The Lucky Star

by William T. Vollmann

  That can’t be the end!

  Well, it is.

  Please, Erin! Just one more—

  Well, I had a fascination with porno magazines since I was twelve. So I started looking at other women’s vulvas. And I became a stripper when I was nineteen. That was when I started checking myself out. I had a big mirror. I was just being selfish and entertaining myself. I got more comfortable with my body. And I liked the physicality of dancing. I always was a very physical little girl who never got to play soccer or ballet. Pole dancing was my first time . . .

  And when the lesbian appeared in the doorway of the Y Bar, Francine held in a breath, not knowing that what fixated her was trying to decide what made the lesbian appear so unreal and unaware of herself, or simply un-self-consciously poised without arrogance, perfectly put together as if she had been born that way—and then the lesbian saw her and smiled.

  43

  As for Xenia, first drinking Old German Lager and then licking her lips as she watched the lesbian through half-closed eyelids, floating down into the perfect darkness, she said: Neva, I don’t have sex anymore. Of course I had a lot of sex; I’m a pretty girl; but just because I got better and better at it doesn’t mean I ever liked it. I like that I’m pleasing other people . . .

  What about Hunter?

  Oh, Jesus, that clingy little . . .

  Does she please you?

  Not anymore.

  I can, said the lesbian.

  No! I do not want you to! Let me just please you and I . . . Neva, I’m really really good at it.

  Okay, said the lesbian. And, Xenia, I want you to do something else for me.

  Anything!

  I know you look down on Judy because she’s needy and not well put together. She needs help. Will you give her some confidence lessons?

  But she’s so—

  I know. The thing is, she’s sincerely trying to improve. She’s not like Shantelle—I’m telling you this in confidence!—who is more beautiful than Judy will ever be, but so broken that all I can do for her is numb the pain—

  What about me?

  Well, honey, you’re more self-reliant than they are. Judy needs someone to keep telling her she’s not worthless, and Shantelle needs, well, to delay the time when she gets into bad trouble. You and I, Xenia, well, where should I begin? You’re so special to me—

  Are you going to give me instructions about Hunter?

  No, said the lesbian.

  Because Catalina told me that you wouldn’t let her dump Carmen, even though all she wants is you. And I think she’s very very frustrated—

  That’s between Catalina and me.

  And what’s between Hunter and you? Does she talk shit about me?

  No. She cries a lot. She loves you, and she knows she might lose you . . .

  And then what do you say?

  That she might lose you.

  I don’t want to hear any more.

  Good, said the lesbian. Now show me how you please me, and Xenia began working on her, forgetting all about inconvenient Hunter, hence worshipping or as I should say controlling Neva in her expertly mindful way, lifting up her head from time to time to verify the progress of this operation, so she drank in and gloried in the lesbian’s ascent: her nostrils flaring and her eyes closing as she dreamed her way to the first spasm when her lips suddenly parted—her white teeth ground loudly together and her forehead tightly wrinkled—

  44

  Of course Xenia told Francine what Neva had said about Shantelle. Francine shushed her. When she got drunk she told me, and I warned that if she failed to keep it quiet, Shantelle would break her nose at the very least. So she told Judy, who told the retired policeman, but in the end nobody, not even Al, told Shantelle.

  Meanwhile Xenia, accompanied by her Old German Lager, sat down with the transwoman, who made goo-goo eyes and said: Oh!

  Her benefactress regarded her sternly.

  Do you want to . . . Why are you here? Will you tell me a story?

  No. Neva asked me to coach you.

  She did? Ooh, how sweet of her! I know you look down on me, so this must be, um, an unpleasant assignment—

  Shut up, Judy. I like you fine. Do you aspire to anything?

  To pass as a woman.

  Fine. Get to work. You’re obese and hairy, and you stink.

