Chapter 12

I awoke to rapping on my door. My sister woke me up. I had to go downtown and help tear down the show. When the plain woman awoke, I kissed her nose and told her not to hurry out, but I had to go. "Okay," she mumbled and slept.

During the tear down my silence bothered everyone. Only the physical exertion and its strain and borderline pain cut through the numbness. My one or two word mumbles failed to satisfy my friends. Questions accentuated the numbness.

Everyone had their beginnings but me. Neither jealous nor envious, I felt numb. Princess had her play to write, her modeling and her search for a new apartment on her own, having plenty of money to afford it what with her continually increasing demand and her first gig as a runway model and the possibility of going to France and Italy and London for shows. The Amazon would begin her internship and the mulatto had her audition soon. The lighting kid would begin training with his father to become his assistant and eventually take over the business. Enjoying the fun of stage lighting, he had responsibilities. The drummer composed and dreamed new shows. My sister planned to share the princess's apartment, watching it when her lover worked in Europe and would be busy getting inspired and creative with her art putting together new drawings and paintings for a possible show in the City as well as sending drawings to the gallery in Paris and with all that, she needed to put in double time with her mentor who planned a gallery showing in a month and a half and the distraction of the project finally done she had to make up for time lost. I had managed to increase my clientele by three counting the return of the pixie. Creating nothing new, the future looked uninviting. Despite my prowess as a lover of older women I wanted more but didn't expect it.

We left behind most things in the rehearsal space. The producer could use the wood and the screen, and the larger equipment he owned before. We rolled the canvases we'd detached from their frames and would stash them at the woman artist's studio. My projector and film could be brought to the penthouse by my sister or the Amazon. Everything loaded in the van and the truck I told them they could handle the rest. Not being good company, they let me walk.

I ended up in the East Village. My feet guided me to the tenement where the young poet lived. I bought him some heroin when he fetched some for me. I watched him shoot up. I didn't. I had work to do. He didn't have any extra syringes. I did at home. Not tossing the syringe revealed the back of my mind where numbness had waited for the end of the show.

At home, the old flapper greeted me while feeding our baby. I took the bottle and took over feeding her. The flapper wanted to breathe some summer air. Asked where everyone had gone, she told me my sister and the Amazon were helping the princess find an apartment. The Amazon wanted to wait for me but felt uncomfortable being alone in the apartment with my mother. After a quick kiss, the old flapper left the apartment and me alone with my mother.

I found my mother in bed. I asked if she felt alright. Except for the smog filtered sun of the City her room remained unlit. She lay in bed dressed in silk pajamas staring at emptiness.

"Are you alright," I asked.

"I don't know," she said.

"Can I get you something to eat?" I asked.

"Okay," she said.

I left the baby on the bed with my mother and detoured to my room. Dropping my stash into a drawer, I headed to the kitchen and made sandwiches and ice tea and brought them into her room. She sat up and we ate.

"I'm going home," she said.

"What do you mean?" I asked. "You are home."

"I haven't had a home since I left Hibbing. They've always been a man's home I stayed in, and your home I made for you. Your grandfather is dying. Mom is going to be alone. I need to go home."

"How do you know?" I asked.

"I never stopped writing home. Your grandmother knows you. I send her pictures and drawings. She's seen you grow up."

"What did you tell her?" I asked.

"I'm a seamstress. I told her I sewed high fashion and costumes. That's all she knows. She used to ask about men, about getting married, but she stopped. There's not much going on there, but whatever there is she writes me about it." Mom leaned over and opened a bedside table drawer and pulled out a large stack of letters held together by a turquoise ribbon. "Read these. I'm giving them to you."

I took them from her, glancing at the Hibbing Minnesota address and set them aside. "But what am I going to do without you?" I asked. "Do you want me to come with you?"

"No," she said. "You have work here. I want you to take over building costumes until I get back. And you have your clients thanks to the Mistress of the Penthouse. And you need to take care of your daughter."

"Why now?" I asked.

"I told you. Grandfather is dying."

"Is that why you've been sad?"

Mother smiled. "I love my mom but my dad not so much. The thing is I'm getting fat."

"You're not," I said. "You're still beautiful."

"I'm losing it, darling. And when it's lost I'll be nobody's mistress. The producer is tired of me. I'm tired and I bore him. I don't have the energy to thrill him. I can't give him better anymore than his next conquest. And with me getting fat and my face getting old and loose and wrinkled..."

"That's ridiculous," I said. She smiled. "You should talk to my new client. You know the plain woman with the great body?" She nodded. "She can help you. She knows what to eat and how to exercise to keep her body in perfect shape. And your face is still beautiful. You'd be your old self again."

"Old being the word," said my mother. "She did look like she had a figure. Is it as good naked?"

