Recycler

by Lauren McLaughlin

  I press my heels into the couch, which frees up my hips. Ian lunges at the gesture by yanking my zipper all the way down. Without wasting any time, he drags the skirt down over my hips. Then he slides off the end of the couch, pulls it all the way off, and throws it decisively on the floor. The only thing separating my precious commodity from Ian’s hungry, determined eyes is a pair of pink lace panties.

  Ian expresses his appreciation for what he sees by saying something like “Phwoor.”

  In response, my body tingles with warm, sparkly bubbles of joy.

  Ian’s about to climb back on top of me when he stops suddenly. “Wait,” he says. “Stand up.”

  “What?”

  He backs away from me. “Stand up. I want to see you.”

  I sit upright on the couch, suddenly embarrassed by my exposed breasts and the way my stomach wrinkles in on itself. I stand up, more out of a desire to present him with a flat stomach than anything else. Ian backs up all the way to the kitchen counter and looks at me. All I’m wearing are my pink lace panties and my high black boots.

  “Do you even know how hot you are?” he says.

  I can see a warped reflection of myself in the dirty glass door of his microwave oven. I wouldn’t say I look beautiful. It’s still strange to see myself with short hair. I look so much like Jack in that picture on Ramie’s camera. All of a sudden I feel guilty for the memories I’m about to create for him.

  I drop my eyes to the floor, thinking, though with less conviction, I am a sex machine. Ian picks up both of our wineglasses and gestures toward the bedroom with a head bob. “Come on,” he says.

  Resisting the urge to cover my breasts, I follow him into the bedroom.

  Once there, I try to focus on the details. A bed, a desk, stacks of books, a laptop, one of those collapsible laundry thingies. Ian puts one of the wineglasses on his desk, then turns on a light clipped to the headboard of his bed. He angles it upward so that it casts a warm yellow glow in the room.

  I’m pretty sure Ian has done this before, so I can deeply piggy back on his expertise. As long as I don’t blurt out “I love you,” I’ll be fine.

  Ian sits on the edge of his bed and has a big sip of wine. “Take your panties off,” he says. But it’s more of a suggestion than a command. More like, “Hey, here’s an idea: Why don’t you take your panties off. Might be fun. You know. No big whoop.”

  When I don’t move to take them off, he shrugs. Then he puts his wineglass down and lays back against the headboard with his arms behind his head.

  “Am I supposed to be the floor show?” I ask.

  “Do you want to be the floor show?” He looks almost hopeful.

  I glance up to the ceiling. “I don’t think I want to be the floor show.”

  “Okay,” he says. “You could take them off because it’s kind of hot in here. It is kind of hot in here, right?”

  “Not really.”

  He laughs. “Um, you could take them off because you know how badly I want to see you naked.”

  “I could,” I say.

  I do like the way Ian looks at me. Once all the complicating abstractions are removed, it’s kind of beautiful. There’s no mysterious design to it, no hidden motives. He wants me. Plain and simple. There’s an animal purity to it.

  I start to slide the waistband of my panties downward, keenly aware of how inappropriate it feels to be wearing boots through it all. There’s something wrong and thrilling about it. Ian’s breathing intensifies as I hesitate, my thumbs just under the waistband. His hunger for me is as naked as I am about to be.

  Hmm.

  I stop and keep my panties right where they are.

  Ian furrows his brow in protest.

  “You first,” I say.

  “What?” he says.

  “Stand up,” I say.

  He laughs dismissively, then sees that I’m serious. “Really?”

  I nod.

  Ian stands up and nervously shoves his hands in the front pockets of his jeans.

  “Take your jeans off,” I say.

  He takes a deep breath and looks at me like he cannot believe the nerve I have.

  But I’m only finishing what he started.

  “I’m serious,” I say. “Do it because it’s hot in here.”

  Ian smirks, then commits to the idea and kicks his shoes off. Unbuttoning his jeans very slowly, he pulls them down, revealing white socks and black boxer briefs that are—how shall I put this—anything but flat.

