Miranda July - The First Bad Man

THEY DIDN’T HELP CLEAN UP.They pretended to — at around noon Kate picked up some beer bottles and asked where the trash was, but when I said, “Those are recyclables,” she looked overwhelmed and sat down. Clee wandered around groggily in boxer shorts and a tank top, her hair matted in the back. They were both very hungover.

At first I thought it might have been a onetime thing that had a lot to do with the punch. But as I vacuumed and mopped and sponged and wiped down the walls, I had to glance down repeatedly to be sure I wasn’t visibly pulsing or swelling, because there was so much energy vibrating in my groin. It was a new experience for me. When Clee parted her legs so I could wipe off the coffee table between them I had to put the sponge down and walk myself to my bedroom. I kept my hand over Clee’s moaning mouth so Kate wouldn’t hear. Not my hand — Phillip’s. He thrust so hard his tufty ears shook.

At dusk Kate ordered a pizza.

“It’s a thank-you pizza,” she said. “Thank you.”

Clee dug in and I nibbled at a narrow slice.

“My dad is remarried now, by the way,” Kate said, chewing behind her polite hand.

I smiled and nodded. I could barely recall what he looked like but it would be rude to say that. “We had a good time, but it was just one date.”

“Do you remember what you wore?” Kate asked.

Clee gave her a sharp look.

“No,” I laughed. “It was a long time ago.”

Kate took a sip of soda and cleared her throat.

“My dad said — ow!” She paused to inspect the spot where Clee had just kicked her. “My dad said you were dressed like a lesbian.”

I smiled. Mark Kwon making a big show out of my failure to attract him was not hard to picture; that’s just what he was like. Clee turned her head away as if this conversation was too boring to endure.

“Did he say that?”

“Yeah. What were you wearing?”

“I don’t remember.” But now that she asked I suddenly did remember.

“Was it something like what you’re wearing right now?” She pointed at my pants and tucked-in T-shirt.

“No, this is just to clean in. No, I think it was a long green dress with many buttons down the front. Corduroy.” I still had it.

For some reason this was hilarious to Kate; she laughed and looked at Clee with a gaping mouth until Clee finally smiled.

KATE HAD SUCH A GREAT TIME.Kate didn’t need her Tupperware back. Kate would text Clee about Kevin and Zack. Kate had trouble loading up the mini ATV. Kate wanted to know where the nearest gas station was. Kate needed to use the bathroom one more time. Kate sat in her truck looking at her phone. Kate finally, finally left.

Clee shut the door and looked right at me — squinting. For a moment I thought she knew what I’d been up to. Then she simply slapped me, as if the whole visit was my fault and could have been avoided. “Fighting from Inside Cars” began with a (simulated) slap, so we continued with that scenario. “Come here, sugar-pie,” she recited dourly.

We were back, except it was too late — I was playing something else now. I mimed knee thrusts and elbow jabs, awkwardly wheeling around a phantom erection. At the end I limped to my room, throbbing; shut the door; and slapped her cheek with my giant hairy hand. Just moments after I creamed in her mouth, my phone rang. If it was him I would ask what he did to Kirsten and then I’d do that to Clee. It was just another roiling corner of our journey together; I felt what he felt and it was staggering, tremendous.

But it was Dr. Broyard’s office, calling to confirm my upcoming appointment on Tuesday, June 19. I imagined telling him my globus was gone and then trying to explain the cure by referencing his relationship with Ruth-Anne. I could hear her breathing.

“Ruth-Anne?”

“If you need to cancel, please call forty-eight hours in advance.”

It was definitely her.

“Would it be possible to talk now? A phoner? I’m in the midst of some complicated new feelings.”

She was silent.

“I guess I can wait until tomorrow.”

“We’ll see you Thursday the nineteenth,” she said.

I described tapping into Phillip’s lust, his overwhelming appetites and aggressive explosions that convulsed through me. Ruth-Anne seemed unsurprised, as if I were late to my own party.

“Right. And perhaps we don’t even need to call it Phillip’s lust? Maybe it’s just lust.”

“Well, it’s not mine . These just aren’t the kinds of things I would think about, on my own, without him.”

“So you don’t find it arousing when she attacks you?”

“Everything she does to me, I pretend I’m doing to her, as Phillip.”

“I see. And how does Cheryl Glickman feel?”

“Me?”

“Yes, what do you feel?”

Me , I thought. Me. Me. Me. Nothing specific came to mind.

“Are you masturbating yourself to orgasm?”

I smiled at the floor. “Yes?”

“Are you asking me?”

“ Yes. I am. But that’s just, you know, behind the scenes.”

Ruth-Anne nodded as if I had just said something very astute. Maybe I had. I wondered if I was her favorite patient, or at least the only one who could talk on her level.

“Can I ask you something that’s a little bit related to this?”

“Of course,” she said.

“Remember when you called yesterday, about my appointment with Dr. Broyard?”

Her face changed.

“Well, I’m not sure I should keep seeing him — it might feel funny now.”

“Funny how?”

“Not funny, more like uncomfortable. To see you in your receptionist role. And him. Now that I know.”

She stared at me for a long time and I wondered if I was her least-favorite patient.

“Well, it’s up to you,” she said finally. “But I believe you’ve missed the forty-eight-hour cancellation window.”

CLEE THOUGHT HER PINK BOXERScovered her but they didn’t. If she was sitting cross-legged I could see the edge of her dark blond pubic hair and sometimes more. One morning I saw a flash of labia, pink and hanging loose. Not the tidy, concealed meat that I had been imagining. With this new information Phillip had to go back and redo all the sex he had already done. He really wanted to see her anus, though he wouldn’t have called it that. I reread all his texts but didn’t find a word for it. I went with pucker . I’LL ADMIT IT, he might have written, I WANT TO RAM MY STIFF MEMBER INTO HER PUCKER.

When he was mentioned at work, usually in terms of fundraising, I felt a shiver of invisibility — not that I was him, but it was strange to hear him talked about so freely.

“Phil Bettelheim’s donation was on the smaller side this year,” said Jim, “but it’s only June, he might give again. Has anyone walked him through the high-risk outreach initiative?”

We hadn’t spoken since I gave him my blessing; I guessed he was busy actually doing all the things I was pretending he was. The thought gave me a sad ache, and even this ache was arousing. I felt so close to him. It could never be proven, but I suspected we were becoming stiff at the same time, possibly even ejaculating in unison, the way women’s menstrual periods sometimes become synchronized. I wondered where Clee was in her cycle.

“Cheryl.” I looked up. A face so like and unlike hers. “How’s my daughter? Is she behaving?”

“Oh yes,” I said, too quickly. “Absolutely.” Suzanne crossed her arms, waiting. She knew everything.

“Be honest. I know how she is.” She looked me dead in the eye.

“She watches a lot of TV,” I whispered.