Macho Sluts (38 page)

“I don't have any money,” she says, as if she has read my mind and knows that I want her to save me, take me in out of the cold that is deepening as it gets darker. “I lost my job. My collective has put all my stuff on the street. I was hoping maybe Lefty would be here. He seemed to be a nice guy. Maybe he would have helped me save some of my belongings. I'm going to have to find a cheap place to stay.”

Well. My name is Noh Mann, but I am a nice guy, too, and her assumption that she won't get any help from me stings. But nothing will come out of my mouth. I hang on the tips of my toes, breathing like a hummingbird, knowing the next move I make will create a whole new chapter in my life, whether I go back to my cubicle alone or bring her with me. Am I afraid she will refuse me? That is papal bull. She doesn't have any place else to go, and she knows it. Somebody is going to have to teach this girl-child how to live, or she's going to jump off a bridge.

Two divergent vistas open up, and all the power I have is in me, the power to make a choice before I know what the consequences will be. I say, “In all of that stuff of yours, do you have a tea kettle?”

“Why, yes,” she says, clearly thinking I have gone andro.

“Okay. Let's start walking. Now, listen to me, I'm going to tell you how it is and how it's going to be.

“I don't love you. But somebody is going to have to take care of you and teach you what's what. If I slap you around a little, it's to make sure you listen.”

I talk, she nods, we walk fast. It's cold. I take off my leather jacket and make her put it on.

The Surprise Party

She had short hair and never wore anything but Levis, boots, a black or white T-shirt, and a leather jacket. Every time she went out the door, she squared her shoulders, straightened her spine, and put purpose in her walk. When the way you look makes it clear that you are a queer sort of queer, each unmolested step down the street is a victory. Live defensively, she told herself as she strained to extend her peripheral vision to shield her sides and back. Sometimes she concentrated so hard on not smiling, not moving her ass from side to side, not giving any sign of vulnerability, that she stopped thinking for several minutes about nights when cars had screamed to a stop, disgorging gangs that chanted insults as they ran, and stopped scanning litter baskets for bottles she could break, just in case.

It was twilight. She was trying to keep her footing, going down a very steep hill. A cop car purred up the street. Everybody who sees a black-and-white feels a tiny spurt of adrenaline hit their system. The anxiety and extra energy don't go away until you know for sure they aren't looking for you. Relax, she admonished herself. They're just on patrol. No sirens, no flashing lights, relax, relax.

Brakes screeched. Doors flew open. Feet hit the pavement. And hands reached out of the dark, took her from behind by both elbows, and propelled her through the soft night air to the cold metal side of the car. Their grip on her was professional—tight enough to express their muscle, but not hard enough to bruise. She caught glimpses of uniforms, truncheons, pistol hilts, shiny visors, hand-cuffs, badges, hairy wrists wearing heavy silver watches.

There were three of them, two city cops and one in a highway patrol uniform. ‘What is he doing here with them?' she thought, and then the rage came up and made her skin white-hot and her stomach cold and sick. The pig who was holding her felt the rising threat build in her frame, and he used her arm to twist her up onto her toes, then slapped cuffs on her wrists.

“Go ahead,” he said softly in a good-ole-boy drawl, “resist arrest. I'd love it.” He had blond hair and a slightly red, mean cracker face. His navy blue, wool-covered groin brushed briefly against her hip, then he withdrew, kicked her feet wide apart, and held her against the car with his truncheon pointed into the small of her back.

The whole thing had taken no time at all, and she was helpless and hating them and afraid. Why was this happening? Oh God, God, God, I have the right to remain silent, who will I call, oh, God, this can't be happening.

“What do we have here?” asked the highway patrolman. He seemed to be in charge of the trio. “You got any identification, sister?” It was a familiar voice, the voice of male authority, a man who would brook no interference.

Her tongue was thick, but she managed to say, “In my back pocket.”

He made a warning noise. “Keep your hands away from there.” Did he think she could reach her wallet with her hands cuffed behind her back? “Officer Mike here will be good enough to remove your identification for me.”

