The Pet Chronicles

"So why are you really here?" Shakespeare says. He's got her in his bedroom, which seems to take up an entire floor. She's still not sure how he managed this. He's lying back in the bed, which is canopied in deep blue curtains.

"I'm not really here," Des says. She's on the floor, leaning against a desk, wearing a cowboy hat. He told her she should really be drinking whiskey with that getup, and now she is. Each sip is like a smack to the face, and, following the metaphor, her cheeks are getting red and warm.

"That's a shame. Somebody looks damned good in my hat. In fact, I think my wife's got some boots in the closet over there that might complete the ensemble." He nasalizes the vowel.

"Whoa, there, Billy. Hold your horses."

He laughs his big laugh, big enough to fill the room. She grins. He makes her feel tiny. He could pluck her up and slip her into his pocket.

A dull rhythm starts to bang out from somewhere. Des thinks of a washer and dryer, then figures it must be the dance floor, then realizes it's someone fucking in a nearby room. Maybe Sarah. A woman begins to scream, in phase with the thumping.

Her hands go slippery with sweat. Shakespeare pops up without a word, closes the door, and kneels down to fiddle with a sound system. Some ridiculously old country song comes on and it's just the two of them again.

"Thank you," she whispers.

"Pleasure," he says and picks her hat off.

"Hey!" He's adjusting it on himself in the mirror. His chin has a pronounced cleft, capping his thick jaw. This is basic flirting, some rhythm of the species. Cavemen were teasing cavewomen when they wanted sex. And cavewoman played along and squealed, "Hey!" This is essentially the moment where she says yes or no.

"Answer my question," he says. He sits down on the floor next to her, lays out his long legs. "Come on," he says, running a hand along her.

"What was the question?"

"What are you really doin' here?"

"I told you."

"You did. And I didn't and don't believe you. Hence,

really

."

"I just want money." She shrugs.

He snorts and smiles. Yanks open a drawer, pops out a checkbook and a pen. Des watches him write a forty thousand dollar check.

"Jimenez," she says.

"Mhmm," he says, slashing his signature across. "Well, here you are, dahlin'. Now, if you're tellin' the truth, I imagine this should be plenty to pay off whatever credit card debt you've gotten yourself, or buy as many shoes as you want, or whatever it is women suck money out of men for. And seeing as you're so uncomfortable here, I don't imagine I'll see you again. But..."

He gets close now. The smell of cigarettes and Scotch settle around them.

"If I'm right, and I fancy I am, and it ain't about the money at all, then even if I give you this check, I'll run into you at another party before long."

Des's heart's reacting, but she's being good-natured about it, does everything she's supposed to do—what her body's telling her to. She sinks an incisor into her lower lip and grins. "I suppose you'll just have to give me the check if you want to find out."

Shakespeare tousles her hair. "You're a little cunt, you know that." She laughs and punches his chest.

The music switches tracks, starts up some old Motown. Somehow their eyes get stuck together. He winks, and folds the check in two. She feels his hand in her back pocket—it's a tight fit: they're hugging her ass like a vice.

"I think my hand's stuck. You'll have to leave these jeans with me, looks like."

"That is one of the cleverest strategies to get a girl's pants off I've ever seen."

"So long as I'm not steppin' o'er the bounds of modesty."

"Romeo and Juliet?"

"Smart girl."

The kiss is smoky, and feels dirty because of it. His tongue's polite but strong, steering hers this way and that. She's perched here, his lips the carabiner saving her from a long terrible drop. And his fingers aren't wasting time, already insistent along her inner thigh. It's too fast and not—there was a thread of the conversation that interested her, a bit of wisdom he might have had. But her interest in that recedes and she lets herself be kissed.

She opens her eyes. "Do you... want to get your wife?" Her voice is young and tremulous.

He shakes his head. "Do you want me to get her?"

"No... I just thought—"

"Listen, girl. My wife's a mean woman. She doesn't deserve a sweet little girl like you."

"And you do?"

Apparently Bill McMurtry is done laughing. He just nods. Right before he kisses her again she gets a glimpse of him, slithering down and swelling up in his left pant leg. It's like a concealed weapon being revealed. She nearly panics when she realizes that before long it's going to end up down her throat, hot on her tongue, skin taut over the stone of it, dry and then wetter and wetter. She'll enjoy it. She'll moan.

"This is... so fast," she says, coming up for air.

His lip curves into his crooked smile. "Well, I'm not goin' to deny that." His hand had been massaging between her legs, over her jeans, and is now perched there, as if laying a claim.

"Um... aren't you going to ask me if I want to stop?" One of the dumbest things she's ever said, but he keeps smiling.

"I don't much see the point in askin' questions I already know the answer to."

And she kisses him. She's fighting back and he evidently likes it, likes it so much he hoists her up and wrestles her to the bed. Des thinks about the woman, Maybe-Sarah, getting fucked in the next room, and feels a sense of sympathy, and then a mischievous yen to compete.

