“Because you didn’t always write back. I kept telling Kirsten how busy you are.”
“I’m not that busy.”
“Well, sure, you don’t fill your life up with meaningless activity like the rest of us.”
“I just didn’t have an answer yet.”
“Which is what I told Kirsten. Did you get the one I just sent? The picture?”
“I got it.”
He was quiet. The light in their bedroom snapped off; the yellow curtain went dark.
“Should I say my decision now?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Do it.”
When I got back Clee and four other people were standing on the couch singing a song that didn’t seem to be in English. The part everyone liked the best went jiddy jiddy jiddy rah rah. Phillip was already having intercourse with Kirsten, I could feel it—from his point of view. I was in him, in her. Each time Clee sang jiddy jiddy jiddy rah rah she pumped her pelvis forward to the beat and her bosom bounced. Dear God, look at those jugs, Phillip panted. I whispered the word.
“Jugs.”
He wanted to rub her through her jeans. Jiddy jiddy jiddy rah rah. And cream in her mouth. Mutual soaping. Jiddy jiddy jiddy rah rah. My member was stiff. The song was nearing its peak, she and the other girls, the ugly girls, were jumping faster and faster, and the men were screaming at the top of their lungs, not even to the song anymore, just releasing howls because it felt good.
I went into my room, locked the door, took off her purple bra with its shiny, shiny straps, and pressed my balding head into her jugs. My big, hairy hand worked itself down the front of her jeans and my fingers, with their thick blocky fingernails, slid into her puss. She was wet and whimpering. “Phillip,” she moaned. “Put it in.” So I quietly, forcefully, made love to her mouth. This was the kind of young woman he deserved—a bombshell, not a rat-faced little girl.
After such a long buildup the release was immediate and incredible. When I creamed it was a huge mess, semen everywhere. Not just on her hair and jugs and face but all over my duvet cover and the throw rug. A rope of semen even hit the top of the dresser, splattering across my hairbrush, my earring box, and the picture of my mother as a young woman.
THEY DIDN’T HELP CLEAN UP. They pretended to—at around noon Kate picked up some beer bottles and asked where the trash was, but when I said, “Those are recyclables,” she looked overwhelmed and sat down. Clee wandered around groggily in boxer shorts and a tank top, her hair matted in the back. They were both very hungover.
At first I thought it might have been a onetime thing that had a lot to do with the punch. But as I vacuumed and mopped and sponged and wiped down the walls, I had to glance down repeatedly to be sure I wasn’t visibly pulsing or swelling, because there was so much energy vibrating in my groin. It was a new experience for me. When Clee parted her legs so I could wipe off the coffee table between them I had to put the sponge down and walk myself to my bedroom. I kept my hand over Clee’s moaning mouth so Kate wouldn’t hear. Not my hand—Phillip’s. He thrust so hard his tufty ears shook.
At dusk Kate ordered a pizza.
“It’s a thank-you pizza,” she said. “Thank you.”
Clee dug in and I nibbled at a narrow slice.
“My dad is remarried now, by the way,” Kate said, chewing behind her polite hand.
I smiled and nodded. I could barely recall what he looked like but it would be rude to say that. “We had a good time, but it was just one date.”
“Do you remember what you wore?” Kate asked.
Clee gave her a sharp look.
“No,” I laughed. “It was a long time ago.”
Kate took a sip of soda and cleared her throat.
“My dad said—ow!” She paused to inspect the spot where Clee had just kicked her. “My dad said you were dressed like a lesbian.”
I smiled. Mark Kwon making a big show out of my failure to attract him was not hard to picture; that’s just what he was like. Clee turned her head away as if this conversation was too boring to endure.
“Did he say that?”
“Yeah. What were you wearing?”
“I don’t remember.” But now that she asked I suddenly did remember.
“Was it something like what you’re wearing right now?” She pointed at my pants and tucked-in T-shirt.
“No, this is just to clean in. No, I think it was a long green dress with many buttons down the front. Corduroy.” I still had it.
For some reason this was hilarious to Kate; she laughed and looked at Clee with a gaping mouth until Clee finally smiled.
KATE HAD SUCH A GREAT TIME. Kate didn’t need her Tupperware back. Kate would text Clee about Kevin and Zack. Kate had trouble loading up the mini ATV. Kate wanted to know where the nearest gas station was. Kate needed to use the bathroom one more time. Kate sat in her truck looking at her phone. Kate finally, finally left.
Clee shut the door and looked right at me—squinting. For a moment I thought she knew what I’d been up to. Then she simply slapped me, as if the whole visit was my fault and could have been avoided. “Fighting from Inside Cars” began with a (simulated) slap, so we continued with that scenario. “Come here, sugar-pie,” she recited dourly.
We were back, except it was too late—I was playing something else now. I mimed knee thrusts and elbow jabs, awkwardly wheeling around a phantom erection. At the end I limped to my room, throbbing; shut the door; and slapped her cheek with my giant hairy hand. Just moments after I creamed in her mouth, my phone rang. If it was him I would ask what he did to Kirsten and then I’d do that to Clee. It was just another roiling corner of our journey together; I felt what he felt and it was staggering, tremendous.
But it was Dr. Broyard’s office, calling to confirm my upcoming appointment on Tuesday, June 19. I imagined telling him my globus was gone and then trying to explain the cure by referencing his relationship with Ruth-Anne. I could hear her breathing.
“Ruth-Anne?”
“If you need to cancel, please call forty-eight hours in advance.”
It was definitely her.
“Would it be possible to talk now? A phoner? I’m in the midst of some complicated new feelings.”
She was silent.
“I guess I can wait until tomorrow.”
“We’ll see you Thursday the nineteenth,” she said.