"Better," I said. We giggled.

"If she could wrap that up and sell it, she'd make a fortune," said my mother. "She's my age?"

"Older," I said. "Maybe that's what I'll do. I'll help her write a diet book for women in their forties."

Mom laughed. "That's a change from your crazy play."

"I'm a pretty good writer. You know I usually get A's on my school reports."

"You always get A's," said my mother proudly.

"I guess so. School's pretty easy."

"And you're pretty smart," she said.

"I don't want you to go. What am I going to do?"

"You're doing fine. You have friends. You have the mistress. You have plenty of clients who love what you do. You've got a girlfriend, although what you see in that lumberjack..."

"Don't start," I scolded.

"Sorry. It's just between the princess and your sister and, well, whoever, you end up with an ox in tramp clothing is beyond me. You're doing it to spite me."

"Maybe, except I happen to be fond of her, and the sex is the best."

"If you say so," said my mother.

"I do, so be nice."

"I won't."

"Why not?"

"I won't be here. Tomorrow I'm taking you down to the theater and get you settled and then I'm heading home."

"Tomorrow?"

"The sooner the better."

"I wish there was something I could say."

"My mother needs me."

"I need my mother."

"You don't."

"I'm a mess right now."

"It's like having a baby. The mistress got over it quick, but most women, they get depressed. You had your crazy project and you're depressed."

"I hope so."

"I'm old and wise kid."

"That's why I need you."

"You'll be fine."

I didn't think so, but I let it go. Crying and pouting and having a tantrum might have made her feel maternal, but I couldn't bring any real emotions let alone extreme ones to the surface. It probably wouldn't have mattered. I took the empty plates and left her to watch the baby.

Having witnessed the effect of the heroin on the young poet, I knew to be cautious. Since I hadn't done any for a few months, I decided to be especially careful. Expecting the Pixie's arrival within a couple hours factored in, though the thought of her need for lengthy fucking tempted me to do more. I decided on half my usual amount and even that put me on the nod. Within it my sister arrived. The indecipherable grunt I made when she knocked was enough encouragement to enter. In a stoned blur, I saw her study the situation. Temptation won out. I warned her to be careful. She could handle it, she said. It would be her last hurrah. It almost was.

Not having experienced or witnessed an overdose before, luckily the young poet, seasoned junky and nurse, warned both my sister and me of the possibility and instructed us. When my sister collapsed into herself, the spike still embedded in her arm, I awoke from my stupor. Putting away my drugs and quickly cleaning out the syringe of her blood and stashing it revealed callousness, but it only lasted a few seconds. I picked her up and carried her to the bathroom and put her in the tub and turned the cold tap on high. She stood under the nozzle. The chilled water sprayed on me uncomfortably as well. I didn't care. I slapped her face and yelled her name. She responded, coming in and out of consciousness. Mother ran into the bathroom. Not understanding the emergency, she thought I was crazy. With loud urgency I told her to call the princess and have her get the young poet and bring him to the penthouse and then make a pot of coffee. She asked why I didn't call the ambulance, and I told her I hoped it wouldn't be necessary. Still drifting, my sister started to shiver and so did I. I stripped her of her clothing and slapped and yelled. Consciousness sustained. I shut off the tap and rubbed her down with a towel and brought her out into the living room and walked her around and had her drink black coffee. Princess and the young poet arrived. He injected something into my sister's chest and she revived. My mother covered her with a robe and the young poet sat with her. Princess dragged me into my room, slamming the door behind her and slapped me hard.

"You fucker!" she said and slapped me again. "Either you go or she goes."

"I can't," I said.

"Fine!" She turned towards the door than turned back to me and slapped me with a force that made me stumble, but I remained standing. "Everything was beautiful," she said through clenched jaw. "We finished a beautiful show. I found a beautiful apartment. She came here to bring you to a fancy restaurant for us to celebrate, and instead you tempt her and nearly kill her. I wanted so much to start working with you, to start something new, a new play."

"I have nothing to give. You're the brilliant writer. I'm not."

"Ideas I told you."

"I have nothing to give," I said.

"Except poison, motherfucker. I'll pack her stuff. I want nothing to do with you, and you don't come near her. I love her you fucker!" One more slap and she slammed the door.

Mother entered tentatively. I became the one in the dark except I stood. "What's going on?" she asked.

"I told you I need you."

"You're doing smack again?" she asked. I never let her know of my heroin use since Paris. I think she wanted not to know. She knew. "I'm still here and you're still doing it. It doesn't matter. I'm going. You better get your head together. Do you want to lose all this?"

"I don't know. Maybe I am," I said.

"You're what?"

"Lost."

