“Come on me!” she commands. “I want you to come on me.” There’s no dick this time, the first time; just me and her on the couch, the television on. The film becomes foreign as I climb onto her; she’s groaning in time. Just her rough jeans and my yielding leggings, bumping my pussy against her zipper as she grabs me ferociously by the throat, growls into my ear, “Come on me, baby—”
“I don’t know if I can—”
She bites off my words. “Come on me, come on me!” She is shaking me, grabbing my ass, hard. “Soak me, I want to feel you soak me,” and I scream with surprise as much as pleasure. I’m so turned on by her wanting me that bad that the words alone reach into my cunt, squeeze it free: there are convulsions from my cunt, my stomach, teeth, mind, clench and release, wet heat staining our laps. “Oh, yeah, baby; oh, yeah, oh, yeah,” she’s saying, pulling me against her, our breasts tumbling together.
It becomes our joke: remote-control orgasm. She tells me to come and I do. Her desire for me is my desire. Is it funny how much power she has over me? For her birthday I gave her a book of erotica. On the flap, I inscribed, I’ll always come when you call. What if she stops calling? Like Lu, who called me: a burden. No, I correct myself, not me. The illness. Lu stopped calling. “The illness is too much for me.”
I don’t understand too much. For me, it’s always a matter of too little. Too little I can do, too little I can remember. Too little keeping me just crazy enough to handle it. People used to chuck me on the shoulder, “Geez, you’re too much!” But that was before. Now it’s even more true.
Connie is calling me, my name, and “baby,” which I love. That, itself, gets her another shower. I’m sobbing into her shoulder as she rocks my ass in her wide-open hands that can hold so much, pressing me into her lap as I come and rent my throat with her name, wordless. She croons, “Oh, baby, yes, baby, give it to me. Give it all to me.” I always do. “I love it when you come on me,” Connie whispers. Then I always will. If you come to me, I will come on you. However you want. How often you want. Remote control girlfriend. I come fully loaded, no warranty on parts or labor. I am tuned in to her frequency, ready to be activated.
I look at the door. There on the knob is her pebbly wool coat. She forgot it. I totter over, rehang it in the closet. Connie never notices the cold.
I’m watching “Stars on Ice,” remote in hand, when Con enters. Somehow between all the commercial interruptions I’ve forgiven her for knowing what I’ve forgotten, because I’m happy to see her. I twist in my seat, “How was the movie?”
“It was okay,” she sighs.
“That’s a ringing endorsement. I’ll make sure to add it to my rental list.”
“Caren was getting on my nerves.”
“Really? Why?” So there. I put concerned sympathy on my face.
Con flings her shoes toward the boot tray, misses, hits the rocking chair. It sways back and forth, deciding whether to fall. “She talked through half the movie and then she gave away the ending! I wanted to throttle her with her Twizzlers!” I laugh and silence the TV. Con flops next to me.
“You are the perfect movie date, did you know?”
“No, I’m not. I can never keep track of what’s going on. Half the time I don’t even remember if I’ve seen it before.”
“Exactly. So you never ruin the ending!” She smacks my ass, then grabs a piece of rock candy from the coffee table, knocking the remote onto the floor. The crunch is so loud when she bites in, but Con doesn’t like soft candy. With her mouth full of fillings, she tempts fate.
“You’re making a mess,” I grumble, snuggling up and trying to decide if I’ve been complimented or insulted. “Well, you wanted to get to know Carla better and now you have.” Connie’s glasses are at the base of her nose. I push them back up to her eyes.
“It’s Caren. Remember, you met her.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“At my fortieth birthday party,” she sighs.
I wish she’d stop sighing. “Well, there were like a hundred people there—” I point out.
“Thirty-seven.”
“Whatever. A lot… Wait! Was she the one who ate all the shrimp?”
“No, that was Sylvia. Caren was the blonde with the long nails.”
“You expect me to remember the nail length of forty-seven guests?” I poke Connie in the ribs, tickling her. She’s back. Carla was annoying.
“Isn’t that the kind of thing femmes are supposed to notice?” she pokes me back, then glances at the TV, eyes widen: ESPN. “What were you watching?”
“Football.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“Yes, it was the Bears against the Blue Jays.” I think these are real teams.
“Try again,” she smirks.
“Okay, figure skating. Kurt Browning. Yum.” I lick my lips. She swats me. “So, what movie did you see that blabby Carla ruined?”
“Caren. Amelie. And she didn’t ruin it entirely. You should rent it. It’s good.”
“Oh, bleagh, that’s French, right? Subtitles? I’ll take a pass.”
“Whatever.” She shrugs. “I’m tired. Let’s go to bed.”
“Let’s.” Plural. I love that. “Okay,” I grumble, for show. I stand, then stumble, almost fall. Connie throws out her arm to steady me.
“Do you want me to help you walk to the bathroom?” She looks scared. I hate that.
“I’m fine.” I twitch her hand off my shoulder. Why does she have to make such a big deal of a little stumble? It could happen to anyone. “My legs are just a little stiff from being folded on the couch.” I recite my mantra: “I got by before you; I’ll get by after you.”
“There is no ‘after me,’” she retorts.
“Whatever,” I shrug, fighting the urge to be mollified. Does she think that if she’s not here every second I’ll shatter, like an hourglass tumbling off a ledge? “You really oughta get out more. Nobody likes a hovering butch.”
Con scowls at me, opens her mouth to say something, shuts it again. “I’ll meet you in the bathroom, then.” She turns on her heel.
“It’s a date!” I call, over-the-top giddy-girly, but she’s already stalked around the corner. I grip the wall for a second, make my way into the hall toward the sound of running water. Water. Shit. Water. “Hon,” I call, trying to quell my panic. “Can you check the stove? I think I—”
“I turned it off before I left,” she calls back. “I’ll buy a new teapot tomorrow.”
Damn, damn, damn. The third damn teapot this month. Lu, screaming, waving the burnt-out pot, “Why don’t you write things down? Why don’t you set the timer? Can’t you get organized?” Handing me the receipt—making sure the money for the replacement comes out of my disability check, not her hard-earned one. It didn’t do any good to explain, “I did write it down, but I lost the paper. I did set the timer, but I forgot what the ‘ding’ meant.” Rolling her eyes, stomping away. Lovely Lu. Long gone.
Ears burning, my toes touch cool tile. I collapse onto the toilet seat, my hand over my face. “I’m so sorry. I’ll pay for it, of course. I’m really, really sorry.”
“Whatever. It’s only a pot. A fucking ugly one, too.” She snorts, “Ha!” at some hidden joke. “Those big, purple flowers! Oh, god! You put us out of its misery, babe.”