bomb had gone off in the vicinity. The ash was nearly an inch thick, but still people were dancing in the street. The ship was swaying so badly it was hard to stay upright. Sweet Girl leaned into him.

  “Are you sure this thing is safe?” she asked him.

  “It’s okay,” Black said.

  She smiled.

  “I trust you. So does it fly?”

  “No.”

  “Not yet anyway,” she said. He looked pained. “I’m just kidding,” she added.

  “I know.”

  She peered into the dark interior of the ship.

  “Does it at least have a light?”

  He flicked the switch on and immediately regretted it as the light picked up the board with the photographs. The alcohol was clouding his reason and he’d forgotten about them.

  “Wow,” Sweet Girl said, walking into the ship. “It’s beautiful.”

  She could stand upright and not hit her head against the roof, though it was a tight fit. Then she saw the board and the photographs. She walked over to it. Studied herself. Touched the photos. He wanted to say, Don’t worry, it’s not what it looks like. I can explain. But the truth was, he couldn’t. Maybe she could.

  “Black,” she said, and her voice was tender.

  He didn’t answer.

  “How long have you been following me?”

  He didn’t answer. She studied the board intently.

  “This is amazing,” she said, and there was a kind of awe to her voice.

  “You’re not freaked out?”

  “Hell yes, I’m freaked out. But something else too. I feel loved. Is that crazy?”

  It sounded crazy to him, but he said nothing.

  “I feel like if you went to all this trouble, you must really like me. Love me even.”

  Black didn’t think he loved her. He wasn’t even sure he liked her. He was just drawn to her. Sometimes that was all there was. An inexplicable draw.

  “I guess,” he said.

  “Let’s go back to your room,” Sweet Girl said.

  As they descended, it seemed as though they were moving through a strange landscape. The city of angels had become the city of ash and wind. There were fires burning on the side of the road. A few stores had their windows broken and people were making off with loot. Police helicopters crisscrossed the sky, lights picking up every movement down below. Media copters flew close by them, waiting like buzzards for the action. And yet the whole city seemed to be waiting, the wind the only thing with a clear intent.

  Black wondered when the shift occurred—when things changed from celebration to frenzy. And there was something else too. He crossed the roof and looked down, amazed to see a long line of candle-bearing pilgrims filing down the street toward The Ugly Store. There were already maybe two hundred standing in the River of the street, gazing up at the spaceship, holding on to lit candles, while the wind whipped the flames about and showered ash on everything. But this River was more ash than water, the dead sludge of it relieved only by the candles, giving the impression of a river of fire.

  The crowd was singing. “Amazing Grace.”

  “This is too cool,” Sweet Girl said, and not for the first time he wondered if she was high.

  Back in his room, Sweet Girl asked for a robe so she could get comfortable. She changed right there in front of him, leaving only her G-string on. She walked around the room, touching things as though she couldn’t quite believe they were there. Or maybe she was making sure she was there, that the last time hadn’t been a dream. The sewing machine. A bolt of cloth laid out on the worktable. She saw a bundle of women’s clothes—panties, garter and hose—next to the bolt of cloth. She held them up with an inquisitive smile.

  “Is this part of the long story from the last time?” she asked.

  “I use those for the costumes,” he said. “For my models,” he added. They both knew it was a lie, but she moved on.

  She took Iggy’s wedding dress from the hanger behind the door and held it up against her and giggled.

  “Where did you get this? It was here last time.”

  “I’m fixing it for a friend.”

  “You are the perfect man,” she said, returning the dress to the hook behind the door. She came over and kissed him. “Tell me you can cook.”

  He shook his head.

  “Sorry. But I do have alcohol. The brandy is finished, but I think I have some whiskey.”

  “Sure.”

  The empty bottle reclining in the dustbin reminded him he’d finished it. He held it up.

  “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay. You’ve had enough anyway,” Sweet Girl said. “You can be my intoxicant.”

  She was leaning back on the bed and motioned him over. He went to her and she pulled him down onto her chest, her robe opening slightly. His lips found a nipple and his tongue flicked over it.

  “Yes,” she said. “Like that.”

  His tongue moved down, drawing a circle of moisture and air from her breast down her stomach. She arched up fluidly but wouldn’t let him take off her panties. She pushed him back on the bed and pulled his pants down.

  “I’m glad you’re glad to see me,” she said, and burying her face in his crotch, she parted her lips and took all of him in and he shuddered. She smiled around him. This was pleasure. She looked up and followed his gaze to the lingerie set on the cutting table.

  “Wait,” she said. She crossed the room quickly and came back with them.

  “What’s this?” But he sounded hopeful.

  “Put these on for me, bombóncito.”

  He looked at the stockings and garter belt.

  “For me, papi. I told you I was a lesbian.”