She sat me down on the bed and sat beside me and took my shoulders in her hands and held my gaze. "You have to be strong. I'm not strong anymore. Whatever it is in your secret mind, you have to get over it. In so many ways you make me proud. You're my accomplishment on this earth. I did all I could to make you great. Then I brought the Nigger into your life."

"Don't call him that. You sound like the producer. He's a cool guy and a genius and you loved him."

"I don't know what I was thinking. I thought maybe we could get you something, morphine or something to ease your stomach. But then I saw how much you liked it and I cursed myself. I hoped you could see the peril. I thought you had. You're so strong and smart. I forget how sensitive you are. You hide it so well. You've got to be strong for me and your baby and the mistress. She needs you too. And the women you make happy. You're the highlight of their lives. You make them feel desirable and appreciated and loved. You let them feel pleasure like they never felt. They need your strength. You've got to fight through whatever it is. You can't succumb. Be strong. Do it for me. You owe me. I created you. I gave you life. I've always supported you. I never asked you to do anything for me. I'm asking you now to honor your debt. Promise me you won't ruin your life; you won't succumb to your weakness; you won't hide inside a needle."

"I promise," I said. I had no choice. When I said it I felt ambivalent. I wanted to be a good boy. I knew how much she wanted me to be. But I was lost.

When my mother left the room I shivered, realizing my clothes remained wet and cold from the shower. I threw them off and took a hot shower and dressed for the pixie. I always look my best for my clients even if the clothes never stayed on long. I put on my suit and tie, looking elegant and handsome and young. The mature, slick clothes emphasized my youth. I remained in my room, shut away from the world leaving me. My sister had packed and gone. I could hear the slamming drawers which eventually quieted and then stopped when Princess finished and hauled away her stuff.

The old flapper came in. My mother had informed her. She set our baby in my lap. "You're going to have to do worse before I kick you out," she said. I smiled. "It's just the three of us now unless you have plans for the lumberjack."

"I don't know. She doesn't know about the drugs and I treated her like a stranger this morning." Realizing we had torn down the show only a few hours before struck me odd. It seemed like centuries ago. "Of course I treated everybody like that."

"If she loves you, she'll be back," said the old flapper.

"I don't know about love," I said.

"I didn't either until I met you," she said.

"I'm sorry. I love you too in my way."

She set the sleeping baby on my bed, disshelved my hair, kissed me and hugged me. Hugging felt good. I told her, whispering into her ear while the hug continued. We kissed again, much longer, playing tongue games, getting us excited.

"Sleep with me after you're done," she asked.

"I'd love to," I said.

Kissing my forehead, she got up and brought the baby into her arms. "I'll make dinner," she said and left, leaving the door open. A little while later I joined her in the kitchen. "I should get me one of those French maid outfits since we seem to have a need for one," she said after having me sit at the table and not get my suit dirty.

"I won't complain," I said. "I'd probably distract you from your work."

She laughed and said, "What would I do without you?" leaning over and kissing my forehead.

The pixie arrived and the four of us sat down for chicken casserole and two bottles of white wine. The pixie seemed higher strung than usual. The wine calmed her and got her talking.

"I'm all alone in the middle of the woods," said the pixie. She explained her family lived in Croton-on-Hudson near the reservoir in a house built by a student of Frank Lloyd Wright. "I'm bouncing off the walls, and the way the walls are designed, their sharp. My husband's in Hollywood dealing with some problems." Her husband rose to a Vice Presidency of the largest talent agency in the world. "I have a feeling the problems are large breasts; large young breasts. I don't care. He comes home and relaxes with me and sleeps. But my sons are off at camp. They're at boarding schools too. I got to get myself a hobby. Or a lover." She looked at me, her face flushed from the wine, her eyes dancing, looking cute and sexy. I took the hint and hand in hand we headed to my room.

Somewhat numbed by the dope, I insisted on spending time licking and stroking her, not needing her licks and strokes. My penis remained semi-hard throughout the cunnilingus. I managed to lift her up and set her on a plateau of pleasure, teasing her but not releasing her for over a half hour. When she climaxed, she let the world know. Her body trembled. My fingers inside felt the undulations. I covered my penis in lamb intestines and plunged into the abating orgasm, shoving a little at a time until she thrust her hips up and I fully impaled her. The warmth, tightness and motion made me at last stiff as a branch. She pulled to the right and I realized she wanted to be on top. Riding me like a cute cowgirl on a trotting English saddled mount, she stared down into my eyes, closing her eyes and twisting her lips and groaning from time to time. I held her breasts, twisting them and their nipples. She got lower and rolled her groin against mine, finding friction for her clit and drove herself to a second climax. While turning her over to mount her, she pulled away and got onto her hands and knees. Grabbing her tight round little butt, I shoved in hard and fast. I met her cervix with each thrust. Another screaming orgasm hit her. I thrust through it. She lifted her lithe petite body so that her back stretched against my torso and turned her head and we kissed. Our tongues reached out to tangle in the air between. Though a weird position, as I thrust up into her and hugged her body, wrapping my arms around her with my hands ending up kneading her breasts, I found the tingle in my scrotum and closed my eyes and concentrated on it, letting it build into a pressure ready for release. When I spent I lifted her off her knees. Suspended on my rock hard cock, she arched her back and circled my neck with her arms, pressing her forehead against my cheek and joined me in ecstasy. Collapsing onto the bed, I managed to guide us on our sides, my penis still jolting its last ejaculations inside her.

