The Other Participants

REMINGTON GRAVES

“I want to see other people,” she said removing her glasses and rubbing the bridge of her nose with a long sigh. The light softly centering the both of them on that old black leather couch they received as a wedding gift a few years ago.

“See other people?” He replied with a vulnerability in his voice.

“Yes, other people. Other fucking people. You don’t fuck me anymore. You hardly want to talk to me. I have wasted hundreds of dollars on stupid lingerie that sits there mockingly in my dresser drawer. Please, don’t act like this isn’t something you want. Have some fucking respect for me.”

“I don’t. I don’t want that.”

“You don’t?! You told Derek you thought the UPS lady was fucking hot.”

“What? That’s guy talk, honey.”

“So…she’s not hot?”

“Well, she is very attractive, but…that doesn’t mean–“

“Mean what? That you wouldn’t fuck her in a heart beat?”

“Why is it about fucking with you? What is that, the ultimate peak in any relationship or something?”

“Maybe it is. It’s the way I express my passion, my appreciation, you know?”

“That’s not how I express mine.”

“No, you just don’t express it.”

“Not to you.”

“Oh, there it is! Finally, some fucking hint of truth.”

“Is it?”

“Isn’t it?”

“Look, let’s start over. I’m gonna make myself a drink. Want one?”

“Sure,” she said sighing emphatically as she kicked her heels off.

“Here you are, “ he said handing her the glass as he sat on the other end of the couch. “All right, we have been married for over six years, I get it–you’re bored. You want someone new.”

“That’s not exactly right.”

“Well, then tell me, explain it to me, please. Honestly, let’s have the ultimate honest conversation. Just give it to me raw. Yes, some of it might hurt, maybe most of it. But I’m an adult. And I don’t want to live a false life. I don’t want to live in a world where things appear to be a certain way. I want to live in a life where things are truly what they appear. And to give that to someone else, to the person I care most about.”

“Are you sure you want to open this door?”

“I am positive. Let’s do it. Fuck it.”

“Okay. Okay…Well, for starters, I like women.”

“Like in threesomes?”

“You are such a fucking guy sometimes, you know that?”

“What?”

“Sex is the last thing I like women for. I love the way they can empathize with me about my emotions. I am drawn to their sensitivity. Their soft touch.”

“I am attracted to men.”

“Okay, see, that’s…wow. Really?”

“Really.”

“Wow. That’s great.”

“And transvestites.”

“Oh.”

“And hermophradites.”

“Wait–“

“And–“

“Wait a fucking minute!”

“What?”

“Are you fucking joking? You’re joking, right? That would explain why I was not enough for you.”

“Enough?”

“You bastard.”

“Weren’t you just telling me you wanted to see other people?”

“Yes, I want to see other people.”

“But it’s not okay if I want to?”

“Fuck. This is not going how I planned.”

“How did you think it was gonna go? You get what you want and I don’t?”

“No. Not exactly. Shit…I guess I didn’t think that far ahead.”

“Far ahead enough to consider me?”

“Fuck me…I guess not. I just realized what a crazy cunt I can be.”

“It’s okay, I can be a crazy cunt myself. I don’t need to tell you, you had to put up with it for years.”

“THAT’S END OF SESSION, FOLKS!”came the voice over a megaphone.

They both stood up systematically and stared at each other in sullen silence. Tears began to run down her face. Her lips trembled. He reached out to her and said, “Are you okay?”

“Yes, every time I do these sessions it’s so liberating. So empowering.”

“I know what you mean. My skull feels like its got ginger ale in it.”

“You ever think about actually doing it?”

“Telling my wife these confessions?”

“Yes, all of it.”

“Of course I do. Every day. While she folds laundry, as she cooks, while she’s giving me oral pleasure. Or putting the kids to bed.”

“I understand. Same with me. Hey, you want to get a drink? There’s a nice bar across the way near by.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t. My wife is waiting for me. She thinks I am at the office finishing up some paperwork.”

“What a shame. The other participants have not been as good-looking as you.”

“Thank you. Who knows, they might pair us again someday.”

“Doubt it, I have been doing this for over a decade and never been the same guy.”

“That long, eh?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Six years.”

“Not pocket change.”

“I guess not. Well, it was nice doing a session with you. Take care.”

“Are you sure I can’t convince you? For what it’s worth, I’ve always considered a tranny in the mix.”

“Sorry. Good luck,” he said as he put on his sunglasses and baseball cap and walked away.

“Yeah, you too.”

