Bare Bodies Cannot Lie: A Short Story
The thick shadows of my apartment. Our fourth date. I stare at the glowing numbers on the clock. 6:45. Beau will be here at seven.
I miss you.
I can’t wait to see you.
Our first kiss happened on our third date. His mouth on mine. He cradled me on the sofa. Beau was the kisser, and I was the kissee. I received the lilting lances of his tongue, tiny thrusts that made me dizzy with desire. A French writer wrote, “A kiss is the beginning of cannibalism.’ If so, then, I was an appetizer. Today, I am an entrée. I have a midnight mind and a head full of secrets. When I met Beau a thundercrack went off in my brain. Coup de foudre. Love at first sight. But it felt less like warm desire more a nightmarish fright as he raised his dark eyebrows high with demonic delight and looked at me and held my gaze for what felt like an eternity.
He's in Law School. I graduated in May with a non-descript English degree.
“What sort of lawyer will you be?”
“The kind that makes lots of money.”
We walk side by side. Brown and hectic-red leaves fall. We walk between cold rows of head stones at the beautiful graveyard on the river. “I love the cemetery at sunset,” I whisper. Hours from night but the sky is already a deep grey. Smudges of bright silver beam through the clouds. The autumnal light fades, the most beautiful boy in the world by my side. I place my mittened hands on his jacket. The lilac of my gloves brilliant in colour against his black Canada Goose parka. My back against a tree. He lowers his mouth towards me. He whispers, “Have you ever had sex in a cemetery?”
I love the glamorous gloom of a shadow soul. A man with a midnight mind. Skin as white as milk, as clear as moonlight. Hair as black as a raven’s back, and eyes the colour of coal. A cold cold saturnine soul. I rarely fall in love but when I do it’s like the clouds part and a hammer falls through and drops on my head. Violent, quite painful, making me wish I was dead.
I have loved two men before. Human all too human, gentle, and warm. With them I had tried hard to hide my dark storm. The deep sea that churns inside of me making me yearn for something more profound than eternity. I sought it in poetry, I sought it in the agony of unrequited love. I sought it in philosophy, sought it even in things that are to do with the above, a brief foray into theology until my mind bristled and said enough.
Then I turned to the Shadowy and let lose my army of ghosts from my subconscious vaults. The skeleton in my closet creeped out, caught me, and spun me in a waltz.
I went to a spiritual store. Crystal stones, eagle feather, smudge kits, tarot deck. I felt a tingling behind my neck. The sweet, yummy smell of frankincense. I turned. Black eyes, cold, and intense.
Thunder.
Late August rain. I had taken a taxi to the store.
“I’ll be glad to give you a ride home.” He was gentlemanly. He wore a black leather motorcycle jacket and silver chains on the side of his black jeans. His trousers were tight, and he had a magnificent butt. And I stared and I tried not to stare. I told myself to look away, but I could not.
“Thank you. That’s very kind,” I said. He looked down on the ground and blushed.
His black Porsche Cheyenne. Dark leather seats. Newspapers and big black books in the back seat. A subtle scent of tobacco and a musky, powdery cologne.
“Where do you live?”
“Off Academy Road.”
He typed the address out on his phone.
…
“Guess whom I brought?”
“Whom?”
“Carl!”
“Salty Carl? Yum!”
The knock at the door. There he was back from hours of study at the Millenium library. My thoughts raced around like squirrels in Spring. Worries like what do I wear? How will it feel? We never discussed it or said we’d wait until the fourth date. I was overcome by his beauty and the intense kiss on the sofa was all I could manage before I began to dissociate.
He stood tall in the frame of the door. A black Safeway bag in one hand and a bouquet of pink carnations in the other. His strong, tight body. His broad shoulders. His pure, pale skin.
I watch him take his jacket off. I watch the way his back muscles move. So sexy and serpentine. I cut the stalks of the flowers and put them in a vase of water. We sit down and eat the Salty Carl ice cream.
“Thank you for the flowers, Beau.”
“You’re so welcome, sweetheart.”
Tonight, on the sofa. Heart rate speeding over. The sound of our metal spoons as they jackknife into the glass of salty caramel sweetness. Last time he was here we watched Lost Highway by David Lynch while we made out. Bowie’s voice a sort of psychedelic wallpaper. Beau’s tongue. Beau’s hands on my breasts. His Jesus and Mary Chain T-shirt on the floor. His subtle thrusts. Fabric against fabric. Our febrile flesh yearning for more. The scent of his cologne blowing up my brain like a thunderstorm. A torrent of rain. Ripples of dopamine passing through my body like violent waves of pleasure when you take a meth hit. We stopped. We laughed. He put on his shirt. On screen, the soundtrack played, “This Magic Moment.” I put on my silver bandeau top. He put his arm around me. And we finished the Lynch film.
“I think I’ve had enough.”
“Yeah, me too.”
We put the jar of ice cream down still full. His muscular thigh twitches. His back against the sofa. He looks at me. He wears a black long-sleeved shirt with a deep V and black Levi’s. There’s a huge erection in his trousers.
“Beau, wanna play with my Ouija board?”
