Raylene's smile drooped. Victor lowered his fist, his brow furrowing. Irv stopped clapping with his hands at their widest distance.
"We were only trying to help…" Raylene said, her voice small.
"Help? You nearly fucking killed me. If you think that's help, you people need serious counselling."
"Fuck you, man," Irv said. "We did this for you."
"No fuck you," he said, further enraged by the tears streaming down his face. "You did this for yourselves. You think you're so fucking enlightened? Fucking righteous? Bullshit! Go to Hell."
They looked back at him with their mouths agape. He felt along the door.
"I'm getting the fuck out of here," he said, pulling feebly on the handle. Wiping his tears with the back of his hand, he jerked the handle, and the door came open to the sound of traffic. He stumbled out into the gravel lot. Off to the left of the van, the airport lights shined brightly into his eyes through the tall wire fence, his tears creating stars. He blinked violently.
"You need to let go of that anger, man," Victor said.
"You need to shut the fuck up, you hypocrite! If any of you try to contact me again, if you come to my house, I will fuck you up. You hear me? I will fucking kill you."
He left the door open, staggering away from the van, catching his breath, leaving them to watch his feet kick up gravel dust as another plane roared overhead.
Focusing on the road ahead, the headlights passing by at speed, he felt stronger. He wouldn't let them know they'd transformed him—that they'd hardened his resolve like galvanized steel. He breathed fire. His rage was a jet engine. Without it, he would plummet to the Earth. He would crash and burn on the tarmac.
They had opened up his eyes.
He realized what he'd wanted all along, and now he knew how to get it.
He breathed.
He wouldn't turn back and thank them.
He breathed.
SHYLA REMAINED SILENT a moment, letting his words sink in. Her chest sagged suddenly with a gush of air, and she realized she'd been holding her breath for the last few minutes of Angel's story, as if in sympathy.
"That was you, wasn't it? The man in the story?"
Angel nodded.
Shyla considered her reply. "My mother always used to say, 'Hug your enemies, sugar. Make them into friends.' I always thought that was silly advice. If that had happened to me, I would have gotten them arrested. Did you call the cops?"
He shook his head, not wanting or not able to meet her eye.
"Why not?" She heard the anger in her tone, and told herself to dial it back. It wasn't an interrogation, not like what she'd faced after what had happened to her.
"I thought if I did it would only show them how much they'd hurt me. That they'd beaten me. It's amazing what we convince ourselves to avoid humiliation."
"But what if they did it again to someone else after you?" she asked, frustrated. "What if they killed someone the next time?"
"I guess that never occurred to me," he said. "I suppose I'd have to live with the guilt, if it did."
"Did they do that to you?" Shyla said, pointing at the long, faded scar down the side of his face.
At first Angel didn't seem to know what she meant. "Oh, this?" He drew a finger down the dark, jagged line. "No, that scar's from a long time ago. I don't even remember it happening."
An uncomfortable silence fell between them. She didn't want to tell him—she felt compelled to. He'd been violated. Not in the same way as she had when she was a teenager, but degradation and humiliation were difficult to quantify.
"I know how hard it is, when someone abuses you, to do what you have to do," Shyla said. "I know what it's like to feel helpless and still have to try and be strong."
"Oh?" he said.
She nodded. "When I was fifteen, I wasn't comfortable in my body. I was a sad girl. Didn't have many friends. This one day, an older boy, Donny Holbrook, asked me to go to the movies with him. I was so excited I didn't even think to wonder why he'd ask me, out of everyone he could have asked. Anyway, he told me to meet him behind the theater before the show. We were going to see the new King Kong movie. I didn't realize then that it was part of the joke."
The silence drew out as she gathered her thoughts, the dildo forgotten between them. The air conditioning unit hummed in the corner, blasting cool air that froze the sweat under her arms.
"I don't want to tell it," she said, "not in gory detail like you did. I came to terms with what happened a long time ago. I had to. Because of the way I was found. I only told the police because the guy who found me called them. I only told my father because the police made me. The more I talked about it, the less power it had over me." She sighed, her breath shaking from the rapid beat of her heart. "But I'm done telling it. The world doesn't need another rape story, you know? And it happened so long ago…"
"That doesn't invalidate it," Angel said. "There's no statute of limitations on pain."
