The retired policeman’s ankles barely hurt, so he got up, limping against nature to Grant and Washington as if there could possibly be anything worth walking to; he longed for a fatal stroke, just a big headache and then to hell with the world and Judy in particular. This was a long walk for him. Passing the Chinatown post office at the Stockton corner, he saw so many balding old Chinese ladies holding shopping bags; and young blonde white girls bowing over their cell phones, there on the anniversary of the Chinese Republic. Maybe he should get rid of Judy, just fire her, change the lock and send the bitch about her so-called career—while a neon OPEN sign kept modestly blinking at Feng Ca Trading Co. beneath two storeys of curtained apartment windows, in one of which trembled the Chinese flag’s reflection. Why care what she was up to?
The sun was already too low to brighten the gilt ideograms of the King Chow Temple. He descended the ramp into the Stockton tunnel, brushing past pairs of tiny Chinese maidens. As a matter of fact he used to date Judy not at the Y Bar but right here on Stockton and Sutter, just for thrills; he’d dial up her crackfaced cell phone, and she’d be looking behind her at the low wide mouth of the Stockton tunnel, within which a row of lights receded on the right and another on the left, and there he was. Yeah, there I fucking was, and for what? Should have strangled the bitch.
His phone rang, but it was only his ex-submissive Melba.
The Green Door was open for massages, while the new chain pharmacy store was either not open or else freshly out of business, with butcher paper inside all the windows, although yellow light oozed out around the edges. Erin and Sandra stood inside the Japanese candy store, holding hands; they didn’t notice him. He turned west into the block of opticians, boutiques, fast food, busily glowing garages, mailboxes and art galleries by the Sir Francis Drake Hotel on the far corner at Powell. Sutter had become too tarted up, so when he got to Jones he crossed the street at the intersection, wishing to shoot the tall young man in headphones who stood rudely unconscious of him, then down the grey sidewalk to Cosmo Alley and the Taylor Hotel, right on Post, skirting a huddle of Japanese girls on the corner who smiled into their cell phones; then four pairs of tourists came rolling their suitcases up the sidewalk.
He went left, and down into the valley of grey streets and ancient red lights. He came home to Empire Residences. Then he sat wearily on the edge of the bed, holding his belly in with both hands while the transwoman knelt happily on the grubby carpet, trimming his toenails for him while humming “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” His ankles ached. Unable to make up his mind whether he was in the mood for a blow job, he stared down at the grey roots of her hair.
25
To get Neva out of his business he’d find the dirt inside her, and for the sake of his ethics it had better be real dirt, since he had never been one of those milk-fed officers who plant a pistol on a suspect’s corpse. Real dirt meant real dirt. He could compassionate pathetic crimes and criminals, like the West Virginian who went to jail for stealing a storage tank and selling it to a junkyard. The ones who had to be stopped were those who misused the higher feelings of others. Fortunately, every soul was packed with moral fecal matter anyhow, rendering the game a theoretical win every time; but some people were better at covering up, although he for his part was awfully good at digging down.
From his point of view the plot did thicken, but what could actually nail the lesbian? Reba had taught her that song of names to sing, so that she could always be again with all the women she had loved. But she never sang it in his hearing. And of course she had her women’s mark and her sealskin pouch of banknotes. There might be more incriminating souvenirs.—When asked where she came from, Neva would say: Honey, c’mere and give me a kiss!, after which the transwoman backed off, in dread of being prohibited from enjoying her favors.
Judy’s body was singing against the lesbian’s, her mouth sucking and avidly swallowing the lesbian’s spit, the lesbian’s fingers sizzling against her breasts; then the stream of pleasure shimmered down into more widely spaced gold and silver electrons; and after a long happy sigh Judy said: Neva, I want to see it. Where is it?
The lesbian smiled sadly.
I mean it, said the transwoman. I want to see your women’s mark.
Here it is.
Oh! It’s—
But try not to tell anyone.
I promise.
While Judy bit her earlobe, Neva lay wondering when to next visit her mother, and whether she was needed by brownhaired Catalina next door. Judy was licking her neck. She said: I want to look just like Judy Garland. Don’t you think that’s crazy?
