Sex and Death in the American Novel

by Martinez, Sarah

  “You read Henry Miller?”

  “Why do you sound surprised?” I knew why. I waited a beat. “Because I am the only female on the planet who can get past his use of the word cunt?”

  Jasper paused and then said, “Well, yes.”

  “I know, I am radical. Ahead of my time.” I paused a moment and then asked, “Who do you read?”

  “Wow. There are so many. Robert Penn Warren, Cormac McCarthy, Gaddis, I just found this great writer named Vassily Aksyonov.”

  I made a whistling sound. “Sounds painful.”

  “And Edgar Allan Poe.”

  I uncurled my legs and stretched out. “I love him!”

  “My favorite poem is actually The Raven. My mother loved it and read it to me before I could read.”

  “Mine too!” Since it seemed to be the thing to do I asked, “Where does your mother live?”

  He paused and said, “She died when I was sixteen.”

  Shit. And I was trying to keep things light. “I'm sorry.”

  “Don't worry about it,” Jasper went back to the conversational tone.

  We talked for over an hour about books, writers; he was also a fan of Celine, as was my brother.

  He steered the conversation back to my work.

  “So you liked the work of some wild writers. Your father was just amazing. It's almost kind of strange that you went in this direction…”

  “Maybe, but it was really just there all the time I think. Those books were just what set me off. In the end what sort of solidified the whole thing in my mind was watching Six Feet Under with Eric. That really did something for me, the relationship between these two gay guys—”

  “Was Eric out then?” Jasper asked.

  “Yes, that was during the period when I was transitioning from heartbroken ex-girlfriend to supportive buddy. I loved how the gay characters were regular guys, one of them was really well built and even macho. I liked that those characters on a big show were real, like Eric.”

  “I like that,” he said. “You're different. In a good way. I like that.”

  In between a month-long, ever-increasingly aggravating correspondence with the Municipal Court of Seattle over a parking ticket, conversations with my mother about grief groups and their necessity in my life, two successfully placed stories on hard-core websites, and several promising discussions with my editor over the future of my novel, I thought more and more about Jasper. Almost daily we exchanged pleasant, sometimes incredibly long emails and then there were the scheduled phone calls on Tuesday nights. Then during one call his words came more slowly. There were more pauses in between, but the silence was no longer something I dreaded. With him, quiet was a good thing. Just listening to him take a breath on the other end was a pleasure.

  “So here's the thing,” he began. “Things have calmed down here. I finally have a stretch where I'll be home for over a week.”

  “No more globe-trotting?”

  He cleared his throat. “I have never met anyone like you before, I am quite amazed at my level of distraction.”

  “Your level of distraction?” I laughed.

  He took another breath. “Well, so anyway…I was thinking, you could…”

  “This is some sort of verbal equivalent of the OCD display before you speak, isn't it?”

  “Funny.” He did relax though; I could tell because he finally spit it out: “You should come to New York.” Those words hung over three thousand miles of cell phone signal and he added, “If you want to. I mean.”

  I grabbed some papers on my desk and rustled around, loud enough to be heard over the other line. “Well. I will have to check my calendar…” My stomach fluttered with excitement. This was actually a good week. My mother and Eric were both out of town. It would be at least two more weeks until the copy editor sent final edits for Boy in a Box. Not that I couldn't have rearranged my schedule for him. “Okay. Looks like I am free. I just have to make sure I get some work done. I have a short piece due in a month and I'm getting paid by the word this time. Need to flesh those characters out if you know what I mean.”

  He laughed and let out a long breath. Adorable.

  I boarded a plane the following Sunday, wondering if an entire week would be too long to spend in the presence of only one person. What if we got sick of each other the first day? To shut out the thoughts in my head, and also to make better use of my time, I worked most of the way across the country. Heavy metal crashed through my ears and blocked out the chatter of the other passengers. Jasper might have a publisher who was willing to pay to keep him away from the unwashed masses, but I had to hustle. Even if my brother left me his trust—it wouldn't last forever.

