Colt

“I’ve never fit in anyone’s world. I’m just everyone’s fucking freak show. A woman without a cunt, a boy with boobs. A TS. A pre-op. Cross-gendered and transgendered. A fucking kittypole! Everybody else’s fucking labels! I’m a man and I’m a woman. Like being Polish and Irish, Jap and Wop, Nigger and Spik! Give me a break!

“Once, a man loved me. I know he did. I could tell in his voice and touch. Roan. But he couldn’t live in my world. He tried. He left me. Went to Madison, Wisconsin. Said something about his spiritual center was there. Some bullshit like that.

“The first half-second I saw you tonight in the pub, I had to catch my breath. Not that you look like him. I was taken with the feeling—maybe just one desperate feeling—you were the one, one who could…who would….”

“Love you?” I ask. “Why not? We can see. We can work on it. Sex is easy. Sex is quick. Love is harder. Love takes longer. I loved our sex. That’s a start.”

“Oh, yeah, well, everybody likes sex with me! I’m the fuck of their dreams—until I become the fuck of their nightmares! I fuck women’s cunts and suck their cunts. They love to suck my tits and then blow me! I blow guys’ cocks and they love to fuck my ass! That and a quarter will get me a fucking Dunkin’ Donut!”

“Well, then, we start just like other people do!” I smile. “We’ve had our sex. Now, we date!”

Kimmie gives me that look that only a black woman can give. “A date? A fucking date?! You mean, like, a dinner and a movie? Go to the museum? Park at the Planetarium and make out? Walk at the zoo and throw peanuts at the bears?”

“Well, yeah!” I say.

“Okay.” She says, daring me. “Ask me out on a fucking date.”

“Tomorrow. One o’clock. Brookfield Zoo for the dolphin show! I’ll pick you up at nine.”

“Nine? For a one o’clock show?”

“I’ll take you to brunch,” I say. “Maybe I’ll have you for brunch!” Kimmie slaps me upside the head with a pillow. A bit of sadness leaves her eyes.

“You know, Sugar,” I say, “you think they got any beer in this fucking house? I’d love a fucking cold beer right now!”

“I’m with ya, Sailor. Let’s go!”

Part 7 My Life in the NFL

We get dressed. Well, I do. Kimmie holds up her slit top and skirt and shakes her head, dropping them to the floor. She puts on the robe I wore…God, was that just today?

Thankfully, Kimmie knows her way around a little. That’s a part of her story I want to know quickly—what’s her connection to this insanity? We find the kitchen and open the fridge. Yes! Kimmie and I high five each other. Goose Island pilsner! A great Chicago brew! We pop the caps and both take deep chugs. It is so fucking cold and bubbly and foamy. Kimmie holds her thumb over the top, shakes it, and sprays me with beer. I spray her back. We are having fun as a couple. Here, we start.

Then, we hear two firecrackers—or whatever. “What the fuck?” I say, frozen.

“I know those sounds, Baby! Them’s gunshots!”

We then hear a scream, and then another shot. We run out of the kitchen to the foyer. A door slams and Damon appears at the top of the stairs, holding a pistol. He starts running down, notices he has the gun, and drops it on his way. He sees us but does not stop. We’re directly in front of him. As he reaches the bottom and heads our way to the door, I fake him low. He leaps and I raise myself, tackling him mid-waist. We slide on the marble floor and his head crashes into the door, knocking him unconscious.

“Kimmie! Go get some of those handcuffs. I’ll stay here in case he comes to.” For a moment she stands there, stunned, but then hurries to the cellar. When she returns, I cuff Damon’s wrists and ankles. He comes to, looking dazed as we stand over him.

“Butkus,” I say.

He looks at me, uncomprehending.

“Dick Butkus? Middle linebacker? Bears? Hall of Fame? One of the best. Fake you low, hit you high. Knock the snot out of you. That is your snot on the door, right Damon? Or is it your fucking brains?” I pause, shaking my head. “Quit watching that fucking NBA shit!”

I start toward the stairs.

“I’m coming with,” Kimmie says, by my side.

There is a long hallway at the top with many doors leading to rooms. We walk to the one where we hear crying.

Colt is kneeling on the floor, sobbing into her hands. Lisa lays next to her. Both are covered with blood.

Colt senses us and looks up.

“He was just supposed to just scare her. Threaten her. Get her off my fucking back! I wanted her as a friend and a lover, not a fucking mother! Don’t dress like this or that. Men are no good for you. You drink too much. You smoke too much. Is this a fucking joint? You’re wearing too much mascara. But, no, she had to fight, the fucking bitch!”