Sweetheart, you can’t be her, the lesbian gently replied. But guess whom you could be: a tall strong woman like Martina Navratilova.
Oh, do you really think so?
As the lesbian carefully penetrated her and gently, sweetly rode her, Judy’s mind likewise wandered, because her partner was being so gentle; she heard the couple in Room 541 arguing ever more loudly, after which the woman shrieked three times very quickly while something crashed; then the woman screamed again and again, rhythmic screams that excited the transwoman, bringing her back to the lesbian’s dildo inside her; now she was almost climaxing but then something shattered against the wall of Room 541 so that she couldn’t help but worry about the woman in there, but comforted herself by imagining that it was she in there, getting beaten to death by a big tall ferociously handsome male brute who hated her, was raping her and would smash her head in. The lesbian’s hair smelled like flowers. Perceiving what she craved, the lesbian gently laced fingers around Judy’s neck, penetrating her faster and harder until Judy suddenly climaxed, surprising herself with the soft joy of what went on and on and on, the lesbian taking expert possession of what Judy had never known she had; not a maidenhead because she was too unclean and false to have ever been a virgin, but at least there was a womanhead of velvet inside her, and the lesbian in claiming it brought it alive.
The woman next door fell silent. A man’s voice muttered and growled to itself. The transwoman lay weeping in the lesbian’s arms. Then it came time for them to part, and the familiar anguish of separation intoxicated her. She walked home singing girlfriend, girlfriend, girlfriend!
Meanwhile the lesbian dreamed that she was back in the house of her childhood, lying on what she always called her girl bed, with her old dolls and stuffed animals still around her, when suddenly the doorknob silently began to turn, the door to swing inward, and she woke up with her heart pounding in terror.
26
The Y Bar was closed for the night. Xenia, wired from having just been voted most popular of the Pink Apple’s dozen girls in black bras and undies and gaiters—no, maybe eight or nine, pumping those pale buttocks, crossing their legs, sitting in each other’s laps, showing off their breasts—had blown in and out, after which some chunky young blonde in a striped sweater swished her bottom, swayed and said: oh yeah, oh yeah! and then came last call. Shantelle was in bed snorting crystal and masturbating because her dance routine had been voted most glamorous, with Samantha most definitively edged out. In those weeks even Shantelle, who was certainly far from monogamous, remained re-persuaded that the lesbian’s other activities robbed her of nothing significant; to her our Neva had spoken in the hard straight language of facts, which (so prostitutes love to assure their clients) have absolutely nothing to do with our hearts’ realities. Instead of insisting, as people so often do when forced to admit to some unloving betrayal, you know I love you!, the lesbian began by saying very sweetly, with that steadfast, half-lowered gaze that the other woman could never resist: Shantelle, I know you love me . . . !—Those words calmed Shantelle: She merely needed to pretend a little bit, and then all would be pleasant; Neva would venture lovingly into Shantelle’s pretend world, and then . . .
Meanwhile lucky Francine was sleeping in the lesbian’s arms, while next door Catalina lay sadly alone. Hunter was in bed with Xeni
a, holding her desperately. On Turk Street a man was smashing bottles and screaming, while on all four television screens above him two glamorous women sat kissing. People lay in dark doorways, wrapped up like garbage.
As for Judy, what should she be doing with her life? Longing to receive some portion of Neva’s form, or even just to drink any woman’s spit or sweat and keep it inside her forever, she tried to remember last night’s dreams and looked ahead to the now; keep it simple, Judy, she told herself.—For once she wasn’t hungry; nor did she feel up for moneymaking, even with Al, who rarely turned her down. Meanwhile Sandra’s phone was turned off, it being her time to snuggle with her dogs, drinking wine and turning her mind to the lesbian, who outshone all others. What about the retired policeman? (We all used to laugh at the way that Judy could not get enough of him and even imagined that they were similar people.) She could hardly wait to tattle about the women’s mark on Neva; he’d pat her head and say: Not bad for a girl.—But maybe it was better to save her information for when she needed to get him out of a bad mood. Suffice it to say that she clipclopped home. When she got there it was dawn, and she found beneath her door a flier meant to aid her, which said:
Near Jericho in Israel is a place called Sodom and Gomorrah . . . This entire area should be a testimony of GOD to all people, especially those perverts who practice homosexuality and lesbianism. After observing all this, you will know that GOD is not a kidder.
