Blood, Guts, & Whiskey Read online

  I didn’t have cannonball muscles. I didn’t stink of vegetable oil. I wasn’t a dom. I didn’t know what I was and this might not have been the place for learning. This was where you went to embrace an understanding of yourself, not discover it. I was unmasked. I had my clothes on but I was naked, exposed before leather men and rubber women and pony people and six-foot-tall plushie toys. For people devoted to the flesh, they sure wore a lot of shit.

  I moved up behind Alison. The veins in my throat stood out. I didn’t know what to say so I went with an old favorite.

  “Hi.”

  She remained frozen in place but her muscles tightened even more. She’d assumed the position and wasn’t going to move an inch. These people had rules and laws and habits I couldn’t even guess at.

  “What are you doing here?” she whispered.

  “I’m sort of curious about that myself.”

  “Go away, someone else is—”

  “No,” I told her, “nobody else is. Chad had to fly back to the jungle.”

  “What?”

  “Evil white bwana was knocking down the trees. The chimps needed protection.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? Everyone’s watching.”

  I looked around and said, “Some of them, maybe. But most of them are already kind of busy. It doesn’t matter. They’re not real. They’re made of latex and stuffed with cotton.”

  “You’re crazy!”

  I got up close and breathed on her neck. I sniffed at her hair and swallowed hard. Six months ago I had tried to make love to her but didn’t play her game. I’d been consumed by fear of her sexual intensity and conviction. It had turned me on and torn me down. I’d left her tied to a bed and in complete control. I’d felt gypped and pissed with myself for the last half a year. The air between us began to heat with possibility.

  I pressed my hand to her back and gently stroked her skin. I drew my knuckles across her shoulder blades. I brought my lips to her ear and for an instant took her earlobe between my teeth. It made her frown. It made me frown too.

  “We have unfinished business, you and me,” I said.

  “Take off your belt and whip me.”

  “I don’t have a belt.”

  “You don’t have a belt?”

  “No.”

  It broke her from her station. Her heels came off the floor and she started hopping in place on her toes. I wondered about the willpower it took to hold her hands to that wall like they were nailed there. Jesus, she was strong. I wanted that strength.

  “Why don’t you have a belt?” she asked.

  “I just don’t.”

  “But why not?”

  “Not everybody wears belts, you know! Goddamn!”

  “Take off my panties.”

  “You’re pretty pushy for a submissive, lady.”

  “Do it.”

  I did it. I was off to a bad start. I slid them down her legs. She had a cherry tattoo on one cheek. She’d written about it more than once. One of her lovers had taken her to the tattoo parlor and given it to her. A sign of ownership. I instantly hated it. I wondered what it was like, waiting beneath the needle, taking the pain merely because someone else wanted you to. I knew what she could take, but what could she give? Could I find my inspiration?

  Her ass was crimson, bruised, and striped from the hands and implements of her lovers. My breath hitched in my throat. I couldn’t believe someone would want even more punishment. The muscles in my back went rigid.

  I hissed, “Jesus fuckin’ Christ—”

  “Don’t. This is what I want. It’s what I need. Do you understand?”

  I said nothing.

  “Do you understand?”

  “No,” I told her. “Jesus Christ.”

  “It’s my need. I need you now.”

  “Well, that’s nice to hear.”

  “Spank me.”

  All the sparking black vibes that had been going on between us began to tighten inside my chest. She was angry too. On some small level she must’ve felt gypped the last half year as well.

  “Take charge,” she urged. “Do it.”

  “Listen—”

  “Do what I say,” she ordered.

  My skin was on too tight. “You want me.”

  “Yes.”

  “Say it then.”

  “I want you.”

  “No, damn you, say my name.”

  She said my name, and her control wavered. A little thing like that, it took us off the stage and into the moment, into each other. I felt the reins of power shifting back and forth between us. My hate grew and waned. I didn’t know which was better. I was still on my feet and not my knees. What did it mean?

  “Spank me,” she said.

  “Stop telling me what to do!”

  “Spank me. Do as I say. Beat me. Punish me. I want scars.”

  “You’re already covered with them.”

  “I want more.”

  Her unruly hair covered her face again and I swept it back, grasping handfuls. I pulled gently at first, and then harder, until her face was pulled aside to my own. She didn’t seem to want to kiss me. Good. I kissed her anyway. Her mouth arced into a small grin beneath my lips. “Bend me over,” she ordered.

  I forced her down and said, “Grab your ankles.”

  “Oh yes. Spank me. Now!”

  “Seriously, it would be really nice if you quit yelling at me.”

  I’d never hit a woman in my life. I didn’t want to hit her now. I thought of the razor wire and what my buddy might do with it, to himself and to others. I clapped her ass. She grunted but I grunted louder. It hurt to do it. I wondered why any of us signed up for this. I wondered if I could ever learn to ride the unicycle. I grimaced while she champed her teeth. I struck her again. She drew a breath so deeply that her whole body quivered. I had soft hands but they were strong. Typing a quarter million words a year had its benefits. They were already stinging. I spanked her faster and harder. It felt like she was doing it to me. My face reddened, the pain grew. I couldn’t look at the crimson of her flesh anymore. I nearly wavered. New York no longer seemed so bad. I’d never been to the top of the Empire State Building. I suddenly wanted to hit Lincoln Center and take in the opera. There they only sounded like they were being whipped. I slapped her ass and clamped my hands on her cheeks, squeezing them tightly, plying them. Flesh on flesh was one thing. I could almost wrap my mind around it. But canes and riding crops and belts were beyond me. I wanted contact. I wanted muscle.

