Rafael Yglesias - Hot Properties

Garth got up. Helen turned on her side, revealing her spectacular figure, and put a hand on Tony’s chest, lovingly, patting him. Tony was hypnotized by her body, entranced by his intimate proximity. “We’re willing to have your mother killed if you want,” she said.

“Damn right,” Garth said, putting a robe on. “I’m gonna make Tony some more herb tea.” He shuffled out, humming.

“You’re lucky to be alive. That woman who brought you home could barely stand.” She glanced down at his penis. Then she smiled. “Does your mother often get you drunk and then tell you you have no talent?”

“I told you about it?” Tony’s voice croaked. He felt childlike, but his voice was an old man’s. He looked at her with awe, flabbergasted by the perfection of her tall, full, but fatless olive-skinned body.

“You talked constantly. Even while you were passing out, you went out mumbling. It was kinda sad and wonderful at the same time.” She took his hand and kissed it. “Poor baby.”

Garth’s voice boomed from the doorway. “You want anything?”

She turned her head to answer. Her long hair streamed like a waterfall over her shoulders. “Coffee.” Tony felt her take hold of his penis, offering it to the air, pleading its case, showing an object for consideration. “Can’t I do something about this?” she asked her husband.

Tony looked to Garth for an answer with mild curiosity, as though he himself were merely a spectator watching an interesting drama unfold. The sexual ache of his genitals seemed divorced from his consciousness, but he was also enslaved to the desire for her, unable to resist its needs, no matter how bizarre or disgusting the circumstance. The question seemed pertinent: shouldn’t somebody do something about loving him?

“I don’t know,” Garth said, a hand running through the hair over his right temple. “That really kind of freaks me out. I’m pretty possessive about you.” He frowned. “Do what?”

My God, Tony thought, it’s a negotiation. His brain recoiled further from them and his circumstance while her hand — warm and casual, tentatively considering the value of his passion, a tempted shopper afraid the cost might be too high — made protest impossible. He not only wanted her, he wanted Garth’s permission. He had slept in their bed, breaking the barrier of house servant, but that had been pity — or perversion. This might be more, a kind of acceptance into the family, an embrace of both his being and his talent. Surely Garth’s agreement would be forthcoming only if Tony belonged, not only in their hearts but also in their world.

Helen turned to Tony, her long hair brushing his shoulder. He shivered. Her hand rested on the base of his penis, the fingers curling around his testicles. “What would you like?” she asked.

The question made him want to laugh, but looking into her eyes didn’t. No matter how decadent, foolish, and phony the situation totaled in Tony’s intellectual inventory, her soulful eyes elevated the query into a spiritual one. “I want to be loved,” he said, meaning it utterly.

“We love you,” she answered matter-of-factly.

“Not a blow-job,” Garth commented. He moved toward the bed. “I couldn’t handle that.”

“I want to kiss him,” she said, still searching Tony’s eyes sorrowfully.

“That’s okay,” Garth conceded.

She came at him, her lips parting slightly. They looked pale and puffy from sleep. She closed on his mouth, her free hand caressing his cheek, stroking it. Tony put a hand on her breast and withdrew as though burned, thinking: I don’t have permission. She moaned (to show approval, he thought) and pressed herself against him to resume contact. He closed his eyes and almost swooned from the heat, the relief of being touched, and the magic of her kiss: her lips accepting him, her tongue liquid and quivering.

When she withdrew after a few moments, he felt crushed, abandoned. He heard a high-pitched whistle, and until he opened his eyes, he didn’t recognize it as a teakettle boiling. Helen had turned her head to speak to Garth: “Why don’t you make the tea and wait? It won’t take long.”

Garth stood up against the bed, looming over them. “Oh, no,” he said firmly. “Whatever happens, I want to see.” He looked at Helen as though answering a criticism: “Not as a voyeur.”

“I understand,” she said so earnestly that it somehow sounded plausible.

“What do you feel comfortable doing?” Garth asked her.

Helen looked into Tony’s eyes, a compensating angel. She kissed him lightly on the lips and said, “Inside me.”

Garth moved so he had a clear view of Tony. “I don’t know,” he said. “Do you think you could masturbate?” he asked Tony almost apologetically.

Helen twisted irritably. “Billy! He doesn’t need me for that.” Tony noticed a small beauty mark on her long neck. Her body was so warm on the side where they touched that the rest of him felt chilled. The happiness he felt at having this beauty lie beside him made the bizarre discussion seem dreamlike — unimportant and silly nonsense. He didn’t feel frustrated, he liked this passive pleasure. She softened to add to her husband: “That isn’t lovemaking.”

Garth nodded. “You could do it for him,” he argued happily, as though a lucky notion had just flown in. “You know, he could be touching you …” Garth paused, holding a palm out to Tony, selling the idea. “Anything but her …” He lowered his head. “Not her vagina.” Embarrassment seemed to overwhelm him. “I wish you’d say what you want, Tony,” he snapped.

“You didn’t ask what he wanted during the night,” Helen said angrily. “You didn’t bother asking whether he wanted to be touched.”

“Hey!” Garth protested in an injured voice, a kid whose secrets had been betrayed by his best friend.

Tony felt his throat contract. He had assumed Garth’s morning handshake had been his only imposition: the dark confused memories of the night might have curtained a hundred violations. “What did you do?” Tony cried out. He tried to sit up, but his skull seemed loaded with pronged weights that stabbed and dragged him down.

“Oh …” Helen embraced him awkwardly.

“You see!” Garth whined. “You’ve made it sound …”

She kissed Tony’s cheek, whispering, “He only played with it — he wanted to see how long you could …” She bowed her head. “I’m sorry.”

Something was in the voice, cracking through the perfect appearance of kindness, something calculated and mean. This was a performance, Tony sensed, a plan she had. It wasn’t Garth manipulating this event, using his vulnerability and her sweetness. She was after something.

Helen raised her head. There were tears forming in her eyes. “You were so much in need. So badly wounded. We liked making you feel good—”

“Oh, don’t bullshit him. I wanted to know what another man’s prick felt like,” Garth said. He turned and walked away. “Do what you want,” he added, leaving.

Tony stared at her. He was confused. His head hurt now and his penis felt sore, unsatisfied, almost angry. He couldn’t think it through, see past her outward gentleness. Most of Helen’s body was on him now, and that pleasure took over. The sudden feeling that he was in power, controlling this Prince and Princess of Hollywood, sobered him. He could taste the sour bitterness of last night’s wine and ugly insults. “Fuck me,” he said.

She nodded, abashed.

Tony moved his pelvis against the side of her belly. “Put me in,” he said.

There were no newspeople in front of Newstime. On the Marx Brothers’ floor, things seemed quiet at first, but as they approached Animal Crackers, the noise began. Five writers were seated in the waiting area. They all gawked at Chico and David as if they didn’t know them. At the sight of them, Chico’s secretary pointed to Rounder’s office. “They’re waiting in there.” She nervously continued to David, “Patty Lane has called many times. She’s not at your home number.”