∞

Yes Father Please Do

REMINGTON GRAVES

Congruently disseminating and amid the crude dissonance, I rubbed upon the weathered beads while my back bone complained of the wooden pew. I demurred in my doting youth against the clergy and here I find myself staring at old, hard bubble gum on the floor inside the house of god, in the shape of Golgotha. The years have taken their toll upon my countenance. From a little village in France, to the hell they call Hollywood. I, Smegor Gamsa, who once crawled upon the hard, cold soil like a roach, here now in the land of the stars. My mothers’s monstrous moaning in her deathbed still resounds in my mind. Father would have laughed himself to death had he seen me this way. Bastard. Forgive me…listen to me, talking to myself. I have long ago stopped believing in all this nonsense. And yet here I remain, an important person in the eyes of these idolatrous peasants. The starving, the hungry, the weeping and the wanting…what a disgusting drudge of drones. I smile as I swallow my own vomit at their pleading eyes. ‘Father, say a prayer for me, will you?’ Fools these slaves be. I suppose I should have a little more compassion–all things considered.

“Father Gamsa, will you please come inside?”

“Yes, my son, allow me a few minutes to enjoy our Lord’s beautiful handiwork. Just look at those clouds, will you? How can a man deny the existence of our savior?”

“Yes, Father. I am in awe of his paintbrush and all–“

“Yes, yes, and all of that. Give me a hand. These steps always kill me.”

“Yes, Father.”

“I need you to take me to the stars again.”

“Yes, Father.”

Young girls in roller skates stride on by yelling and giggling a guttural melody as the sidewalk tiles keep a backbeat on their song. Blonde and brunette hair flowing under a California sun. Children holding on to their parent’s hands firmly as they cross the street. Beat up automobiles tailgaiting neon-green lamborghini, here the vermin crawl side by side with villainous trust fund trollops. I walk on the stars from time to time. Names of mighty men now forgotten. There used to be a great Thai restaurant called Mama Siam across the street from the Greyhound station over there. A crying shame the way the world is changing.

“Father?”

“Yes, Memed?!”

“You’ve been quiet for an hour now.”

“I like to think, young man.”

“What is it you think about, Father?”

“Your mother sucking my cock.”

“What that, Father?”

“I’d like to walk a few more blocks.”

“Oh, okay. Well, we should be turning back, it’ll get dark soon.”

“You know, you really know how to ruin a wet dream.”

“A wet what, Father?”

“Scene! You really know how to ruin a great scene.”

“Yes, Father. I apologize.”

“Yeah, yeah. Get the damn car and come pick me up, I’ll be here on this bench resting my feet.”

“Thats like a mile back, Father.”

“What’s your point?”

“Of course, Father. I will return as soon as I can.”

“Well, hurry up about it.”

“Hey, priest dude.”

“Yes, child?”

“You’re fucking stupid,” said a young boy with tattoos on a skateboard. Surrounded by his companions they belted in laughter and patted each other on the back.

“I will pray for you child.”

“Pray for my mother, that she gets D.P.’ed in hell.”

“D.P.?”

“Double Penetration, dude. Gee, you priests need to get hip, man. Shit, I mean, what era do you guys live in?”

“Yes, yes…god bless you.”

They mounted their skateboards and sped away in all their glorious youth. One of them had a big pentagram on the back of his denim vest drawn in black marker. I ran into the guys from The Church Of Satan once. Back in ’79–or was it ’88? I was not wearing the ridiculous garb I have on now when we crossed paths. It was in a bar called The Frolic Room. Handsome fellow named Floyd Mice bought me a beer and answered all my questions when I spotted the rune banner on his left arm. The more he drank the friendlier he got. All pretty smart fellows. Even the blonde girl who seemed a bit unsure of herself, the way she clung to her mutant-looking boyfriend.

“I need to piss, buddy. Care to join me?”

“Join you?”

“Yes, man, are you deaf? It’s gonna snow in there.”

“Snow?”

“Oh, christ, buddy–I got some good fucking cocaine.”

“Oh, right. I mean, well yeah. Of course yo do.”

“Follow me, dude.”
I remember it like yesterday. That young man had the sweetest mouth the way he placed my member in it and savored it like a hungry refugee in Zimbabwe. His black leather boots gripping the dirty concrete floor as he put some work in. I remember wondering how he got them so shiny as he kept purposely choking and gagging.
God, was I ever that young? They had an amazing philosophy. Hell, I almost went with them. All that black clothing though…I don’t think–

“Father, I have been honking over ten times for you now.”

“Oh, shut the hell up, young man. I’m coming.”

“Yes, Father, please do.”

∞

Survivor

REMINGTON GRAVES

Woeful and writhing, she wondered why and tearful. Automobiles outside her third-story window honked and hit their breaks. The chatter was your everyday buzz for a Wednesday afternoon. Her strawberry-blonde hair beautiful and slithering on the dirty wooden floor as she bit deep into her lips and spurted scarlet and spit. Coughing and cooing a murderous melody–the song he sang for her. Veins protruding on her hands while she scratched into the floor as if upside down encased within a grave and wanting out, anywhere but out. The rusty pipes in her restroom almost oboed in the evening.

