The Cake is a Lie

by mcdavis3

  Marco, you still get excited expressing yourself and telling stories. Even when you were younger you didn’t get super excited to tell every story. And Emma doesn’t even get super excited to tell every story. That’s a biased thought.

  I tell her how draining working 40 hours a week in a cubical is, how brain dead I am after.

  “Well, you’ll be no fun in bed if you’re tired,” She whines.

  “I’m always fun in bed.”

  “How’s your book coming?”

  I pause and smile awkwardly, not sure what to say. “It’s going good.”

  “So what happens after you finish? You and Oakley are just going to live happily ever after? And what happens to the rest of us? We’re just screwed?” She says bluntly, but smiling wildly.

  “Something like that.” I laugh, turning my eyes uneasily off to the view. When I look at the blue sky a hundred black flecks begin flashing alarmingly in my vision. I’m going blind from staring at a screen, I think, my brain is full of holes from all the stress. Marco, it’s just an optical illusion, I counter. Lots of people see black specks when they look up to the sky. You were sure you were going blind a year ago, and your vision is fine. This is just how the anxiety works, it always needs something to focus on and channel itself.

  My eyes begins to wander to Emma’s bare legs. She’s wearing very short shorts. The worst of the storm is starting to pass, I feel better. They always pass, always.

  Emma’s texting someone while we’re talking, I ask who and she says “no one” which implies it’s some guy. This is why I can’t go back to her. I want a girl that can see two steps ahead and realize I can obviously see she’s purposefully wearing the necklace I bought her. If only she was better at hiding her love for me. I know that all she means to say is what I want to hear.

  “Your penis is bigger than Don’s too.”

  “You’ve seen his penis?” I accuse agitatedly.

  “Well I kind of felt it through his boxers.” What a hoe, I don’t believe her. She probably gave him a full fledge blow job.

  “We didn’t have sex,” She promises, “Just some stuff. Anyways it’s none of your business.”

  My stomach rolls over again. Everything is my business. My brother says you care less about a girl’s sexual history as you get older. I hope this is true because when I meet a girl I want to know everything about her, especially the sexual stuff. I don’t just want to know who she has slept with, I want to know what guys she has thought about sleeping with. I want to know exactly what she’s thinking about before she orgasms.

  I take a deep breathe. It doesn’t have to be a mark of shame if a girls sexually experienced. I’m starting to like the idea of it. Sex is just a pleasurable sport, that’s all. Real relationships are based around so much more. Memories are nothing anyways, they’re gone so quick, and everything’s forgotten eventually.

  But that’s not what I’m thinking when I’m in the heat of the moment. I’m thinking about how I will forever own a piece of this girl’s soul. Memories are everything. They’re all we have.

  Don will forever have memories of Emma. I’m disgusted. Still focused on her bare legs though. It’s been a month since I’ve seen her and I’ve never seen more beautiful bare legs. So what if she hooked up with someone else? I broke her heart. What do I care about this guy? His penis is smaller than mine. Besides, after all the freaky things she said to me, can she just tell every guy that stuff?

  We go back to my apartment. She’s sitting on my bed. I try to kiss her, she resists.

  “What’s up?”

  “Nothing, I just wish you were more aggressive.”

  I pause. It’s true, I do a terrible job selling the dominant alpha male personality. A flaw yes, but it’s who I am. At the same time, I’m far from the shiest, most unselfish guy too, so I’m skeptical of the criticism.

  “Don’s aggressive,” She says. Is this still about trying to make me jealous?

  I ask for an example and she tells me when he kissed her for the first time he just straight grabbed her and kissed her. I tell her I don’t believe it and then she admits he asked her friend first if she liked him before doing it. She moves on to her next piece of evidence, when they were making out on his bed he just pulled her thong off, out of nowhere.

