Fake House Read Online Free PDF Page A

He said, “You want a shot?”
    “I don’t drink shots.”
    “A martini? A mixed drink?”
    “I’ll take a Jack and Ginger.”
    “What is your name again?”
    “Becky!”
    “I’m Spanky!” Then to the bartender: “Sir, can you give Becky a Jack and Ginger, and an Absolut for me?”
    I said, “Absolut … yuck! The last time I drank Absolut, I threw up the whole next day.”
    “Where do you live?” The midget placed his left hand on my right knee.
    I thought,
How did we get from me throwing up to “Where do you live?”
I did not answer him. He became frightened and took his hand away. I smiled earnestly to reassure him. I leaned my face forward in a vague gesture of intimacy. Our drinks arrived. We toasted: “Cheers!” A generic toast. He placed his left hand on my right knee again. He rubbed this hand back and forth.
    Two drinks later his hand was palming my inner thigh. It was like a catcher’s mitt someone had forgotten. He kept it immobile. He didn’t want me to think about it: that his hand was between my legs. If I could have given him my pussy in a plastic bag, he would have said, “Thank you,” kissed me good night, and walked out the door. I said, “Let’s go.”
    “Let go?”
    “No, no, let’s get out of here.”
    A man that hard up could easily turn out violent. The whole time I was talking to him, I was thinking of the word
dire
.
    A couple had yanked my hair in bed. One had punched mein the face. But this guy was only a midget. He was half my size. He was a midget.
    As we walked down Locust, Spanky couldn’t stop rubbing my ass with his hand. Now pinching, now stroking, he wanted to get as much he could just in case I changed my mind. He was praying. He wanted to rake it all in and save up for the future.
    At an intersection, as we waited for the light to change, he steered his face toward my pelvis and jabbed his nose at my crotch. Many cars drove by. Some people honked their horns. I said, “Spanky, you’re treating me like a whore.”
    He ignored me. He was homebound and could no longer be distracted. A car slowed and a frat boy with his head sticking out the window yelled: “Whooooooooosh!!!!”
    He burrowed and burrowed and burrowed. He gnawed. He clawed my ass with both hands as he bit my denims. He unzipped me with his teeth.

V AL
1. What Patricia Saw in Trenton
    Last month I was in Trenton waiting for the train to Philadelphia. There were maybe twenty people standing on the platform. A woman to my left, her back turned to me, was wearing a yellow sweat shirt, embroidered with the cartoon character Scooby Doo, over a print dress patterned with dancing chili peppers—a chili-spangled dress. She had on Dr. Martens boots. She was very tall, about five-ten, with dirty-blond hair. Something about her posture was oddly familiar: feet spread wide, groin tucked back, belly out, gravity centered. Her meaty hands were clasped behind her back over her non-buttocks. Did I know this woman?
    When she turned sideways, I checked out her profile: small yet lumpy nose; pointy chin; round, protruding forehead—all in all, not a very attractive woman. And then it dawned on me: it was Valentino! a boy I once dated for five tumultuous months three years ago. Rather than risking an encounter, I went back inside the station. I don’t think he saw me.
2. Val Washing Dishes
    From the time I was twelve to the time I left home at the age of seventeen, my two household chores were (1) taking the garbage out once a week; and (2) washing the dishes on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday (my mother took care of the other days). Although I did not mind either chore, I particularly enjoyed washing dishes. I would stand at the sink, with my feet spread wide, my groin tucked back, my belly out, gravity centered, sponge in hand, and go to work. I enjoyed the contact of suds on skin and never wore those faggoty pale pink latex rubber gloves. I was an exceptionally competent dishwasher, maybe the best ever,