“Ha, ha! Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“Why not?”
“What if an evil spirit were to come through?”
“I don’t believe in demons. Do you?”
“Well, I’ve had my fair share of darkness.”
“So, that’s a no?”
“It’s a maybe next time.”
“Okay.”
The quiet of my flat.
“Are you thirsty, Beau?”
“No.”
The silence was stabbing my ears like bad music, like too loud music leaving me cranked and on edge. And I began to feel cold though I wore a fluffy white cardigan over my mini baby-blue bandeau dress. He watched me with his dark eyes and seemed to tilt his head forward like a vulture. Felt like he was waiting. Felt like his entire body was coiled tight like a spring waiting to leap on me like a leopard does on prey from a tree.
I stood up and took off the cardigan.
“That’s better.”
“Yeah.” I agreed.
“Do you want some tea?”
“No.”
“Beau?”
I turned to look at his face. It was like the very first time I saw him. His demon black eyes and his otherworldly beauty. His skin like pale moonlight. The best course of action might be to…
“Wow. Okay.” He looks at me, his broad chest rising and falling.
I toss the blue dress on the sofa.
“Let’s just do it. I want it to be over.”
…
“You guys haven’t done it yet? What are you waiting for? The Pope’s blessings?”
“Yeah. Very funny, Johanna.”
“If you don’t want him, hun, just pass him right along. I’ll have his p in my v before you can say first date.”
“Nice, honey. Very nice. That’s exactly why I called you. To feel like the sane and measured one.”
“Babe! Beau is the most beautiful boy in the city. God handed you the most beautiful male you’ll ever lay your eyes on. To not sleep with him is to slap God in the face.”
“I’m scared.”
“Why?”
“I dunno. There’s something about him.”
“Ha, ha, ha! He’s got that whole Goth thang going on. I dig it. What? You’re worried he’s gonna go all Marilyn Manson on ya?”
“Maybe.”
“You like ‘em dark and edgy. I mean you can go back to dating green boys whose idea of sex is the poison they see in porn. Or you can actually do it with a sensual, intelligent, fuck-stud who knows he’s own mind and can choke you just right.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah. You know you want to. All I ask as a fee for being your bestie and advisor is, eh, lots and lots of details. Maybe a photo of his six pack?”
“Oh, shut up, you slut.”
“Hee-hee! So where are you guys going?”
“He’s taking me to Cibo. Then his place.”
“Yuuuuum! What are you gonna wear, babe? Babe?”
“What? I don’t know. I can’t do this!”
“Can I come over?”
“Yes, please.”
…
“You look magnificent.” He whispers into my ear and then kisses my cheek.
He was waiting. He stood in front of his car, hands in his pockets. That blank look in his black eyes. When he saw me, his eyes sparkled. I smiled.
…
“Thank you for dinner, Beau.”
“Our night isn’t over yet.” He whispers.
We drive into the underground parkade of his condo building.
We walk down the hallway. A wall of glass looks out into the frigid night. Skeleton trees, tall and melancholy.
“I love autumn.” I whisper.
He says nothing.
…
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He says in his low voice.
The mug warm in my hand.
“I like your place. Bauhaus in Black and White.”
He laughs. My God, what a beautiful smile.
He sits down beside me on the black and white Walter Gropius sofa. I like seeing him in his element. I feel I know him better and I begin to relax.
“Sorry about the other day.”
“Why? What happened?”
“Sweetie, I think you felt I was pressuring you into bed. You took your clothes off and said you wanted to get it over with. Sex isn’t pulling teeth. So, I apologize if I gave you the impression that I was impatient.”
“I was scared. It’s my insecurity. I feel kinda gauche and green about the whole thing.”
“You’ve never been with a man before?”
“I have. It wasn’t fun.”
“Were you unwilling?”
“A little.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s years ago. I just. Wow. Here I go again. I just want to – ”
“Get it over with.”
“Yeah. Sorry, Beau. It’s not very romantic.”
“No need to apologize. Sex can be many several things. The bottom line is Pleasure. It has to feel good for us. For you.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. What do you like?”
“Ha, ha, ha! Sorry, I don’t know why I’m laughing.”
“It’s okay. Everything is allowed. Fears, tears, laughter. Screaming.”
His eyes go completely black, a deep inky black like the surface of a dark well.
He takes a sip of his tea.
He sets his black and white mug down.
“What do you do for pleasure?”
“Oh, well! I like taking long walks. I love gardens. Cooking. I paint Nature a lot.”
“Sweetie, what do you do for sexual pleasure?”
“Oh, right….”
He laughs again. My God his face. Delicious like crack cocaine. Mm…
“Well…I …I touch myself.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“How do you touch yourself, sweetie? Do you wanna show me?”
“I get naked.”
“Yeah…do you wanna get naked?”
“Yeah.”
“Take your clothes off, baby. Show me how you make yourself feel good.”
…
He played “Nos corps” by Jimmy Hunt over and over. He got inside my head. He watched me touch myself on his Walter Gropius sofa. And then he gave me head. He penetrated me. Deep pleasure like an electrical current went up my spine. I cried, I came, and then he whispered, “Now you’re mine.”