  She said, “Do your hands hurt?”

  “Not as bad as my heart.”

  “Good. Do it harder.”

  I glanced over at the books on the table, the ones that wouldn’t sell, my stories unread. I felt worthless. I usually did. Maybe if I’d had a better agent I wouldn’t have had to be here at all. Chad hovered in the wings. I snapped to attention and gave him the finger. Chad shrank back and cowered in the shadows. This was her dom? These people were all insane. I started backhanding her. I mixed the game up. Her thighs were smeared with our mixed sweat. I hit her again and she called me sir.

  I said, “Don’t ever say that.”

  “What, ‘sir’?”

  “Quit it.”

  “Yes, master.”

  “Forget that noise too, damn it.”

  “What?”

  “Speak my name,” I said. “My name has meaning. You can call anybody sir.”

  “I call you sir.”

  “Save that shit. My name is mine. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” She said my name the way my high school principal had when he’d handed me my diploma. With a touch of pride, a little surprise, a dash of disappointment, and beneath it all a thrum of coy derision. That bastard! I hit her again and her whole body rocked. If she hadn’t been so used to the position I would’ve knocked her across the room. My hands were burning. My blood was burning.

  The floor was wet with her tears. Maybe some of mine too. I was dripping. Salt lined my lips. I laid my
palms against her cheeks and felt the heat rising from them. I got in closer and pressed myself against her. She said, “Tell me to release my ankles.”

  “Why do I have to tell you? Just do it.”

  “Tell me.”

  “You act like this means something. It doesn’t. It’s another stupid game. Aren’t you tired of them?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Christ almighty. Release your ankles. Get up.”

  She got up and nearly fell over. I had to grab her. I reached around and tightened her across my chest. She slumped and could barely stand. She looked me in the eyes and her gaze was dominant and consuming. This one, oh yeah, she was dangerous. I held her up and kissed the side of her throat. Her pulse throbbed against my tongue. I was rewarded with a brief, knowing smile. It was at once beautiful and erotic and gleeful. I wanted to lash out at her some more just for that. She was deep in my head.

  I thought, Look what’s become of me already. Look at what I’m becoming. What books will I write now? Will my sales improve greatly? I might fall off a unicycle and break my fucking neck but no way was I touching that wire or turning my johnson into a Muppet.

  “Tell me what you need, Alison. Tell me what you deserve.”

  “You’ve made it hurt. I withstood the pain. I’ve earned your hate and your love.”

  “Maybe. But what have I earned?”

  “Only what I choose to give you.”

  “That sounds like a rip-off.”

  “It’s not. You’ll love it. You love it already.”

  “What?”

  “Me.”

  I sighed loudly and the stage echoed it and my sigh worked its way through the room into the dim recesses where it caused a few of the ponies and plushies, the rubbers and the plastics, the latexes and the leathers to look up and glance my way. It was the sound of the damned outsider wondering why he’d ever barged his way in. One fucker neighed at me.

  “Don’t say it if you aren’t sure. If you don’t mean it.”

  “I’m sure. I mean it. Don’t question my intent again.”

  “All right.”

  “Tell me that you understand.”

  “I understand.”

  “Now take me. Right here. Now. If you want.”

  “No,” I said.

  “Stop fighting me.”

  “Funny you should say that.”

  “Now,” she told me.

  There are times you need to play around, and then there are times you just need to get the job done. I was reserved. I was shy. I had more issues than Time magazine and National Geographic. But I dropped my pants and pressed myself into her from behind and did it without another thought to the circumstances or the place or the people. She’d earned my love and my hate.

  Alison shuddered and actually let out a sweet laugh as I made my whitebread love. It fueled a facet of me I’d never met before. But as I continued I knew I was in an act of transition, that I would never again be the person I’d been thirty minutes ago.

  Maybe we were done with the pain portion of the evening, maybe it was only really beginning. I couldn’t tell. I had to defer to her. I yanked her hard against me, my teeth gritted, vicious words escaping me, aware of her smile.

  It inspired me to try harder. If only my high school principal had known what I needed maybe I wouldn’t have gotten suspended so often. Her eyes were full of hard fought knowledge, a glimmer of shock that she was with me and we were right for each other, at least for the moment.

  I was starting to realize that the symbols of our lives follow us through every inch of the day and night. She urged me on and said, “Yes, that’s right, you know what to do for me.” I supposed she was right. I reached down and clawed at her skin, making her bleed, watching it flow over the cherry tattoo that had been given to her by another man. It was mine now. She was mine.