A knocking faintly, gently almost tapping at her appartment door. Silhouette stilettos faced her as she opened slowly her eyelids towards the door. “Alex, are you in there? C’mon, if you’re in there open the door. You haven’t been in class for a few days. Sally and I are worried. Open up. Please?”

The silence hung still and a hundred miles away a dancing dandelion waited for the direction of the wind.

“Listen, Alex. We care about you. You have been talking about some pretty wacky things lately and you got us all worried. That’s all. Will you please just talk to me?”

A bell rang in a Mexian village–pigeons exploded in flight, and children chased them with shoelaces untied.

“We are not gonna judge you. We all go through things. Is it your father? You seem to get anxious whenever he comes around. You start to sweat, you retreat within yourself. Does he beat your mom, or you…both? Just let me in. Talk to me. I am here for you. I have gone through some bad things also. We can talk. Just give me a chance. I swear I am a great listener.”

A dim star in an impossible distance stared in silence.

“If you don’t open this door, I am getting the police. Alex, I promise you I will leave in less than a minute and will return with the cops, no joke.”

She stood there facing that door staring at the number sixty-nine and thought for a moment of what a divine sight it was to behold a man in that very position with him on top. Twisting her bracelet she heard a stirring and then a few grunts. Footsteps approached softly and slowly. The doorknob turned and finally, with a reluctant squeak, she croaked: “Why won’t you leave me alone?”

“Alex, let me in.”

“Why won’t you go away, “ she grunted weakly.

“We should talk,” she said as she pushed and walked passed her in the dark.

“I don’t want to talk to anyone.”

“You’re depressed. You need some sun. You need to go on your usual morning walks. Set some goals for yourself.”

“Like you?”

“Like everyone.”

“I am not everyone.”

“I know that. Turn the light on, and let’s have a glass of wine like the old days–lets talk.”

“Then will you go away?”

“Promise.”

“Okay, but no light.”

“Can I at least open the window and draw the blinds? It’s really dark in here.”

“Fine.”

She dragged her feet across the bloody floor and opened the refrigerator door. “White or red?”

“Red.”
The moonlight hit the corner of the bed closest to the window. The streets were curiously quiet. They sat in silence as they shifted and they sipped. A few minutes went by until she was startled by here question.

“Has your dad ever touched you?”

“Like hit me?”

“No…I mean touched you.”

“What?!”

“Just answer the question.”

“I think you should leave.”

“I am not going anywhere. I promised you we would talk then I would leave.”

“You get on my fucking nerves.”

“Answer the question”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Can I tell you something?”

“What?”

“My father raped me.”

“What?”

“My father raped me.”

“I…I–“

“I was fourteen years old the first time it happened.”

“First time?” She said taking a big drink.

“The first couple of times were horrible. I cried and I even hinted at it to mom. She gave me a look as if saying, “don’t you dare tell me what you want to tell me.” So…I didn’t.”

“Bailey…”

“No, listen…I didn’t know what to do or who to tell.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said tears hot and pouring.

“This isn’t that kind of story. By the third time, I liked it.”

“You what?”

“I did–I liked it.”

“You like being raped by your father?”

“It wasn’t rape by the third time.”

“This is disgusting, I can’t hear anymore of this.”

“Wait…just listen. This went on for a few years. I enjoyed it. He enjoyed it. Mom knew about it. All of us would have breakfast and silently stared at each other knowing.”

“I want you to leave, “ she said standing up and throwing the remainder of the wine in her face.

“Come here, It’s okay, I understand,” she said drawing her near for an embrace.

“Do not touch me. I hate my father, he is a monster. I want him dead. I fucking want him dead!” She screamed throwing her fists in all directions.

“Alex, calm down. I am your friend. Just let me hug you, I am here for you.”

“You are not my friend, you sick twisted bitch. You are a disgusting fucking pig. You make me sick and I want you out of my house!”

“Alex, breathe, It’s gonna be okay. Just hold still,” she said ignoring the blows to her face and her pride.

“Get out!”

“You fucking little bitch, I am trying to help you,” she said as she stared into her mascara-smeared eyes and the dried blood on her chin under the moonlight. Punches kept coming in the forms of fists and stinging words. At the moment she knew exactly what to do. They were two very different people. One woman’s burden is another’s bash, she thought.

And with that she grabbed her by the chin and twisted her face to the side and pushed her out the window.

“You bitch. You’re a sick fucking cunt!” she screamed on the way down with her gaze locked on hers.
“No,” she said smiling, “I’m a survivor.”

∞