They usually resort to name-calling, "dirty slut" or "fucking bitch," as they walk out the door. Echo lies back and laughs each time as she clenches her pussy muscles in anticipation of her next visitor.
Echo had always been a one man kind of girl. Until Narcissus. He wronged her in a way that destroyed her trust and activated some sort of perverse enjoyment in screwing a man, any man, over. It becomes somewhat of an addiction, in fact. Like the junkie that fiends for the piercing of a needle, Echo yearns for each new head to cross her threshold and plunge deep inside of her. They all feel different, the way they thrust and swirl and twirl. Some are thicker and some are longer. The best ones are big enough to almost hurt, almost tear, but not quite. She will long for these, for the first penetration; his head full and firm, she is wet and tight with anticipation as he climbs on top and parts her lips with his mushroom. Then, with aggressive determination, he will push deep inside of her, filling her taut, moist cave. It is in this moment that Echo feels more alive than ever.
Penetration provides a certain type of therapy, while his busted load of life force provides quite another altogether. His final thrust, as he pushes himself against her insides, leaves her with the fulfillment that she has successfully taken something from him. When he pulls out, he has left a part of himself behind, whether he knows it or not, and he will never be the same.
Each and every part of it gives Echo more than any counselor or talk therapist ever could. It brings her face-to-face with her womanhood and reminds her of that universal power which she holds. She is no longer a mere nymph in the time between penetration and orgasm but rather a goddess to be worshipped, and the praises come willingly from men on their knees. She cannot exact revenge from the one who wronged her, so it is the entire sex that is subject to Echo’s vengeance. Innocent and guilty alike, she traps them in her web, drains their passion, and squashes what is left of them, often all in a single night. Her actions are not noble, but they serve her well in the short term just the same. And right now, as she thrashes against the wrong done to her, the short term is all that really matters. Whatever damage she does to her soul in the long run is worth it to be able to look at herself in the mirror once again.
11
To say that I go buck wild the summer I live with Aunt Rose may be an understatement. In fact, this summer proves to be the litmus test of my sanity, and I discover just how volatile my other nature can be. The gin and juice flow freely, and we are all eager to rise to the challenge and take it to the head. Cocaine is almost always available. Angela tries her hand as a dealer, but we put so much up our own noses that it is all she can do to break even. She claims she does not mind it this way, that was all she intended anyways. There is sex all over the place: in the Circle, out of the Circle, lesbian sex, hetero sex, one-night stands, threesomes, outdoor sex, passed out sex, unprotected sex, May-December sex, and really any other kind of sex you can think of. Except sex with animals. Or dead bodies. It is the first time in my life that I have slept around. Revenge-slut fucks make me feel better. Going home with a different nameless guy every night and then back to Angela, I almost have it out of my system. And while Angela’s seductions convince me to play gay for a while, our underage lesbian friend tries out sex with a boy for the first and, most likely, last time. She frowns and wrinkles her nose when she admits that she has been popped. "I di’in like it," she slurs with a cringe. "It was gross an’ uncom’table!"
"Nobody likes it the first time," Julia points out. "It gets better the more you do it."
Cherry shakes her head vigorously; her black hair whips back and forth. "No, I don’ wanna. I don’ like ‘enises!"
" ‘Enises?" Julia chuckles. "What’s an ‘enis?"
"Maybe you should try a penis next time," Katrina offers. "Whatever an ‘enis is, it doesn’t sound as good as a penis."
Cherry’s face is red under her bushy bangs, hidden by the dark loose strands. It took a lot of gin and juice to get her to spill the secret we had all been waiting for. Or rather, as Beth admits later, a lot of juice. Cherry, eager to get inebriated, had tossed back drink after drink. "But I only put alcohol in the first one; all the rest were just OJ," Beth confides to me with guilty pleasure when we go out to smoke a cigarette. Messing with Cherry for the rest of the night makes us all a little giddy.
