Preston L. Allen

Porn Star

In the parking lot of the warehouse by the bay, it is warm as it usually is at night in April in Miami, and a lone man sits in his car with the windows rolled down.

He seems to be reading a newspaper, this man, as he smokes his cigarette, but really he is illiterate. At least he does not read English. He can read a little bit in Spanish, but not in the dark as it is now. His name is Modesto, no last names please, and he is about fifty years old. Back in Nicaragua he fought for the Contras. He is certain that he killed three men, severely wounded at least half a dozen more. He was promoted to Corporal and would have risen higher despite his lack of formal education had the war not ended when it did, but in Miami he is a lookout for these people doing their late night business inside the warehouse. Modesto is on the lookout for police, and he has his story ready. In broken English he will say, “I am waiting for my sister’s child.” If the police persist, he will signal the people in the warehouse by pressing a single key on his cellphone, and a girl will come out of the warehouse dressed in a business suit and carrying a clipboard. Whatever this girl looks like, black, white, Hispanic, Asian, she will be his niece and her name will be Missy. Missy will have been doing inventory in the warehouse and she will get into his car and Modesto will drive off with her.

If a boy comes out, his name will be Billy (whatever his race) and he will be Modesto’s nephew, and Modesto will drive off with him and it will be because Billy is underage. The people in the warehouse are making an illegal movie, and when you make an illegal movie the last thing you want is for the police to catch you with someone who is underage.

Inside the warehouse, it is cool because of the air conditioning, but getting warmer because the lights have been on now for twenty minutes and things are heating up on the set. It is supposed to be a bedroom, but there are only pretty sheets on a double mattress set on the floor and a desk with a lamp on it. A window is painted onto the stageboard behind the bed—a window that shows night outside with stars and a crescent moon. The painting of the night is pretty good, a professional job. The woman on the bed is wearing a pink housecoat and fuzzy blue slippers—why she would be wearing fuzzy blue slippers in bed is something that no one asks—and she is supposed to be an old woman, a granny, because of the gray wig on her head, but if you look closely, you will see that she is young, not old, and very pretty, and that her hair underneath the cheap wig is very blonde.

The pretty girl in the cheap gray wig announces, in an old lady’s creaky voice, “My tummy is hurting me. I need to go to the bathroom before I wet myself.”

Then she rises slowly from the bed and walks, bent over like an old lady, to what is supposed to be a bathroom, but which is just a door painted on another stageboard, and very likely painted by the same artist who painted the night because it too is a professional job. Standing next to the bathroom door is a masked man, and the old lady reacts with a shout of surprise when he grabs her by the throat.

He says his lines, “Don’t scream, granny. I don’t want to have to kill you.”

He is a white man, and he sounds like he comes from somewhere up north. He is wearing all black, and he is about an inch shorter than the girl pretending to be the granny.

She says her lines, “Please don’t kill me.”

The girl in the wig does a good job of speaking her lines. She sounds genuinely fearful and old. But there is something about the way that housecoat fits on her, or doesn’t fit. She is a very shapely granny. Granny has larger than average breasts.

The man in the mask forces her backwards and orders her to sit down on the bed. She does as she is told. The man in the mask, it is like a raccoon mask, it is like Zorro’s mask—the man in the mask muses as he looks around the room, “There are a lot of nice things in here, granny.” Then an empty black sack appears in his hand. “I wonder what I should steal first.”

The man in the mask continues to look around the staged room, which is mostly empty, licking his lips, then he begins to make as though he is putting things in the sack. He does a good job of pretending, lifting empty space, smiling with approval as he inspects the pretend objects in his hand, then making great putting-in motions as he puts them in the sack. Then he spies the one real object in the room. The lamp beside the bed.

He says, picking it up, “This lamp looks like it is made of gold. Why, this lamp is indeed made of gold.”

He smiles with delight at his great find and begins to put the lamp in the sack when the girl in the gray wig cries out, “No, no, please don’t take that lamp. It is not a lamp at all. It is a gift from my husband. It is really an urn and his last remains are inside. It is all I have left of him.”

The man in the mask says, “But I must have it. I will have it.”

She pleads, never forgetting to maintain the creakiness as from age in her voice and the tremor as from fear, “No please do not take it. I will do anything if you do not take it.”

“Anything?”

“Anything,” she creaks.

The man in the mask gives back the lamp and unzips his pants. The girl in the gray wig gasps at his penis, which is magnificent in size. She deliberates for a moment, looking at the lamp and then back at him. She is such a fine actress that the viewer actually believes that it could go either way. Finally, she makes up her mind to do it and she begins to perform fellatio on the man in the mask. The lamp remains in her hands.

Thus, the sex scene proceeds. There are campy lines in it like “Granny, what big boobs you have” when she reveals her breasts—very nice breasts, large but not obscenely so. And just before he goes down on her—”Granny, what a nice snatch you have”—when she reveals her vagina, a nice one, with a dark, neatly-shaved patch of fuzz at the mouth. Granny seems to like that part very much. Granny is a very convincing groaner and a moaner, rather than a screamer and exclaimer of typical porno slogans. With this granny, there is no give it to me hard, harder, yeah like that big boy, oh yeah, oh yeah, I’m cumming. Her orgasms are as real on film as they are in real life because granny is not afraid to cross that line. She is not afraid to mix business with pleasure. That is why she is in demand. That is why she, Missy Camden, gets the big dollars.

The director, who has worked with Missy before, is a real artist, a master of minimalism and of the non-representational. The entire scene is to be performed with granny holding her precious golden lamp. She only puts it down once after one of the more challenging contortions (upside down anal) causes the wig to be rubbed off her head. So Missy sets down the lamp, briefly, to fix her wig, and her amorous burglar (his hips still pumping away) quips, “Granny, what blonde hair you have!” That gets a good laugh from the crew, a wink from granny, and the director shouts, “Don’t cut! Don’t cut! Beautiful! Funny. Keep rolling! Funny! Funny!”

The scene rolls to its predictable conclusion, where the actor explodes in the actress’s mouth and she adlibs, looking him straight in the eye (he has very beautiful eyes), “What tasty cum you have, my dear,” licking her lips.

The director says, “Cut. That’s a wrap. I love you guys! I love you!”

The actress goes into the bathroom, where she remains for a half hour before re-emerging as a leggy blonde in a red tracksuit, white Nikes, and over-sized dark shades in a gilded Louis Vuitton frame. Now this is Missy Camden. She goes over to where the actor, the new guy, is smoking and making small talk with the cast and crew setting up for the next scene. She has an unlit cigarette between her lips. She leans toward him for a light. He lights her up and says, “I’ve been dying to work with you.”

“You were good,” she tells him. “I had a blast.”

“I can now say I worked with Missy Camden,” he says.

“Yeah.” Missy Camden tilts her head and blows smoke at the ceiling. “So,” she says, “do you party?”

“I got something.” He nods his head and lowers his voice. “Out in the car.”

“Let’s go,” Missy Camden says.

They walk out together, not arm in arm, but blowing the same length of cigarette smoke at the ceiling and at the same time. They nod to Modesto smoking in his car as they pass. In the actor’s car, there is weed and nothing stronger. They smoke this. She comments about the weather. Warm. It’s always been warm. But this year it looks like it’s really going to be warm. He talks about the business. He’s new in the business, but already he’s met so many people, made so much money. He’s new, he lets her know, but not green. Not anymore. He knows how it works. The girls make the big money, twice the rate of the guys—but that’s okay because he’s got good size down there and he can go twice as long and twice as often as most of the other guys he’s seen, even without Viagra. In fact, tonight before their scene he had already done two scenes, and he’s got two more to do tonight—and he will do them and do them well. Maybe with the last scene, maybe when he’s a little bit tired, he might use the Viagra. Maybe.

He talks a mile a minute, even stoned. She does not know if she likes that about him. A girl she dated back in high school used to talk on and on like that. That girl was quick tempered and used to hit a lot. That girl had lots of problems. Who doesn’t? Missy takes a good look at him as she passes the joint. Handsome in a mousy way. Dark, almost Latin-looking. Jewish? Italian?

“Where are you from, cowboy?”

“Connecticut,” he says.

That, plus the penis—Jewish, she decides.

He says, “And you?”

“Davie, Florida, born and raised.”