  He nodded. He liked it. It felt so wrong, it felt so right. He tried to pull the stocking on and nearly put a hole through them.

  “Here,” she said, voice gentle. “Let me help you.”

  He lay back and let her dress him. He liked the feeling. Of being dressed, of the cool nylon against his skin.

  “I want to fuck you,” he said.

  She came up on all fours.

  “Fuck me from behind,” she said.

  He tried to pull her panties off, but again she stopped him.

  “No, leave them on. I like it that way.”

  He nodded and pulled them aside. The only light came from the kitchenette and they were in shadow. She took him and guided him in. He hesitated when he felt the resistance.

  “Yes, papi, right there, fuck me in the ass,” Sweet Girl said.

  But this wasn’t the moist softness he wanted. This hard muscle was him. He couldn’t become her this way. He knew this thing, this intimacy he craved wasn’t about love, or even sex, but about fil
ling himself. Shrouding himself in the body of another. He felt himself grow limp.

  “What? What is it?” Sweet Girl asked as she felt his erection soften.

  He pulled away.

  “What is it? Is it me?” she asked. She sounded defeated. Quiet.

  He shook his head. He was kneeling behind her, his penis drooping on his thigh. She reached up and pulled his face up by the chin and stared into his eyes. The look he saw in hers shamed him.

  “Is it because I am a stripper? Will it help if you pay me?” she asked.

  And then the tears came. He cried like a thing wounded. His body shaking. Hands over his eyes. Mouth open. Saliva trails holding the two halves of his jaw together. She stared at him. Confused. Angry. Ashamed.

  Getting up, she left him there on his knees and made her way to the bathroom. I have a good heart, he wanted to say to her through the bathroom door, afraid that if he didn’t do something she would leave. He even tried to get up, but something had taken his voice, his will, it seemed, and he flopped forward onto the bed. When she came back he was sitting on his haunches, body flopped forward, face buried in the mattress, arms like broken wings beside him on the bed. She picked up her clothes, pulled on her dress and turned to leave. He wanted to move, to stop her, but he couldn’t.

  “Please,” he managed.

  She stopped at the door and turned. She hesitated at the door before walking over to the stereo. She put on the first CD she saw: Miles Davis’s Kind of Blue. Searching for the right sound, she stopped on “Blue in Green.”

  “Come,” she said, pulling him by the arm as the music filled the apartment. “Come.”

  Obediently, like a child, he stood up. Followed her to the center of the room. She stood facing him. He was naked except for the garter belt and stockings. She took her dress off, so she was only wearing her panties. She put his arms around her neck, hers around his waist. She pulled up to him.

  “Dance with me,” she said.

  “I don’t know how,” he said.

  “Sshh,” she said. “I’ll teach you.”

  thirty-nine

  and this was all.

  A man and a woman. Naked. Two naked people. Clinging to each other. Dancing. Moving as slightly as a breath over lace. And night. Nothing more. Or this too. As they danced, he remembered a castle in Disneyland with a swan in the foreground. Outside, a gentle Los Angeles mist was settling over what was left of the night.

  forty

  night’s River.

  And though he couldn’t see it from the bed, he knew it was there, just beyond the street and the darkness and yet it was the darkness. He could sense Sweet Girl breathing next to him. They had danced and when the song was over, still they had moved together for what seemed like forever. There was no lust in it, only comfort. They had lain in bed and he’d rubbed her feet and then just held her as they drifted off to sleep. The way a couple old to each other, old together, might. He thought about how she had made something inside him give way. He made to get up and go to the bathroom and noticed she was staring at him. It freaked him out.

  “What are you doing?” he asked apprehensively.

  “Just watching you sleep.”

  He took her face between his hands and pulled her to him. In that moment he felt nothing but a deep tenderness for this wounded, beautiful woman. He kissed her deeply. She stroked his face.

  When he got back from the bathroom, she’d slipped on his shirt that was too big for her and went to the bathroom too. When she returned, she sat on the edge of the bed.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  Sweet Girl smiled tentatively. Black looked so innocent, so vulnerable in nothing but the stockings and garters.

  “You’re not a violent man, are you, Black?” she asked.

  “What is going on?”

  “You’re not, are you?”

  “No. I don’t think so. Are you going to tell me what this is about?”

  “I’ll show you, if you promise to be cool.”

  “Sure.”

  Sweet Girl stood up and pulled up the tails of the shirt. She didn’t have any underwear on. But there was something else too, and it took Black a full minute to realize what it was. Sweet Girl had no vagina, not that he was expecting one, but he was expecting a penis and there wasn’t one of those either. There wasn’t anything. There was just a kind of bandage—no, more like flesh-colored tape—where her genitals should be.