Shyla frowned at that. "No, you're right. But those boys already faced their judgment for what they did to me. We were all just kids."
"Shall we take this out?" Angel said, indicating the dildo.
"No," she said, shaking her head. "I need to feel it."
Angel didn't look like he understood.
"I need to feel whole. For the part of me they took away."
He looked down at the black circle protruding from her rosy folds, and back up to her cold gaze.
"The short version is, Donny and his friends took turns raping me with a baseball bat in the woods behind the theater," Shyla said, hitching a breath. "The worst part about it, other than the pain and the shame of it, is that I should have known better. I knew I should have turned and left when I saw the other two boys with him. But I convinced myself to stay." She shook her head. "That I was being an idiot, it wouldn't be nice, I'd screwing things up with Donny, who was pretty and popular, and if I just played along everything would be okay. You should always listen to that voice when something doesn't feel right. Always look out for the red flags. Stop worrying about being nice, about making a scene. I know that now. I learned it the hard way that night."
"I'm sorry that happened to you, Shyla."
"Thank you. Before, when you asked about children, I've always wanted them," she said. "After what those boys did to me I'll never know that joy. And I think my mother would have been okay that I never hugged them."
"I'm sure she would have." He gave her a thin smile. "You've probably been asked this before, but have you thought about adoption? Who knows, you might strike gold and get someone like me," he added, giving her a wry smile.
"Someday, maybe. If I ended up with a kid anywhere near as considerate and intelligent as you, I'd count myself lucky."
They both smiled in the silence that followed. She wiped a tear from her cheek.
"One last story, then," Angel said. "And then we'll get down to business."
"I think I need to pee first," Shyla said. "Do you mind if I…?" She gestured toward the dildo.
Angel nodded. "Oh, absolutely."
Shyla thanked him, and grasped what was visible of the shiny black pylon. She noticed her pussy had left a little creaminess around the base of it, and wiped it away quickly before easing the dildo out of herself.
She'd be sore after this—hell, she was sore now—but she knew she'd get back into shape easily enough. It was mostly in the inner thighs where she felt it, the slightly sharp, hard rubber rim around the bottom leaving painful red lines on her flesh like the smother box had.
She pulled out the rest, feeling emptied as the tip came out of her with a sucking sound. Angel watched with wide eyes as her sticky opening contracted to its normal, discreet cleft.
"Did you know there's a world record for the widest vagina?" he asked.
"It doesn't surprise me."
"A Scottish giant named Anna Swan gave birth to a twenty-two pound boy in 1879. His head was nineteen centimeters. That's about six inches in diameter. You've ju
st taken five and a half."
"Did I?" Off his nod, she said, "I'm not sure if I should be proud or concerned." She pushed herself out of bed with a restrained groan. She was limber, no way she would make much money in the business without being flexible, in so many ways. But being a large woman still had its disadvantages, one of which was rising from soft furniture like beds or sofas.
She walked barefoot to the bathroom, legs tingly with pins and needles, sashaying so Angel would get a good look at her ass. Not that he seemed to care. At first she'd thought he had a thing for big girls, but he didn't appear to have much interest in her body. Even when he was fucking her with the toys, he reminded her more of a gynecologist than a sex partner, aside from his hairdresser's chattiness. What's he getting out of this? she wondered. Is this therapy for him?
Have a quick pee, maybe stand in the shower for a rinse—Try not to slip, don't want to suffer the same fate Mary—and return refreshed for what she hoped would be a good, solid fuck from a hard, thick cock.
Passing Angel's bag of tricks, she took a peek inside. Aside from a fleshy, suction-cup dildo, there only appeared to be a checkered hand towel, a thing of hand sanitizer, and an unlabeled bottle that looked like it might contain peroxide or nail polish remover.
No red flags to worry about, as far as she could see.