  “Keep going,” I say.

  Ian’s expression teeters between outrage and embarrassment. He must be as keenly aware of his bulging erection as I am.

  This is fun.

  “I’m waiting,” I say.

  He peels off his socks, then slowly, hesitantly pulls down his boxer briefs.

  And there he is, ladies and gentlemen, a man in all his glory.

  Out of a sense of decorum, I lift my eyes to his excited and slightly offended face. But they won’t stay there. They are pulled, as if by magnetic force, downward.

  To his erect thing.

  It’s not the first time I’ve seen one. I’ve seen Tommy Knutson’s. I saw Ricky Portland’s in sixth grade when he flashed me and Tara Kowalski by the jungle gym. But I’ve never had one staring back at me so bluntly, at once terrifying and terrified. The things I could do to him right now. Oh, and the things he could do to me.

  Ian walks toward me, eyes fixed on mine. When he stands before me, he places his hands on my hips and rips off my panties in one go. Crouching down, he pulls them to my ankles, then drops to his knees and kisses my stomach.

  Do you want to know something?

  I am a sex machine. Not only is my body executing brilliantly, my brain is joined to the task. There is no love stuff mucking up the works. It’s all pure sex. No abstractions, just concrete carnality.

  The feelings I have for Ian are immediate and physical. I love the mechanics of his body, the logic of the bones and the curve and swell of his muscles. Just look at the way his shoulders move while he inches his lips down my stomach to my hips. He’s sinewy where I’m round, angular where I’m curved. We are perfectly matched sex machines, and tonight that is enough. Tonight, that is all that matters. I don’t care what any of this means. I don’t care what happens in the morning. All I want is to surrender to the moment, to disappear into the now. It might be the first time I’ve ever felt this way. And it feels—sorry, Jack, I know you disagree with this sentiment—freeing.

  Ian unzips my boots, and I step out of them. Then he reaches up, grabs my elbow, and pulls me to my knees. We wrap our arms around each other and kiss. His body slides against mine, and before I know it, I am on my back on the scratchy carpet.

  We’re both naked. The moment is at hand. Before long my virginity, that stupid “tower of Babylon,” will be a memory.

  “Say yes,” he says.

  But I don’t want to say yes. I don’t want to say anything.

  He kisses my neck. “Say it,” he says. “Say yes.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  His lips wander downward to my breasts. “I need to hear you say it.”

  But why do we need language? Why can’t we let our bodies do the talking? Our bodies know what they want. Look at me. I’m completely naked. I am lying beneath him. I am running my hands up and down his spine. Isn’t that enough?

  Ian adjusts my legs and positions himself right above me.

  “Condom,” I say.

  “Right.” He stretches for one on a milk crate next to his bed. Then he sits up on top of me and opens the package.

  I watch him fumble with it, thrilled by the sinewy grace of his body, by the shadow that falls in the hollow above his collar bone. I feel preemptively victorious, already basking in the glory of this momentous thing about to transpire. I’m no longer afraid of its bigness. I’m big enough for it.

  As he struggles with the condom package, a vaguely familiar wave builds up from the base of my spine. At first I think I’m ha
ving an orgasm, but Ian isn’t even touching me.

  And I’m not sure what an orgasm feels like.

  Suddenly my back arches. Ian stops fiddling with the condom and looks at me, surprised. Then, with a knowing smile, he drops the condom and touches me again. My spine convulses.

  “I love the way you do that,” he says.

  “Stop,” I say.

  “Why?” he says. “Don’t you like it?”

  A sharp pain tears through my torso.

  “Oh mal,” I say.

  My hand inadvertently grips the condom.

  “It’s okay,” he says. “We can use that later.” He pushes the condom away and tries to touch me.

  “No!” I tear his hands away and slide out from under him.

  “What’s wrong?”

  My right arm starts to shake.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  I grab my panties, but they’re all twisted up into a ball.

  “What’s wrong?” he says.