  Picturing him forcefully pulling off her panties makes my nerves turn inside out. In most porn guys dominate girls, getting off on the disrespect and power, saying things to the girls they would never say to another guy. Cumming on girls faces. I fantasize about getting my hands on these guys and dominating and disrespecting them. At the same time, I envy and admire them too. High on power, confident in their “might is right” beliefs. All my broken hearts and misunderstandings of women are channeled into the worst kind of anger towards those sluts. And it doesn’t matter if they’re sexually empowered or not, because I imagine they’re all desperate for money and naive.

  I look at Emma, her chest and legs. I could definitely play the dominating role, the thought turns me on. Having power over her, complete control. I ask Emma if she wants to play a game, where she teaches me how to seduce a woman aggressively.

  She smiles and says, “Oh fun.” Then we do our best job of pretending to be sexy, cool people from the movies. She moves my hands there and my lips here. But in a few minutes the game has dissolved into our usual amazing routine.

  Then it’s all gone. The spell is broken and I’m a different being. I think of my mom telling me that sex means a lot more to women than to men. That intimacy is the biggest turn on for women. I think about Randy West, an old pornstar that’s slept with 3,000 girls, saying casual sex is like borrowing somebodies body to masturbate with. The look in his eye as he laments over missing out on affection. I’m filled with shame and regret. Where do players find the heart? Jonsen pulls 6’s at the bars these days after he’s had his 8+ drinks. He looks them in the eye and extravagantly promises them he wants to marry them. He can’t even cum when he sleeps with them, he can barely perform, that’s the part I don’t understand.

  Emma plays it cool after, it’s no big deal. I know that it’s an act and that she probably still thinks about me all the time. I know that when goes home and I don’t call her for a month it will hurt her as hard as she’s ever hurt. She probably Facebook stalks me and worships my every word. I need to let her go.

  Chill, Marco, be kinder to yourself. You’ve been completely honest with her. She makes her decisions, it’s on her. Maybe she likes the challenge of trying to make me fall in love with her. She might get over you really quickly, you have no way to know. We’re hardly sluts anyways, more like prudes. I have urges, like a vampire, I can’t help it. I do the best I can. Life’s not this or that, it’s dialectical, it’s both. And f those pornos, great sex happens when it’s a girl’s choice, not when you make her. I toss and turn for an hour in the night before falling asleep.

  44. Mia Illy (Spring, 2013)

  I breathe deeply into a crisp breeze, holding it in for a tranquil second. It’s intoxicating. I can smell the trees. I keep breathing as I walk through E-Rock’s flaking gate, past the worn down porch love seat. I get to the pool and find ten people lounging around. I’ve known half of them since grade school. Rachel Goody’s wearing a pink tutu and neon leg warmers. Johnny Little’s in a bright multicolored cheetah leotard. He’s smoking a cigarette next to some guy with dreads to his maroon bellbottom corduroys. I don’t say “hi” to anyone.

  They call themselves heady people. Eric’s dad rents out the neighboring house to Eric’s older brother and some of his friends. They’ve dubbed the house, “The compound.” It’s something like a druggie commune.

  I don’t see Eric so I stroll over to the edge of the pool. The water’s faintly green with bunches of leaves floating around, algae stains cover the bottom. The ring of checkered tile is cracked and rusty. Most of the once lush bushes that frame the yard are brown and drying. Taking it in I get an overwhelming nasty feeling like I should be somewhere else in t
he world. A four season’s pool party in another life.

  I breathe into the anxiety. That thought does you no good, Marco. In this moment I’m okay and thankful, and there’s only this moment. You came to see Eric, you love Eric. I’m thankful for every moment alive, I remind myself, every breath. I imagine all the billions of people living in poverty around the world that would kill to have the things I have. I imagine breathing out the negative feeling as I exhale, letting the hot anxiety in my neck float away like a balloon. When I inhale again, I imagine filling my body with fresh new energy. You’ve been doing so amazing lately, how long has it been since you’ve had a panic attack? Two months?

  E-Rock finally appears, shirtless with pajama bottoms and an American flag bandana tied around his head. I can’t help but smile. Mia Illy’s standing next to him. Mia Illy, the anomaly, the exception to the rule. She’d made it to college and graduated. Handled all her shit while maintaining her unbelievably fast lifestyle.