MAN(NEQUIN)
SHYLA EMERGED FROM the bathroom a short time later doused in a thick miasma of sweet perfume. Her inner thighs glistened as if she'd rinsed herself off in the tub, and Angel was glad for that. Her sweat, during the brief story of her rape, had turned a tad sour. He watched her ease onto the bed and lay back against the headboard.
Angel knew he'd gained her sympathy with the story of his rebirthing in the back of a van. She wouldn't have told him what those boys had done to her if he hadn't. But if he wanted her to go along peacefully with what he planned, he'd have to make her really feel sorry for him. He'd have to tell her the one story he'd never told anyone, at least not all of it.
He'd have to tell her about Andy.
He'd have to tell her about the mannequin.
"I'm ready when you are," she said, getting comfortable.
He hoped she was comfortable, for what he had to say. Because what happened that night had meant he'd never been able to be comfortable again in his life. All that would change today, though.
"This story is the darkest one of all," Angel said.
"Goodie. Will there be a sex toy accompaniment?"
"Not for this one."
"Oh, poo," Shyla said with a pout.
"No poo in this one either, I'm afraid."
She laughed.
Angel joined her, glad for some levity between what she'd told him and the last story he had to tell. After this, they would get down to business.
He was ready.
He hoped Shyla was ready, too.
"This story is about a girl—"
WHO LOVED SOMETHING so much she was willing to do whatever it took to get it.
Bethany Chastain lived in a small bungalow on the East Side with her mother and their tabby cat Sniffles. Her mom was a kind of peculiar, artsy type—I'd heard some people call her a cat lady, but since the family only had one cat it didn't seem fair. Bethany was seventeen years old when she came to the Lonely Motel with her prom date, and because of her embarrassment over her mother's odd behavior, he was her first. Before then she'd always worried they would have to come over to her house at some point, and her mother would mortify her by acting the way she always did and scaring them away.
Everybody in the neighborhood knew Cora Chastain. The woman's conduct didn't just bother her daughter; Bethany saw that others were put-off by it as well, even disgusted. Cora Chastain didn't seem to get it, though. She had no idea how to interact with people. She was socially oblivious. See, Bethany's mom had been diagnosed in her teens with histrionic personality disorder, and because of it she was constantly seeking attention, especially from men. Delivery boys had it the hardest, scurrying back to their Volkswagen Rabbits when Bethany's mother answered the door in a frilly teddy, and they caught sight of her jailbait daughter peeking around the corner from the kitchen. It got so bad, restaurants refused to take her order. Turnaround for mail carriers in their area was the highest in the city.
See, Cora Chastain didn't just flirt. "Sexual harassment" was a better term. The few times Bethany did have boys over when she was younger, at a birthday party or to study with a group of friends, before she was old enough to realize not everyone's parents acted like her mother did, her mother competed with her for the boys' approval. She'd ruffle their hair, or pinch their cheeks and wink at them, and she'd always be wearing something low-cut, something tight. During one birthday party, she came up from her workshop all covered in splotches of wet clay like dried semen, sticking to the flimsy fabric of her tube top and hardened around her jutting nipples. And she was always, "Such a mess," even when she'd spent half an hour dolling herself up in front of the bathroom mirror.
Bethany grew up with weird ideas about sex because of this. Her mother had all but dry-hump a horrified Jehovah's Witness at the door (they'd avoided their house like the Plagues of Egypt passing over the homes of righteous Hebrews after that incident, the word spreading through their ranks down at the Kingdom Hall), and she'd heard her mother having sex with countless strange men who Cora would refer to as Bethany's "uncles." By her mother's count, Bethany had more uncles than picnics had ants.
Cora's tormented daughter slept in a small bedroom in their basement, and didn't much like it down there. It was dank and smelled like mildew. It was opposite the furnace, which ticked and hummed loudly at night. Too hot in the winter, too cold in the summer. Her mother had her workshop down there, which was always a mess, and Bethany would often be woken up by the sound of power tools.
