Trapper and Emmeline (8 page)

True to her dress code, the smock was short, wisping over her thighs. It rose formlessly to a tight, embroidered bust that hugged her chest, so that it seemed to hang straight from her breasts. The city breezes pul ed at it mercilessly. It jumped around her legs whenever she took a step. I half wished I were across the street, so I could watch her walk past.

Even though I was pissed because she was closing me out, something I can’t bear, I stil admired her. That morning, she had ridden the subway into Manhattan wearing nothing but that dress, her panties, her clogs, and a book bag over her shoulder. She went to classes, climbed and descended stairs, and ate lunch with a friend. She was adapting wel to our whole weird thing. For her to be suddenly demure was quite out of place.

I said, “Let’s make a relationship rule.”

“Rules are good.”

We turned the corner into a strong breeze. New York does that—it funnels wind into the avenues between buildings, so you can go from calm to windy in three steps. I never noticed this until Emmeline. The air kicked up the hem of her smock. Her legs were long and muscular, and excel ently shown off by her three-inch clogs. She took long steps to match mine. Her hips swayed in a sexy, catwalk manner.

“Let’s have a no-judgment zone. When we’re holding hands, we can say whatever is on our minds, and we can’t make judgments about each other.”

“We’re holding hands now,” she observed.

“And I promise I won’t judge you.”

My work was done. Emmeline had incredible confidence in our relationship rules. Al I had to do was wait.

“Trap, since we started dating, and doing al these new and interesting things… lots of guys look at me. They talk to me. We talk back and forth. It’s just innocent talking but it gives me a thril .”

“That’s wonderful,” I said. “You
should
be talking to lots of men.”

“But what about us? You and me? Are we breaking up?”

I stopped dead.

“Holy shit, Emmy, did I say anything about breaking up? Talk to whomever you want. Just keep me in the loop.”

“It’s more flirting than talking, as it turns out,” she stammered.

“A little flirting is okay,” I said.

She groaned in frustration, then blurted, “I mean, it’s
lots
of flirting. Not me so much as the guys.
I’m being hit on,
okay?
Al the time. It’s fucking with my head.”

“Do you want to leave me?”

“No.” Her voice was quiet, but she clutched my arm as if I was going to disappear.

I shook my head.
Since when was I the strong one?

“What the heck are these guys tel ing you?”

“I’m getting into conversations that make me feel like I’m cheating on you.” She gave a little sniffle.

“Like how?”

“For example, a boy and I talk about sneaking off together to kiss. Just to kiss. We seriously discuss it. How long.

What we’l do to each other. And you never get mentioned somehow. I forget to mention my boyfriend.”

“I’m fine with it.” And then I trailed off, marveling at a new feeling that washed over me. The prickly feeling around my heart that indicated jealousy.

Jealousy!

I had no reason to be jealous, but there it was. I couldn’t imagine a less useful emotion for the sort of couple Emmeline and I were becoming.

“You’re angry.” She brushed her cheek against my neck. She did that every now and then. She liked the roughness when I was unshaven. In lines at the store, when we meet at the coffee shop, or when we were hanging out with friends—

she would rub up against me, a little gesture from our lovemaking in the middle of the world.

“No. I’m thinking of new rules. Rule: Once a day, someone has to ask you out.”

“You’re insane.”

“I know that already,” I said. “You feel like you’re cheating, but you’re not. We both know it. You’re the center of attention sometimes, and guys are going to flirt with you. Why fool ourselves? We both love when it happens.”

We were standing on a street corner, waiting for a gap in traffic. I stepped around and hugged her from behind, my hands gliding over her warm, flat stomach. I could feel every detail of her torso through the smock. She sank back against me.

“I’ve stopped jil ing off in the morning,” she whispered. She was abashed, her face down. This was unusual for her.

Usual y she had no modesty at al . “It’s part of the excitement. I wake up horny and take a shower. I get dressed stil horny. I pul a dress out of the closet, and put it on. I spin in front of the mirror and watch my legs. Horny.”

“Good.”

“Then I walk through Queens, and ride the subway into the city.”

She planted a kiss on my mouth. I had my hands on her hips. As she leaned back, I couldn’t help myself—I gathered the fabric in my fists, and hiked her dress a few inches higher. There was a sidewalk café ful of people next to us.

Emmeline knew exactly what I was doing, and bit down on my lower lip until I released her hem again.

“Trap, it’s like the clothes are part of jil ing off. Except I don’t come until I get to your apartment. My days are one long foreplay.”

“The clothes, the looks people give you, the guys hitting on you...”

“It’s al foreplay. You think I don’t notice, or care, because I always say yes to your ideas?” She laughed. “It’s the opposite. My heart jumps whenever you make a rule. I get wet thinking about the rules. I have to fight to keep from steering the conversation back to me, and my stupid rules, al the time.”

I knew an opportunity when I heard it. “Then here’s another rule for you: Once a week, you
must
go out with someone who invites you on a date. Your choice of guy.”

“No,” she said, shocked.

“Yes.”

“Okay!” She said, and laughed at herself. “It’s like a dream. A great boyfriend, and I stil get to date.”

We started walking again.

“And the next rule—get at least one guy a day to touch you. And I don’t mean shake your hand. They have to have a hand on your arm, or your body, or legs.”