“Ah, you’re a cowgirl. Where do you live now?”

“Davie. I only come down to Miami for the job.”

“You don’t do South Beach? Lincoln Road?”

“Seen ‘em. Done ‘em. I’m not into that, cowboy.” She puts her hand over her mouth. “Yawn,” she says. “It bores me. I’m a home girl.”

He takes a hit of the joint, then passes it back to her. “What’s at home in Davie, cowgirl?”

“Family. I’m into family.”

“You live with your mom and dad?”

“Mom and dad?” She laughs at the way he says it. Mom and dad. Who says that? “Naw. Foster homes all my life. I live at home with my baby girl and my partner.”

“Ah, so you and he—.”

“You know what I’m talking about, cowboy. She. I ain’t a shamed of it.”

He sucks in his cheeks. “No, no. No, I think that’s real cool.”

“No you don’t. You think it’s hot. You get horny thinking about me and my partner,” she says. “But if you ever met her, she’d kick your—.” She does not complete her thought because her mind wanders. She laughs at something and becomes aware of herself laughing and cannot remember what she is laughing at. Oh, the way he says mom and dad. Who says that? She passes back the joint. “You got anything to eat in this ride, cowboy?”

He’s got bags and bags of potato chips under the seat and a half liter of cranberry juice. They eat the chips, voraciously, without talking. He chugs warm cranberry juice from the bottle and offers her some. She shakes her head, declining. After she has eaten two bags of chips, she says, “Well, I got another job. I gotta be going.”

“Me, too,” he says. “JayD awaits.”

She slaps his thigh, laughing. “JayD. That’s where I’m headed.”

“No shit?” he says. “What time are you on?”

“Midnight.”

“Shit,” he says.

“Shit what?”

“I’m at 11:00,” he says. “Shit. I was hoping it could be with you again.”

“Yeah. It was fun. You’re good.” She leans over and pecks him on the cheek. Then she pecks him on the other cheek. She giggles, “Gotta go. I’ll see you there maybe. I’ll try to hurry back to see you do your thing. Gotta a little errand to run before my scene.” She pinches her nose and tells him with her eyes. Gotta go pick up a little nose candy, cowboy.

She gets out of his car and he shouts after her as she walks to hers: “I’ll go slow! I’ll take my time! I’ll make it last until you get there, cowgirl!”

She honks her horn. He blows her a kiss.

They drive off in opposite directions.

* * *

When he gets to the porn shop, JayD leads him into the back where everything is set up.

The girls are already going at it though the cameras aren’t rolling yet. There is a big girl, chunky, with black hair curling everywhere, and tattoos. The small girl is fair with freckles and thin, straw-colored hair. JayD tells him how it’s going to be: “They are a couple.”

He says, “I think I know the rules. I’ve done this kind of thing before.”

“You don’t know these rules,” JayD informs, giving him the eye.

“Shoot.”

JayD points. “As long as you don’t touch the little one. That’s Mia. She can touch you if she likes. She can do anything to you. Let her take the lead. I’m warning you.”

“Okay.”

“Now the big one, that’s Pedro.”

“Pedro?”

“Pedro does not like men. If she touches you, it will be to abuse you. She will spit on you. She will scratch you—within reason. She will insert a dildo into your butt. Do you see those whips?”

There are several little whips lying about. “I see them,” he says.

“She will whip you—within reason,” JayD explains. “Are you okay with that?

“As long as she doesn’t leave marks.”

JayD is suddenly enraged. He throws up his hands. He gestures wildly. “We’re paying you a lot of money for this shoot! We’re paying you three times the rate! If you can’t do it, why did you come here? Why are you wasting my time? Maybe you should just get the fuck out of here!”

He goes out into the main area of the porn shop and wrings his hands. He thinks about it. He thinks it all the way through. Ten minutes later, he goes back inside where the cameras have started rolling and he undresses.

Pedro scratches him, Pedro spits on him, Pedro whips him—within reason—and squeezes his testicles until they ache. Mia plays with herself while she watches. Mia has a pretty smile. So innocent. Pedro inserts a dildo in his butt, actually a vibrator, the double-ended kind that two women can use at once. She is not gentle. She leaves the vibrating dildo there while she eats Mia, right in front of him. He is on his stomach, watching them. His back has been whipped. The dildo—he does not look back there. It hurts enough for him to just pack it all in and go home, but three times the rate is three times the rate. When Mia cums, the girls move out of his line of sight and go behind him. He feels someone fooling around with the dildo back there, which already hurts enough. Then from the rhythmic movements back there and the weight on his back, he realizes that one of them has inserted herself upon the other end of it. He looks over his shoulder. Mia is riding the other end of the dildo back there. Her eyes are closed. She is in ecstasy. She is cumming. There is pain, but he begins to enjoy himself. It doesn’t feel so bad anymore because he is watching Mia over his shoulder. He loves watching her. She cums beautifully. She has such a beautiful smile. But where is Pedro?

Pedro positions herself in front of his face so that she can be eaten while she lashes his shoulders with the whip. She tells him, “Eat it! Eat it! Hurry! Eat it faster! What kind of man are you?” When she cums, at last, Pedro grinds it against his face. Then she whips him real good, pulls Mia off him, and locks lips with her. That is when he notices it. Pedro has a faint blonde moustache, like a pubescent boy’s.

After the scene, he goes into the bathroom to wash up, to vomit, and to reflect. He’s been in the business now three-and-a-half weeks. He’s done more than a hundred scenes. He has enough money saved up to move to California and turn pro. There are people out there who have seen his work and they tell him they like what they have seen. He has star potential. In California, he will make a mint. But there are complications. There’s the baby. The baby’s mother. His own mother. How can he leave his own mother? And of course, he won’t be eighteen until October.

Someone bangs on the bathroom door, jarring him back to reality. He splashes water on his face and leaves the bathroom.

* * *

Missy’s scene has started. Missy is doing a scene with Pedro. There are no whips or spitting or abuse in this scene. Pedro is eating Missy. It is a sweet scene with lots of kissing and fondling. The heat is very real. He is aware each time Missy cums. Pedro makes Missy cum fourteen times. JayD, Mia, and the crew are all transfixed watching this scene. It is very quiet in the room, except for the sound of their lips and tongues.

At the end of it, he overhears Pedro say to Missy, “It is such an honor. I’ve always wanted to work with you,” as she lights Missy’s cigarette, Missy in her dark shades. “You are beautiful. You are so, you are so, ohmygod, I can’t find the words to describe you. I’m in awe. I’m getting goosebumps, look at me.”

Mia cannot take it anymore. The young porn star watches as Mia breaks in on the conversation. Mia is smoking, too, but her cigarette is not in her mouth. Her cigarette is burning in her hand, which is pointing straight out at Pedro’s face. Mia’s stance is wide legged. Her head bobs threateningly. She is talking a mile a minute. Somebody says something to somebody—fuck you bitch—it sounds like Missy. Then there is a lot of pushing and grabbing. Now JayD and the crew are rushing over there to break it up. Nobody wants that kind of trouble.

The young porn star is rushing over there, too. When he gets there, Mia has Pedro in a headlock and is punching her in the face. Pedro is weeping big tears and blubbering—I’m sorry baby I’m sorry baby—while little Mia punches her in the face.

Someone helping to break it up jokes, “We should be filming this.”

Missy accepts his hand. “Get me out of here, cowboy.”

And he does.

In his car again, she says, “You got any smoke left?”

He finds the joint and lights it.

She says, “See, my partner would never do that. Never. She knows what I do, but she doesn’t know what I do, if you know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean,” he says, passing the joint. “I’ve got a mother—.” But he does not finish.

“Keep your love out of this. Keep your family out of this.” She takes two hits of the joint and then passes it to him. “It’s just a job, but it’s sex, too, you know? All of the feelings you have when you have sex are mixed up in it, you can’t lie about that. No matter how professional you are. I mean, I love women. I do. I’m not even into guys all that much anymore, but I’m not gonna lie to you. When I’m doing it with a guy, and he’s doing it right, I get these feelings. I mean at that moment right there, I am in love with him. Do you know what I’m talking about, cowboy?”

“I know what you’re talking about,” he says, nodding.