Once I had extracted myself, she turned me on my back and kissed all over my face and hugged me. "That was fantastic," she said.

A responsible junkie may sound like an oxymoron. Craving dope tends to make everything else unimportant. If I hadn't had free lodging, a steady pay check and some loving companions, along with a source willing to hunt down the manna in the urban jungle despite the dangers, it would have been a desperate life. I lost income however, which may have been a blessing.

The matron's patronage ended first. Our first date after I returned to the needle became our last. Not stoned; just shooting enough not to feel uncomfortable or Jonesing as it's called, as soon as I got naked, she saw the fresh marks and that was that. I think her fantasy had dwindled anyway. I started shaving after all.

The second loss became the fourth woman from the old flapper's party. A pretty, slightly plump blonde, soft skin and soft spoken, she'd been comfortable with her friends at the party, but proved shy when we first began. She desired my youth. Despite seeing her at least twice a month for over a year, our dates focused on one thing. Like an actor immersed in a role, she became my age. I figured I resembled the boy that got away. She never said. She came from old money and dating as a teenager meant a screening process. After the parents approved, they left her alone with the young man. She must have been traumatized by shyness preventing communication. I represented the boy willing to stay and get beyond her character and get to know her. We'd start the evening chatting and drinking soda. I talked about things in my life and slowly drew her out. She talked about her interests: what she read; what she saw; what she thought about. I actually enjoyed the chats. Her intelligence interested me. The conversations became a continuum, like two young people in a long term loving relationship. At some point, I'd get daring, grabbing some alcohol my mom or the old flapper stashed. Sneaking the drinks excited her. I don't think she was a lush. She looked too healthy. She'd have at least three heavy swallows to my one. Then we'd retire to the bedroom. Like a teenage affair, our first few dates involved petting slowly moving towards the main event. But every date, she'd change. At some point she'd say, "Enough. Let's fuck" and I'd drill into her fast and furious, making her cum two or three times depending how long I lasted. The first time she transformed into the demanding woman suddenly in charge shocked me, especially since we had spent so long petting fully clothed with each erogenous touch a sort of victory. I seemed to be slowly breaking down her defenses. Suddenly she threw off her clothes and ripped off mine and pulled me between her thighs. Insisting she harbored no diseases, having not fucked anybody in years, her husband turning out to be homosexual marrying her for her money, fucking her long enough to have a couple kids and ending the sex, she ordered me not to wear protection and to withdraw when ready to cum and ejaculate onto her tummy. Later it would be her chest or her face. She loved watching me cum. I only lasted long enough for her to achieve one orgasm. The second time shocked me again, but she had rubbed me to orgasm in my pants and waited for my erection to return before transforming. I understood the rules of the game. She got three the second time. Afterwards she'd talk about her loveless marriage and her kids.

Getting stoned when we played the young couple routine, by this time we got naked and made slow love and explored possibilities, like felatio and cunnilingus and buggering, once I had cum and revived and she'd transform, my opiated system prevented the rigidity she expected and I didn't cum a second time. It had happened a couple times before when I first did the drug daily, and it nearly ended our relationship. She became thrilled when I returned to my old self. Even though it had been months, the third time ended our relationship.

"What's wrong? Don't you love me anymore?" she wailed, dressing. "Faggot. You're just like my husband," she said angrily, tossing the usual fee at me. "Don't bother calling. I never want to see your faggoty ass and your useless cock again." Slamming the door, she exited my life.

The vixen exited gradually. After three dates, she decided to end it. The problem stemmed from the length of time I took to cum. Unlike the pixie, she got bored of relentless fucking. I thought about faking, but she liked to look at the condom, proud of what she had provoked. More my attitude made her uncomfortable. Sexy and sweet and fun, I enjoyed seeing her. But I couldn't sustain it and she sensed my despair. The final date, we made love all night, and she told me at the end she had found a new lover and wouldn't see me anymore. It saddened us. She cried. I don't cry but she sensed my sincerity. At the door I told her her new lover was a lucky man.