I play the song on the computer. You like it. You command, “Put it on repeat.”
I obey and I return to the drawer and you kneel before the cage, your nipples hard. You want to know if I can pull the drawer out and make an open window. I can. You tell me to take off my pants. I do. You reach both hands through the new open space where the drawer used to be and I pick up the ice cream and approach the cage. You touch yourself and your finger emerges wet, glistening and I know to bring the pint closer. The ice cream is hotter because of our heat, melting. You immerse your other hand in the magnet between your legs and you don’t let go of my eyes. Both of your hands are covered in your juices and you dip those wet fingers into the melting vanilla. You tease me. You tell me you want my mouth and I give you my mouth and your fingers fill my mouth and your other fingers are touching skillfully, mysteriously, her first rose. My dick. Your hands are The Da Vinci Code and my body is yours. I suck the life out of your fingers and you pry them from my mouth. I look down at you and you are in the vanilla. You dig, deep. Your vanilla hand joins your other hand on my hard cock, and I am cool and hot and hard to your soft. Your hands can dance and they lead me to your mouth and you swallow me and I moan and we are the world and there is barely room for the three of us, my cock and your hands. I belong in your mouth, and when I open my eyes you are staring at me, wide, whole. I need you, all of you. You want all of me. You know all my secrets and your mouth has teeth. You take me out of your mouth and hold me in your hands. You look up at me, pleading, “Fuck me.”
I don’t consciously decide to trust you. My body takes over and I can’t unlock the cage fast enough. You rub your hands over your body and you wait. I jam the key into the lock and I miss your touch and I enter your space, you. You do not run away; you run at me, lust. I lock my hand around your neck and inject my tongue into your mouth and you take it. You scratch me. I could kill you and you know it and your nipples are harder than ever and your pussy never felt this sweet, this tight—just vanilla—and we could go on like this forever. You orgasm truly, you’re exploding and it’s an exorcism and an exclamation point. You’re speaking in tongues and I own you and I’m in you and I loosen my grip and explode and you own me, you do. Your back arches, wow. I have taken you places better than the Upper West Side, superior to Turks and Caicos and Nicky’s beige room. I have taken you to France, to the chalice, to the moon, and you cease to move and a smile rolls over your entire body and you’re a lily pad, sun stroked and floating, rooted to the floor of the lake, me, dark, above you.
The cage door is wide open and I’m half naked and I’d never be able to catch you if you ran up the stairs. If you grabbed my empty dick and kicked and tried to make a run for it, you would make it. The basement doors are unlocked so you could, theoretically, escape upstairs. But the front door is locked; you didn’t work here long enough to learn where I stash the key. Still, if you wanted to, you could risk it all to run naked into the shop and scream for help. Someone would help you and someone would come for me but none of that is happening. Your body can’t tell lies and your goose bumps tell the truth. You lick your lips and look up at me. You purr. “Joe. Wow.”
51
AT some point I stop pretending to be asleep and allow myself to watch you sleep. We live in a new world and I kiss you and I stretch. I need to wash up and I walk out of the cage. I don’t lock you in; we don’t lock doors in this new world. I leave the cage door ajar and I do the same for the soundproof basement door as well as the vestibule door that opens into the shop. We are free and I carry the Da Vinci Codes with me, like a kid with a new toy. When I make it upstairs I am genuinely surprised to find the books are where they were before we started reading. They survived the earthquake of our orgasm and the closed sign is where it was when we traveled into The Da Vinci Code and the bathroom is just as it was earlier today, before I fucked you to life.
I flip on the switch and the tiny bathroom fills with halogen light and the loud, shitty fan that you nagged me to replace. Even the fan makes me smile because of you and I will replace it, Beck. You’re right; it’s too noisy. And it’s so old that it can’t possibly serve any function. It’s also a safety hazard when I’m in the shop alone because one switch controls the light and the fan. You can’t have light without noise and you can’t hear anything above the whir of the fan. And you’re right, Beck. It’s dangerous.
I flush the toilet and turn on the water and look at myself in the mirror. I look good, happy, and I wonder if I should join Facebook so that you can link your profile to mine. I should get on that now before you have to nag me and I add it to the list in my head. I let the water run hot over my hands and I don’t know if I can really join Facebook for you. I read somewhere that kids now are so dishonest that there’s an actual game they play called “Truth.” You go to someone’s wall—such bullshit, the language—and you write, “Truth is . . .” and then reveal something both surprising and true. It’s a sad and grotesque thing that you and your friends have become so accustomed to lies that the truth has to be prefaced because it’s inherently surprising, a startling departure from the lies that comprise your lives.
But you’re done with that now and maybe before you delete your Facebook profile you’ll make one last status update:
Truth is, I fucking love The Da Vinci Code.
We’ve got big decisions to make, Beck. Will you move in with me? Will I move in with you? Will we stay in New York? Granted, I have this great job, but I think you’d do well in California—you don’t know enough to be around New York writers—and now that we have each other, we can roam. I look at my Da Vinci Code on top of yours. They look good together, Beck. This is right.
I pick up the bar of soap and get a good lather going. I am sad to wash off you and the vanilla ice cream. But then again, I am excited to soil myself anew with your sweat and your cum, your juices and your saliva. The fan is loud and my dick is hard and I know what I’m gonna do now. I’m gonna wake you up with my mouth, I’m gonna eat you alive. It’s a good thing I keep a toothbrush handy and it’s dry and I smile because the next time I brush my teeth, the brush will be wet because you will have used it. I feel holy and dedicated as Silas while I brush my teeth and dampen my pits and spray the cologne I bought to smell like the bartender. God, I know you. I splash some water in my hair. I would shave but I miss you too much. I need to eat you and I need to eat you now.
I flick the switch. The lights go out and the fan slows and I do not open the door. Something is wrong. The silence is cracked by terrible sounds, feet pounding on the floorboards, your distressed vocal cords—Help!—and the front door resisting you as you tug. I grab our books and creep out of the bathroom and you are still up front and pounding and it is, fortunately, four o’clock in the morning and there is nobody around to hear you. Whoever called New York the city that never sleeps didn’t work at Mooney Rare and Used. I walk to the center of the shop and see you at the front, your crazy hair, crazy limbs, in my mother’s Nirvana T-shirt, pulling on the door with both hands, so lost in your mission that you don’t hear me coming. I am quiet as a cat. I take soft, meaningful steps and I set our Da Vinci Codes on the counter. You do not sense me and you are so close to the glass door that you don’t see my reflection. I was right; you couldn’t find the key. I wrap my arms around you and you kick.