Her mother did multimedia art, incorporating clay, found objects, woodworking, painting, and collages. Some of it was brilliant. She'd had a few gallery showings, but once word got out how difficult it was to work with her, be they men—whom she glommed onto—or women—who'd just about be challenged to pistols at dawn, her work was relegated to her own small booth at a local farmer's market. Even they refused to have her there, eventually.
Sometimes her mother's collection of crafts and supplies got so out of hand they'd spill over into Bethany's room, so for the longest time, she shared her bedroom with a store mannequin. The first few weeks, after her mother had stuffed him into a dark corner of her room the year she turned nine, Bethany would come in after school or from the bathroom, forget he was there, and freak out all over again.
Even worse than that was that her mother hadn't even bothered to dress him. His chiseled chest and the smooth Ken Doll lump between his legs, not quite anatomically correct, but enough to cause her to give it shy little glances, to make her think of men stepping out of the pool in tight bathing suits at the neighborhood Y, or the boys climbing rope in their red Adidas gym shorts. She considered putting clothes on him herself, but she knew her mother would accuse her of being "so puritanical," and make the whole situation a million times worse.
Over time, she got used to him, where even his nakedness didn't embarrass her anymore. She went so far as to give him a name: with his smooth bald head, his vacant blue eyes, and muscular body, she thought he looked like an Andy.
Bethany would come home after school, and with her mother at work, or upstairs with another long-lost uncle, she'd tell Andy about her day. At first she thought of it like how some girls wrote in their journals, Dear Diary… etcetera etcetera, treating it like a living entity who actually listened to their stories. Harmless enough, she thought. Like talking to Sniffles the cat.
Over time, Andy became her friend. He didn't judge, like her girlfriends did. He didn't offer half-baked solutions and platitudes, like a boy might. He simply listened. He was her sounding board. Andy stood in stoic opposition to ideas she knew were silly, that she'd only spoken aloud to get them out of her head (id
eas like killing her mother with poison, or leaving the back door open "accidentally" so Sniffles would wander off and stop getting his dandruff all over the couch cushions). Andy's crooked smile offered approval and sympathy as required.
Bethany had her first period at the early age of eleven. Her mother had paraded her proudly around the house, cheering for her when they went to buy maxi-pads—"My little girl's a woman now!" she told a bemused clerk behind the pharmacy counter, shaking Bethany's fist like she'd won a gold medal for high diving—and promptly driving her to her own gynecologist to get a prescription for The Pill. "I won't have my baby having babies," she told the startled doctor, who looked a bit like Mr. Weatherbee from the Archie comics, while her daughter sat red-faced, her eyes rolling back in her head in complete and utter embarrassment.
Around that time Bethany decided she'd better practice kissing boys if she was going to start going to dances and dating like the other girls in school. Andy's crooked smile seemed to express he was more than happy to oblige.
She locked her bedroom door, and turned on the radio to the classic rock station she enjoyed. While John Cougar sang a little ditty about two American kids named Jack and Diane, Bethany approached her mannequin friend with a shy smile, knowing that if her mother caught her it would be absolutely mortifying. Cora Chastain would probably brag to the pizza delivery kid about her daughter's "sexual awakening" and/or "exploration."
Andy was a foot taller, so Bethany had to stand up on her tiptoes. His blue eyes peered over her head as she planted a kiss on his smooth plastic lips, the way she'd kiss Sniffles when the cat didn't have too much dry skin in his fur.
It didn't… feel quite right. It was cold, for one thing. And dry. She didn't know what sort of reaction she was expecting, but it wasn't exactly electrifying.
Feet back on the floor, she looked up into Andy's blank stare, mirroring her disappointment. Her gaze fell on his smooth pubis. She remembered her mother rubbing her crotch on the leg of another "uncle" at the dinner table one night, the way Sniffles sometimes humped pillows when he was In Heat. She couldn't reach to mimic the action, not without getting up on a chair and risking tipping Andy over, sending the both of them sprawling to the floor, so she crouched down and hugged Andy around the knees. He was heavier than she'd imagined, and he almost fell over backwards, but she managed to keep him upright, her nose pressed against his crotch, and with a strained grunt she threw him down on her bed.
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