  My face grows hot, my vision blurred. I can’t untangle my panties. Getting to my feet, I stumble through the door and into the living room.

  “Where are you going?” he says.

  “Stay away,” I tell him.

  But he follows me. “Did I hurt you?” he asks.

  “No.” I grab my coat and slide into it. “Where are my boots?”

  “But you can’t leave like that,” he says.

  I push past him into the bedroom and grab my boots. When I rush back, he’s standing by the front door, naked.

  “What’s going on?” he says.

  My muscles spasm, and I double over at his feet. He drops to the floor. “Should I call 911?”

  I’m panting now. “No,” I say. “I have to get home.” Using what’s left of my strength, I push him away and fumble the door open.

  “Wait!” he says.

  I rush into the hallway and run down the stairs, gripping my boots in one hand.

  When I get outside, the cold smacks me in the face. I’m about half a mile from home. I hear Ian coming down the stairs, so I start running toward Bedford Avenue. Halfway there, my knees give out on me. When I look up, I see Ian running toward me in jeans and his coat but no shirt.

  Pulling myself to my feet, I force myself to run. My legs scream at me as the muscles pull and tear. Behind me, Ian is gaining. I have to lose him somehow.

  And I have to get home.

  I turn left down Bedford Avenue and sprint for the next street. Ian is only half a block behind me. The pain will worsen, and I know I won’t be able to run for long. Already my legs are lengthening. I turn left down a quiet street with no pedestrians at all. But I know Ian will catch up with me. Any second now he’ll turn down this street. With no place to hide, I hurl myself behind some garbage cans in front of a tenement building. Then I squelch my panting and wait for the sound of Ian’s feet.

  “Jill!” he calls out.

  But he runs right past me.

  I pull the coat tightly around me, but my legs are fully exposed. Exposed and changing right before my eyes. The pain is unbearable, and I want to cry out.

  “Please make it stop,” I whisper. “Please oh please oh please.”

  I tell myself the pain will end. It always does. It comes on like a steamroller, tears me apart, then evaporates suddenly. It always does, and this time will be no different.

  Ian runs back in the other direction, calling my name, frantic. I curl into a ball and grip my stomach. My shoulders bulge and stretch, straining the fabric of the coat until I can no longer keep it closed around me.

  Down below, a terrible throbbing begins.

  Hold on, I tell myself. It will all be over soon.

  What was once a center of softness and exquisite pleasure is now an angry nubbin throbbing to be born.

  I bite down hard on the sleeve of my coat and grunt through the agony.

  And from somewhere close by is a high-pitched sound.

  Insistent and deafening, it must be …

  … the cell phone?

  Where am I?

  It’s freezing. And I’m wearing Jill’s coat.

  Ow!

  Hold on. I think I’m having a girlgasm.

  Wait.

  Wait.

  Nope.

  Just … searing … pain.

  The cell phone chirps at me, so I shove my hand into the pocket of this stupid coat and shut it off. The back of my hand scrapes against the sidewalk.

  The sidewalk?

  Where the heckfire am I?

  Looking up between two trash cans, I spot a pair of dirty Converse sneakers facing me, unlaced. Extending my gaze further upward, I see two long legs and a big blue anorak.

  “Jill?” the coat says. “What are you doing?”

  It’s Larson, and he’s squinting into the dark at me.

  “Go away,” I say.

  Ian steps up to the trash cans and peers down at me. “What’s wrong with your voice?”

  I avert my face as the pain drifts away and evaporates like steam. Reaching down to my crotch, I make sure I’m all there.

  Ian hovers over the trash cans to look down at me. “Is there some reason why you’re lying there?” he says. “Do you need to go to the hospital … or anything?”

  I flip onto my other side and put my back to him, hoping that if I play possum, he’ll give up and walk away. But instead, I hear him shift one of the trash cans and squeeze through. Then his hand is on my shoulder.

  “It’s freezing out here,” he says. “At least come back inside. I promise I won’t touch you. If you don’t want me to.”