“I can’t even begin to tell you how I would feel if my partner was doing this for a living. If I caught her doing it, I would kill her. I’m serious.”

“But we do it,” he says.

“We do it,” she says, removing her Louis Vuitton shades. “But how do we do it, cowboy?”

She looks him right in the eyes. He’s got beautiful brown eyes. Like autumn leaf jewels. He looks her right in the eyes. She’s got beautiful blue eyes. Like fallen pieces of a jeweled sky.

He says, “We do it because we are professional.”

The door to the porn shop swings open. Pedro and Mia come out. Mia is wearing all denim now. Pedro is wearing all denim. Pedro is holding an icepack against her face. Mia is holding Pedro around the waist. Mia opens the door of a pickup truck and helps Pedro inside, then as she is about to get into the truck herself, she spots them. Before Missy can think to roll up her window, Mia has reached the car. Missy gets a fist in the eye. The young porn star roars out of the porn shop’s parking lot with Missy sobbing.

Missy holds a hand over her eye as he drives to the doughnut shop. “She didn’t have to do that. She didn’t have to do that. It’s just a job. We’re all in this business together. Why can’t people understand that? It’s just a job. We get paid to do it. I don’t want her girlfriend,” Missy sobs hopelessly.

When he parks, he puts his arm around her and he holds her. She weeps against his chest. He kisses her hair, which has a pleasant fragrance. They are like that for ten minutes at least. When the weeping stops, he goes inside and comes back with a cappuccino for him and a latte for her. She is smoking. She puts out the cigarette and takes the cup from him.

She puts it to her lips. Sips. “Hot,” she says, smiling with her eyes at him. Her eye doesn’t look so bad. There is a bruise that can be hidden easily with makeup. The swelling does not interfere with her beauty at all. “Hot but good. Mmm,” she says, sipping again. “They make the best.”

He sips his cup and continues to admire her. She is beautiful. He figures she is maybe twenty, though she hasn’t said. She is at the end of her career as a porn star, she has told him while sobbing. She is at the top of her game, but near the end of it too. She is more popular now than she has ever been, she makes top dollar now, but after six months in the business she has made over a thousand scenes, which means at some point very soon, the calls will stop coming because men will be tired of seeing her. That’s how it works. A new mediocre face with a mediocre ass can sell videotapes better than a beautiful but old face with a great ass. Men are like that. They get tired of seeing the same face after a while. At first they want to see you over and over, and you make lots of money, especially if you are good at it, but then they don’t want to see you anymore. In fact, your face on the box often means that the tape won’t sell at all. Men begin to avoid boxes on which your name and your face appear with the same passion they once used to seek them out. She worries that she hasn’t saved enough money. How can you save money when you have a child?

When the end comes, she has told him, she will go back to dancing at strip clubs, where she will be a headliner because of her fame. It will mean travel, lots of travel, to other states and to Canada. All that traveling will be hard on her daughter and her partner, but the money will be worth it. Headliners make serious money because the clubs have to pay you, plus you get a piece of the gate, plus the tips. You can make more in one month of headlining than in a full career of making movies, especially since a full career for a woman in porn is just about six months, remember. For a man? If he has a good dick, a man can last ten, twenty years in the business. Maybe more. A good dick never gets old, especially since nobody is looking at it anyhow. They’re all looking at the girl.

He says to her, “Have you ever been in love?”

She says, “I’m in love all the time. I’m in love every time I shoot a scene. Don’t you know that’s the secret to my success?”

“I’m in love with you, Missy.”

Her voice comes back small. “And I’m in love with you.”

“Let’s make love,” he says, setting his cup in the cup holder.

“What? Here? In the car?” she says. “That is so high school.”

He says, “I’m still in high school.”

“For real? You’re kidding, right?”

“I’m graduating in two months.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No.” He kisses her. His hands are roving. He is hungry for her. She opens her mouth. She opens her legs for his hand. He counts two times. She has cum two times with just his hand in her pants. He tugs open the top of her sweats. He says, “Mmm,” as he sucks her chest.

She says, “Mmm. No. Not like this,” breaking away. “Not like high school. Not like porno. Take me somewhere.”

“Where?”

“Take me somewhere like a man would.”

She twinkles for him with her blue eyes. With his brown eyes, he twinkles back.

“I know where we can go,” he says.

“Where, my love?”

“I have my final shoot at 3:30 at a motel. We can go there and get a room before my shoot.”

“It’s a crazy idea, my love, but I like it,” she says, kissing him.

“It’s crazy,” he says, kissing her back.

As they kiss, her cellphone goes off. It is her partner. Missy orders him not to say a thing as she talks to her partner. She tells her partner that her last shoot is going to run real, real late but that she will be home as soon as it is over. She makes kiss-kiss over the phone and hangs up. She says to him, “That was hard. Do you know how hard that was? She’s at home watching my child.”

He says, “Do you still want to do it?”

She answers with her lips. It is the best kiss ever. She says to him, through the desperate kiss, “I am so in love with you right now. What is your name? Your real name.”

“Adam,” he tells her. “And yours? Your real name.”

“Missy.”

“For real?”

“I do not fake anything,” Missy Suzanne Camden says.

* * *

They rent a room at the motel where he will do his final shoot of the night. The sex is magnificent. It is not like porno at all. It is not professional at all. There are no cameras but their eyes. No directors but their hearts. The sex is almost no sex. Actual penetration is incidental. Screaming orgasm is not an end result. It is mostly about kissing and lips. Their rhythm is the sound of their lips and tongues. They feast on this kind of love.

Missy cums fourteen times.

At the end of it, just before he must leave to go do his shoot, she is in his arms with her head resting on his chest, and this is the best part, they both agree. The best part by far.

He must go, but he does not want to and she does not want him to. She wants the feast of his love to last forever. It is against the rules, it is so against the rules. Missy does not fall in love with people in the business because they are wolves who will eat you up, then gnaw the bones. Plus it is bad for business to fall in love with someone in the business. But this boy—he is still green, still pure—like she was six months ago, when she was still only 18.

When he is dressed and ready to go, she is so in love with him that she puts on her clothes and announces, “I’m coming with you.”

“Wow, this’ll be great. I’ll introduce you around,” he says.

“I am Missy Camden. I’m sure I know them already.”

He nods. “I’m sure you do. Sorry, my love.”

“Who is it?”

“Brandywine.”

“I know them well,” Missy says. She puts a finger to her lips. “But they don’t usually do white guys. And aren’t they a little rough for you? Brandywine is a straight up freak and K-Dog’s idea of porn is . . . gross.”

He wants to hear no more of that.

Taking her hand, he says, “It pays the bills.” And like that, they leave their motel room hand in hand.

* * *

When they get to the room where the shoot will take place, they notice a familiar face sitting in a chair a few yards from the door. It is Modesto, pretending to read his newspaper. They wave at him. He waves back and gets back to pretending to read his paper.

When they get inside the grand suite, K-Dog and Brandywine see Missy and begin to make a big fuss. Oh Missy Camden, if we had only known you were coming! Hey Missy, why not do a scene with us? You’ve never done a scene with us. Why have you never done a scene with us? Are you prejudiced? Do you have something against us? We’ll re-write the script. We’ll pay you double. Come do a scene with us. Missy politely declines, explaining that she is on the rag. K-Dog lights her cigarette for her, Brandywine pours her a rum and coke, and Missy sits back to watch her boy in action.

The scene is about marital problems.

The wife explains to her husband that he no longer satisfies her. When he prods her, she confesses that he has never satisfied her and she has decided to leave him. The husband professes his love for her and even makes passionate love to her, but the woman is unaffected by it. Her decision is final. Time to move on.

The desperate husband suggests a radical solution. There is a man that he met recently in a bar, a big handsome black man who makes his living dancing for the pleasure of women who no longer feel pleasure. “It will put the spark back in,” the husband promises. The wife’s eyes perk up.

The black man arrives at the home minutes later and stripping down to his g-string, he begins to dance for the husband and wife. Pretty soon it is clear that the wife is very interested in watching the black man dance, but the husband’s presence is preventing her, she claims, from really “getting into it.” So the husband agrees to leave the room so that the wife can have her privacy, but he watches through the peep out of curiosity, as the wife and the black man satisfy each other orally. He cannot believe his eyes. The black man’s penis is so large the wife can only get half of it in her mouth. When the husband bursts back into the room, the big black man beats him up easily, then ties him up on the couch facing the bed, then proceeds to give it hard and brutal to the wife, who of course is loving every minute with the big penis, despite the fact that she is shouting things like “Oh my love, what did I get you into?” and “Oh my love, I hope he did not hurt you.” She is fondling the black man’s chest as she says things like this. She is rubbing her clitoris.