  “You made it just in time Marco, we’re just about to start grilling.”

  Illy just stares at me. She’s still got that bite in her eyes, accentuated by the cat eyeliner she’s been wearing since middle school. She hasn’t been broken yet, not like the others. Every time I interact with her I can’t tell if she hates me or likes me. That’s part of her awe. Does she still think I’m creepily into her, like in highschool? I flashback to a few awkward moments when I’d tried to innocently hit on her. “Hey Mia, take a picture with me?” “Uh, no.”

  E-Rock and Illy’s eyes stand out amongst the smiles and stares, they’re wrecked. Their pupils are drowning in a sea of red. I walk over and hug them both, bare skin on bare skin. I hear the rumbling of a frail thought, you could be drugged. But it brings with it a rush of joy, knowing I beat this phobia years ago.

  “Matty. You still got twenty on those burgers? We’re making a store run,” Eric yells to the group.

  “Ya, but Johnny owes me ten.”

  “For what?”

  “Those pills I fronted you last weekend.”

  “I smoked you out Thursday though.”

  While the heady people sort out who owes who I look Mia Illy over. She’s chubby. Not just her muffin top, her face. The tribal tattoo around her arm that I once thought was the tightest thing ever looks really stupid. Her skins badly sun damaged, her chest, arms and face are red, wrinkly and dried up like a prune. It’s funny, all the crazy drug binges, drunk driving without a seat belt, sleeping with 36 guys, and who knows what else, not washing her fruit, abortions. After all that, not wearing sunscreen ended up doing the most irreversible damage to her. God you’re so critical Marco, I lash out at myself. Something’s wrong with you. You’re just like your dad. Our whole hyper perfectionist, anxious bloodline is gonna be weeded out by natural selection. It has to stop with me.

  Quit it, I argue back to myself. Being aware of criticizing people is a big step. Take pride in that. And don’t criticize yourself for being critical, be kind to yourself. Is there another way to look at this? Beauty’s subjective. Looks aren’t everything, everyone gets wrinkles eventually. Plus your dad isn’t even that critical anymore, he’s not even your old dad.

  Eric leaves to go shopping and Mia sits by the pool, letting her legs slip into the water. I jog over to her, landing a big jump-step. Movement’s the key, to show them you’re loose and relaxed.

  “Oh, you’re tight.” Mia stabs. I feel the sting of the burn. She’s still got it. Some shadow of an understanding that Oakley would never make such a social gaff flickers into my mind. I breathe into the malaise and imagine a wave of relaxation washing over my body like water.

  “Hey Mia, when you were younger did you ever think you were destined to be cool because your last name’s Illy?”

  “Bitch, I knew I was cool because my last name was Illy.” She sticks her elbow out and jerks her hand up and down like she’s rap battling to over emphasize her half-cocky persona. One of her genius mannerisms that makes Mia who she is. We both laugh.

  “So where you living at now that you’re done with college?” I ask.

  “Downtown. I bussed down here.” I give her a curious chin pull-up, unsure why she added the last bit of information.

  “Oh, you didn’t hear? I got a dewy a month ago.”

  “Oh, what? What happened?”

  “I blacked out and crashed my Civic into three parked cars.”

  We share a heavy pause.

  “I’m lucky really, like when I think about all the stuff I’ve done..” It all reels by behind her eyes before she comes back with a perplexed expression. “Marco, I’m crazy, I’m like seriously crazy,” she says it with a fire, as if she needs me to validate her life, be a witness. I nod my head. I know. She knows I know.

  “I’ve always been a fan of the bus anyways. Always. I used to ride the bus all the time.”

  “For sure. I like the bus.” I agree. “Well, you’re in the system now.”

  “Ya. They’re making me start treatment. I gotta stop smoking pot soon.”

  “Now that I’d like to see.” I laugh.

  “Don’t doubt it. I’ll do it. It won’t be hard.”

  “You’ve smoked heavy your whole life.”

  “Ya, but I’m over it. I like really am.”

