She asked for a match. When I lit her cigarette, she caressed my face and grabbed my crotch, lashing my tongue with hers. I slid my hand down her stomach and between her legs. My fingers hit something hard tucked low against her abdomen. I was accustomed to people carrying guns and it seemed natural for a woman alone in the city to be armed. The only feasible option was to gain control of the pistol.
I ran my hand up her dress, wrapped my fingers around the barrel, and gave a quick tug. She moaned low and very deep. I pulled again and suddenly realized the gun was made of flesh. My entire body trembled in a fury of incomprehension. I stood, unable to speak. She threw her purse at me and laughed a taunting cackle that echoed in the tunnel. I ran up the stairs, plunged through the opening, and fell on the sidewalk. Two men holding hands stepped off the curb to avoid me.
The following day, I called in sick to the warehouse and stayed in the tub all day. When the water cooled, I refilled it, still hearing that laughter throbbing in my head. I was sure I’d found a circus freak, a hermaphrodite, the only one in the city and perhaps the entire country. At nineteen, it was beyond my understanding that a grown man would impersonate a female. Not all transvestites are gay, I later learned, but mine was. This seemed a crucial difference between the city and the hills — Appalachian men could acceptably fornicate with daughters, sisters, and livestock, but carnal knowledge of a man was a hanging offense.
I ate lunch daily at a diner on Great Jones Street. The joint was a showcase of deformity — goiters swelled throats, and tumors jutted from bodies, stretching gray skin. Hair sprouted in odd places. The owner kept a sawed-off shotgun close at hand. One day a stray woman appeared in a booth. She was short and dark, wearing tight pants which I studied closely for a telltale bulge. She noticed my observation and I quickly looked away. She moved near.
“Are you a mechanic?” she said. “My car needs work.”
“No. I’m an actor. Are you a girl?”
“Everybody I know is bisexual now.”
“Not me,” I said. “Want to go to the museum on Saturday?”
“Can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Just can’t. Why don’t you visit me in Brooklyn on Sunday.”
“Where’s Brooklyn?”
She laughed and spoke loudly to all. “He wants to know where Brooklyn is!”
The simple purity of Jahi’s directions enthralled me: Take the Flatbush train to the end and get out. Walk down the street and go left. Ring the second bell. Finding a place at home involved landmarks such as the creek, the big tree, or the third hollow past the wide place in the road. After the quantum mechanics of lower Manhattan, Brooklyn sounded like simple geometry. I bought a new shirt for the date. That she was black didn’t matter — she was female and I was lonely. We were both at the bottom of our republic’s fabled melting pot.
Noisy people thronged the streets of Flatbush Avenue. Tattoos covered the men like subway graffiti. Women wore neon skirts drawn so tight that their thighs brushed audibly at every step. The stores were barred by padlocked gates that reminded me of ramparts under siege.
Jahi’s apartment was absolutely bare save for a couch, a table, two chairs, and a bed. We drank wine and passed a joint. After four hours she seduced me because, she later told me, I had not pounced on her all afternoon. She considered me a southern gentleman. I didn’t mention the white trash truth — every country boy knew city women would breed quicker than a striking snake. Expecting sex as urban custom, I was in no hurry. Plus I didn’t know much about it.
When the time came, I pounded into her, spurted, and rolled away. She raised her eyebrows and blinked several times.
“Are you a virgin?” she said.
“How could I be?”
“You don’t have to use your whole body. Just your hips.”
“I know,” I said quickly.
“Look, nobody knows until they learn.”
“I’ve read about it plenty.”
“I’m not saying anything against you, Chris. Everybody’s different and you may as well learn about me.”
She stood on the bed and told me to look at her body very carefully. I’d never seen a woman fully nude before. Jahi had a peculiar frame — strongly muscled dancer’s legs, a delightful bottom, and the dark torso of a young girl. Her small breasts sported enormous nipples, ebon pegs an inch long, hard as clay. A few black hairs surrounded them, reminding me of crippled spiders.
She lay beside me and invited me to touch her everywhere, methodic as a surveyor, covering every square inch. Next she explained the complex labyrinth of her plumbing. From its nook she retrieved her clitoris and demonstrated the proper action for maximum pleasure. She counseled me on the rising barometer of orgasm and cued me to a steady drilling until the dam broke. I received a cursory lecture on the soft crest where buttock met leg, the inner thigh, and lastly the anus. I balked, believing this too advanced. With time, she assured me, even that arena would be old hat.
Two hours later I was a sweaty scholar eager to matriculate. Jahi rolled on her back and aimed her heels at the ceiling while I wriggled down the graduation aisle. Propping my weight on knees and elbows allowed her some maneuvering room. The prescribed circular motion reminded me of sharpening a knife on an oily whetstone: apply pressure on the upstroke and ease away, alternating sides for a balanced edge.
To forestall ejaculation, she had suggested I concentrate on baseball. I thought about Cincinnati’s Big Red Machine, squirmed my hips correctly, and remembered how the manager always hopped over the sprinkled white baseline to avoid bad luck. The summer I turned twelve, VISTA bused a load of hill boys to Crosley Field for a game. In the parking lot I was astounded to see a black kid, the first I’d ever seen. He was my size and wore clothes identical to mine — jeans and T-shirt. I stared at him so hard that I walked into a streetlight, which didn’t exist in the hills either. The VISTA man made me sit beside him the whole game.
Suddenly Jahi was squirming like an epileptic, thrashing her legs and ripping my back. Convinced I’d made a mistake, I slowed the rhythm to a bullpen warm-up. The manager’s hand signals blurred to gibberish and she began screaming.
“Fuck me, you white motherfucker!”
Appalled, I pistoned my hips until the dugout began moving across the floor. I went to my fastball right down the old piperino. Hum, baby, hum. I fiddled and diddled, kicked and delivered.
“Give it to me,” she grunted.
“I am, I am!”
“Talk dirty.”
“What?”
“Talk dirty!”
“Well, hell,” I said. “You’re a horse’s ass.”
She clicked into automatic pilot, writhing and moaning, cursing and shrieking. “You like this!” she bellowed. “You like fucking me!”
I loosened my tongue for locker room talk. “Batter up, batter down, who’s that monkey on the mound?”
“I’m coming!”
“She’s coming around third. Here’s the throw. It’s in the dirt, safe at home!”
My body twitched, heat surging from my feet and skull to join at the crotch and erupt. The fans shrieked my name. They were leaping from the stands, peeling the artificial turf, ripping bases out of the ground. Pooled sweat like celebration champagne swirled down my side as I rolled over.
“That was great, Jahi!”