After the black man finishes with the wife, after he pulls out and cums on her face, he goes over to the tied-up husband and makes him lick the rest of it off. He makes Adam lick that big penis clean.

For that, he is paid double.

When Adam is released from the couch, Missy is nowhere to be found.

He asks for her, and they tell him, “She left, man. Said she hadda get out of here.”

He goes back to the room where they had shared their passion, and she is not there. He checks out of the motel and goes to his car. She is sitting on the hood of his car smoking a cigarette. He clicks open the locks without saying a word to her.

* * *

Halfway back to the porn shop where her car is parked, he finally says, “I shouldn’t have let you see that.”

“Let it ride.”

“I don’t know what got into my head. I just wanted you to know the truth. I didn’t want there to be any lies between us.”

“Are you gay?”

“No. I’m not gay,” he says. “It’s just business.”

“That’s what you think.”

“That’s what I know.”

She says, “In this business, you make decisions and you make them early. What Brandywine and K-Dog did to your career—it’s gonna be hard for you to get hetero work after a while.”

“I’m booked straight through the month.”

“When that scene comes out, it’ll change everything.”

“I think you’re wrong,” he says. “The people who watch that kind of thing don’t watch the other kind of thing, so I think I’m okay, and it pays better than the other kind of thing—I mean, it’s pathetic what they pay us men compared to you women. If they paid me what they paid you, I wouldn’t have to do that other kind of thing.”

“Let it ride, cowboy.” She has finished her cigarette. She lights another. “I’m not your mother. You do what you have to do. I do what I have to do. Business is business.”

It is almost five in the morning. The streets are almost empty. The car rolls through silent neighborhoods. The radio is not on. There is only the hum of the air conditioner and Adam’s voice.

“I have dreams,” he says, still trying to explain. “I need that money. It’s all about the money for me. I can’t live poor. I want to go places. I want to do things. But I’m so young. What else is there for me to do? I can’t sell drugs. I tried that. The fucking black guys scared me off. The fucking black guys threatened to kill me—I have a daughter.”

She says, “I have a daughter. She is black.”

He sucks in his cheeks. “Shit. What I said about black guys—. I didn’t mean to offend.”

“They’ve got big dicks. They know how to use them. No offense taken,” she says.

“Shit. You are offended.”

She exhales smoke. “I’m not.”

“We were hitting it off so nice.”

“That was a mistake. I forgot that we don’t date in the business. It’s bad for business.”

“Who told you that? Is that like a rule? Is that like a law? How can people like us ever find anyone if we can’t date people in the business?”

“It’s bad for business,” she insists. “Is there anyway you can drive a little faster? I want to get home to my family. It’s really late.”

He rambles on: “If they don’t get with people they work with—I mean that’s just crazy.”

She shakes her head. “You’re not even my type. What we did was just business.”

“I felt it when we were together in that scene. I felt it in the motel room, and so did you.”

“What did you feel when you sucked that guy’s dick?”

There is some kind of cruelty in her smile that he does not understand. He says, “That was business.”

“You sucked his dick,” she mocks.

“You’ve sucked his dick. I’ve seen you in at least ten scenes with that guy,” he says. “What does that say about you, you fucking dick sucker?” He’s trying to hurt her with words. How do you hurt a porn star with words? Call her a dick sucker? It’s part of the title of at least fifty movies she’s starred in. He snarls, “You dirty, cocksucking slut.”

She ignores that. She cannot be hurt with words. She’s already been hurt enough tonight.

“Hypocrite. You whorebag. You lying whorebag,” he says.

He looks angry enough to hit, like that girl back in high school. So this is his temper. She ignores that too. She says to him, “We used to date, me and him. Me and that black guy.” She stares out at the dark road, at the houses flying past. Family homes with families sleeping in them. She says, “I was young, like you are now. I won’t ever do it again. That’s why I’m trying to warn you. Because I like you, Adam. It hurts too much. It makes things too messy. I lost my head with you tonight. I forgot the rules. That black guy—Cain—he’s the one got me into the business. He’s also the father of my daughter.”

She waits for him to speak. Now say something, cowboy. He talks a mile a minute, but now he has nothing to say.

She continues: “Cain wouldn’t look at me tonight. He owes me money. No way in hell was I going to do a scene with him tonight no matter how much they offered to pay. Seeing him do that woman tonight . . . seeing him do you. What do you think that feels like, watching that? He was performing for me. Showing off. He’s got a big dick and he knows how to use it. He hurts with that dick. I gotta stay away from him for a while. I gotta stay away from you, too. It’s too messy, okay?”

The mile a minute mouth is closed for business. Adam says nothing more as he drives. He just drives. He hardly even listens when she talks. When she talks, it’s as if she’s talking to herself: “I have a partner. I love her. We’re making it work. We’re raising a child. We’re trying to have another child. There’s no room for anyone else. You’re a nice guy, but there is just no room for you. It’s too messy. What I did tonight just screws everything up even more. I don’t have room for anymore mistakes. Not in this business. Not in my position.”

When they get back to the porn shop where her car is parked, he grabs her hand before she can push open the door and leave his car—his mother’s car. He says, “I’m sorry what I called you. I am. And you’re right about everything. You are. But even porn stars have hearts, don’t they?”

“Go away, Adam.”

“No, listen to me. What I’m saying is, I feel something real strong for you, and I can’t lie about that. I won’t lie about that—but I won’t do anything about it either. I won’t make a big deal about it. I won’t let it get in the way of us working together again, as professionals.”

“It’s not possible.”

“If we’re professional about it?” he says.

“It’s not possible, Adam.”

“Aw shit, come on, Missy. It’s not like you’re even going to be in the business that much longer.”

Now that hurts.

She says, “I’ll ask them not to put me with you, just like I do with Cain. I am Missy Camden. They’ll do that for me.”

“Shit. Shit.”

“That’s the way it’s got to be.”

“Shit. I really did feel something for you.” He looks as though he is about to cry. He won’t let go of her hand.

They are quiet like that for a while, and then Missy’s mind wanders. She remembers their motel room, but she can’t remember why it is that she is so angry. She squeezes Adam’s hand. She leans over and kisses him on the cheek. Then the other cheek. She gives him her twinkle, her smile, come on, cowboy, but he only sighs. So she kisses him on the lips like back in that motel room. He looks at her. It is a real kiss. But it is their final kiss, because she remembers. He is a porn star.

“Business is business,” she informs, pulling away from his lips. Her voice is small. After that, Adam releases her hand, and Missy Camden pushes open the door and gets out of his car. It is a full three minutes before he hears her engine start up.

They drive off in opposite directions.

Bull Dyke

Her name was M and she was born the same year as her sister Sadie, 1968, but they were nothing alike.

Sadie, a December child, was a plump cherub, a fair-skinned child, the smart one, a girl who devoured books like she devoured food, greedily and asking for more. Of course, her grades were always A-Plus, and her teachers loved her and counted it a reward to have her in their classes and suffered from physical pain when they were forced to pass her on to the next level. And M was not jealous of her, not one bit.

M, born eleven months earlier in January, was the tough one. She grew tall like a weed and was walnut colored and raw-boned skinny and strong and fast like the boys, whom she challenged in foot races and baseball throwing. By twelve, she was the toughest kid in her Opa-Locka neighborhood, and she bullied the others into calling her what she wanted them to call her. “Emma” first and then “Em” and finally “M.” Not Emilia, which was her birth name, a name she hated. It was not fair to give her a white lady’s name, a name that was misspelled, she complained.

M played down her beauty. She liked to wear black Converse All Stars high-top sneakers and jeans and her father Roscoe’s big shirts. She wore her hair in wild bunches, or thick cornrows when Sadie had the time to plait it for her. Only on Sunday when the family made its weekly journey to the St. James Baptist Church in Liberty City did she wear dresses and a little lace and patent leather shoes with white socks, and then everyone could see what was most usually hidden: Emilia Gantry, sorry—M Gantry was a very pretty girl. Naturally, there was some talk that she was a budding lesbian.