Meanwhile, Julia finds out that Daemon has renewed his relationship with Vanessa, his on-again, off-again sugar mama from the burbs. She does not break up with him, but she does spend a lot of time hating this other woman. On first look, it is hard to see what Daemon could possibly see in Vanessa. At forty-five, she is not just older; she is old. And not the hot kind of old like a MILF or a cougar, more like mom jeans and wide-flat-secretary-ass old. She is a stockbroker or something, so I imagine she could afford to look better if she wanted to, although maybe the payment on her Beamer precludes all of that. People have their priorities, of course. Daemon is apparently one of those priorities, which means he gets the latest and greatest tricked-out cell phone, brand new Timberlands, and whatever else his little heart desires so long as it gets him out to her house in the hills on a weekly basis. Why she has chosen him as the beneficiary of her spending money is even less clear. What does an obese, middle-aged professional woman have in common with a twenty-something, real-life gangbanger?
Meanwhile, this thing with Angela is getting less and less monogamous, and we try our hand at a variety of different menageries. We go for a scandalous round with Cherry at Daemon’s birthday party. It should probably bother me, being fondled by a seventeen-year-old girl. I mean, I could get in some sort of trouble for that, right? But consequences do not even cross my mind. After all, I am hardly the first to allow her to do this anyway. Beth has already broken her in as far as the older woman is concerned, and Cherry herself is guilty of poking her fingers in a vagina that just turned fourteen. Not that there is much to worry about anyway since Angela does not share well with others. She lets Cherry have my left tit. That is it. Even when a tongue cramp forces Angela to ease up, our young friend is sadly mistaken when she takes it as her cue to get some real licks in. Instead, she gets shoved off the bed. The other partygoers get curious and break in, and everyone sees my bare ass when they flip on the lights. It would not be a big deal except that this is not a Circle-exclusive party. Daemon’s aunt and uncle are here too. I would feel bad for offending their Christian sensibilities except their outrage is not over the fact that we were having sex but that we were having homosexual sex. See, everybody has sex that night. Everybody. Even Auntie takes a good pounding. But she takes it from Unc, so apparently that makes all of the difference in the world. It is the first time I am on the receiving end of anti-gay bigotry, and I am shocked when Julia takes their side.
"That does not make sense," I argue. "How are we the ones being disrespectful because they are homophobic?" She retorts that Ben and Stacy are not homophobic and that we need to learn to respect our elders. "Well, I’ll bet you and Daemon are going to have sex tonight. And Lena and A.J. are going to have sex. Shit, Ben and Stacy will probably have sex too, so please tell me what the fuck does this have to do with respecting my elders?"
Later, after another night at the club with Angela and I putting blow up our noses in the washroom, we try the same arrangement but with Beth in Cherry’s place and in a more private space (Beth’s bed). It works a little better, and Angela keeps her jealousy in check, although she still dominates the scene.
We even try a threesome with a guy. It is not something we set out to do on purpose. A little too much of our favorite cocaine-marijuana-vodka-Redbull cocktail, and somehow Daniel Long becomes my prey. Oh the plight of the bi-curious attempt at taking a lesbian lover. I hate to admit, but, frankly, I need dick in my life, and at this point, I am fiending like a rabid bunny rabbit. Daniel is not my type, but it really does not matter right now; I just need someone to fill me up.
I start by taking off my shirt. The excuse: "Man, it is hot in here."
"Yes
, it is!" Daniel agrees.
I stop in front of the full-length mirror that faces the bed and grab my own breasts. "These look amazing today."
"Yes, they do!" he agrees again.
Angela is giving me that sideways stare of hers like she only halfway wants to know what I am up to as I saunter over to her and stick my chest out further. "Don’t they look amazing today?" I take her hands in mine and then place them on my breasts.
She chuckles a little and squeezes. "Of course, they always look amazing." She tosses me down on Daniel’s bed and pulls off my pants. I let her go for a while before I whisper in her ear, "I really need some dick!"