  I still had to make my deadlines, keep my name out there and generate interest in my brand, my stories, my blog, my life. I was proud of the fact that I still made at least my rent with the proceeds from my work. Tristan couldn't say that. My father could. No matter who approved or disapproved of my work, I could always say that. I paid my rent with my words. Pornographic, dirty, foul words they might be…the white screen before me…a blinking cursor…

  There's something about a girl on her knees, in those few moments living just for me, to please me, to show her appreciation. Nothing wrong with that. Might as well be a back rub, right? I wish blow jobs weren't given such a bad rap. If giving head wasn't such a shameful thing, more girls would do it.

  Guys, you know what I am talking about—that first time you make eye contact, and you know you can have it. Getting sucked off by a new chick is an incredible rush. Power. This is totally different than when my wife Amy does it, me encouraging her with my hands buried in her vanilla-scented hair. She's pretty good at it too…making soft mewling sounds every so often, making sure to let it go deep, bracing her hands on my hips. Amy is a gem. I don't know where I would be without her. She accepts all of me; my moods, my benders, my bullshit, and she has her shit together. By all rights she should be with a nice doctor somewhere. Best of all, she understands the world I live in. Still. It is impossible to explain the lure of The Strange unless you've been there.

  So there I was in the can, after a show, and this goddess with long red hair and hard little tits follows me in, ready to go.

  She turns around and says, “I'll let you fuck me up the ass…” Her bare flanks exposed, all I have to do is reach over and stroke one smooth cheek. Don't do it. The last time I did this I had to tell Amy. After two weeks home unable to stand that trusting look in her eyes, that way she acted like we were back to normal. I couldn't stand it. I'm a fucking idiot—had to be honest, and Amy almost left me. The agreement was, if she stayed with me, I could go on tours, but the rule was no sex. No penetration—except the mouth.

  I groan every time this happens, “Wish I could,” I say and stroke again the firm skin, the tight muscle before me. She reminds me of a racehorse, muscles standing out long and lean above and below the fabric of her shiny black skirt. “Promised the old lady. I only do blow jobs.” Listen to me. Every time I say this my head spins. Ten years ago I would have been the one giving head just for a chance to cut a record, and now look at me.

  I take one long look at the beauty before me and open the stall door. If I'm lucky that little brunette will still be hanging out by the bus. We have to leave in a half hour to drive to Phoenix, ten hours away.

  “Wait,” she says. “I can do that.”

  I turn and her hands are on my face, fingers running over my throat, squeezing my shoulders, until she is on the floor. I always wonder if their knees get sore like this. It's not like there's carpeting here in these bathrooms. Concrete seems to work just fine. She looks up at me and beams.

  She squeezes my ass and pulls on the waist of my jeans, yanking them down a few inches, and unbuttons my fly. My hands weave through her silky hair, pulling the long fiery strands through my fingers. Soft little hands pull down my underwear, wrap around my shaft, cup my balls. One she takes in her mouth and looks up at me as she sucks on it. She flashes an a
doring smile. I stroke one side of her cheek. She sets to work.

  This is thrilling. No one would understand, but this goes way beyond getting off. This chick wants to make me happy. Wants to serve me. She's got talent, and some of them don't, believe me. With a moan here or a nod there she sucks me all the way to the back of her throat, her eyes rolling back in her head as she does. I pump my hips to get closer to her luscious mouth, and feel the familiar agitation of jizz in my balls followed by a throbbing need when she lets me pound the head of my cock against the back of her throat.

  “You are so fucking good at this.”

  She looks at me again and gives me a nod of the head before going back to work.

  I place my hands on either side of her head, getting ready to shoot off and then she pulls back.

  “What babe? You're doing great.”

  “Thanks,” she says and giggles. “Can you lay down, my knees are getting kinda sore.”

