The gargoyle box bided time patiently, watching over Chiara and the men she chose.
Rick or Roddy, Steve or Lance, whatever his name was, his body was younger than hers. She thought about that briefly, a little regretfully, and then put it out of her mind. Rick or Roddy had been a tennis pro. Steve or Lance worked out well and regularly. His muscles were toned, the definition as clearly delineated as a USGS topo map.
Good territory, she thought.
Chiara surveyed him from where she lay back on the Olmec print comforter. He was ready, clearly so. She watched and appreciated the rigid jut, the involuntary quiver of anticipation.
He smiled down at her and settled himself on the bed. He reached to part her legs and she was instantly rolling onto her side, and then to hands and knees.
“No,” she said. “Not for a minute yet. Remember? Indulge me.”
“Right,” said Rick or Roddy. Slowly, knowing she watched avidly, he raised one hand to his mouth, then licked the inside of his beefy fingers. He used that hand to reach for the gargoyle box on the bed table. He carefully lifted the lid and set it aside.
Fingers dipped lightly into the powder inside. He transferred that dusting first to the head, then the shaft of his penis.
“Enough?” His voice was hoarse as he started to pump with his hand the length of his shaft. “This is kind of strange.”
“But you like it,” Chiara said.
He looked doubtful at first, but then nodded. “Yeah, I like it.”
“Then it’s enough.” Chiara moved her head, eyes fixed on his, knowing she was all too ready now. Waiting any longer was totally out of the question. “Come here,” she said.
He didn’t have to part her legs now. She did that well and smoothly on her own, feeling the air on moist flesh as knees, thighs, vaginal lips divided at her own urging.
The man descended into her as she arched to meet him.
He moaned. “Oh, Christ, so goddamned deep …”
“You can go deeper,” she said. “I want that. I can take you deeper.” Fingers digging hard into the corded muscles in his rear, she pulled him into her.
“That powder,” he said. “It’s like goddamned Spanish fly. It’s not helping my self control.”
“Don’t worry, baby,” she said. “It doesn’t have to. I came as soon as you entered me. You’ll make me come again before we’re done.”
He said nothing, just uttered eloquent, inarticulate sounds as he slammed into her again and again.
“That’s it,” she said, “harder, baby.”
“Now!” he said. “Now, now, now, now!” Heat shot into her, sleeted through her. She thought she felt sexual exit wounds glowing with radiation like a nuclear test site.
After a while, she turned back into the shelter of his arms and said, “That was wonderful. I loved it.”
“Me too.” The man seemed to hesitate before speaking again. He toyed with her breasts, bringing the nipples erect as small stones. “Chiara, you think maybe we’ll ever get, well, really serious?”
“You want to?” she said.
He slowly nodded. “I gotta admit, I’ve never been with a woman like you.
“You’re very sweet.” In the half-light, she thought she could see him blush.
“I mean it,” he said.
She nodded sleepily and kissed him on the lips.
Really serious? she thought.
Chiara knew she would leave him in the morning, or the morning after. She would never see him again.
Night followed night, month after month, man after man, the Rickies, the Robbies, the Randies. The gargoyle box made them all momentary possibilities.
But the store of powdered desire was depleted. The night Chiara had dreaded eventually arrived.
She sat crosslegged on the bed in the room that had given her so much solace, the implements of that comfort spread out around her. Chiara gazed down into the emptiness that now mostly filled the open box.
She rested her palm lightly on the cool, sharp-veined stone wings of the creature on the lid.
The voice whose source she could never quite see whispered close to her ear: Love, I think it’s finally time.
She slowly nodded. “I was never unfaithful,” she said fiercely. “I’ve loved only you.”
I know. But we’re both on courses that no longer cross.
She wet her finger with her tongue and lowered it into the box, picking up the final vestige of powder.
I’ll miss you very much, he said.
She tried to smile. “I’ll miss you too.”
Silence stretched, bent, flexed in its supple way.
What will you do? he said.
Chiara dipped the tip of her tongue, caught the last bit of ash. “Have you no faith in me?”
I have every faith, he finally answered. But I’m still a little jealous.
I am too. She didn’t say that aloud.
What will you do?
When she spoke, her eyes were as wet as the rest of her had become. What will I do? she thought.
The taste was bitter and salt, sour and sweet on her tongue. It brought back everything. She had to swallow before she could speak.
“Well, darlin’,” she said. “I guess I’ll just have to fall in love again.”
The pain stung there, sharp and sudden as a blade; then it was gone.
And so was he.
Mirrors
Garry Kilworth
HE FOUND HIMSELF IN an exotic city, in an oriental country, but was not quite sure which city or which country. Having taken the sleeping pill, he had been bemused when awakened from a deep pool of sleep to be told the plane had developed engine trouble and they had to make an emergency landing. The airline had driven the passengers from the airport to a hotel, where a room had been provided. It was the Hilton. One might be in a Hilton in Bangkok, New York, or Amsterdam: They all had similar interior plans, similar decor. The hotel was no indication of where he was. Nor were the staff, who simply looked oriental. They might have been Korean, or Thai, or Vietnamese: Walt was no great traveler and could not separate these nationalities from one another. In an American city he had once mistaken a Filipino maid for Chinese.
So, here he was, wandering streets encrusted with neon lights — red, blue, pink, opal — each sign like pouting lips begging him to enter the establishments they advertised. There were bars, night clubs, nude theaters, dancing palaces, houses of erotic fantasy … his mind had stopped on that one, fixed on it. Houses of erotic fantasy! This was a new one on him. At first he had decided he would not go inside one, but simply think about it further in a bar. But sidestreets and backstreets and a long narrow alley had led him to one of these houses of fantasy which unlike the others seemed to be trying to hide itself, down below the street. The sign bidding him to enter was level with his knees and the steps under the sign led down to a basement.
Should he go inside? Did he have time before the aircraft was repaired? Sure, he had the whole night. Perhaps all of next day too! He was lost anyway. It would be necessary to call a cab to get back to the hotel. There was no way he could find it himself. Especially not in the dark.
He descended.
“How much?” he asked the man standing at the open door. “How much for an erotic fantasy?”
“What one?” came back the reply. “Ordinary, Special or Extra-special?”
“Will traveler’s checks do? American dollars?”
The man smiled. “Of course.”
“Then I want the best.”
“Extra-special — four hundred dollar.”
“Four hundred?” cried Walt.
The man laid a slim-fingered hand on Walt’s sleeve and moved conspiratorially closer, as if about to reveal a sacred trust.
“Listen, mister — you never have something like this again. Four hundred very cheap for this. She very beautiful woman. What happen if you say no? You go home. You sit in chair by fire and make regrets. You tell yourself you would pay one thousand dollar for chance like this again.”