She is pissed but obliged to please me. "Fine," she says and turns to Daniel. "Go ahead. She wants you to fuck her."
It turns out to be a wholly disappointing experience. Daniel is literally frightened out of his boner, either by the menacing scowl on Angela’s face as she hovers over him or because he is generally scared of sex with people other than himself. I would venture to guess that both variables contribute greatly to the sad state of the situation. He is able to keep it up for five minutes if that, a generous estimate considering the flaccidity of it. A limp boner is a small reward in exchange for Angela’s attitude about the whole ordeal.
Except that it turns out to be a blessing in disguise. This defining moment forces Angela to accept that I will never be the happily exclusive receiver she wants me to be. Furthermore, her jealousy has become stale and suffocating. It was fun at first to rile her up, to watch her squirm, to see how far she would go. But the same old dance has grown old, and I am surprised but overjoyed when she suggests we break up. Perhaps she has finally grown tired of my antics.
12
(Daniel Long) The night that I put my penis inside of Jane is the scariest night of my life. She is like a goddess laying there on my sheets. Her skin is tan and silky smooth. Her long black hair cascades around her, her vibrant young breasts still perky enough that they stay where they belong even though she is on her back. And, most importantly, she is shaved to perfection.
She writhes with desire, and her hips gyrate ever so slightly as she begs me to slide inside of her. I hesitate. I fear she is too much for me to handle. She pulls her feet up and her legs apart so that I can see her tight little twat soaking wet. My penis does not want to cooperate. He hides like a turtle in his shell before a mighty predator. I focus on her breasts and beg him until my head hurts. I finally get a few measly inches out of him, but every time I thrust, Angela’s psychotic grimace gets closer.
Then suddenly, it is all too much, and my penis goes limp. Angela looks at me with smug satisfaction. Jane frowns and yells at me to finish fucking her. Between the two of them, I am pretty sure one is going to kill me no matter what I do.
13
If I stop to think about it, there are pieces of me that I no longer recognize: demanding and moody, quick to rage. Part of it is the party-hard Circle lifestyle; part of it is the way Angela indulges me; part of it is the nature of this place. Salem, Oregon, where not only is everybody crazy but they also think they are all stars in their own personal reality shows. In the midst of this culture of behavioral decadence and the absence of personal responsibility, it all becomes too hard. Too hard to go into work anymore, too hard to get up in the afternoon, too hard to deal with the bosses, too hard to deal with the customers; it is all too fucking hard. So I quit.
This non-relationship situation turns out to be better than being Angela’s girlfriend. Not much changes with our breakup. She still licks my pussy whenever I want. She still buys me clothes and supplies me with drugs and alcohol. Her and her son still practically live with me in Rose’s cottage since she lost her apartment. The only thing that has really changed is that she does not introduce me as her girlfriend anymore. That and she no longer has any legitimate claim to jealousy. Which is not to say that she does not experience it, of course, only that she is not allowed to express it. And so I am free to do whatever I want in the single world while still being guaranteed all the benefits of a relationship. Frankly, I got my cake, and I am fucking eating it too!
Perhaps the summer is filled with so much sex because the drug-and-alcohol cocktail that has become our staple is a powerful aphrodisiac. Each ingredient lends its own particular element: Vodka lowers the inhibitions; Redbull brings energy and stamina, pot sensuality, cocaine freedom and pure insatiable horniness. So I flash strangers at stoplights and demand that Daniel Long feel me up on his balcony even though he is not at all into the exhibitionist thing and has legitimate reason to be concerned that such an act could lead to his eviction.
It is not just sex, though. I have lost my inhibitions when it comes to drugs as well. At one point, we go for a drive through the city with a three-foot bong and take hits at stoplights downtown. I have been smoking and driving for as long as I remember and have never been caught with a pipe or a joint, so why not step it up a notch? Consequences are of no consequence. Angela tries to be the voice of reason, but I am not interested in listening. She always follows along after I refuse to give in, anyway.
