The boys weren't wearing any pants. Maybe that's not odd to you. It sure as hell was to me. My boyfriend and his roommate were waiting for me on the porch without britches.
Dion was grinning. He was wearing a Mets batting helmet, a purple tank-top, and flip-flops. Sil was lurking behind him, grinning even bigger. He looked a little uncomfortable in his "Just Do It" t-shirt, and white socks. Obviously, he wasn't too embarrassed, though, because like I said, the boy was not wearing any pants.
They weren't wearing any underwear either, in case that's not clear. I could see their penises. It was snowing, so they were little bluish, vienna sausage penises.
There were empty bottles on the floor of the apartment, Rumplemintz, Firewater, and Wild Turkey. That didn't impress me, I'd seen them drink more. However, there was a baggy of assorted pills on the coffee table. Maybe, that explained it. I don't know, how many various pharmaceuticals do you have to mix to unleash latent homoerotic-exhibitionist tendencies?
"Do you have any beer?" I asked Dion.
"No I don't, drop your pants," he answered.
It was a command you see, not a request. That pissed me off a little.
"I'm not gettin naked like you dumbasses," I said.
Sil started to look a little frightened then. He went to the corner of the room and got his Fruit of the Looms off the plant.
"No!" Dion yelled, pointing at Sil, "nobody's puttin on clothes tonight." He turned his index finger in my direction.
"Strip!"
Now I'm not sure what came over me, but I guess I can sum it up like this. All my life I've fantasized that someone would point his finger at me and yell "strip". Is that sick? Anyway, I started stripping. The shirt first, swinging it in the air, going "du, duh, du, duh". The boys must not have thought it would come off so well. Dion staggered back and fell into the papazon chair. Sil jumped up and down and clapped his hands like a prissy little girl.
"Y'all are sassy!" I yelled.
Dion leapt on me. That's how it happened. I don't make things up. He actually leapt on me. Always the repressed one, he started dragging me to his bedroom, and I let him, because, well, it's got to do with that whole stripping business. Sil was following behind us with this Neanderthal gate, his penis (which had grown a bit) swinging to and fro.
"We're not letting that idiot into the mix," I told Dion.
"He wants to watch," Dion said.
I wasn't too keen on that idea, either. It didn't really matter, though. Sil passed out in the bedroom doorway.
Dion didn't even bother to remove what attire he still possessed. He pushed me down on the bed and started pounding into me with the utmost earnestness. He kept saying, "What's my name? Come on, baby, what's my name? Can anybody else do this to you?"
I almost laughed, but I was a good girl. I bit my lip, and I guess he thought I was shaking because I was about to have the world's fastest orgasm. He said, "Yeah, Baby!" Then he started shaking me, "Come on, say my name!"
"Okay, shut up," I said, and I cleared my throat, "Dion, Dion, oh God, Dion, nobody can do it to me like you baby!"
It seemed like this went on forever, but I saw in the Darth Vader clock that it was really only twenty minutes. Right about then Dion sort of lost it. He crashed, actually it was more of a slow-motion nose-dive, to the bed. That was my chance. I rolled him over, jumped on top, and said, "What's My name?"
He was slipping in and out of consciousness, coming to just long enough to say, "What's my name?" and "Do you like it?" I wasn't paying any attention to that anymore. I was trying to get enough momentum up to make that stupid Mets helmet go flying. It was just bobbing there over his half-open eyes, boink, boink. I noticed then that his jaw was slack. His face was kind of grey. Not a good sign. So you know what I did? I slapped him. I slapped him really hard too. The helmet took flight. It was a blur of orange and blue, orbiting the room for a second, like a little flying saucer.
It wasn't any fun after that. I couldn't get a reaction out of Dion, and there was no reason to hit him anymore, so I flicked off the lamp and laid down. I pushed him into the crack between the wall and the bed, and I stretched out all big and brassy.
Of course, if that was the end of it I probably wouldn't be telling this.
It must have been a few hours later when Dion woke me up yelling about fuckers and postal workers and semi-automatic weapons. I tried to ignore it.
"Are you listening?" he asked.
I stretched and wrinkled my nose, rolled over, tried to feign pleasant REM.
"Will you tell them?" he asked. He shook my shoulders.
"Are you talking about killing somebody again?"
"I'm talking about mass murder. Will you tell them about me?"
"Who, damn it?"
"My people."
This is the point where I should tell you how his face looked. How his eyes were crazed. How his lips quivered, and I thought about my father. But it was dark. I couldn't see anything but the faintest gray hint of his cheekbone looming above my own, which I assume he couldn't see either. Maybe that's what happened. Maybe he forgot who I was.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I said.
He wrapped his hands around my throat quite gently, like maybe he was going to kiss me. Instead he pointed his thumbs into my voice box. It wasn't enough to cut off the air completely, but it hurt.
"I could kill you," he whispered.
I waited for a chuckle or a "just kidding", but then I heard my knees pop. My body stiffened and readied like it knew something I didn't. Soon (or forever later) I knew too, all of me, pressed into the mattress, staring into a faceless gray where his eyes should have been.
"Just kill me," I said. It wasn't what I said that made me cry, it was the way my voice came out, shrill and breathless, like a victim on a movie.
"I can't," he said, and released his grip. "You're going to tell my story."
Breath and blood rushed into my head like breath and blood. Nothing else feels so full. I gasped air, trying not to make any noise, hoping he'd passed out again.
His belt was on the floor next to the bed. I jumped up and grabbed it. I whipped him across the stomach buckle-end first. He curled into the fetal position and screamed like a banshee.
That's what I should have done. That's the hero story I told all my friends. Really I gripped the sheets and cried as hard as I could without making even a sniffle. I stared at the void where the ceiling should have been, eyes flung open on vigil, and tried to remember what it was about his quiet breathing that made me a bitch. T here was a smell, in case anyone should be interested. It was Downey dryer sheets and something sexual like peanut butter.