  “Sure thing,” I say. I am not a total asshole.

  I lay down on the cold floor, this will only take another two minutes.

  Back to work, my cock once more in from the cold. She has a beautiful mouth, some of her lipstick has smeared at one corner, but otherwise the whole pretty picture it is still intact. I take one finger and trace the line of her lips, working around my cock bulging inside. I imagine I'm slipping inside her other mouth, the one I am not going to plunge into because I love my wife. I have to save something for her. My entire body starts going rigid thinking about this chick, her mouth, her cunt…

  Again, cold air hits my shaft. I open my eyes and to my utter disbelief this girl has hiked up her skirt and is lowering herself onto my cock, standing in the air, dying for entry. The drippy ginger mound sinks all the way down. I stare in shock. Get out of here, my head screams but my body will not listen. Still rock hard.

  “I—” I start to say something and she covers my mouth with a small wet hand. The girl tosses her head back, laughing, her hair tickling my bare legs as she starts riding me. “I love fucking rock stars!”

  The ending needed work. Or maybe it didn't. If this was going to sell, the guy would bust a throbbing nut at the end, sweet sticky jizm would pump all over that pretty face and she would love it, even if he didn't return the favor.

  I hated writing straight porn.

  The voice of the stewardess came over the loudspeaker announcing that passengers should stow all electronics in preparation for landing. My stomach fluttered. I read over my work quickly. It sucked. Still, I had a draft, which was more than I had before. I closed my laptop, and after I'd rearranged my bags, I turned my attention to the window and watched the grand buildings emerge through a brown haze.

  I saw him as soon as I came out of security. His face was relaxed, I was relieved to see it; the butterflies in my stomach disappeared when I sank into his open arms. “I am so glad to see you,” he breathed into my hair.

  My answer was to squeeze him harder. It wasn't until just then that I felt how much I wanted him. Even with all the phone calls and emails, I didn't feel him as concrete until that moment. I looked up then, as when we danced, his shoulders rounded and his neck arched down, to make his face level with mine when I spoke in a dramatic voice, “And I you.” I hauled him toward the direction I imagined was the exit with one hand wrapped around his waist.

  He grabbed both my purse and overnight bag with one hand, slung it all over his leather-clad shoulder, and took my hand with his other and led me to one of several cabs waiting on the gray curb outside. Sun shone down, making the exhaust from the cars and cabs look both hideous and beautiful. He stepped back and let me in first, then lay his arm along the seat behind my head when he came in. The sound that his leather sleeve made against the material of the seat was as soft as a dial turning on the TV, signaling something different to come.

  His eyes were on mine the entire ride back to his walk-up in Brooklyn. I tried to return his gaze but dropped my eyes before I let loose a nervous laugh. The familiar voice of the NPR announcer droned from the front of the cab. The driver and the complex scents of so many people before me pulled me farther out of my element.

  To loosen up, I tried to be playful, flipping my leg over his. His eyes widened. He stiffened, as if he were embarrassed, but he didn't remove my leg, only twisted around to more fully face me. I swung my head around, taking in the brown water below, and as we were crossing the Brooklyn Bridge, the lights that began to twinkle in the dusk.

  “It's Sesame Street,” I said, as the cab rolled to a stop.

  He looked from the brownstones to me and laughed, “I suppose so.”

  I followed him up a set of concrete stairs to his apartment. Jasper felt different to me. It was less important to let him know where I stood than to actually see where this would go, what he would be like in his own space and with me in it.

  He stepped back away from the doorway, letting me go in first. His eyes followed everywhere I went. I wanted to sit and see what he would do, but the sense of expectation was so strong I didn't feel it was right. I tipped my head around the corner in the tiny kitchen, spotless, and I could hear him wrestle my bag to the floor. Then I felt him behind me, so close I could feel the heat of his breath. I turned around and there he was, in a plain white t-shirt and jeans. He looked well-scrubbed and happy, like a boy about to get a present. I liked the idea that I might be the present.