Prepare to be out screamed, slut.

Her blouse is peeled down to her arms, trapping her. Shakespeare seizes the opportunity, slipping a hand under her bra while he kisses her neck. She whispers something in Spanish, half because she likes the heat of the language, half because she knows men love it. They like the thought of having the power to make a girl forget English—it's the same reason fundamentalists get off on speaking in tongues.

And this isn't the polite older man from the balcony—this one knows what he wants, the way teenagers do, the way some adults forget. But Shakespeare is unswerving, and she's rather impressed how quickly he's seduced her. So what happens next is almost a salute, a toast to him.

Once out his cock points straight at the ceiling, like a compass needle going for north. He lies back against a pillow and she's between his legs, coiled on her hands and knees. Their eyes meet and he winks. Des beams: this is supposed to be sexy, and it is, but it's also adorable. Her upper row of teeth, white and prominent, eyes chocolate, and skin a light coffee, soft to the touch. She drags her tongue up along his post and he shudders, reaches blindly and, with his fingers, ripples a few waves in the dark honey of her hair.

Do men understand how pleasurable fellatio is for women? How all at once a hot spotlight's on her face, how she knows she's his world for a few moments? The blowjob, disgusting at its best, is high-drama, an avant-garde performance piece, a happening. She's showing off (don't we all want to, deep down?) She becomes sex, a bag of moist and irrational urges. And all while giving something tender and pure in herself, something usually stuck behind a dike—it all flows out for him. Some girls—Des has done this, without thinking about it—will frown when the cocks are pulled out of their mouths. Whimper a protest. They wanted to give more and take more. And both of those are needed, the giving and the taking—it's that feeling of completing a circuit that does it.

It all happens in Des's mouth, the theater internal. A place he's invaded and she's surrendered. She doesn't care about the age qua age, never has, but it makes her feel self-conscious. The dick making her salivate has been sucked before, many times. You could say there's history in this seven inch piece of petrified flesh. She really doubts she can measure up.

But he says things, silly things that make her feel even younger, but they work, and after a while she forgets everything but the feel of him in her mouth and the want to please. "Mmm, perfect," he says, "Such a good girl."

Time just becomes meaningless.

Her head is at a steady bob when she gets up the courage to look up. His eyes capture hers and she's afraid to even blink. It's like he pierced her, and suddenly every secret's dangling out in the open (but her pants are still on). She slips a hand around him and begins to pump while she puts her mouth around his balls. There's the rich scent of man, and she can feel it getting all over her, just like earlier she could taste his cigarettes. He groans, clenching his hand and pulling some of her hair tight.

She's panting too, even as she slips her lips back over the head, that part of the anatomy God crafted from something miraculously soft. Her head moves in earnest, and his shaft barrels farther into her throat with each pump, slick along her lips. He bucks like a good boy, and grabs her hair tight like a bad one, taking a bit more control with each push. My God, he's going to want her to swallow, and she's never done that, and now she doesn't know how she cannot. His semen is going to splatter against the back of her throat and she's going to take it into her willingly.

Incredible. In a second, she's positively greedy for it. And her movements make this evident.

His hands are everywhere, on her head, and her tits, firmly caressing her in an almost impossible number of places...

Her eyes flash open and she pops him out. The woman behind her has a condescending smile.

"Oh my God," Des says, jumping off the bed, "I'm sorry."

"I see you've met my husband." She has full lips and cruel eyes that look like distant stars. Her dress is an amazing bit of fiery material. "But I don't think we've been introduced."

Shakespeare is laughing, and wiping the sweat off his brow. His cock's still pointing at the ceiling. "Desdemona Jimenez, meet Emily McMurtry," he says.

"You... you shouldn't startle someone like that," Des says, trying to spot her blouse.

Emily stares, and shakes her head. "Fake name."

"It is not. I go by Des."

She doesn't believe her. Her smile grows, if it's possible, even more patronizing. "Go on then," she says. "Finish him off."

"What?!"

"Don't be a tease,

Desdemona

."

Des looks at Bill for help, but he's too busy guffawing. She spies one sleeve of her top protruding from under the bed, and snaps it up and makes a mad dash for the door. She expects to feel hands on her back before she can exit, but no, just Emily yelling out, "You've got incredible tits,

Desdemona

."

Down the hallway, Sarah and a pretty woman are walking arm in arm and laughing. The martini glass in Sarah's hand is the epitome of elegance. Des watches her eyes go wide. She realizes what she must look like and blushes furiously.

"Des? I'm impressed. May I ask who?"

"I'm going home. See you tomorrow! Goodbye!"

"Wait, wait, I'll come with you."

"No, it's fine, please stay. I'll just grab a cab."

She makes two wrongs turns before she finds a staircase that drops her off in a kitchen on the first floor, staffed with people cutting slices of dark cake. Most are Hispanic. A couple of the men see the state of her and exchange a smile. She swallows and squeezes by them, whispering "con permiso," trying very hard and almost in succeeding in not hearing what they say.