She washed her face, chewed up three yellow pills, brushed her teeth and lay down to think about the lesbian, whose long legs had first reminded Francine of the supermodel Gigi Hadid’s.
27
What was Neva to her but a divinity at whose feet she could lay down her entire self—and from whom she could meanwhile take love endlessly? Having modeled her femininity first on her mother and her sister, who had both been disgusted by her, then on blurred bygone footage of Judy Garland pretending to be a little girl, pretending to be a happy wife and mother, giving and giving until she broke, the transwoman had until now constructed herself into a vessel of putrid meat which she despised even while offering it. As a model, the lesbian might be less false than these others; she was certainly more available.
28
Now it was Victoria’s turn. Wondering if the lesbian might be sleeping or maybe eating breakfast, lonely, but not meaning to impose, Victoria decided, of course, to impose. It was ten a.m. Smiling, the lesbian opened the door. Victoria instantly felt what she would later describe to Francine as lightning between her heart and her cunt.
As soon as they had sat down on the lesbian’s couch Victoria blushingly said: What I want is full body contact—you on top of me. And them we can give each other a small massage. After that you’ll tell me what to do; make me beg you . . .
All right, honey, said the lesbian. Something about this woman’s hands, shoulders and laughter reminded her of her mother.
Turn over, said Victoria. I want to explore your body.
The lesbian lay there, trying not to shrink, while her guest gently touched her, kissing the calluses on her heels, parting her buttocks, stroking her back, and all the while she felt ashamed and violated, because she could only please, not be pleased; whenever anyone touched her it was like her mother touching her.
Let me eat your pussy, she said as seductively as she could, to which Victoria sadly replied: But then you’re so far away . . .
For once disregarding another’s whim, the lesbian inched down to the foot of the bed and placed her mouth on the other woman’s cunt. Then she began to lick so gently and sweetly and skillfully; any minute now Victoria’s vagina would begin to pulse and Victoria would be moaning, but Victoria only said: Do I taste okay? and then: This is so relaxing . . .—which is to say that under this procedure Victoria would never come. So Neva did what she had to do, which was to grant Victoria’s wish—and Victoria was grateful, oh, so grateful.
You’re so gorgeous! laughed her guest. You’re brave and beautiful like me . . . —and the lesbian felt ashamed . . .—The headboard receded from her. Victoria rushed backward to clamp her mouth between the lesbian’s legs. The lesbian gripped the headboard, shuddering and crying out as if for help. Fearing that she had begun to squirm away, Victoria slithered forward, seizing her hips. The lesbian fell silent, held her breath, began trembling deep within her belly, then suddenly screamed.
At this, Victoria, feeling desired, began to be more aroused than before, and finally climaxed.
They lay in each other’s arms. Again and again the lesbian gratified Victoria’s large smooth body. Victoria kissed her and said: You were utterly adorable.—The lesbian kissed her back.
Neva, do you love me?
Yes, honey.
I love you. Who are you? You don’t want me to know. I love you anyway.
29
Shantelle, who must have turned several extra tricks in order to do so, showed up for her date as elegantly black-clad as Marlene Dietrich in Shanghai Express. The Y Bar’s single television was on mute, which did not in the least impair its ability to transmit the way that the latest young Vegas nightclub sensation would pose in a corner wearing unlaced sneakers, showing off her shining thighs and gazing ingenuously out of smoky-painted eyes.—The retired policeman was there, so Shantelle informed him: One of you pigs broke into my place last year and tied me up. They was searchin’ for a suspect but it was mistaken identity. No warrant, no fuckin’ nothing.—Honey, he replied, you know why I love you? Because you’re a hot mean bitch, and I can tie you up anytime.—Shantelle had to laugh.—Xenia, who liked men to talk to her during penetration (she also liked to lose control), sat in the corner checking her text messages and sipping Old German Lager. Her phone rang. As she walked toward the toilet I could hear her say into it: Honey, I want that, too.—Samantha was practicing her lip-synching to an absent Barbra Streisand; none of us could ever decide whether she loved that song so much that singing it was her way of masturbating, or whether she needed to rehearse over and over because she was somehow, you know, limited.
