Darcey Steinke - Suicide Blonde

I soaped a washcloth, slid it into the ridge of my rear, pressing it just inside my anus, then rung it out and ran the bar of soap over it again until the material was thick with lather. Sliding the cloth into the folds of my pussy, soaping up the hair, I thought about douches and feminine sprays and the jokes high school boys used to make about women smelling like fish. What was it that made everyone so uncomfortable? Women worry that the scent reveals their sexuality and makes them vulnerable as dogs in heat. To men, the smell evoked the mysteries of the female body, which were cosmic but also threatening.

The cheap candles smelled of animal fat, dripping wax dark as ink on the porcelain tub. I let my hands, palms up, float to the top, the wrinkled tips breaking the surface. My hand had seemed separate when I jerked off the man from the gay bar last night. Each finger had a mind of its own and an eye in its tip. I watched the hand work on his cock, make an orifice out of fingers, squeeze down until he closed his eyes, imagining an ass as huge as the universe. Now the skin of my fingers was loose and gray as a cadaver. What could they be plotting? I wondered if the function of my body might be different from the function of my mind. I sensed the peace one found if they subverted either mind over body like a monk, or body over mind like a whore. You could hold both only if they were separated and severely so, like the right and left brain when the fissure is broken in surgery. I was trying by trusting my animal instincts over my intellectual ones.

Outside a man screamed something in Spanish. All good things are coming to an end, I thought, and though I knew it was true, I wasn't sure if I meant for me or for everyone. Divorce had given me the horrific sensation that the two sides of myself were at odds. I am the worst kind of person, attractive, overeducated, raised with middle-class delusions of grandeur. But it's not just me; family life in America sucks, because if you're even a bit smart, the pressure from your family to jump classes is excruciating. There's this insane idea that materialism creates status. Even if you make some headway, it's an internal jump. You're always middle-class, talking on your cellular phone with your color TV muted. We should never have cast ourselves like gods, on TV or in movies — it ruined our memories, made us long and lust, in love now only with the image of ourselves. And perfected others: the nicest guys I see are characters on TV.

I've mesmerized myself watching the water droplets loosen from the faucet. They catch light before joining their multiple selves. There is a bit of motion at the edge of my vision, it's the snake. I've seen it moving in the drapes, shifting in the blankets.

THE RAIN STOPPED AND WARM MEXICAN AIR BLEW INTO THE streets. A little girl passed painted up like a whore, but it was too late for little girls. Ahead, on the other side of the street, a group of skinheads came toward me, angry about something. Hands deep in their pockets, they jumped on one another like monkeys trying to copulate. Some wore hooded sweatshirts and hockey masks over their shaved heads. A few carried baseball bats or cartons of eggs. I saw the swastikas on their jackets and the familiar White Brotherhood logo. I was wearing an outfit of Madison's: red velvet bell-bottoms and a rhinestone-studded shirt and was worried they'd bother me. The tallest one, in a hockey mask, banged his bat against the brick wall. I turned, started to walk back the way I came when there was a sudden thud, then a burst like heavy rain. He'd shattered the window of the transvestite lingerie store. Tranced by the foam-filled bras and high heels as big as a strong man's work boot he reached in and took a garter studded with rhinestones. He looked like a monster holding a kitten. The skinheads were startled by the objects in the window which could so easily change them. A man came out from the next building in a ratty bathrobe, his eyes smeared with make-up.

“FAGGOT!” one screamed and they were suddenly on him. “Queer, butt blaster, fudge pirate!” They bashed his head against the hood of a parked car. The steely echo of the hood, absorbing the force of their fists on his body, made me shiver with nausea. It would have gone on forever but the police pulled up, lights flashing. One skinhead ran, then they all did.

“God damn,” the man said, reeling. He touched his head where blood was matting in his hair. Another man came out from the apartment building in stretch pants and high heels. He helped the man to the doorway of the shop and held him while he sobbed.

San Francisco confounded me. First it seemed utopian, with the blue skies, pervasive Mediterranean light, palm trees, organic vegetable stores that sold strawberry juice, the children in funky handmade sweaters. But all that was an overlay — misleading and cosmetic. Underneath was a history of decadence: the opium dens in Chinatown, the thousand whores who worked the gold rush, the voodoo and witchcraft shops. Even the fast-moving fog was nightmarish. There were leather monsters fucking dogs and each other in the alleyways of SoMa and the living dead haunting the Castro cafés. Sure, there were hippies gentle and peace-loving, but there was also the Manson family, the SLA and the Jim Jones Kool-Aid test. And California is the outpost of rigid conservatism. . the home of Nixon and Reagan. Satanists are in the hills, chanting Latin, drinking urine, forcing candles into the tops of rotten deer heads. And, of course, there was Hollywood, the mimetic desire capital of the world.

From way up the block Carmen's was explosive. Each time the door opened, music hammered out and the crowd spilled outside. Curtained windows upstairs had continuous plays of light and shadow, which meant the rooms were occupied. On the front door was a newsprint picture of a plane crash and over it Madison had drawn the devil's eyes and a round howling mouth. I paused for a moment with my fingers on the handle listening to the pulse of music, knowing Madison was teasing the audience with her pelvis.

Inside I let my eyes adjust to the black light. There was a sudden jerk to my right. In the dark spot reached only by nipples of electronic light, a lap dancer, a new girl, was straddling a man who smiled leeringly at her, his white teeth glowing. She needed extra money and would let the men put their cocks inside of her. With his hands on her hips the man manipulated her body, up and down. She swayed back from him, as if he'd just said something rude.

Drag queens danced on the bar in miniskirts and floppy hats. Madison was dancing topless, wearing denim short-shorts. She had greased her body so it gleamed under the bluish light. The lap dancers wore garters and push-up bras, the men in rumpled business suits, some in cotton sweaters and polyester pants hiked over their bellies. There was a man in a devil mask with a bow tie that squirted water. A woman passed me with a huge extension wig and another in diamond-studded glasses. Lita, the early evening bartender, was grumpy, hated the jumpsuit Madison forced her to wear. She said a drunk man had pinched her tit and whenever she reached into the cooler for a frosted glass, it hurt.

I started washing the backed-up glasses, helped Lita pour beers, all the time watching Madison pulse her hips toward the ceiling. I was busy cracking beers, taking money. When I looked up again she was gone and I imagined her on the back stairs, getting a drink of water, putting on her white robe.

But then she was near me, leaning out of the stairwell shouting that she wanted to talk in the bathroom. I followed her. Everyone was drunker than usual and it was a relief to step out of the noise and laughter into the quiet. She locked the door, put down the toilet seat and sat. I hadn't noticed how red the walls were and how people had scratched things into the paint — the letters reminded me of little bones. . NIGGERS ARE BETTER LOVERS, PUSSY IS GOD. Someone knocked on the door, Madison ignored it. I noticed through her damp make-up that she looked tired. Pubic hair had gathered on the damp porcelain and someone had left her black bikini underwear rolled up in the corner.