A large hand slid into her tight pocket, felt around just a shade too long, then emerged with her thin leather billfold. “Here you go, Don—sir,” he said.

She heard the highway patrolman flip it open and rifle through the plastic windows that held her driver's license, social-security card, credit cards, and snapshots of her lover Fran and Fran's children. He cleared his throat, then said (pronouncing each word carefully, to make sure she understood), “I don't believe ladies – usually carry one of these things around.”

It actually took her a few minutes to puzzle out his meaning. He meant that women don't carry wallets! Oh, he was good, he was very good. No screaming “Bulldyke!” or “Queer!” He was subtle, this one. He wanted to make her pay.

“I'm talking to you!” he snapped, and she was lifted and thrown into the side of the car. The breath was knocked out of her, and she said confusedly, “What? What do you want?”

“Pay attention to me when I ask you a question, girl. Answer me. Now!”

“What's the question?” She could not control her voice. It shook.

He advanced on her, the heels of his boots clicking on the asphalt. When he was close enough for her to smell his jacket, he clamped his leather-gloved hand around her skull and pulled her head back, then waved the wallet under her nose. “Is this what ladies customarily keep their driver's licenses in, bitch?” he spat.

He was so tall. She caught herself admiring him, such a powerful bastard, aristocratic nose, carefully trimmed auburn mustache, still wearing those mirror shades even though it was almost completely dark by now. The streetlight must be shedding enough illumination for him to see by. She realized her mouth had fallen open and finally thought to say, “No!” They hauled her away from the car and threw her back up against it anyway.

The officer walked away from her. He produced a cigar from the inner pocket of his jacket, lit a match on the sole of his high, black boots, and carefully rolled the tip of the cigar in the blue part of the flame. “We've got ourselves an interesting case here, boys,” he said. They laughed appreciatively. Mike, the blond Southern boy who had put the cuffs on her, kept a grip on her upper arms, and he was pressed into her body now, keeping her flat up against the cold metal of the car. She felt his cock leap inside the uniform but did her best not to respond to it, not even by moving to avoid it.

“We're going to have to take you in,” the patrolman said thoughtfully. The short sentence chilled her blood.

“Why? What have I done?” she asked, knowing the answer but wanting to make him say it.

He snorted. “Oh, we'll think of something. Loitering, probably. Hey, isn't there a school somewhere close, Joe?”

“I believe so, sir,” said the third cop. He was dark, hefty, had a beard as well as a mustache, and looked Italian. He had not touched her or said anything until now. He pulled off his hat and scratched his head. “Just a block from here.”

“Then we got it,” the patrolman said cheerfully. “That's a 537B, loitering for lewd and immoral purposes in the vicinity of a schoolyard. Let's go.”

“My ID,” she croaked.

He chuckled. “I'll keep it warm for you, honey,” he said, and put her wallet away next to his cigars.

Mike slid behind the wheel of the car and Joe got in beside him. The highway cop hustled her into the back seat, shut and locked the door, then came around and slid in beside her. He did not put out his cigar. The car's engine made a low, growling noise, and they began to glide up the hill. “Which precinct?” Mike asked over his shoulder. Joe kept his eyes fixed on the rear-view mirror, which gave him a good view of the back seat.

“Let's drive around,” the cop next to her suggested from behind a cloud of cigar smoke. “There's plenty more room back here. We might find some other female pervert that needs to be rounded up. The ladies can sit in each other's laps, put on a little show for us.”

The two men in front began to talk aimlessly about small things. She tried to sit forward, but every now and then the car would go over a bump, and she would fall back painfully on her manacled hands. Oddly enough, the handcuffs didn't seem to get any tighter. Had Mike set the stops? That would be out of character for a dyke-hating cop. Her mood swung between panic, anger, frustration, and laughter, and her jeans seemed awfully tight in the crotch. This was a fetishistic nightmare. Could she survive it? How many faggots would give their eye teeth to be where she was right now? As if you're above all that, she sneered at herself. Admit it, you've ogled the cops all your life. The uniforms, the guns, the muscles, the power to force others to obey. Now you're closer to more cops than you ever thought possible. You're scared, but you're also turned on. Or you'd like to be turned on, but you're sure they won't let you enjoy this. This isn't sexy for them.