M laughed it off, and so did Sadie. They both knew better. They had each other’s backs.

They were sisters.

The problem came at sixteen when M disappointed Sadie.

* * *

At the time, M was asking serious questions. Why was everybody except for her living? Really living. Why did she have to come home at a certain time each night? Why did she have to go to school at all?

And why were Shoneeka and the cool girls on the track team always ranking on her?

“I like them cheap sneakers, home grown. What the hell kind of name is M? Your momma couldn’t afford a whole name, home grown? Nice flat titties, home grown. Got your period yet, home grrrooown?”

What was so wrong with home grown hair?

Why did Shoneeka, with her fake hair slicked up like an Egyptian and her fake gold and her double big booty, always pick on her? Pick on her to the point that she would come home and cry in the bathroom for an hour. Pick on her to the point that she couldn’t take it anymore.

One day, of course, she snapped.

Shoneeka was behind her in line in the cafeteria doing her usual thing: “Home grrrooown!”

M, after two weeks of karate, suddenly turned on her: “No more!”

Shoneeka, M’s foot in her stomach, went down fast with the tray of chef’s salad and milk—everything spilling everywhere: “Shit!”

M, running out of the cafeteria, because she knew Shoneeka’s girls from the track team were never too far behind, was excited about knocking her flat, but scared about it too.

Shoneeka, laughing for some reason like a damned fool there on the ground with salad in her lap, shook her head and thought, so it’s like that?

M, running, running, running, and hiding out at the 163rd Street Mall the rest of the day, afraid to go back to school, afraid to go home, kept having visions of Shoneeka there on the ground.

M, under cover of darkness, finally arrived home, hungry, scared.

Some glittering somebody in the driveway was sitting on the hood of Roscoe’s truck which he couldn’t drive anymore because the multiple sclerosis had already messed up his legs. It was Shoneeka in her chef’s-salad hip hugger pants suit.

“I don’t care what you and your girls do to me. I’m not taking any shit from you anymore.”

“My girls ain’t with me, bitch.” Shoneeka threw down her cigarette and mashed it out with the toe of one three-inch velvet pump. “It’s just you and me now, home grown.” She opened her hands in challenge. “Come get some of this.”

“I ain’t afraid of you,” M said.

“Come get some, then.” Shoneeka stepped out of her pumps and slammed them on the hood of Roscoe’s truck. “Come.”

Out of her pumps, Shoneeka was actually shorter than M, but she was raw boned and Pure D Country. No two weeks worth of breathing and standing exercises in karate class were going to save M from this asswhuppin.

“Come.”

M came. Shoneeka got her around the neck before M could get into her stance. M lost her footing in the gravel and fell. Shoneeka fell on top of her, choking harder, choking away her life.

“You wanted some of me? That’s what you wanted?”

Shoneeka ground the back of M’s head into the dirt. Shoneeka kept grinding M’s head, then, inexplicably, loosened her grip.

When M could breathe again, she coughed. As she peered up at Shoneeka, she regained her voice. “I’m still not going to take anymore shit from you.”

Shoneeka looked down at her hard. “You’ll take what I give you.”

She said it in kind of a funny way. M wasn’t sure about the way she said it at all. It wasn’t mean. It was, it was, she was not sure what it was—anyway, she was uncomfortable with it. M looked beyond her to the stars. Shoneeka grabbed her shoulders, forced M to look at her. M shook her head and closed her eyes. M said, “No.”

She heard Shoneeka say, “Why you back-talking me when you know I can beat your ass any time I want? Are you crazy, home grown?”

“No more.”

“There’ll be more. And you’ll do whatever I tell you. I’m the boss. And when I’m done with you, you won’t be home grown anymore. Open your eyes.” Shoneeka punched M’s shoulder.

M said, “Ouch,” and opened her eyes. Shoneeka was still over her. M closed her eyes.

Shoneeka moved her hand to M’s hair. She dug her fingers into the thickest cob in M’s corn rows and hummed, admiringly. “Open your eyes, home grrrooown.”

“Stop calling me that. I hate that.”

“I know you do. That’s why I call you that. Open your eyes.”

Shoneeka took her hand out of M’s hair. With her fingers, she gently brushed away the small stones that had embedded themselves in M’s cheeks and neck and pulled M up to a sitting position and inclined her against the whitewall tire of Roscoe’s truck and kissed her lips. M opened her eyes. When Shoneeka kissed her the second time, M closed her mouth and turned away from it so that it missed and touched the side of her face. The side of her face burned so bad where it missed. Shoneeka drew her in by the shoulders. M’s neck was all wobbly. Everything in her head was out of line. What is this? What the hell is this?

“Come here.”

“No,” M said.

But M came. And came.

“See?” said Shoneeka, when they had come up for air. “I told you I was the boss.”

“I’m not that way,” M said. Looking down, she saw her arm around Shoneeka’s waist. Who put that there, me or her? She removed the arm from around Shoneeka’s waist. She removed Shoneeka’s arms from around her neck. She removed her other hand from under Shoneeka’s shirt. Then she drew both her arms in, pressed up her knees, and became a ball. After a while, she leaned away from Shoneeka.

“What are you doing?” said Shoneeka.

“Getting up. The gravel is biting my butt.”

“I’ll get up with you.”

They both got up. Shoneeka started patting the gravel off M’s butt. M made a quick move toward the house, but Shoneeka grabbed her hand, turned her. “We’re at least friends, aren’t we?”

M worked her way out of Shoneeka’s grasp, then brushed the gravel off her own butt. “This is too weird. See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow, M. See? I didn’t call you home grown. I called you M.”

“Thanks for that.”

“You won’t tell anyone.”

“God no.”

“M, can I kiss you again?”

“I’m not that way, Shoneeka.”

Shoneeka said, “I’m gonna say it. Kissing you was the sweetest thing that ever happened to me. I want you to be my girl.”

“God no, God no, God no.”

“Then I’ll be your girl. Would you like that?”

“God no.” M stared down at the gravel.

“You don’t think I’m pretty,” Shoneeka said, sadly.

“You’re the prettiest girl at school,” M said, glancing up, then back down.

“You’re the prettiest girl at school,” Shoneeka said, touching M’s face.

“I’m not pretty at all.”

“M, can I kiss you again?”

“I told you no.” Already Shoneeka’s arms were around her and burning so bad where they touched. “But not standing up. Someone might see,” M whispered.

Down to the gravel they went again, between the high hedges and the truck in the drive. When they finished M was out of breath as she watched Shoneeka put her shoes back on, get into her car, and drive away.

When M entered the house, waiting for her at the door was Sadie. “I saw everything. I heard everything.”

“It’s not what you think,” said M, patting the gravel off her skin. “I swear I’m not that way.”

“I saw everything,” M’s little sister hissed.

* * *

That night in the Gantry household there was a tension that even Roscoe felt.

In the living room with the air conditioner off and the ceiling fan on because it wasn’t that hot yet, since it was only March, Roscoe and M sat watching the A-Team on TV. From the girls’ room, where Sadie was, came Diana Ross’s voice singing the theme from Mahogany. Do you know, where you’re going to . . . over and over again. M had a bag of Atomic Fireballs in her lap. She was popping them down one after the other. Sometimes she put them in her mouth two at a time. Roscoe, who could still walk a little bit, sat in his specially-made reclining wheelchair, but he had his crutches leaned up against it, too. He kept glancing at M, hoping she would say something, but she just kept popping her Atomic Fireballs. And from the bedroom, Diana’s voice kept streaming. When a commercial came on, Roscoe said to M: “Ya’ll had a fight?”

“No.”

“Why she went in the room so early?”

“I don’t know.”

It was upsetting Roscoe that M would not be honest with him because she was his favorite. He had whispered this to her many times. Sadie was the smart one, but M was his favorite. She reminded him so much of his aunt who had raised him. She had to know that she could tell him anything. He frowned and said in that voice, “M . . .”

She rolled her eyes. “Nothing, daddy.”

Roscoe shook his head and got up creakily from his chair. M got up and handed him his crutches. He took them from her, then muttering something under his breath he hobbled and crutched his way into the bedroom where Sadie was and where the Diana Ross music was coming from. M had heard what he was muttering under his breath: “Girls. Who can figure girls?”