One sunny day, I have a bright idea on the interstate. "Let’s do a line!" I exclaim, hopping up and down in the driver’s seat.
Angela laughs, "That’s just what I was thinking too."
"Right on!" I dig in the console between the seats for a CD case. "Here, chop it up." She takes the case from me, but then she just holds it in her lap and stares at me. "What? I don’t have a razor blade in the car. You’re just going to have to use your ID."
She stares a little while longer, like she wants something more, then turns her whole body towards me and scrunches up her face. "Are you saying that you want me to cut it up right now? And you’re going to snort it right here? On I-5?"
"Did I stutter?"
She looks down at the floorboards and shakes her head with that expression of amusement bordering on exasperation. "You know we’ll be home in like half an hour, right?"
"So? Let’s do it here. It’ll be fun!" I exclaim. "It will be an adventure!"
Angela looks back at me again as if I am crazy. "You know it’s broad daylight out there, right?"
I nod.
"And there are other people driving on the road. Cops too."
I nod again. "I don’t see the problem . . ."
"This," she says as she holds up the little Ziploc baggie with the skull pattern printed on one side and shakes it in front of my face. "This is not pot. You don’t just get a ticket that they forget to file ‘cause the cop smoked it before he gets around to turning it into impound. No, it ain’t just a slap on the wrist; it’s jail!"
I shrug. "If we get caught. But why would we get caught?"
She laughs and it looks like she is warming to the suggestion. It does not take much to convince her of a good idea, so she pulls a plastic card out of her wallet and dumps a small amount of the baggie’s contents on the CD case.
"Same shit?"
"Yeah," she nods without looking up from her task as she slices away at each of the little rocks with the plastic card. "It’s almost gone."
Normally Angela gets her supply from a semi-anonymous trust-fund baby who lives on the fringes of her parents approval and answers a constantly-changing number whenever it so suits her to pay the bill. Then a week or so ago, we happen to be out and this chick is unreachable when Julia calls out of the blue and offers us a sweet deal. Angela has to work, so she gives me some money and sends me over to pick it up. The shit is suspicious from the start. For one, Julia does not do coke let alone sell it. I could overlook that, of course; she could have gotten it from Daemon. Running into a lot of meth here or a little cocaine there is not outside his realm of hustling, so Julia presents as an intermediary; no big deal, right? I expect just her, and in fact she appears to be home alone when I arrive. She leads me to the bathroom where she hands me a plastic bag off the counter. I frown when I take it from her. "It looks . . . wet?"
There is something between curiosity
and guilt on her face, and it nearly kills me that I cannot tell which is dominant. "What does that mean?" she asks.
I shrug without committing to any accusations. "It could mean a lot of things."
Before I can ask where it came from, Daemon pipes up from the bedroom, "You ain’t gotta buy it if you don’t want to." This is clearly a guilt ploy, and essentially he is accusing me of not trusting him. Except that it was Julia who called, and it was Julia who answered the door, and it was Julia who I had hoped to trust. Was it intentional that he did not appear to be home until his voice came from the bedroom? True, I had not checked or asked, only assumed this was the case as he is always in one of the front rooms when guests come over, no matter how short their stay. So the fact that Daemon has not greeted me as a guest in his home, has ignored manners that he values, and has sent Julia to sell his wares—these all make me even more suspicious.
Julia is playing innocent while Daemon tries to pander guilt and, on top of that, the shit is wet? I open the bag and take a whiff. The smell is the most important part; the smell tells you what it has been cut with. If it does not smell like baking soda, hand it back straight away. This moist mess does not smell anything like sodium bicarbonate. Instead, it is soft and sweet, almost floral, like detergent. "Did it go through the washing machine or something?"
She still looks nervous as she shrugs but does not admit to anything. I figure Angela would probably buy the sack regardless of its flaws. And it is her money, a fact she will likely point out if I show up empty-handed.
Jane. Page 21