  Afterwards, Miss Tress and Chad the belt boy started for us. I shot them a look that stopped them in their tracks. Alison could barely walk. I’d been too rough and yet not rough enough. I had to refine my touch. It would take time. She would teach me. She held on to me tightly and rested her face against my chest. I found her clothes and got her dressed.

  The night was just getting started for the rest of them. Chains clanked, saddles creaked. The audience was alive with choking and warbling and hee-hawing.

  I moved her towards the door.

  “You still living with other men?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re gonna kick ’em free.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “We’ll see. I’m moving to Frisco and I’m going to be your guy.”

  “Nobody calls it Frisco. It’s San Francisco. You sound like an idiot.”

  I got a cab and we climbed in. I gave the driver my buddy’s address and when his eyes met mine in the rearview he shifted his gaze away. Good.

  “I gave you what you needed, Alison,” I told her. “Now it’s my turn.”

  “And what do you want?”

  “We’re going to order a pizza, have some wine, and watch a goddamn movie. Vertigo or Bullitt. They take place in Frisco.”

  “Nobody calls it—”

  “We’re going to make out on the couch.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then we’re going to screw again, and I’m going to croon in your ear. And you’re going to love it. And then you’re going to write me into your goddamn blog. You understand me?”

  “I understand you’ve got a lot more to learn.”

  “Well, there’s the fucking revelation of the century.”

  “Shh,” she said, “you’re in my hands now.”

  “You’re in mine. But you teach me what you can, if you can.”

  “I can,” she said. “You’re going to bleed me.”

  “Maybe not.”

  The cab slid through the streets and I stared at the unfamiliar city, waiting for the fog I’d always read about to rise. There was none. The night became clearer as we went along. I thought of those I hated and those I loved. I welcomed my rage. The wholesome-looking insane girl had been wrong. Probably. Alison could fulfill me. Probably. I wasn’t actually going to kill anyone. Probably. She was worth bleeding. And if, in the end, I found out differently, that other girl would be waiting for my touch, my heart, my teeth, my unwritten books, my vicious and endless need.

  Cut

  John Kenyon

  James used to love his job, but Hollywood had fucked up everything.

  What’s not to like? Somebody with the crew calls you in, gives you a name and a location, maybe hands you a photo. They slip you a wedge of cash with the promise of more later. You find the guy, clip him, and report back for another wad of bills.

  Then came that cocksucker Quentin Tarantino. Now, Pulp Fiction was a great movie, but it set loose a pack of guys with twice the budget and half the talent. Unable to compete story-wise, they compensated with blood. Pretty soon there was no such thing as a classy hit; the red stuff had to spill. It wasn’t long before there were buckets of it being flung at the camera, and every hit had to be a performance.

  If you think whitebread America eats up that escapist shit, you should see the way criminals react. It’s like their deluded self-image projected twenty feet high on the screen. Soon, instead of the movies reflecting society, society was working hard to keep up with the movies. Now it’s not enough to simply end a guy. The bosses want proof, they want you to make a statement.

  That’s why James was sitting on the El with a human heart on ice in a Playmate cooler on his lap.

  “Did your ambulance break down?”

  James looked up to see a young guy in a shirt and tie holding on to the rail. The guy gestured to the cooler.

  “I did see a heart or something in there, didn’t I?” he asked. “I know it’s none of my business, but I couldn’t help but notice.”

  Jesus. James was usually pretty cool about things, but he freaked a bit, thinking he was going to have to follow this guy an
d whack him, or else explain to the cops about why he was carrying a heart around in a cooler. He wanted to kick himself for continually opening the lid to check the contents.

  Then he remembered the guy’s original question about his ambulance. The guy thinks he’s what, a doctor? Then James realized the guy assumed he was one of those transplant dudes who rush organs to the hospital.

  “Budget cutbacks,” he said. The guy nodded.

  “That sucks. So what happened? Car wreck or something?”

  James still had eight or nine stops to go, and didn’t really want to get into a long thing with this guy.

  “I can’t talk about it. Patient confidentiality, you know?”

  The guy nodded again. “Oh, sure. Right. Well, keep up the good work.”

  The train pulled into the station a moment later and the guy moved towards the door and exited. James set the cooler on the floor between his feet and hoped everyone else either minded their own business or assumed it was his lunch.

  An hour later he sat outside the boss’s door, the cooler back in his lap. The office was in the back of a dry cleaner, and the fumes always nauseated him. It didn’t help that he kept thinking about what was in the cooler, or how he’d gotten it.

  This one had been a typical job, a guy who owed the boss a ton of money and gave no indication that he intended to pay it back. James was never sure what the cutoff was, but six figures seemed to be enough to put out a hit. The boss started asking for a souvenir from each job a few years back, content at first with the odd finger or ear. But the more of those fuckin’ movies he watched, the more depraved he got. It escalated to eyeballs, then nuts, and now finally the topper: a heart.

  This was the first one. Everything else James just stuck in a plastic bag and carried with him, but this little sucker was like carrying a decent-sized cut of meat. He didn’t want it to start stinking on him, so he iced it.

  Jacko stuck his head out of the door of the boss’s office and waved him in. The boss, a short guy with a completely bald head, an ill-fitting suit, and short, stubby fingers, reached out for the cooler.