Ellen Datlow - Off Limits

After a while, Estela stopped and sat down on the edge of the promenade, feet dangling above the beach where a crowd of young Cariocas were playing soccer by neon light from the beachfront bars. “Sit down,” she said, patting the ground beside her. “I used to play football. You?”

“No,” Deborah said, sitting down. She removed her sunglasses and revealed her careworn eyes. “Can I tell you something?”

“Tell me what, Sugar?” Estela said.

Deborah lit two cigarettes, gave one to Estela. “I have the disease.”

“I already guessed that, Honey,” Estela said, curious as to why Deborah felt the need to tell her now. “You don’t show it.”

“There are drugs that help.”

Estela tried to picture Deborah naked; despite the fear of the disease, she found the image turned her on. She thought, does she realize what I am? Well she had to; she was Griffiths’s partner.

Deborah said, “You don’t have to be scared of me.”

“What makes you think I’m scared?”

Deborah shrugged and went on, “Money I make from this deal, I can afford better treatments, maybe add a few years to my life.”

“Yeãh, well, I don’t need to know about that,” Estela said, wishing Deborah would talk about something else. Maybe Hollywood.

“You should know the things you profit by,” Deborah said.

Estela smoked her cigarette, watching as one copper-skinned boy scored a goal. She felt an impulse to abandon Deborah and join in their game. What did Deborah expect? Guilt? Despite herself, she said, “What things, Sugar?”

Deborah spoke slowly and without bitterness, as if she were reciting the details of some half-remembered dream. “I’m thinking of girls of nine or ten having babies; twelve-year-olds whose periods go on so long they bleed to death; and of those few who survive the bleeding only to have their pussies dry out and shrivel so bad that nothing can get up there even though they still want it; they lose their hair then, Estela—you’ve seen that?—and get hair where they shouldn’t.” She paused to pull on her cigarette. “Their minds start to go—sure, you’ve seen that too—the way they still think of themselves as desirable right up to their Godawful, pathetic deaths, most of them by the time they’re sixteen.”

“Fuck it,” Estela said, with a flash of temper. “Why you telling me this? It ain’t my fault.”

“I know that.”

“Look at you—I don’t see any of that shit happening to you?”

“Sometimes the virus doesn’t start killing you till you reach adulthood. I guess that makes me lucky, huh?”

With an effort of will, Estela quelled her anger. She said, “How long have you got?”

Deborah stood up. “I’m twenty-four.” Her voice was almost a whisper. “It doesn’t matter.”

Knowing Cledilce was with Griffiths at the hotel, they went to the apartment on Rua Toneleiros. Estela poured drinks and lit a macohna joint. Deborah took a glass and said, “They spent billions of dollars finding a vaccine for AIDS, took them twenty-five years. They haven’t spent one-tenth of that on HDV. You know why?”

Estela shook her head and sat beside Deborah on the sofa.

“There’s an institute in New York,” Deborah continued, “where they’re transplanting wombs into young boys. That’s where the future is, not in women.” She struggled to maintain her poise. “It’s cheaper now to alter people like you, people with so few alternatives you allow yourselves to be reconstructed so you can service those who want a risk-free screw. These sanctuaries are for them, not you. You call yourself a Bird, as if it means freedom. But in Berlin they’ll cage you like some damned nightingale.”

Estela stubbed out the joint and said, “You feel that way, how come you got mixed up with Griffiths?”

Deborah leaned her head on Estela’s shoulder. “I was a call girl in L.A. Guy I worked for ran an agency serving Hollywood big shots. I was doing well, enjoying the life. Then the symptoms started to show.” She paused, to sip her cachaca. “First, it just blew me away—the heightened sex drive—God, screwing johns was suddenly something I enjoyed, some of them anyway. Then the bleeding started. Guys don’t want to fuck a woman who’s always on the rag, y’know what I’m saying? I knew as soon as Tony found out he’d dump me—bad for business. I also knew he’d been over to Europe a couple of times, where the clubs were recruiting transsexuals. Tony was an asshole but he had a good nose for business. He’d made some contacts there, where there was like forty guys to every woman. He planned to find them new flesh, send boys—preop transsexuals like you and Cledilce—to this gender reassignment clinic in Paris for surgery and hormonal treatments and contract them to the Sanctuaries. I took his list of contacts and flew down to Mexico City. I needed someone who knew their way around the continent, someone who’d know where to find what I needed. That’s where I met Juan.”

Deborah stroked Estela’s face. Estela was certain the Yanqui was attracted to her but she was confused as to whether these overtures were directed at the Bird or at the man. It had been a long time since she had fucked a woman and the vibes coming from Deborah were hard to ignore. She felt a moment of doubt, thinking of Cledilce, but the truth was, she was no longer sure what she felt for her. She said, “So this is more your deal than Juan’s?”

“I don’t give a shit who gets the credit,” Deborah said. “All I care about is the money.”

“You sure that’s all?” Estela said, lightly kissing Deborah’s lips. “You’re still beautiful, Sugar.”

Deborah’s eyes searched her face. “Do you know what I want?”

Estela grinned, lasciviously. “Why don’t you tell me?”

Deborah’s voice was low and husky. “Maybe I can do that.”

In the bedroom, when Estela pulled down her satin skirt and Deborah reached for her cock, she realized exactly what the Yanqui woman wanted.

When it stiffened in her grasp, Deborah said, “I wasn’t sure you could still…”

“Get hard?” Estela said. “It still works, Sugar, at least till I get to Paris.”

Deborah stood back then, and stripped slowly down to her panties. She saw Estela’s gaze and said, “I’m bleeding. If you don’t want to—”

“It’s okay,” Estela said, letting her gaze wander up from the wet padding, over the smooth stomach and the small, pale breasts, to the bruises lurking beneath the powdered flesh of her limbs. “Take them off.”

Deborah removed the panties and the sodden towel. Blood oozed slowly down her legs. She did something to her hair then, and detached the ash-blond wig from her head. Her real hair was grey and cropped short on her skull. Somehow, this failed to detract from her beauty. “I’ve done many things, Estela,” she said. “In many different ways. But it’s been a long time since anyone touched me, any man. That’s all I want. It’s not so weird.”

Estela led her to the bed. She watched rivulets of blood trickle on to the sheets as Deborah stroked her cock. It was no longer a question of desiring this woman: she wanted to be her, to be a beautiful, elegant white woman, a product of Hollywood, instead of a young, black male Carioca with a good pair of tits and a fine round ass.

Lubricated by blood, she slid into Deborah and began to fuck her slowly. Deborah rolled and thrashed beneath her, as if she had come to the realization that this might be her final coupling. The strangeness of the act made it more precious for them both.

“Ah, Jesus,” Deborah cried, grinding herself against Estela, who imagined that she was fucking a reconstructed image of herself, a white-skinned, blond-haired Estela, a Hollywood star that people might envy and wish that they could become.