When he went into the bedroom with Sadie and closed the door, M sat back down, facing the TV. The commercial was over, but she was not watching the TV. She put two more fireballs in her mouth, but she did not taste the fire, she did not taste the sweet, she did not frown at the redness of her fingertips from the candy. She had one thought only on her mind: Sadie will not tell him. We’re sisters. She clasped her hands, praying that she was right.

Halfway through A-Team, Roscoe hobbled back out, sat in his chair, and wheeled it to face M, whom he watched her for a whole minute while she silently prayed: “God. Dear God.”

“M.”

“Daddy?”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Tell me.”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” she said. The candy was like heavy marbles in her mouth as she spoke. Sadie told him. Sadie.

“Sadie told you?”

Her father reached out and touched her gently on the back of her neck.

“She told you?”

“Told me what?”

“She didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?” He stopped brushing and took her hand, red and sticky with Atomic Fireball dye and saliva. “What’s going on? You can tell me. You can tell me anything.”

Not this, daddy.

“You beat her up?”

“No, daddy. I didn’t do anything to her.”

“Don’t be beating up your sister.”

“I didn’t touch her.”

“Share your stuff with your sister.”

“I share all my stuff. She doesn’t even like my stuff,” said M, rolling her eyes.

Roscoe squeezed her hand. “M, what did you do to her?”

“Nothing, daddy.” Sucking and chewing the fireballs in her mouth again.

Roscoe let go of her hand and went back to facing the TV. A-Team was over. He clicked the remote. Hunter was on, he liked Hunter, but so was Moonlighting. M liked Moonlighting because the female detective did not take a backseat to the male. In fact, she was smarter than him. Usually on Tuesday nights, M would get up after A-Team and go in the bedroom and watch Moonlighting in there while he watched Hunter out here. M did not seem like she was in any mood to get up and go into the room tonight, not as long as Sadie was in there. Roscoe clicked the TV to Moonlighting though M, as far as he could see, wasn’t really even watching it. So why was he missing Hunter?

Roscoe muttered, “Lord, I wish your mother was still here to help me deal with you girls.”

He elevated his legs and reclined in his specially-made wheelchair, but M was aware that he was still watching her. She was crunching the two fireballs in her mouth. She could taste neither the fire nor the sweet. Her stomach was hurting. The tears, too heavy to stay behind her eyes, were squeezing out.

Roscoe had had enough of watching her chew her fireballs and brush back her tears. He was about to say something. He was about to do something, finally, about this. He was about to call Sadie out here right now and settle this. But the phone rang and he picked it up. “Gantry. Hello?” Roscoe listened, nodding. He passed the phone to M. “For you.”

She asked him with teary eyes, who?

“Some girl named Shoneeka.”

M choked on the candy in her mouth. Dear God. She spat the candy into her palm, pulled the phone to her ear, and hunched away from Roscoe. “Hello?”

“Hello, Gantry. M Gantry.”

“What do you want?”

“How’s it going?”

“I don’t feel like talking. You have totally messed up my—.” Her back was turned to him, but she knew that Roscoe was watching. Listening. “I don’t want to talk to you right now.”

“Ah. Oh.”

“Do you understand?”

“I can get tickets.”

“What?”

“I can get tickets to Midnight Star.”

“What? The stars?”

Shoneeka laughed. “It’s a band. Midnight Star.” She sang, “No parking, baby. No parking on the dance floor.”

“Oh,” said M, relieved. She had heard the song before on the radio, but she had been thinking that maybe Shoneeka was referring to how pretty the stars had looked up there when they had been . . . outside together. “Tickets to a concert. Oh. That’s all,” she said, laughing. She turned to Roscoe. In her relief, she was grinning like an idiot and pointing at the phone. She repeated for Roscoe, “It’s tickets to a concert. That’s all it is.”

He just looked at her and sighed.

“Well,” said Shoneeka, “do you want to go?”

“With you?”

“With me.”

“Oh no. No. I can’t go. I can’t do that.” She was still facing Roscoe. She said it loud enough for him to hear. She was still grinning at him like an idiot, grinning and saying, “I don’t go to concerts.”

Roscoe mouthed, “Go. Please go. By all means go.”

“I mean,” said M, theatrically loud, “I don’t like that band.”

Roscoe gave up again. Muttering an oath, he switched the TV back to Hunter.

“You want to go to a movie?”

“No.”

Shoneeka’s voice did not lose its cheer. “Okay. Then I’ll see you tomorrow at lunch. I’ll introduce you to my girls.”

“No!”

Shoneeka cracked up laughing. “No, no. They’re not like that. They’re just friends from track. They just run track. I’m the only one like that. Nobody knows except you.” Her voice became passionate. “I really want you to sit with me at lunch tomorrow. Don’t eat by yourself. You always eat by yourself. It makes me so sad. I think that’s why I used to pick on you.”

“I’m going to sit with my sister.”

“You never sit with your sister. I didn’t even realize she was your sister until somebody told me. Ya’ll are nothing alike. She’s an honors student. You’re just regular.”

“I’m going to sit with my sister tomorrow. She’s going to help me study for a test.”

“Ya’ll can sit with us.”

“No.”

“How come she’s in the same grade as us?”

“Double promotion.”

“Honors student,” Shoneeka mused. Then she said: “Is she like us?”

“No!”

“My last girlfriend was in the honors society.”

“Bye, Shoneeka.”

“See you tomorrow at lunch.”

“No.”

“M, don’t make me half to kick your damn ass again.”

“What!”

Shoneeka was laughing. “Bye-bye. Kiss-kiss.”

Smiling artificially, M handed the phone back to Roscoe, who kept looking at her. What did he expect her to say? The girl who felt me up wants to know if I can go to a concert with her, daddy. The girl I felt up. She stuffed the fireballs back into her mouth and began to crunch them. Roscoe was still looking at her, but the fireballs were tasting better now. She knew that he wanted her to explain, but that would not be possible. How could she explain what she herself didn’t understand? The twitch between her legs.

* * *

When M finally entered the bedroom, it was well past one. She took one more deep breath to get her cockiness back. She said into the dark to Sadie who, she knew, was not sleeping: “You’d better not tell dad, I swear.”

Sadie sprang up in bed and fired back, “I am going to tell him. I almost told him tonight. I came so close to telling him. Don’t come in here acting like that with me. I am not afraid of you.”

“You better not, I swear.”

“You bull dyke.”

M jumped to her and grabbed her face. “I am not a—”

“—your hands off me, or I’m telling daddy right now!”

M released her. “Don’t be calling me stuff! Don’t be lying on me.”

“—had your hands all up in her clothes. I saw it. I saw it, so don’t even try to lie to me. Don’t even think about lying. I’m so disgusted.”

M sank down to the floor in the dark and sobbed, “You’re my sister, you’re my sister, you’re not supposed to be acting like this. Why can’t we just talk about it? Why can’t you just wait a minute? Why do you have to tell him?”

“Because it’s against the Bible.” Sadie clicked on the light and looked down at M who was on the floor with her hands over her eyes. “It’s a sin. I need to tell daddy because you need help. I need to tell him so he can get you help, but I need to talk to you first. I’m not going to go behind your back. You never fooled me, not for a minute. I kind of always figured you were. I’ve read a book on it. It’s a mental disorder.”

M, tears streaming from her eyes, looked up at her, shaking her head. No.

“Yes,” Sadie said. “Yes. You probably got that way because mom died. Mom died and you miss her a lot. You want her back, so you shift your affection to other women.”

M shook her head again. “I do not shift my affection.”

“That’s what the book said. You do miss mom, don’t you?”

“Don’t you?”

“Yes, but everybody’s different. You’re more like dad. You’ve always been a tomboy . . . mannish.”

M wiped her eyes. “Don’t call me that, Sadie . . . you’re trying to say that I’m that way, and I’m telling you that I’m not.”

“See, that’s the thing. You’re not really a bull dyke yet because you’re still young. The book says behavior can change you into what you should be. Look at your hair. Look at the way you dress.”