  “What is this?” Black asked, but he didn’t look away.

  Sweet Girl put her hand on the tape and pulled it away and shook her legs about and fluffed her groin. A penis, complete with balls, appeared. Black stared mouth open as if he was watching a magic show. It wasn’t a big penis, but it was a penis regardless and dramatic nonetheless.

  “No fucking shit!” he said.

  He slid off the bed and sat on the floor. But he didn’t take his eyes off of Sweet Girl. He looked up at her. She had danced on his lap, yet he had never felt a penis, not once, and he realized that somewhere in his mind he had actually convinced himself that she was a woman. Out of sight indeed, he mused. He wished he could get angry. He wished he felt something like rage. But all he felt was an overwhelming relief and curiosity.

  “Are you okay?” Sweet Girl asked.

  He smiled and shook his head.

  “Is that really a dick?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Sweet Girl said.

  He got up. He wished he had some whiskey now.

  “Thank you for showing it to me. I’m not sure I’m ready, but thank you,” he said.

  Sweet Girl just smiled.

  “You know I’m not gay,” he added. His voice was hard.

  Sweet Girl laughed. Deep in her throat. Mocking.

  “I’m not gay either. Well, not in that way. I’m a woman, honey, this tackle is just a little inconvenience, okay? I am all woman. And if I’m gay, it’s because I’m a lesbian.”

  Black laughed.

  “Are you going to sit, negro? You’re making me nervous,” Sweet Girl said, patting the bed beside her.

  “How did you do that?”

  “This?” Sweet Girl said, tucking her penis back. It seemed to fold into the scrotal sack. She pinched the tip between her buttocks. From the front there was no sign of a penis. She put her arms up in the air and twirled round three times, and each time, Black saw no penis. Sweet Girl laughed and opened her legs, letting her dick drop.

  “Can you show me how to do that?” Black said, sitting next to her.

  She took his hand in one hand, and with the other stroked him on the cheek.

  “You are so sweet,” she said. “I knew you would be, but, well, let’s just say no one has been this gentle, this understanding and curious.”

  He smiled. Her prattling was making him nervous, making him tense. He wanted her to shut up and just show him.

  “So you’ll show me?” he asked.

  “Sure. There are two ways to do this.”

  “Yeah?” Black’s voice was heavy and breathy.

  “The tuck was what I just showed you, easy. To hold it in place, all you need is a pair of tight panties. Takes a few seconds.”

  Black licked his lips.

  “And the second?” he asked.

  “The other way is taping. Or what I like to call, tuck, duck and tape,” Sweet Girl said, laughing. The joke was lost on Black.

  “There are several ways. The basic way is to wrap the ball bag around the penis, tape it several times, then pull up, like in the tuck, then tape the tip to the inner side of both ass cheeks. Because I strip, and because I am small, I pull the penis into the shaft, smooth the ball bag over it and tape it. That way I get to wear G-strings.”

  “What about your balls? Where are your balls?” Black asked.

  “That one is easy, rey. You suck the balls into your stomach like this. . . .”

  Black watched her balls disappear.

  “They’re in your stomach?”

  “Yes, touch the bag if you don’
t believe me.”

  Black leaned forward and touched Sweet Girl’s scrotal sack. He’d never touched another man’s genitals before. It felt strange; like the dried skin of a mango, yet smooth. Technically Sweet Girl was a woman, so this didn’t count as a gay experience, he told himself.

  “It feels smooth, but wrinkly,” he said.

  “Smooth because I wax it. Nothing I can do about the wrinkles, except maybe botox, but that would be expensive and painful.”

  “But where do the balls go?”

  “Same space in your stomach they were before you grew hair down there.”

  “Can you show me?” he asked.

  “On you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come here.”

  “I can’t suck my balls into my stomach, though.”

  “Try lying flat on your back, feet on the floor, then push. They will vanish.”

  “Is there another way?”

  “Sure. I’ll just push them in. It’s gonna feel strange, but it won’t hurt, I promise. Okay?”

  He nodded, not taking his eyes off his crotch, as she gently pushed his balls up inside him.

  “You got tape?”

  He pointed at the cutting table.

  “Hold this,” she said, passing him the loose bit of skin, while she crossed the room and fetched the tape. Tearing off a one-inch piece, she tacked the loose skin of the scrotal sack down. He looked at the piece of tape.

  “That doesn’t look big enough. Look—it doesn’t cover it,” Black protested.

  “Honey, you are so not gay! It’s just there to hold it while I work on the rest, okay?”

  Sweet Girl then pushed his penis back into the folds of skin around it. It was difficult at first because he was hard, but she pinched him. The sharp bite caused him to lose the erection. He stared in wonder as she pushed it back into the shaft and then tucked it all under his empty scrotal sack.