Jowita Bydlowska - Guy

I throw the novel in the garbage.

In the evening, I watch some porn online. I’m not abnormally interested in pornography; I don’t subscribe to any particular site, but there’s always a nice array of free clips on video sites if you search for them: a library of vaginas and dicks and asses and everything that can be inserted, expelled, swallowed and spat out.

Today, I spend a few moments watching a man shoving various objects into a very large vagina: dildos, beer bottles, root vegetables. The video is unsexy; it’s like a science experiment you should be able to post on educational websites – showcase the miracles and realities of the grown-up world.

I click on a couple of other videos: a woman in a teenager’s outfit pretending to lose her virginity in front of an audience of men and women in cocktail attire, a she-male getting gangbanged by two skinheads, a girl covered in a sheet of fishnet-textured rubber getting her vagina inflated with a see-through vagina pump, etcetera. I am aroused, but I’m searching for a specific kind of performer, so I have to control my urge to rub one out.

I find her eventually: a tattooed bald porn star named Belladonna, who lets an ugly man come in her mouth. In my mind, I superimpose Bride’s face on Belladonna’s – Belladonna is too pretty, too symmetrical. Belladonna is non-verbal, mostly gurgling and moaning, but I have a memory of Bride’s voice demanding I come on her face, and in my head I hear, “Shoot it on my face, baby, come on, shoot it.” I come.

I have a nap. After the nap, I look for more videos. Find more Belladonna. Jerk off. Turn off the computer. Think of Bride, turn on the computer, find more Belladonna.

I keep looking at the phone, both when it’s silent and when it rings, but when it rings it’s always the wrong number – it’s business, Mark, Jason, telemarketers.

Two more days follow. I jerk off until my dick starts to feel raw. I come up with many excuses for her not calling, invent justifications like an insecure girl: She got really scared of her strong emotions. She has abandonment issues and doesn’t want to get hurt.

My guess is that she’s playing a game, a similar game to mine, where she’s feigning disinterest to make me curious. And she’s better at this game than I am, even though she has no way of knowing that, because in the state I’m in right now, there’s no way she could lose.

DAY FIVE: I’M GOING TO SEEK HER OUT. SHE HAS WON.

I show up at the smoothie shack right before it closes. The shack is busy: hordes of girls sucking on straws, chattering, slapping their flip-flops against the concrete tiles, $isi’s latest hit blasting on the speakers. Some of the girls are bald; my hands tingle at these false sightings.

She is not behind the counter.

I wait in line, consciously tuning out the conversations around me. The line stalls as usual – some temporary catastrophe has befallen the juicer – then there is a miraculous resurrection and the line coughs and moves forward again.

The ginger-haired boy behind the counter has no idea who Bride is. When I say her name, I realize how dumb of me it was to not ask Bride to see her ID or something to confirm that was indeed her name.

“I don’t know any Bride,” he says. “You sure she works here?”

“Yes.”

“And that’s the chick’s name? Like bride , like she’s married?”

“Never mind,” I tell him and grab my acai smoothie and push through the cloud of coconut, sun and sweat to surface outside.

I untie Dog and start walking.

I’ve no idea where I’m going, but as soon as I come across a poster of $isi with a guitar, I stop. The poster announces An impromptu appearance! $isi’s Acoustic Beach Tour.

Now I recall all the unanswered calls and two emails from Mark letting me know about $isi doing a small spontaneous tour. I recall making a note to reply but not replying.

On the poster, $isi is pictured wearing a white blouse, no makeup. I look closely. The blouse seems see-through but you can’t make out the nipples. Her head is smooth like an egg. She’s holding a guitar, which makes me wonder if Mark has finally invested in some guitar lessons for her as he always promised. Good for her if he did.

Did she pick this particular beach town because she knows this is where my beach house is? Is this a masochistic manifestation of her leftover attraction to me? I wonder if she’ll try to contact me, if she will hang up, if I’ll be forced to hang up, if we’ll end up not hanging up but talking. All three options are bad.

A tiny claw inside my throat squeezes then lets go. I take a few deep breaths and tell myself to calm down. I calm down.

When I get to the small stage under a huge white tent, there are people already gathering around even though the concert is not supposed to start for a while. There are security guys everywhere, already. I walk around the white tent to see if I can spot her trailer, but I get stopped by a man as big as a gorilla.

Back in the tent, a tall wooden stool and a mike are set up on the stage. I watch as $isi comes out from behind a white parting in the tent, with a guitar. Her sudden appearance is so shocking that my body doesn’t even react to it – no anxiety, no time for it. She sits on the stool and starts plinking away, tuning.

The girls erupt in screams but quickly quiet down. Everyone starts taking pictures with their phones. The security guys form a line in front of the stage, but the girls don’t even try to force through. I walk toward the stage. I’m shoved and pushed by hordes of girls rushing from all over the beach.

“She’s so real. She’s like real -real,” a lispy blond says to a non-Bride Ribbonhead beside me.

“I follow her on Twitter. She posts hilarious photos. Like the dog that’s on the cover of Vogue ,” says the non-Bride. “ Dogue .”

“She really connects with the fans,” I overhear another girl say.

I think about the $isi I used to know, a girl who despised her fans and had to drink a gallon of vodka to be able to come out on stage. Dogue. A dog on the cover of Vogue . I chuckle to myself.

I can hear $isi clearly from where I stand. Her voice does sound much better than the last time I heard her. When singing, $isi can be playful, and even flirty at times, but she can do wronged like no other. Except this time, the wronged is more resigned; she sounds at ease with what she’s singing about. Her real-life experience has finally lined up with things she’s singing about: real heartbreak and real pain and some melancholic happiness in there too. There’s a new trace of hoarseness to her voice that I guess is the result of her smoky, drinky past, maybe even chemo or radiation. All of that – the way she sings, the way her voice is now – hints at maturity, enough of it to make you believe in what she’s singing about.

Right now, she’s singing about her surprising lover, which must be about Mark. Possibly about some kind of rape-play they’ve got going on. Maybe he likes to wear a clown suit to bed. Who knows? In any case, if it’s about Mark, I’ve no doubt that she’s surprised – anybody would be to find herself having sex with him. I have no evidence that they’re sleeping together. I am unsuccessful in making myself chuckle this time.

I’m glad to see $isi looking so healthy and sounding this good. I’ve no taste for folky music, which is what this whole thing is verging on (minus the shoes – she’s still wearing ridiculously high stilettos), but it works. I suppose I’m happy for her.