Part of my mind was racing. This was exactly what I used to fantasize about in high school-and ever since: to have a beautiful and friendly and very naked girl encouraging me to join her in bed. The obvious thing to do was yell, "Banzai!" and leap.
I took a step back and looked for the bear trap. "I don't trust this situation," I said.
She shrugged and slid under the covers, then studied me with an absolutely innocent gaze. "So? What's the worst that can happen?"
I thought about it. The best that could happen would be that I'd have a terrible time. The worst that could happen would be that I'd have a terrific time and lose my individuality. I thought about the alternatives-there really weren't any-and got into the bed. Slowly.
We lay there side by side, not touching. I studied the ceiling. She studied my profile.
"Do you want to talk?" she asked.
"Do I have to?"
"No. Do you want to sleep?"
"Uh--I did, but I'm wide awake now.
"Should I turn out the light?"
"All right."
She rolled over and touched the switch on the nightstand. The room was left shaded in moonlight. The venetian blinds made lavender streaks on the wall. The night felt silent.
She rolled back toward me. The bed squeaked with the movement.
Somewhere in the distance, I could hear yelling, a great many voices all yelling together.
"What's that?" I asked.
"That's the Revelation. It's just starting. It gets louder. Don't worry about it. Around here, celebrations can get pretty rowdy."
"Oh." I turned on my side to look at her. "Valerie," I said. "How long have you been here?"
"Here? You mean this place? Or do you mean with Jason?"
"With Jason."
"Um, let me see-it'll be eleven months in May."
"Where were you before?"
"In Santa Barbara."
"And how did you . . . join?"
"The same way everybody does. I wanted to be here, so I created the opportunity for them to find me. Nobody gets here by accident. I didn't know I wanted to be here. I didn't know I was creating my opportunity, but that's how it worked out-and now I know that there aren't any accidents; this is the way it's supposed to work out. Jason says it the best way. He says, 'God doesn't make mistakes."'
"Of course not. If he did . . ."
"She."
"Huh?"
"She. God's a she."
"Oh."
"What were you going to say."
"Uh, I was going to say, if God did make mistakes, she wouldn't be God anymore, would she?"
"That's very good."
"Thank you. What did you do before?"
She shrugged. "Same as everybody else. I survived." She looked at her fingernails. They were short, like a man's. "That's what the ordinary world is about. Survival."
"Uh-huh. Well, uh, let me ask it this way. How would I have known you in the ordinary world?"
"I was a whore." She said it matter-of-factly, as if she were describing what she had had for dinner.
"At sixteen?"
"At thirteen."
"Uh. I see."
"I did it to survive. I didn't know that I didn't need to do it to survive. Jason gave me the space to find that out." She turned on her side to face me. "See, Jim, when I sold myself for money before, I wasn't selling my body. That was the form of it, but what I was really doing was selling pieces of my soul. Jason told me I didn't have to do that. Now, I only give myself to people who are willing to give themselves to me. So I get back what I give away. Only now it's-oh, I wish I were better with words-now, when I share myself with someone, what happens is that I transcend myself. When two people trade pieces of themselves, they're transformed."
"I'm sorry. I don't understand that."
"It's all right," she said. "It took me a long time to understand it too." She reached out and touched me. Her hand was warm and gentle. She let it slide down to my hip. I stopped her hand. I held it in mine. "You'll probably hear this as an insult," I said, "even though I don't mean it as one; but is that why you're here to sleep with me? To seduce me? I mean-are you whoring for Jason now?"
She pulled her hand back. "Oh, that's not an insult. And the answer is no-and yes. No, I'm not whoring for Jason. But, yes-I was chosen to sleep with you first, before anyone else, because I've had the experience. I know how to use myself to reach you, to give you the opportunity to reach back. That's all. Do you understand? It's a skill. I can use it-I can use it to be selfish, or I can use it to share. I want to share myself with you tonight. "
"I guess I'm old fashioned, Valerie. I don't understand it."
"There's nothing to understand. I don't want to be alone either," she whispered. "Will you share yourself with me?"
I looked at her face. In the moonlight, all I could see was the soft gleam of her eyes against the paleness of her skin.
"I don't know," I said.
"You have to let go of your mind," she whispered. "Let yourself be the animal."
"The animal?"
"You're an animal, Jim. A male animal. I'm a female animal." Her touch became a caress. "Let go of your mind and just experience the physicalness of it. Is that so hard to do?"
"I don't . . ." But I did. I knew exactly what she meant. And I wanted to do it.
I moved toward her, just a bit. I realized I was still scared of her. But she smelled good. Let go of your mind, she said. But how? Her hand came back to me again.
Her fingers strayed. I let them.
Even though I knew it was a mistake.
And then . . . oh, hell, I stopped resisting. I told myself I could handle this. Really.
I let it happen.
She was good. So was I.
She was frenzied, almost out of control. And after a while, so was I. She smelled good.
The male animal mounted the female. We did it. And my mind was lost.
11
Falstaff
"Onions don't cause heartburn; they only make it interesting."
-SOLOMON SHORT
Someone was singing to me.
When I woke up, Valerie was already gone. But I could still hear the singing
I opened the door.
The worm was still there. It was facing away from the door, toward the morning sun. Its fur glistened pink.
It was the worm that was singing-humming, really. The sound was coming from deep inside its throat. Was it brooding, or what? The creature's eyes were closed and it looked preoccupied. The trilling was softer than a purr, but it had the same kind of deep satisfying rumble.
I stood in the doorway and listened. The worm crooned and warbled quietly to itself. Its song was tuneless and ethereal; it sounded like an expectant banshee-like a distant murmuring chorus . . . like the echo of someone weeping. It was one of those just below the horizon sounds, and it was as ominous as a hot desert wind. I felt uneasy. I felt like an invader just for listening.
But I was transfixed. It was beautiful. I must have moved or made a sound.
Abruptly, the worm stopped its trilling and swiveled its eyes around backward to look at me. They were the size of searchlights. It blinked. Sput-phwut. Then it turned to face me. It yawned. It looked like it had three million teeth. "Grrp?"
"Uh, good morning." I gulped.
"Wrorr?" the worm asked.
"Uh, yeah, I slept okay-thanks for asking."
The worm blinked at me-and blinked again, refocusing its eyes to study me. It was a fat, pink, blimp-shaped creature, with pale stripes of purple and red and pink flickering along its sides. It huffed and it puffed and it made ruminative noises deep within its gut. "Platt!"