What…what is…
The redhead scooped something out of a big jar. She came around to the foot of the bed—
…what is she…doing?
Vera wanted to scream till her face turned red. Your boyfriend likes to be fucked. She saw now the lengths to which this obscenity would go. Her eyes erratically roved the redhead’s robust physique: the sleek, pretty legs; the thimble-sized nipples; the trim waist and gorgeous hourglass figure. A hot breath snagged in the redhead’s chest as she stickly applied something to herself.
Oh—my—God…
Regardless of the clearly feminine physical attributes, the redhead sported one feature that was not particular to her gender.
A penis.
Vera’s stare melted like a paraffin mask.
She’s got a… she’s got a…
The redhead was a transexual. At least that’s what Vera thought she must be, halfway through the procedure. This was a hideous parody, the near-perfect female physique made aberrant by male genitals. At first Vera thought it must be artificial, but a more intent inspection easily revealed its authenticity: the gorged purple glans, the veined shaft.
Also revealed was the label on the bigger jar: vaseline.
The redhead hummed contently, slicking her hideous erection with the lubricant. It looked huge, gorged stiff and throbbing. The redhead stroked it a moment, leaning her head back with closed eyes. Testicles large as eggs constricted in the dangling scrotum.
“Sandwich time, Paulie. Guess who’s the bologna.” The redhead glided her greased hand up Paul’s buttocks, then pushed him forward.
This is impossible, Vera tried to convince herself. This…can’t…be.
But it was. Paul crawled up the bed, then slowly lowered his hips. The redhead guided Paul’s penis into the moistened fissure of the blonde’s sex. She let him pump awhile. The bed groaned along with the blonde, whose legs flexed beneath Paul’s thrusts. Her bonds stretched against the brass bedposts. Paul plied her meager breasts and sucked red marks into her throat.
“That’s it, Paulie, nice and slow and deep.” The redhead continued to stroke herself. “Stick that cock in her right up to the balls.” Then she kneed up onto the bed, leaned forward. She carefully parted Paul’s rump and began to sodomize him.
Vera gulped as if swallowing a stone. Her bulged eyes strained against their sockets. The redhead, poised on her hands, paused a moment to grin at her. “Stick around, sweetheart. I’m gonna come up his ass so much it’s gonna squirt out his ears.”
Vera churned back, broke her paralysis, and tripped out of the room. Nearly mindless, she staggered down the dark hall, found the kitchen, and vomited into the sink.
Each eruption of vomit seemed to shake her heart loose from the seats of her soul. Yes, that’s what it felt like: emptying her soul as well as her stomach. Each spasm blinded her.
How long she remained bent over the sink she’d never know. The bedposts thumped the wall in the other room, squeals and chuckles fluttered behind stifled grunts. Vaguely she detected music—an organ work by Bach that she’d bought Paul for his birthday.
“Gimme more of that class A blow,” she heard the blonde hotly request. “I’m gettin’ ready to come again, and I wanna do a big toot while I’m gettin’ off.”
Vera walked numb out of the apartment. She let the front door close behind her. She walked down the stairs, out the lighted brick entrance, and into the cold night.
A single tear hitched down her cheek. She did not scream, she did not sob, she did not tirade.
All…gone.
She simply got into her car and drove away.
— | — | —
CHAPTER FOUR
Sunlight blared in her slitted eyes. Vera awoke shivering in the back of the parking lot at Mr. Donut. She’d slept in the car all night, in the bitter cold. Her lips felt like pieces of coral, her fingernails were blue. Frigid air circulated through the car: she’d left the motor running, to keep on the heat, but had run out of gas.
She stared into the sky.
No, she thought.
Several cars crawled by to the drive-in window. Faces peered at her. The sunlight felt like a mainline of memory, rekindling to her brain the disgusting scene she’d witnessed last night on her own bed.
No. No. No.
But it was no dream. It was all true, she knew it was. She could deny it forever and it would still be there. How many times had Paul promised his fidelity to her? How many times had he said I love you? None of that mattered now. Lies never mattered, did they? All his love, all that he’d said to her and promised her, was a lie. This truth terrified her: how you could love someone, live with someone that long, and then in a single, jagged moment realize that you never ever really knew that person at all?
Tears had dried to crust on her face. She leaned up.
How long had Paul been living this demented double life behind her back?
My God, she fully realized now. She brought her nearly frozen hands to her face, staring. How long had he been doing those things?
Drugs. Bondage. Transexuality.
He hadn’t even been using condoms, nor had that hideous redheaded she-male. Double life aside, how could Paul have been so thoughtless as to engage in such practices, with such people, and not even consider the risk to Vera’s health?
“Ma’am?”
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
“Ma’am?”
A face hovered in the glass—a city cop. It seemed to warp before her in the curved glass. He tapped his nightstick against the window incessantly as a bamboo drum.
“Are you all right?”
Vera got out of the car. She could imagine how she looked, nearly blue-lipped, shivering, and eyeliner streaked down her face. “I’m fine,” she said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes!”
She began to stomp away, toward West Street, her heels rapidly clicking against asphalt.
“Wait up, miss. You sure you’re—”
“Yes!” she almost screamed at him. “Is it against the law to run out of gas in a fucking donut-store parking lot!”
She hurried off, leaving the cop to scowl. She didn’t even know where she was going. Where could she go? She couldn’t go home. I don’t have a home, she said to herself. She couldn’t even fathom returning to that apartment. A glance to her watch showed her the time: 10 a.m.
In an hour The Emerald Room would open for lunch.
Dan B., Donna. She’d make some arrangement to stay with them for a few days, until she could figure out what she wanted to do. The bank account was joint; after being caught, Paul was probably at the teller’s now, cleaning it out. She’d just have to scrape by until payday, get a place, restart her life.
Then she stopped.
Her mouth opened. The cold wind burned her eyes.
Feldspar.
Vera ran, suddenly a sleek maniac in a Burberry overcoat and high heels. Feldspar had told her he was staying at the Radisson. Checkout time was eleven!
On the off chance that you should change your mind, please contact me.
She ran on, stopped again, hopping, took off her shoes, and continued. Pedestrians gaped after her. A Yellow screeched to a halt when she dashed through a don’t walk crossing. Her feet pounded the stone-cold sidewalk, the air whipped against her face. Just as she turned into the hotel court, the gleaming red Lamborghini idled up to the light, which then turned green.