Get To Work

Pic @ Ellen Rogers

The girl lies on the bed, naked, drunk and pretty. “My name is Amy,” she’s saying, “but I recently changed it to Cher because it sounds more… more… interesting I guess? I just think it makes me seem more like… like…”

The boy and I sit upright at her feet, half dressed. We’re watching her like she’s a TV. She has long, flaxen hair and skin creamy like milk. “Look,” says the boy, silencing her with a commanding wave of the hand, “we prefer Amy, so that’s what we’re going to call you. Also,” he continues, slowly, “you don’t have to speak. It’s nonessential.”

The boy tells me to take off my clothes so I do. I don’t take my time or try to be sexy. In fact the whole act is very systematic, as if undressing is a task I must complete with great speed and efficiency. When I’m done I look at the boy expectantly, like, What next? I feel the sudden need to be directed, like if he doesn’t tell me when or how to move I’ll be paralyzed. He leans in close, bites my lip as if to draw blood and says, “Get to work.”

Sex is so difficult to recall. I’m never successful when trying to remember the intricate details of a sexual encounter. Maybe this is a good thing. Maybe if we could remember all the tiny, twisted details, sex would somehow become a less transcendent experience. Some things look better when they’re slightly out of focus.

I blink and I have my fingers inside the girl and my mouth above my fingers. I’m moving my fingers in a “come here” motion and doing the same with my tongue. This goes on for a while but she doesn’t seem to respond. I sit up to make sure she’s not dead, which she isn’t. I want to scream, Make some noise you bitch, this isn’t a fucking monologue, but instead I say, “Tell me how to make you feel good.” And she takes my head and shoves it back down toward her body with force until I smash face first into her pelvis.

The boy stands up, blinks his round eyes. He’s scrawny and too tall for his body mass, like an overgrown dandelion. “We should take a shower,” he says in his too deep voice. Me and the girl both nod yes; we’ll do anything he says.

The boy drags us the the bathroom by our hair and tosses us into the tub, turns on the water. “I want to be entertained,” he says flatly, staring down at us. From here I can see far up his nose, possibly all the way to his brain. The Valium I forgot I swallowed earlier is starting to kick in and I feel woozy and strangely not in control of my limbs. I lift my arms up and down repeatedly just to prove to myself that I remember how. As the water fills up around us the girl presses her body up against mine, breathes in and out. “Doesn’t skin feel so nice on skin?” she smiles, and I grab her by the throat and hold her head under the water for what some might argue is too long.

Everything’s gone all blurry. I’m pretty sure I have the girl by her hair, shoving her face onto the boy’s dick so hard that she’s choking. Whoa… I think, sex is so, like, pornographic. And I tilt my head back so the water rains down on my face, and through deep, desperate breaths I say, “You can do anything you want to me. Whatever it is, I would be into it.” And the boy says, “I know.”

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