  I know, but even though I try and try—

  No you don’t. Get off your ass and stop being a fat slug. Prove yourself. Once you look better I’ll try to help you, although Hunter’ll be like raging jealous—

  Xenia, do you think they’d like me at the Pink Apple?

  No.

  What if I lost weight?

  I’ll believe it when I see it.

  And then they’d like me?

  How the fuck would I know?

  If you were onstage and someone started to—I mean, what would you do about unwanted attention?

  I would do nothing. I would roll around on stage and finger myself . . . Fuck ’em all.

  But, Xenia, I’m afraid—

  Get over it. The worst is already happening to you every day. So what the hell do you care?

  Can you tell me something?

  What?

  What did Neva say about me?

  She said fuck off. Hey, Francine, I’ve got to run so keep the change . . .

  And Judy left Francine to babysit her bourbon and ginger ale. She went to the ladies’ room and came back pale and hollow-eyed, wondering how to stop caring.

  Just Kiss Me

  My only desire is to make love and not have love made to me. I don’t feel the need for it or the desire for it . . . I like the power of being able to satisfy her.

  LESBIAN PRISON INMATE, ca. 1960

  1

  Are you busy? asked Sandra. You sound as if I shouldn’t keep you on the phone too long . . .

  I’m busy doing nothing, said the straight man, but I can talk for five minutes. How’s your bleeding?

  Much much better, and the advice nurse said . . . But I have something important to tell you.

  All right, he said, getting ready for anything.

  It’s unpleasant, actually.

  He waited.

  I had sex with someone else.

  Of course you did.

  No, Louis, that’s not . . . I mean, there was this boy, and we . . . I don’t love him, you don’t have to worry, and I didn’t get an orgasm, but . . .

  Who was it?

  From her silence he could tell that she would tell him as little as possible, at which he thought: Oh, to hell with it.

  The truth was that he never would have cared except that she was making it into a drama. She reminded him of the heavy, pretty woman who had looked so lost in the mug shot that the retired policeman once showed around the Y Bar, just for jollies; she and her boyfriend had performed what the newspaper called numerous sex acts upon a fourteen-year-old girl. As the woman explained to the arresting officers: She was willing to do it. I don’t regret it, because she was willing to do it.

  He was a boy from—from out of town, she said into his ear, and he invited me for a drink, so I . . . And it was really nice.

  Good for you, he said.

  Louis, are you—are you angry at me?

  Not at all.

  How do you feel about it?

  Fine.

  No, really, how does it make you feel?

  Well, he said patiently, it doesn’t make me feel good, but it’s okay.

  I hurt you, didn’t I? Oh, I’m so sorry!

  No, don’t worry about it.

  And I thought you’d be proud of me for having an adventure! And instead you . . .

  You know I gave you permission. I always do.

  I betrayed you. I thought you wouldn’t mind.
And you . . .

  She was sobbing her heart out. He thought it a bit much that she needed him to comfort her. At least this new lover wasn’t Neva.

  You’d better get tested, he reminded her.

  No, I used a condom and that virus-killing gel. But if you want me to . . .

  Why don’t you lie down and rest some more? The doctor said you need to take extra good care of yourself for the next few days.

  See, I knew you were mad at me! You won’t talk to me anymore! Oh, honey, I’m so, so sorry! I’ll never do it again . . .

  Sure. Well, you rest up and we’ll talk soon.

  Will you call me later and tell me you love me?

  All right.

  Tell me you still love me.

  I still love you.

  And I’m still you’re favorite girl.

  That’s right. I’ve got to go.

  ’Bye, she wept.

  He closed his phone, which rang back almost immediately. She called him half a dozen times while he sat very still at Bolero’s Dance Bar, massaging his headache. They didn’t stock Patriot Dry Lager so he had to drink Bomber Brown at twice the price.