A plume of pungent smoke interrupted her. She made a face, and he laughed at her. “You don't like that, do you?” he said lazily.

“No,” she said recklessly, staring into his eyes (or where his eyes should be, behind those huge insect mirrors).

He put his hand on his crotch, fondled it and squeezed it. “You don't like this, either, do you?”

“No!” Liar, her self-conscience jeered. You love getting fucked. You fantasize about cock and talk dirty about it all the time. But I'm a lesbian, her public persona objected. This doesn't have anything to do with that, the wiser voice replied. You better listen to me, girl, or you'll never get out of this alive. Where do you think they're taking you anyway? Nobody knows where you are. Nobody can help you. They can do anything to you they damned well please. You better consider whether they'd have more fun fucking you or killing you. Because you can be damn sure they're already wondering.

His hand rested over his cock, applying light pressure. She could see a long bulge down his inner thigh.

“You're going to like it,” he said. “I'm going to do you a big favor before we're through.”

Why did she find him reassuring, even attractive, despite that brutal note in his voice? He was just so damned strong. Maybe strong enough for both of them, stronger than her fear and outrage?

He was almost masturbating now. His gloved hand returned again and again to the hidden cock, which bulged and lengthened. He smoked his cigar while he worked, and when he took the cigar out of his mouth, he kept it pointed negligently at his crotch. She could not look away from it. Her mouth was dry, then filled with a gush of saliva, then parched again. The leather gloves fit his large hands so tightly, there must not be a wrinkle anywhere on them, they were so thin he must be able to feel—

Her breasts. The cigar smoldered in the ashtray. He had put it down, leaned over, laid his hands on her breasts and his breath across her cheek. He smelled like tobacco, leather, sweat, and men. The hands were surprisingly gentle, squeezing and stroking her breasts until they came down to the nipples, where his fingertips pinched her lightly—then harder. He repeated the caress only a half-dozen times while she wedged herself into the corner between the door and the seat and writhed. “Nice,” he said, as if he were surprised, then he grabbed her knees and forced them apart and touched her there, making his hand into a fist and pressing the knuckles against her seam, rocking the fist into her clit and labia and the aching hole. Thank God he was wearing leather gloves. Thank God she had her pants on. He probably couldn't tell how aroused she was—or her body was, despite her self, which stubbornly resisted him. But then he took his hand away and her hips lifted, just half an inch, to follow, and he smiled a nasty smile at her and said, “Gotcha.”

Then he was back on his side of the car and she was breathing hard, bewildered and pissed off. She tried to look away, out the window, but the power that would determine whether her life continued or not was sitting with her inside the car, so she had to look at him again. His hands went to his zipper—competent, practiced—and he undid it slowly (for her benefit,) reached inside, and (with some difficulty) removed his sem-rigid rod.

Nobody was talking in the front seat now. Mike was driving, but he kept stealing long looks in the rear-view mirror, and Joe was frankly staring at their reflection, his mouth hanging open like a dog on a hot day. Maybe I could do this in private and like it, she thought, but to have them watch and know I gave in and know I wanted it—it's too humiliating, I can't stand it!

His cock was beautiful. She felt like a traitor, but it was honestly quite lovely. So many inches of sculpted ivory, with a slight curve to one side and a shapely head. As they passed a street light, she saw that his piss-eye was glistening with a silvery fluid.

He sprawled, legs apart, crowding her, his boot up against hers, slowly stroking himself with his leather fist, eyeing her. She knew what he wanted, but she would not make it easy for him to get it. He would have to make all the moves. If only she could look away!

“See this?” he said seductively. Coaxing. She did not answer. “Come on, quit trying to kid me. You can't take your eyes off it. Want to see it up close?” His long arm reached out and dragged her to him, bent her over his erect flesh. “Aren't I nice to you? Providing all this free entertainment? Without you even saying ‘please' or ‘thank you' or ‘Mother may I.'”