  I’ve heard so many of these empty sentiments before. But with Mia it’s different. She’s accomplished some extremely rare things. Her will power can’t be ignored.

  “And drinking?”

  “I’m still gonna drink on the weekends, but I’m never gonna drink again during the week.”

  “Why not just stop for a while. You’ve been drinking your whole life. What’s a year off?”

  “I can’t breathe without alcohol, bitch.” She yells laughing. “Seriously, I don’t know how to have fun without it.” We both laugh at how seriously she says it. “But I’m not going to be like my parents. I swear, never. I don’t want my kids to see me be an alcoholic, drinking every night. I’m never drinking during the week again.”

  One of the heady kids enters through the gate carrying an armful of junk with his head drooping. When he sees Mia and me he makes an effort to brighten up his body and comes towards us. Before he even says anything I can tell this must be Corky—the one the heady kids are worried about. They say he stays up for days straight in his room or “studio” burning money and making art that he hangs on clothes lines all over.

  His white shirt is covered in splashes of paint and cut up with scissors all around the bottom. It’s not good when kids who buy crazy drugs over the internet that put each other in comas for days are worried about you.

  “Hey you guys wanna come to my art show?”

  “When is it?” I ask

  “Tomorrow at six. In my room. I’ve been working on it nonstop for weeks. Well it will never really be complete, cause there’s no such thing. Life’s one big art show, one big continuous movie. Do either of you have a cigarette by chance?” It all comes out in one manic burst.

  I roll through the vague memories I have of seeing Corky around growing up. Was he two years older? I remember him being quieter, I certainly would’ve never guessed he had this in him. His cowlick’s still familiar, just bigger and much more oily and scraggly. The amateur psychologist in my perks up at his clear mental duress.

  “Do you have any samples?” I ask.

  “My shirt’s a sample.” He pulls the shirt out wide by the bottom corners.

  I imagine the same shirt hanging up in some designer boutique for 300 dollars. It’s possible.

  “This shirts a piece of shit though. I wouldn’t sell it for anything, not a dime, not a piece of dirt, it’s worthless. I just got some more materials, here I’ll make you a sample. Real art’s spontaneous.” He gets on his knees and dumps out the items in his arms. Some tape cassettes and empty cd cases, more second-hand shirts, an egg carton and some beaded bracelets.

  He grabs one of the cd cases, Kanye West’s “My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy.” Tossing aside the
plastic case he pulls out the cover leaf-let and unfolds it.

  “And they call this art.” He says in disgust, waving the unfolded leaf-let.

  The cover’s a George Condo. A cartoony black man with a maniacal face having sex with a white demon. I hate to admit it, but it might be the coolest CD artwork I’ve ever seen. Although you could argue his style’s a more cartoony Francis Bacon. But I’m not trying to disagree with Corky.

  Pulling a marker out of his pocket he puts the leaf-let on the ground and goes to work on his hands and knees.

  “You think the rich have discovered some way of prolonging their lives?” He asks. “What if Mark Zuckerberg lives to be five hundred? They’ve probably already discovered it, there’s probably some people that are hundreds of years old. Did you know the Egyptians discovered electricity? That’s what the Pyramids really are, they’re generators. They’d pour chemicals down shafts from the top. That’s why the pitch-black halls don’t have any torch holders. They used the electricity to power tools, how else were the carvings cut so precise and smooth?”

  Corky’s complete inability to pick up on the deterring scowl of discomfort and annoyance on my face is fascinating.

  All five of my minds begin racing. We’re all as ambitious as Ozymandias. We all can’t paint on the cave walls. I steer my thoughts back to the present. Focus, be mindful. Right now isn’t the time to philosophize. Pay attention to the present moment. The present is all there is. I begin feeling the hairs on my legs with my hand, focusing my vision on Corky’s moving lips.

  “And they just discovered batteries in Baghdad that are as old as the pyramids.” Corky gets up and hands me the leaf-lit. “Now this…This’ worth hundreds.”

  He’s drawn big bold letters over all the pictures and lyrics: “THIS IS A WARNING.”