  “Go away,” I whisper.

  “I don’t understand,” he says. “What did I do? What’s wrong?”

  He puts his hand on my head. I want to throw him off and stuff his bony ass into a trash can. I want to punch him for the disgusting things he did to Jill. Doesn’t he know she’s only eighteen? Doesn’t he know she’s in love with someone else?

  “Can you look at me?” he says. “I want to help you.”

  I take a deep breath and try to summon every ounce of energy I have left. If I’m quick, I can probably knock him down and make a break for it before he sees my face.

  Larson tugs me around to face him. “Please,” he says. “Just tell me what I can do. Tell me what’s …”

  Once he registers the details of my face, he stumbles backward against the trash cans. “What the hell?” he says.

  I climb over him and shuffle down the street. Jill’s coat stops midway down my thighs and I’m not wearing anything underneath. I’m still too weak to run, so I throw myself into an awkward speedwalk. I’m barefoot, and the sidewalk is so cold it stings my feet.

  Behind me, the trash cans clatter, then Larson’s footsteps gain.

  “Jack!” he says.

  I try to hurl myself into a run, but it’s all I can do to maintain verticality and forward motion. I stick to the speedwalk, committing my shoulders and upper body to the task. Two girls walking toward me stop and stare at me openmouthed as I grind past them.

  “Jack!” Larson says. “Wait!”

  I try to summon the strength from somewhere, anywhere, to move faster, but I’ve got nothing. Larson catches up to me easily, grabs me by the arm, and spins me around.

  “What’s going on?” he says. “Where’s Jill?”

  I bend over and rest my hands on my knees to try to catch my breath. “I don’t know,” I say.

  “But you’re wearing her coat.”

  “Yes. I know.” I look up at him. “And you put your dirty hands all over her! You … you … you heap of garbage!”

  I storm off, panting and exhausted, but determined to get away.

  Bedford Avenue lies ahead, its sidewalks heaving with the Friday night masses. I put my head down and charge right out there. I do not make eye contact with anyone, though it’s clear from the hurried parting of shoes on the sidewalk that my presence is noticed.

  “Jack!” Larson yells from somewhere behin
d me. “Wait!”

  I sneak a peek at him over my shoulder. Then I charge right into the slow-moving traffic and cross the street to the improvised bebop of car horns and curses. On the opposite sidewalk, a crush of smokers banished to the curbside see me coming and scatter.

  Larson follows right on my heels, eventually grabbing me with both hands and spinning me around. “What have you done with her?” he says.

  I’m too weak to resist. My last watt of power was expended making it across the street. “Larson,” I say between hoarse breaths. “Believe me … you are not … in a position … to understand. … Just … let it go, okay?”

  “Let what go?”

  I stare at the ground for a few seconds, waiting for my strength to return.

  “Let what go?” he says, as if I didn’t hear him the first time.

  I look up into his big, stupid face. Is it pity? Is that what she sees in him? Because whatever it is, I can’t see it. He’s not attractive. He’s not smart. He’s not charming or funny. He’s no Tommy Knutson, that’s for sure.

  For a second I’m tempted to tell Larson the truth about Jill and me. I’m pretty sure that would put an end to the affair. But I guess it’s not my affair to end, no matter how disgusting and wrong it is.

  “Larson,” I say. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to.”

  “Huh?”

  I punch him collegially on the shoulder and speedwalk away.

  At last my strength returns. I start to jog, then to run.

  “Wait!” he calls.

  But he chases me for only a few blocks. By the time I get to McCarren Park, he’s gone.

  I run close to the wrought-iron gate enclosing the park, beneath the archway of nude maple branches. The dwindling pedestrians I encounter skirt away of their own accord. There is however a brief chorus of appreciation, courtesy of some drunks who haunt one of the benches on the outskirts of the park.

  About a block away from home I realize I’ve left Jill’s boots behind those trash cans. They were expensive too. By the time I drag myself up the stairs and inside the apartment, I’m completely out of breath.