Francine poured the lesbian a free drink, and they were clinking glasses over the bar. Shantelle waited, smiling away her jealous rage.
Catalina flashed in to kiss the lesbian. Shantelle waited.
You look fancy, Francine finally said. Your usual?
You know it. Hi, Neva.
Seven dollars.
Bolting down her Peachy Keen, Shantelle got straight to it: Neva, will you step outside with me?
Sure, said the lesbian, setting down her gin and tonic. Francine looked sad.
They went behind the garbage can, and Shantelle said: Show me how you lure them in. I give it up to you, bitch: You sure know every fuckin’ trick—
There’s nothing specific that I—
Don’t bullshit me.
I won’t, said the lesbian.
Then will you come with me?
Right now? Okay.
So Neva allowed herself to be led down Eddy Street, into Martinka Alley, through the wrought-iron gate and up the grubby carpeted stairs that smelled of dust, pet dander, urine and cigarette smoke. When Shantelle released her hand in order to get the key from her purse, the lesbian saw her trembling. In the next apartment or maybe the one below a mother and child were arguing. As soon as they were inside the apartment, Shantelle slammed the door behind them and desperately seized the lesbian’s face, slamming their mouths together and growling deep in her throat. Pulling away at last to catch her breath, she dragged the lesbian into the bedroom, shoving her down on the bed, tearing at her clothes. Closing her eyes, the lesbian lay still, letting herself be handled. Right now Francine was slowly pouring one gin and tonic down the sink. Shantelle pulled open Neva’s shirt, snapping off half the buttons. Neva rolled onto her stomach so that Shantelle could unhook her bra; she was in a hurry, and ruined one of the hooks.
Turn over, she said.
The lesbian turned over.
With an exultant grunt Shantelle sat on her crotch and began feverishly kneading her breasts until they were purple with bruises.—I’m gonna rape you, she said.—Go ahead, said the lesbian.
While most of us experienced our intimacies with Neva as magnified analogues of loving, trusting, snuggly trips on ecstasy crystals, Shantelle’s time resembled marathon intercourse fueled by chewing a handful of speed tablets. (The first time she ever played doctor, at five years old, an older boy said: I see a need in you that nobody should have.) Undressing in an instant, she flung herself down onto Neva, grabbed more and more of her, faster and faster; she needed more hands! She kissed her, squeezed her, snarling: Look at me, bitch!—Crouching below her, greedily licking her slit, she worked four fingers inside. Neva was not at all wet, but soon began to moan and tremble. Shantelle gloated; they were both on the verge; she had never felt so excited in her entire career. Panting with desire, she grabbed the lesbian’s head and pulled it down against her, possessing her lower lip with happily furious jaw-snaps until the other woman’s chin was dripping with blood. Neva, crying out, began frantically fingering her clitoris, her vagina contracting against Shantelle’s fingers until she climaxed in a series of screams. Then Shantelle slithered back up on top of her, taking her own orgasms through grinding frottage, and all the while thrusting her tongue into Neva’s mouth. When Neva turned her head away to catch a breath, Shantelle clapped both palms tight against her temples, biting her lips, tonguing her tongue and sucking the spit right out of her. They both came again, or at least Shantelle did; who really knew about the lesbian?—As for Shantelle, she invariably opened her eyes whenever she climaxed, to make sure that the lesbian was still watching her.—She slammed two fingers up the lesbian’s ass, meanwhile twisting and pinching her nipple as she kissed her, because that would have felt good to her. More and more transported, she kept using her, so high on pleasure that she would have loved it if Neva for her part were beating her to death; as for the raw-rubbed lesbian, she, as the transwoman’s therapist would say, dissociated. And Shantelle, growling tigerishly, licked her face all over.
The Lucky Star Page 18