  2

  Sandra, who was usually either happily or nervously chatty, meanwhile informed the lesbian: I can say though that never once in my entire life have I ever wished to be a man. Everything that I like about myself or about this world is always the antithesis of traditional masculinity. I’ve always had this horror of that. The men who are aggressive and really love football and sports and are abrupt and loud, I’ve always kind of . . .

  Holding her, the lesbian said: You know who you are. That’s really good . . .

  But what about you? Were you always so confident and, um, I mean, so perfect? And so, so loving to everyone . . .

  Oh, I do love you, said the lesbian.

  Soon Sandra was screaming, straining her sweaty throat, saliva streaming silvery from her dark mouth; and they then lay at peace together, with the lesbian’s hand lolling between Sandra’s wide-spread thighs.

  Am I being too personal? Sandra resumed. Because I kind of thought that since you and I are so intimate, you wouldn’t mind if I asked. I tell you everything, and if you had any troubles, Neva, I mean, I’d like to . . .

  Just kiss me, said the lesbian.

  3

  Sandra went home to cry and remember Neva. For the second time the straight man had moved out (and Hunter, who now in order to avenge another Xenian infidelity violated her lesbian principles in order to take ecstasy with him, cried out: I’ve never had so much fun sucking dick!—almost exactly as Judy had done).Sandra was feeling chilly, so she wriggled under the covers with her two pug dogs. Soon she was dreaming of playing hide and seek with other mermaids in a kelp forest whose long nipple-studded fronds gestured like the fluttering garments and desires of Sappho’s bygone maidens; then, gazing upon the lesbian, she lost her power of speech; when the seaweed finally parted before her it was almost as good as when the lesbian’s green blouse slipped slightly down her left shoulder, because here was the secret sacred glowing green place in the darkness where she would be breast to pale breast with Neva, oh, with Neva, our lesbian forever.

  4

  It must have been right around then that Francine informed me: Something’s going on with Judy.

  It always is, I said.

  No, she’s less simple. It’s like she’s growing up.

  I don’t know. Maybe she’s more aware, but . . .

  But what?

  Nothing.

  Six dollars.

  I paid and said: It’s sweet that you care about her—

  Don’t you? She’s stretched awfully thin.

  Francine, that’s part of growing up. You learn to lie and compartmentalize, and then you stop being simple. You stretch yourself thin, and then you die. By the way, can I buy a couple of pills?

  What kind?

  Oh, any opioid.

  You want two? Eighteen dollars, and I’m not clearing any profit.

  Thanks, Francine. You’re one in a million. And you know what? Come to think of it, our little Judy’s finally losing weight.

  5

  So was the lesbian, who now sat with her chin in her hand, listening to another message from Selene: Hey, babe, I’m out with my friend Brittney from New York and we’re drinking gin and catching up, but I’m thinking about you and missing you because you feel so far away. Ricardo’s avoiding me. But I went to Mass with my father and ate the Sacrament and lit a candle, and we all sang; it was really beautiful. I do wanna talk to you, because it’s been a long time, honey . . .—Her sleepy-sad heroin voice always made the lesbian think of tabby cats basking in a secret room. Just then the lesbian longed to die in her arms.

  Victoria called to remind her that they were supposed to meet at Dimestore Do-nuts in half an hour. Francine texted: U R MY # 1. Then I called to invite her to my birthday.

  6

  That day Selene had just begun her period, so her vulva was dry on the outside and slippery with blood within. (I who never saw it remember the spectacular rawness of her gash, bright pink, bounded by the wavering ovoid of her ultra-thin labia, with screaming blonde pubic hair sprouting away from it in all directions.) The lesbian kissed her for a long time. Selene was timid at first, kissing lightly and then pulling back, until the lesbian, suddenly and surprisingly desiring her (a feeling which almost never visited her anymore) pulled her by the back of the head and stuck her tongue deeper in her mouth, then felt ashamed, because she was not Selene’s mother. Selene’s heart was pounding like a rabbit’s.