  I moved backward to draw things out; I didn't want to seem too eager, having spent the last hour in a cab in close proximity to his sterling male qualities, his thoughtful looks, the way he watched the way I took in the scenery outside the windows. He was amused. Was it something I didn't see about myself, something only he saw?

  He sat on the arm of his sofa. The arms were big, flat wooden panels. He looked more like he was posing there, not knowing what to do with himself. When I made my way toward two doors at the far end of the living room, he stood and followed me over. Every time he came close and then moved away again, it was like when my mother would blow on the coals of a fire in her big rock fireplace, making the coals redder and hotter, then letting them rest, burning deeper into themselves, each time closer to sparking a fire.

  Along one wall was a stereo on a steel and glass shelf. Underneath were CDs lined up, and as I suspected, there were CDs by Sigue Sigue Sputnik and the Dead Milkmen that looked quite old, stuff that I had never heard of, jazz, and there they were: John Denver, and next to that, Simon & Garfunkel.

  “Holy shit,” I said, holding both CDs in my hand.

  From behind me his arm came around and he grabbed both, I could hear the smile in his voice. “Do you think less of me?”

  I tried to turn but he was too close. “No way. My dad used to play this stuff all the time. Whenever we went to the cabin in Montana on the car ride over, or when he got in these moods.”

  “You have a cabin in Montana?” His voice was so close to my ear. His breath, clean with a tinge of cigarettes and coffee from far away. “That's my favorite,” and his long forefinger rested on the line for “Wild Montana Skies.”

  I smiled what was undoubtedly the goofiest smile I have ever allowed someone who was not family to witness. It was delight, surprise, and a feeling of safety, like home. “I thought I was the only other person on the planet under fifty that listened to John Denver.”

  His mouth worked into a smile at the skin behind my ear, his breath and soft lips rested at the softest part of my neck. It made me shiver. Then he was pushing me toward the first door on my left, a French door with a white curtain behind it. His arms ran the length of mine, connecting all down the back of each arm, nothing else. This made me long for the rest of him; I wanted to feel him behind me, but there was nothing. I moved forward, opening the doors; the floor was still hardwood, a cream-colored rug sat in the middle, and around the walls were shelves filled with books, some upright, many horizontal, paperbacks, hardbacks. I thought to later when I would be able to run my fingers over them and see if he wrote in his books
, and in what order he kept them. He was on me like a spring out of its socket, his mouth all over the back of my neck, breathing, kissing, hands working rough, then gently down my shoulders, to my hands, which he wrapped up in his and turned me toward him, while still backing me towards the bed.

  I buried my hands in his hair, then ran them down the surface of his throat, resting on a patch of stubble he had missed; I stood on tiptoe and ran my lips over the spot, then twisted my head there so I could feel the scratch against my temple. He placed both hands on my face, kissed me long and deeply and laid me back on the bed.

  This time was quick and dirty. Funny how the first couple of times had been so slow in comparison, when he was more new to me, and now, after a few weeks’ worth of emails, here he was so urgent. I didn't mind; it was exciting to feel so much desire, both within me and directed at me.

  “Is this okay?” he breathed.

  I nodded and closed my eyes, wrapping my legs around his slender hips, feeling him moving beneath my calves. I laughed in response to his question. I missed him, I was full of him. Everything was okay. Life just then was quite good.

  We went to dinner in a café not far from his house.

  Over coffees I squinted at him. “Do you think you take yourself too seriously?”

  “How do you mean?”

  I adjusted myself, watched the chef behind the counter work up an order, slam a dark hand on a ringer before turning back to the steam of the kitchen.

  “Well, so I know it's important to you to explain the world the way you see it,” I said.

  “That's my job. Sounds like you don't agree,” he said.

  “Tristan was like that too. He gave everything he had to this ideal, and in the end it ate him up,” I said.