We left John at his place and drove to a motel far past town, fifteen rooms huddled on a highway lot, B. and Jamie compiling $39.95 in singles and fives, me with the only credit card. They hid out while I signed the guest book, assuring the tired clerk it would be just one for the night. He never saw B. and Jamie safely smuggled past the office and up the stairs, lights and film littering the floor, Viagra consumed, bedspread stripped.
We settled in, joking and insulting each other. Our room was avocado-green and ugly-orange, the linoleum marbled with particles from forgotten travellers. Jamie took off her shirt, commenting sarcastically about the white, plastic lawn chair sitting where an armchair should've been. I could see B.'s cock was hard. I was dripping in anticipation, like just before you have sex with someone new.
B. lowered Jamie onto the cigarette-burned sheets, and pulled out new polyester rope. He didn't look at me or my lens. He flipped her face-down, leaned back and smirked at the pussy below him. Then he grabbed Jamie's ankles, tied her up with skill and flair. I remembered letters from B. — ones Jamie didn't know about — full of fantasies, promises, sometimes threats. I'd be tied down and helpless; that way, there wouldn't be any guilt when my boyfriend found out. I pictured B.'s handwriting, and saw his scenarios played out on Jamie, secrets from generations of sailors cinched around her wrists and thighs. My eyes traced the angles of B.'s hands and arms, the sunken divots in his veins from heroin. I tapped and pulled at my camera as fast as I could.
When I adjusted the light they played it up. When I came in close, they played it down.
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B. lowered Jamie onto the cigarette-burned sheets, and pulled out new polyester rope.
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The scene spun out at slow speeds, over arched backs. Poses in hosiery. They were pretty, entrancing each other, and I was in old shoes and a dumb haircut, wanting to set my camera down and join in. From beyond the bed, I snapped as Jamie lifted her head, closed eyes, oven mouth. She came, or said she did. But it was fake, like B.'s unruffled composure, like me claiming to be a photographer.
I hesitated, saw the inevitable tragedy of it: B. gripping my hair and hips, pushing his dick into me after years of waiting and mailbox persuasion. We'd be lost in it for only a second — then caught, exposed. Then long, desolate time with no notes, no early-morning sneak-ins. I stayed to the side.
In the end, B. tired of the bed and pulled his girl over to the forsaken lawn chair. Jamie spread her legs, so that when I knelt on the filmy tile I could capture a good angle of her pussy.
"Piss all over that stupid thing," B. demanded. "I think it'll look kinda cool."
"I'll try." Jamie gave her dry laugh, and maintained a pose as water fell off the sides of the chair in every direction. B. smirked, and so did I. When she noticed us, she pushed out harder. A stream of urine braved two feet in front of her, and I used my last frame of film. We were done, and after a minute I told them so.
Then they lay down, soft and alone, turned from each other. I left the key on the floor, and walked home, slow in the dark heat. I saw B.'s hands and scars in the shadows after cars passed. I can see them even now.
I didn’t expect to see him the next day, but then days trudged into weeks. I waited for B. to climb through my window. Where was he? I stashed the photos under my mattress, next to his letters. They were never claimed.
Word about B. traveled fast. He'd been grasping a phone receiver when he overdosed. He'd fallen deep from me, from all the other women who knew they were his number one.
Suddenly the world was barren, wide open, and long. Losing him was like whole characters in the alphabet being erased. You can’t make all the words you need. But now when I think about the person my mom can blame for sculpting my sexual identity, I think of my dead-end street. I think of my white house and my tiny window, and the streets of our town at night. I think of lying drunk on hills in short skirts. I think of riding on trains and driving in cars. I think of touching secrets in the dark, reading letters like you see in Civil War photos. I remember it all, and I can’t keep my grudge. n°
| ABOUT THE AUTHOR: |
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Diane Reynolds is a writer and photographer. This is her first piece for Hooksexup. |
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©2009 Diane Reynolds and hooksexup.com
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