Author's Note: This is a somewhat problematic story. Readers may find it helpful to have some of my thoughts on it, which can currently be found in my October 29th journal entry.
Heels in his face? Scream? In that frozen moment of decision he's dragged you into the alley, pressed you up against the wall. It's just a pocketknife, but the blade is sharp. He's maybe sixteen, barely bearded and acne-spotted. White boy with dead-cat breath and a high voice.
"Hey, bitch. Bitch, you're gonna give me some."
Not money he wants -- good. You don't have any. Visions of blood, and your legs are shaking. Glad of the concrete wall at your back. Cool. Calm.
"You want sex?" Voice didn't crack. Good.
He's confused. Maybe he'd thought you'd scream.
"Yeah."
Here's the test. "Blow job's fifty bucks. You wanna fuck, it'll be a hundred." Don't let him see the fear. You do this every day, right? Tough chick.
"Where the fuck am I going to get that!" He's shaking now. Maybe drugged out. "I've got a fucking knife on you and you want fifty bucks?"
You sigh. Please don't let that hand with the blade shake against your throat. "Look, whatcha got?"
He shrugs slightly. "Maybe ten."
"Okay. But you gotta put on a condom."
He doesn't move or speak. Sweat dripping down his face and the stink of fear heavy in the air. His or yours?
Finally he drops the hand with the knife. Fumbles in his pocket and pulls out a crumpled five, a couple of ones. You take them. Don't let your hand shake.
"Don't have a condom." He's halfway apologetic, halfway belligerent. Could lose it right now.
You reach into your backpack, pull out your wallet. Stuff the money in and pull out a condom. God knows how long it's been there. If it isn't still good.... Hand it to him.
He unzips his pants, pulls out his cock. Pathetic little thing. Gets the condom on, with difficulty. Stands there, waiting for you, blinking.
You drop to your knees on gravel. Muck on your legs. Spit on your hand and grab his cock. Rub it 'til it's hard. Then your mouth -- powdery mint and latex. You almost gag then, but shove it down. All down.
His hands are tight in your hair. By the end, he's fucking your mouth, slamming into your throat. When it's done, he zips up and walks away. Tonight he'll tell his friends he got a blow job from a hooker for only eight bucks. He'll boast. He'll do this again.
You kneel there. Once he's out of sight, the shakes take over. Deep shudders and still you're biting back the moan. Blankly you stand and start walking. Walking and walking. You circle your block three times before you walk up the stairs to the apartment and up the door. Can't find your keys. You slam your fist into the door until your roommate opens, his eyes startled.
"Jenny?"
You stand there, with the words swallowed down so deep. He pulls you in, gently. Asks you questions. You don't answer, and finally he pulls you into a hug, a long embrace, with arms protecting, cradling. His palms are flat against your back, your head tilted into the hollow of shoulderblade. Shaking again, and he's murmuring softly, reassuring words. Still the taste of mint in your mouth. Dry dusty mint. Tilt your head up, just a little, and he's looking down at you, concern in dark brown eyes.
Just moved in a few weeks ago and he doesn't know you too well, but knows that you're not the type of woman to come home this late with slime on your legs and an inability to speak. You're not that kind of girl. You're not. His name returns to you. Miguel.
Up on toes you kiss him. His lips taste slightly salty before he pulls away.
"Jenny?"
You kiss him again. Your hands balled in the fabric of his shirt, you pull him to you. He's wanted this for a while. He hadn't said anything, but you knew. You weren't sure. Your roommate, after all. Generally a bad idea. But he wants it. So do you.
Still he holds back. "Jenny, are you sure?" Such a kind voice.
You nod. Mouth 'yes', though your throat is still locked. Mouth 'please'. He surrenders then, hands gentle on your back, lips moving against yours. He smells like trees. Miguel.
Afterwards, you cry. Weep while he holds you, until the tears have washed a path down cheekbone and chin to opening throat. Tell him everything. He gets the eight dollars from your wallet and you throw it out the window. Puts you in a shower, pours you hot cocoa, and then both back to bed. Sleep in his arms.
In the morning, you wake before him. Sun pours onto the futon and the alley seems a dream. A dream of rank sweat and mint, terror and arousal. You shudder, biting your lip. A hand between your thighs comes away damp. You are crying again.
*****
M.A. Mohanraj
Clarion '97