Kimmie walks to her and helps her up. I walk up to them.

“Oh, Jesus, Colt!” I say. “What have you done?”

“Done? Me? I didn’t shoot her. Damon did!”

“But you put him up to this! You’re an accessory,” I say.

“I didn’t tell him to kill her, for God’s sake!”

“This is just like one of your fucking bondage games, Jessica.” I shout. “Yeah, no more Colt! String somebody up in a townhouse and bring her to the edge. String me up in your cellar and bring me to the edge. String Kimmie up in the cellar and bring her to the edge. How many times did you string Damon up in the cellar and bring him to the edge? How many have you strung up in your fucking Room and brought to the edge?Yourfucking edge. But this time, someone went off that edge. Playful and spirited! Now, Lisa’s dead. Playful and spirited, my ass! Michael too. You’d have drove me to the fucking bottle too! You’re a fucking menace to anyone who meets you. Try a few playful years in the fucking slammer!”

I walk to the phone.

After the police reports are done, the body removed, the last shred of evidence bagged and ID’d, Kimmie and I stand in front of the estate on Paddock Lane in Oakbrook, Illinois. 1:30 a.m. Six days ago, I was flirting and then having sex with a woman I called Colt. Pretty. Playful. Spirited. I almost laughed at the irony when they put her in handcuffs tonight and took her away. I wanted to like her. Fucking bitch!

“Come home with me,” I say to Kimmie. “I need someone with me tonight. I need to cuddle with someone warm, someone I like.”

She nods yes and gets in my car. Kimmie leans against me and we drive to my house.

“Tell me about Roan and you,” I ask. Kimmie bristles, whispers “Roan” under her breath with disgust. She doesn’t want to but she does. She talks about wanting to have sex with other men and women. Roan couldn’t deal with that. I do not like that either, I tell her. I tell her that I may not be anyone’s ideal regarding loyalty and love, but when I have had a girlfriend, then she is the only one in my life and I give her what I can, be it for a day or week or a year.

He couldn’t live in my world Kimmie had said. A ticket to Kimmie’s world. Colt had her own world, too. Lisa died in Colt’s world. Well, I’ve got a fucking world myself! It’s Mack’s Wonderful White Male World. You must be as tall as this fucking sign to ride!

“And how is life in Kimmie’s world?” I ask.

We ride the rest of the way in silence.

When I walk through my front door, I feel like collapsing. I leave the weight of Colt at the door. Standing in my front room, Kimmie embraces me and starts to cry. I embrace her closely to me. She feels good and warm and comforting.

“Let’s take a shower,” I suggest. “Let’s just get clean.”

The warmth and steam cleanse us. I wash Kimmie from behind her ears to between her toes and she washes me. I am aware of her beauty and sexuality but I do not touch her provocatively. We both just want to purge the deepest of our pores of the night.

I dry her. Without the sex, I concentrate on her body.

“It’s got nothing to do with possession, you know,” I say. I pat her face and neck. Her brown eyes still have sadness in them, but perhaps a little less so than when we met. They are almonds. Her nose is wide and cute, her lips, lush and full.

“I can never possess you. It’s about commitment.” I towel her shoulders. Her skin is dark, almost Kenyan-like. Her frizzled hair glistens like silver. I will have to learn about black hair.

“It’s about respect for another and for yourself. It’s feeling you’re special for someone, not like you’re some thing for everyone.” I kiss her lightly. She looks down. I turn her around and pat her shoulders, her man’s shoulders and triceps, broad and muscular, lifting shoulders.

“Love doesn’t just happen. Puppy love is infatuation, not love. Puppy love goes when the next pretty ass walks by.” Her torso curves steeply in and is soft, leading to her beautiful hips and ass, firm, feminine, the hills on the map of her body. I kiss her ass, lightly, a gentle nibble. She tenses and sighs.Her thighs are like stone and her calves firm, curved, and sexy. “It’s a commitment two people make to work on building a relationship.” As I kneel, I turn her around and am slightly startled. I face Kimmie’s cock. I had almost forgotten. Soft. Swaying. Asleep.

“I can’t work on loving you when my cock is in someone else’s cunt or mouth or ass.” I towel it and gently dry her balls. I blow on them. She moans. “I can’t work on loving you when I think you are with someone else.”

I stand before her. I hold her to me, gently.

“I cannot think ‘Kimmie’ when I am shooting jizz into another person. And if I am not thinking about ‘Kimmie,’ then I am not loving her.”

“Oh, Mack!” Kimmie says quietly. “Mack, you’re so gentle!”

She engulfs me in her arms.

“Then will you take me to your world?”