M saw herself in the mirror. No makeup. No jewelry. The cornrows. The mannish shirt. The mannish pants. She looked like a sixteen-year-old boy. She looked that way. M turned away from the mirror, embarrassed. “No wonder bull dykes come after you,” she heard Sadie say.

“I’m a girl. I like being a girl,” M said to Sadie. “You’re my sister. You know me better than anybody. You don’t really think I’m that way, do you? Come on, Sadie, don’t do this to me.”

Sadie had come prepared to say, Yes, I do believe that you’re a homosexual and I find it disgusting, but there was something in her sister’s eyes. This was the sister who had protected her from bullies when she was small. This was the sister who kept all of her secrets. This was the sister who taught her to be strong when their mother died. This was the sister who had become her mother. This was her big sister, and for the first time in Sadie’s life she recognized fear in those fearless eyes.

So Sadie lowered her eyes and said, “No. I don’t think you’re that way. Not yet. But we have to change your behavior.”

“How? What can we do?”

Sadie fired, “Quit acting like a boy.”

M mumbled, “Okay. I’ll try.”

Sadie tugged at M’s shirt sleeve. “Quit dressing like a boy.”

“But I don’t hardly have any girl clothes.”

“I’ll share my dresses.”

“I’m skinnier than you.”

“We can take them in.”

“Dresses. I don’t know . . .”

“It’ll be like church everyday. Everyday for a pretty girl is like church. You’re all dressed up, and everybody is looking at you. Oh, it’s awesome. You’ll see.” Sadie was running her fingers over M’s cornrows.

M chewed her lip. Everyday like church. Everybody looking at you. M didn’t like to be looked at. She was suddenly hit by a thought. “Shoneeka dresses up. She dresses up all the time and she’s that way.”

“The Bible talks about people like Shoneeka, M. Don’t you pay attention at all in church? She is filled with the devil. That’s why she’s a bully. That’s why she’s in the slow classes. That’s why she’s a bull dyke.”

“That’s an ugly word. You shouldn’t call people bull dykes.”

Sadie led M to the closet. Sadie’s colorful dresses were stylish and feminine. She took one out, a lemon yellow one, and draped it over M’s outstretched hands. She said to her big sister, “You have to dress in such a way as to make a statement to the devil. I’m off limits, devil! Stay away from me, devil! Get thee behind me!”

M looked at the dress. “It’s a pretty dress.”

“Isn’t it? Mom taught me how to pick out clothes. Mom taught me how to put clothes together.”

“Mom was good at that.”

“I’m good too.” Sadie took the yellow dress and held it up against M’s body, pinching the places that they would have to take in to make it fit. “And you’re going to look good.”

M blushed, and they both giggled.

A while later, they heard Roscoe’s rickety walk and then a loud bang on the door. Then the door swung open. Roscoe demanded to know: “What’s going on in here? You girls fighting? No fighting, girls!” But three beautiful dresses with straight-pins marking the places to be taken in were spread on M’s bed. Sadie and M were sitting together on Sadie’s bed. Sadie was doing M’s hair.

They stared at him like he was crazy for barging in.

Roscoe mumbled an apology, backing out of the room. As he hobbled down the hall, the girls heard him muttering to himself, “Girls. Who can figure them?”

* * *

The next day, M wore the yellow dress to school. And matching heels, three inches high. Her glistening black hair was styling down her back with blond highlights. She wore gold hoop earrings. She had a body to wear a dress and the right kind of legs for heels. She looked good. All the guys said so. One guy, Ricky, who had sat next to her in her pre-algebra class all year said to her: “Are you new here? Really, are you new? I’ve never seen you before.” She smiled at him, as she smiled at everyone that day, with a twinkle, and she moved on through her morning.

After third period, while she was getting her English books out of her locker, she heard behind her: “Daaaaaaaaammmmmmmnnnnn.”

Then it was a whisper in her ear: “My baby look gooooood.”

Shoneeka had her hand on M’s back all friendly, but her perfume was like, her breath was like, the smell of the bubblegum in her mouth she was pop, pop, pop, popping was like—M was drowning in the scent of her—and that hand that was so low on her back—that was tracing the outline of her panty through that slinky dress that Sadie had taken in for her was like—. M turned, hugging her English books against her chest so tight. She was going to tell Shoneeka, Beat it! Get the hell away from me! I’m dying. You’re killing me, don’t you see?

But surprise, surprise.

Shoneeka was wearing the exact same yellow dress.

“You are so beautiful,” Shoneeka whispered. “And such fine taste in clothes. We’re wearing the same dress. I think that means something.”

“Get a—.”

“You’re making me love you, M.”

“Get away.”

“My darling.” People were passing in the hall. Boys were whistling at them. Teachers were watching them too. These pretty girls in their matching yellow dresses. “Sit with me today at lunch, my darling.”

M lowered her eyes. “Get away.”

Shoneeka pulled M’s hand away from her chest and held it for a long time before she let it go. Then she walked away. M watched her walk away until she disappeared. M went into the bathroom and cried for a half hour. M was very late to English class and Mrs. Boatwright marked her down ten points for it. M kept her head down on her desk all through English. It was like, it was like—.

Awesome.

* * *

Everyday that week, M went to school styling a new dress. They looked better on her than they did on Sadie—she knew this, but everybody had to just stop whatever it was they were doing and tell her this, over and over again. Even Roscoe. She wished they would stop telling her this. She hated this kind of attention. First of all, it was not fair to Sadie, who was doing her best to hook her up with clothes, and second, telling her this did not get rid of the pain.

She had not seen Shoneeka since that day at the locker.

Shoneeka had looked so good in that dress. Shoneka had smelled so good—

That weekend, Roscoe gave them a hundred and fifty dollars and Sadie and M went to the mall to buy some more clothes for M. Sadie went crazy picking out stuff. She knew so much about clothes and she loved to talk about it. They were looking at a dress in Jordan Marsh and Sadie was saying:

“No, no, no. That one’s too long for you. You have to show more leg. Legs are in style. See how the pleats fall? No. Take this one. Now this one is you—you look like Donna Summer. Go try it on.”

M took the dress. It was another pretty one. Another yellow one. Ho hum. M went into the dressing room and came out in the dress. It was low cut. It exposed a little too much of her cleavage. Her small breasts. Shoneeka had caressed her breasts. She had caressed Shoneeka’s. No I didn’t. Yes I did. No I didn’t. Yes I did. Suddenly, she could smell the bubblegum and hear it popping. She was smiling. She was overcome by the devil again. But I’m not a bull dyke. Maybe I’m bi. Then again, I’ve never been with a boy.

“See?” Sadie said, admiring her in the dress. “I told you.”

“Yes,” said M, still smiling, still smelling the sickly sweetness of Shoneeka’s bubblegum, still feeling awesome, like the devil, “you did tell me.”

Maybe I’m bi. Okay, let’s call it bi, but I’m no bull dyke. No way.

* * *

That evening Sadie and M were each on their beds in their room, talking the way sisters do while Sadie reviewed the scriptures she was going to cover the next day in the Sunday school class they had her teach. M was painting her toenails—learning to paint her toenails—the way Sadie had shown her. Roscoe was out in the living room watching something on TV. It was close to seven. Sadie’s radio was tuned to 99.1, WEDR, the Soul Star, and We Are Family by Sister Sledge was playing. The Gantry sisters were still wearing the pretty dresses they had worn to the mall.

Sadie was saying something about how eager she was for her birthday in December to come so that she could get her driver license. M already had her license, being born in January, and she was the only one who drove now that Roscoe could hardly use his legs anymore. M said something about how she might like to try out for the track team. Sadie told her that she should try out because she had strong legs. Sadie said that Deacon Smith, who had lost his wife last year, had flirted with her over the phone when she called him yesterday about a typo she found in the church bulletin. M told her that Deacon Smith was cute and that she should go for it. Sadie laughed and told her that he was too old for her (thirty-two!), but she agreed that he was cute.

We Are Family ended and No Parking on the Dance Floor by Midnight Star came on. M sighed, but then turned up the radio. Sadie gave a holy ghost shout and told her that she liked that song too and started singing along. Sadie had a real good voice and M did not, but she started singing, too, despite the silly faces Sadie made at her. They heard a knock on the door out there. They heard Roscoe shout, Who is it? They heard the click and clack of his crutches as he made his way to the door. They heard the door creak open. They heard Roscoe talking to someone out there, but paid it little mind until a few minutes later Roscoe shouted (excitedly), M, somebody here to see you!