“Now how do I do
that?
”

“Emmy, if I had the answer to that, girls would be touching me al the time. What if you talk about your morning workouts? Have them feel a bicep. Or hug them when you meet. Stand close to them and elbow them when they say something funny. Be physical. Men love that. And when they see that you’re fine with it, they wil make excuses to handle you.”

“
Handle
me,” she drawled. “They’l start touching me every day, don’t you think? That’s... slutty. Not a bad slutty.

Besides, I guess men are always touching girls.”

“Real y?”

“In my mind, I’m counting the number of times today someone touched me. It’s more than I thought, I just usual y don’t think notice it. And my dad’s friends kiss me on the cheek. They like to pretend they’re Old World.”

“No more of that, Emmeline.”

“No more kisses?”

“No more kisses on the
cheek.
You’re an adult now. From now on, you kiss on the lips.”

“You’re on crack.”

But since she wasn’t teasing me or redirecting the conversation with a joke, I knew she was considering the kissing.

Her sudden blush confirmed it. And, like it often happened when she was on the verge of agreeing to something, her eyes rose to the side, as if looking for a little angel who would nod to her.

“You mean it?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “We need you showy, touchy, and kissy. For a while you’l need to train guys to kiss you when they see you. Remember, we men are chickenshits. We need to learn that you are friendly and welcoming to al men, that no one

ever
gets rejected—or else we won’t have the nerve to get close. And we have to know you’l kiss us on the lips, so we can opt in or opt out depending on how much nerve we have.”

“Oh,” she said. Her gait was uneven, she was breathing heavily and thinking hard. “I see you’ve thought this through.”

“Imagine this new rule in action,” I said.

“I total y am,” she murmured. “Every guy?”

“Make it part of your ritual. Make the kissing part of
you
.”

“I can do that,” she said, though she sounded uncertain. “What if they kiss me with an open mouth?”

“So open your mouth too, what’s the big deal?”

I tried to sound natural but I was massively turned on just talking about it. Did I mention Emmeline was a power trip for me? By this point in our relationship, I knew that whatever idiotic thing I said, she could very wel take it seriously—and try to do it.
I had to be sure I was saying what I real y wanted, and that I wasn’t getting swept away by the mood. Our pil ow talk and our real-life talk sometimes got mixed up.

And I was worried about the unflagging touch of jealousy inside me. I could feel it even through my arousal.

So to be a little cautious about things, I added, “Kiss them back with an open mouth, but cut it off after a while. Keep it as something you can do in front of your friends, and they would only be slightly scandalized.”

We entered the library. Halfway to the elevators, I stopped her.

“Last rule, Emmy. In the library, no underwear if you’re wearing a skirt.”

She rol ed her eyes at this, but then shrugged. “To tel the truth, I don’t think I wil notice the difference anymore. Panties or no panties, it’s al the same.”

“How do you know
that?
”

“A few times, I cheated and left my panties in Queens.”

“Oh,” I said. At least I meant to. It came out like “Arrggh” because I was having an erection problem. My cock was rising into the air like the space shuttle, and running into every kind of launch difficulty with my jeans and belt.

“Yes,” she said smugly. “You just heard that.”

She kissed me again, a kiss ful of promise and glee.

“Trapper, can I ask why you’re making al these awesome rules for us if you’re feeling jealous? Shouldn’t we slow things down a little?”

“I don’t feel jealous,” I said. “Wel , I do, but not al the time. Only when we’re not together and I’m thinking about how crazy we are. These rules wil help me get over al that. And they wil help you get over your guilt. So we can get on with the real reason we’re together.”

“Making me into a wet dream for al men?”

I laughed. I had real y said that to her—and at the time I’d real y meant it.

“As it turns out, Emmy, that’s just a side effect. From now on it’s al about you and me. Fuck everybody else.”

“If you say so.”

We arrived at the library elevator.

“Oh, here’s Mike,” she said, in a very different voice.

“A guy you know?”

“Yep.” She sounded a little grim. She was girding herself for what would come next.

“Em—Emmeline?” The guy was a mousy, tentative sort of undergrad in jeans and a t-shirt.

“Hi, Mike! Where y’at?”

Emmeline stepped out of my arms, and toward the other guy. I let her go.

“Um, great, Emmeline. I’m just getting some stuff for the paper…”

She leaned into him, and he, though clearly not expecting it, quickly adjusted. His hand went to her waist in a parody of a side-hug. She had other ideas. She pressed through his hug and pecked him on the lips. When she pul ed away he had a glazed, faraway expression.

“Mike, I want you to meet Trapper, my boyfriend.”

“Hey, Mike! You two have a class together?”

He shoved his hand out convulsively, eyes darting everywhere but at me. We shook, and I smiled at him with a sudden burst of friendliness. Pre-Emmeline Trapper would have dismissed him; today’s Trapper was more curious. If Emmeline would be kissing him—no,
because
Emmeline would be kissing him, I felt very amiable towards him.

“Yeah,” said Mike, groping for words. “We’re in Poli Sci together.”

Emmeline leaned against him, smiling at me from behind his head. Her high breasts slid across his chest and quashed against him. His hand clenched around her waist. She nuzzled her forehead against his cheek and said, “Mike’s going to help me get an A! He’s sooo smart!”

Her fingernails stroked his neck, above the col ar of his t-shirt. He turned red like flipping a switch. Emmeline’s eyes flicked over to me.