  Selene had tiny little pinprick nipples. Soon the lesbian was lapping and sucking them, until Selene, who had never asked Neva what she used to be before she turned perfect, slowly learned to trust in her.

  After half a dozen meetings the lesbian could bring her fairly easily to orgasm, knowing that what she needed was penetration in the superior position. She was one of the lesbian’s quietest lovers. At first she climaxed as if in secret. Whether that were truly so, which would imply an innate distrustfulness, or whether her body or personality was simply not demonstrative, could be set aside; the telltale sign was deeper breathing; whereas Holly, who achieved her release within five minutes given competent oral stimulation, would laugh and gasp.

  Holly’s and Selene’s periods came at the same time. Neva loved Holly—you know she had to!—but she cherished that sweet fresh taste when Selene was newly bleeding.

  If she had had to admit to herself why she felt more drawn to Selene than to Holly, the truth might have come out: In appearance the former favored E-beth. But how did that affect anything? Why did God prefer Abel’s sacrifice of a slaughtered lamb to Cain’s first fruits? Why was one hero favored by Venus, and another passed over? Love is luck—hence we were all the luckier to be loved equally. Meanwhile Francine, wide-faced, gazed woodenly down at the bar, feeling warm and at rest, which is to say happily sad to be longing for the lesbian.

  Holly and Selene, Judy and Shantelle, Al, Xenia and me! What was she supposed to do with the fact that Judy was dependent, and Shantelle vindictive and probably dangerous? (Those who dilate upon the mysteries of Venus should not forget that her worshippers’ heterogeneity is just as mysterious.) Neva knew that she must toil extra carefully, in order to love Shantelle equally with the others. (More and more often Shantelle wept in her arms, crying out: Why the hell do you love me?) Anyhow, all Neva needed to do was love and love, until she was finished.

  Sometimes she still liked to think about the island, but rarely about her sisters who had loved her; she remembered the trees, the moss and the dark house where she had lain down in the old woman’s arms.

  7

  Shantelle was angry with her again; she left a dozen obscenely furious messages. The lesbian listened carefully to every one.

  She was the enlightened one
called Never Despise, who even when they beat and mocked her told the masses I dare not slight you, because you are all to become Buddhas.

  8

  Now let me tell you about the transwoman’s weight loss program.

  It happened one night at the Y Bar that she saw Xenia and the lesbian enter the women’s restroom hand in hand. She heard the lock click, and then the water came on. What were they doing? While the water ran, the toilet flushed twice. The water ran for a half-minute more, then stopped. They came out giggling.

  Feeling rejected, she blocked their way and said: Neva, how about a kiss?

  Just a second, honey. I’ll be right there—

  Hey, Neva, said Xenia, you’re with me right now. You’re not with Judy.

  Stroking Xenia’s hair, the lesbian said: I’m with both of you.

  Francine watched sadly from behind the bar.

  Francine, make Neva and Xenia a drink! I’m with both of ’em, goddamn it . . . !

  Judy, you can’t afford to keep buying everybody drinks.

  Well, fuck it! Somewhere over the rainbow I can!

  Shantelle burst out laughing. Francine said nothing.

  The lesbian and Xenia sat down beside each other, whispering. A green banknote came out of the sealskin pouch. Francine stood drying glasses.

  Hey! I said make Neva a fuckin’ drink! But Xenia can buy her own stinkin’ drink because she’s just a . . . I don’t know. Oh, what the hell! Xenia’s my friend! Hey, Xenia, aren’t you my friend? I’d do anything for you, even share Neva. I mean it, ’cause you’re my . . .

  Francine leaned over the bar, stared down Shantelle’s laugh and said: What did you sell her?

  Three blue dolphins. She was gonna take ’em home and party with J. D., but she—

  Francine approached the transwoman, who was bouncing up and down on her stool laughing. Gently she said: Judy, you’re shitfaced. Why don’t you go home?

  You kickin’ me out? I said, you kickin’ me out?