In unison, they leaned their heads to the right to peep out their door straight into the living room. Sadie had the better view. It was some dark-skinned boy, chubby-looking, a bit on the short side, dressed in a dark shirt and pants. M saw the same thing, but her bed was set farther back, she had the worse view, so she wasn’t sure, but it was like—. They looked at each other, shrugged, got up from their beds in their pretty dresses and bare feet, and walked out into the living room.

Roscoe was up on his crutches. Even stooped as he was on his crutches, Roscoe was head and shoulders above the smooth-faced boy, who was staring nervously down at the floor. The TV blared a Coke commercial behind him. Roscoe said, “M, this is—,” he turned to the boy: “What did you say your name was again, son?”

The boy looked up. He had a beautiful face, like a girl’s. And such beautiful brown eyes. His hair was fine textured, but cut low to the scalp. His eyebrows were stylishly arched. He said, “My name is Neejo Love,” in a voice that was not too deep, but deep enough to pass.

M felt her heart sink when she heard the voice.

Roscoe said to M: “Well, this young man, Neejo, said he has come to call on you, or whatever it is you kids call it today.” Roscoe was beaming with pride. “He said he knows you from school and he thinks that you are a very nice looking girl.”

M’s head was spinning. It was like—.

“M?” Roscoe said. “M, are you okay?”

M was looking at Neejo, who was looking down at the floor again.

“M!” Roscoe said.

“Daddy?”

Roscoe said, scratching his head, “Well, I’m going to get out of the way. I’m going to give you kids some space.” This was awkward for him. He had never had a boy call on M. But because of her newfound sense of style, he figured he had better get used to it. She was a beautiful girl. Soon there would be a line of boys at his door. Neejo was a bit on the short side for a boy, but he was just the beginning. Roscoe told M, “You and Neejo can sit out here. I’ll go in my room.”

M thanked her father, then grabbed Sadie’s hand and pulled her aside. They spoke in rapid fire whispers.

“What do you think?”

“He’s short.”

“You think he’s cute, though?”

“He’s cute enough, but I’ve never seen him around.”

“I have,” M said. “I’ve seen him around school.”

“This is so weird. It’s so fast. But I knew it would happen once you changed your behavior.”

Roscoe went into his room, but left the door open. Sadie went into her room and turned down the music, but left the door open, too, so there would be no kissing or anything like that, which was a relief for M. She took the seat opposite Neejo’s. Neejo had a big grin on his face. M was grinning too. The TV was on, some show with Redd Foxx in it that they weren’t even really watching. M whispered to Neejo, “What did you do to your hair?”

“My hair has always been short. It’s a fake weave I have in my hair most of the time.”

“You’re going to put it back in, aren’t you?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I can wear a wig. Maybe I can go out like this. I like dressing like this . . . now that you’ve agreed to be the girl.”

“Don’t go there,” M warned.

Neejo nodded approvingly at M’s, rather, Sadie’s dress that M was wearing.

M said, “Sadie thinks you’re short.”

“I am,” Neejo said, “when I’m not wearing heels.” Neejo glanced down at M’s feet and raised one cosmetically arched eyebrow in surprise. “Hmm. Painting our toenails these days, are we?”

“Sadie,” M explained.

Neejo nodded. “The honors student.”

M put her hand over her mouth and shook her head. “This is crazy. Neejo Love?”

“Yes dear.”

“It’s a silly name. A dangerous name. You’re so crazy.”

“But I do need your love.”

“You’re so . . . crazy. I almost pissed myself when I saw you.”

“Can I watch?”

“Don’t be gross.”

“I am Neejo Love. Do you need my love?” Neejo smiled mischievously.

M shook her head. “Silly boy.”

Neejo giggled.

“But what if they figure it out? What happens when Sadie can’t find a Neejo Love at school on Monday? And then you come to school with your hair all short like this?”

Neejo whispered, “I have you now. We are here now.”

“But what if—?”

“I’ll wear a wig.”

“But—.”

“What if you came over here and sat next to me on the couch?”

“Ohmygod.”

Neejo smiled slyly. “What if I came over and sat next to you?”

“Not in the house,” M warned. “I mean even if you were really a boy . . . not in the house, not the first time you came over, they wouldn’t go for that. My daddy would never let you near me again.”

Neejo shook his head. “After all I went through to get here like this tonight.”

M, extending a foot, played footsies with Neejo. “I know. But we have to be careful.”

Neejo winked. “So . . . we’re dating?”

“We are not dating.”

“When?”

M rolled her eyes, shook her head. No. Never.

Neejo leaned over and patted M’s knee. We’ll see.

* * *

Neejo was admiring M in her pretty dress. M was demurring like a proper coquettish maiden. It was so weird. They shared secret smiles. Now they were talking about shoes.

“Seriously, you look good in ‘em and all, but you look like you’re about to fall over sometimes.”

“I can hardly walk in them. How do you do it?”

“Acquired taste,” Neejo said. “I love wearing heels.”

“You look good in heels.”

“I look good in anything. I look good as a boy, too.”

M sucked her teeth and said to Neejo, “You do not even look like a boy. Sadie and my dad need glasses, or something. Can you imagine that they would want me to date a boy who looks as feminine as you? I might as well date a girl. You don’t look like a boy at all.”

Neejo was laughing. “You’re hurting my feelings.”

“Just trying to be honest, Neejo.”

Neejo kept laughing and slapping his thighs. “I borrowed my brother’s clothes.”

“He needs to borrow them back.”

“Ouch. Lady, you are too cruel.”

M put her hand on Neejo’s head. “And you need to do something about your hair. This is ridiculous, sir.”

Neejo was slapping his thighs.

For the better part of an hour, they kidded around, made fun of each other (of Neejo dressing like a boy, of M dressing like a girl), laughed, all in whispers in front of the silly sitcoms that they flipped through on the TV. The man who pretends to be gay so that he can live cheap with his two female roommates. The men who dress as women so that they can live cheap in a feminist hotel. Silly stuff. Roscoe came out a few times to go to the bathroom and he didn’t even flinch at their leaning into each other, their hand holding. They were kidding around so much. They were safe. It was innocent stuff. He did not hear when they said: “When did you know?” “When I was like ten or eleven.” “When was your first time?” “Twelve. We didn’t do much else than kiss, but it blew my mind.” “What about boys?” “I like boys, too, sort of. I’ve done stuff with them. What about you? Are you still a virgin?” “Yes! Of course.” “You are so gay.” “No I’m not.” “When did you know?” “I still don’t know.” “When are we going to kiss again?” “Never.” “We’ll see.” “What’s it like being with a girl?” “Let me show you.” “You are a trip. You have a one track mind.” “Can I come over again at least?” “As Neejo?” “Yes.” “Yes. But come over as Shoneeka too. I like her.” “I like you too, M.”

At fifteen minutes after nine, a fairly respectable hour, Neejo got up to leave. He made sure to say goodnight to Sadie, and then he said goodnight to Roscoe, whose hand he shook, firmly—Roscoe later said, “He’s a short one, but he has a firm handshake, that’s a good sign.”

M walked Neejo out to his car.

They stood next to Neejo’s car, in the shadow of the leaves, under the ceiling of stars, on a warm March night in Miami, as M’s father spied on them through one set of blinds and Sadie spied on them through another. M bent down and kissed Neejo on the cheek twice.

When M came back in the house, Roscoe was watching TV in the living room again. He didn’t say anything to her about Neejo, or the hand-holding, or the goodnight cheek kisses he had spied on, but he had a big smile on his face that said, You can talk to me about it. You can talk to me about anything. You’re my favorite. I’m so proud of you. I’m so happy a boy likes you finally, though he is short. But M was not in the mood to talk with him.

In the bedroom, M closed the door behind her and jumped on the bed with Sadie. They hugged each other and giggled like crazy teenage sisters, which is what they were.

Sadie squealed with excitement, “That was like, that was like, sooooooo romantic. Tell me everything, M! Everything!”

So M, breathing a sigh of relief, told her as much of it as she safely could, and that was enough. She hoped that one day she would be able to tell her the rest of it.

They were sisters.

Cover Design: Joseph McNair