Mikey’s Decision

***

Weren't we all once in the dainty dresses and hard square heels of our mother's closet? Weren't we scared to death of the soft luster of silk and cinnamon lace kept secure under tissue paper in silver shoeboxes? There we played princess of Arabia and danced in tinkling bangles; or we emulated the stolen brides of Ghenghis Khan watching time peacefully pass in the vanity, rubbing our long tender necks as we awaited our husband's promised return. Hadn't we all lived such a fantasy, if only on the fleeting moment of an ebb tide, if only for the duration of a car passing along its silver streak of sky, of a life controlled by the collar? "Surely", we thought, immured in our textbooks, desk-made hunch backs, "a blossom blooms largest from her terrarium."

Such strutting up and down the carpeted hallway in panties and brassier is not unique to me. It is rather taboo anyway, pretending at such an age that we could be the flower and not the gardener; but then a gardener does require a flower. What a terrible irony that the only time we have to control our lives and mold our person is shrouded within the ignorance of youth! Ah yes, many a man could say that with the right nurture—the right tether, the right whip, the right routine, the right methodology—their ideal feminine form might burst shoots and roots from their hearts and dance beneath the cherry blossom's of the emperor's estate. This her my she could only learn to thrive in such a fortressed estate. She'd need be corset-bound, donned so fully head-to-toe in her goals she'd make the most ambitious politician blush; and, just like that, immured in her high tower, a new-normal Rapunzel, she'd muster the guts to take a match irrefutably to the pubescent bridge. If only we were 18 once more! But here I was. I could decide!

Fluidity is not the lumberjack's dance, they clog the mulch and gravel; nuance has no place in the wrestling rink-- too many familiar faces forging you a mask. Likewise for my catwalk, I felt I could not admit a single emboldened black hair intrusion in my fallowing soil. I was no lumberjack, no wrestler, but I looked the role well enough. There were just two ways about it. Life, this power play. How did I learn that but beat and bloody at school, chucking my pink backpack into the river, forever stepping out of my mother's heels? There was only one way about life for my ilk. I would live between power and helplessness forever, finding my fluidity only in dreams, there imbibing liberty like molten gold.

On the night I was introduced to my emancipator, I realize now that I was in the middle of a repetition of the selfsame shallow life I'd practiced since long before the quarantine. I woke up in the shower, took my coffee, checked my email, fed the cat, woke my girlfriend, worked at my desk, brought her some breakfast, later she massaged my shoulders for a moment and we smiled at one another noting the many crazes of our half-kilned American domestic, made dinner, read some news articles on my phone (many a recent bad development), and then it was time for bed. Maia rolled over, taking inventory of the bad on her phone, and I enjoyed the only time of night I was alone. Only then could I think, and the very prospect frightened me, so of course I thought about sex.

The COVID quarantine wasn't exactly the time to be meeting through GRINDR or TINDR or via any other app I fantasized about downloading but never did. There wouldn't be too many out in the streets at this time of night not to mention during quarantine, so those you did see would doubtlessly stick in the mind. But, those present circumstances weren't exactly normal, and I felt daring.

For, in the midst of my fantasizing, of my endlessly browsing adult subreddits and thinking about stranger's cocks in my mouth, my phone vibrated with a sort of ominous delight. I didn't recognize the number, but saw it was a picture message. Idling as I was, I opened it immediately. Like a shark by blood, a salmon by warm river water, a werewolf by moonlight, I was called. God or the devil or whosoever attends the firmament must've been reading my leaves by soullight because as soon as I opened the text I nearly dropped my phone.

In the dark room, I watched Maia fidget with her nose and rub her eyes before turning over, and then I was in my jacket and on the street, accompanied only by the hum of telephone wires and my own pulse.

The picture was of a young woman, her back to me, her hands restrained by duct tape, with writing on either side of her ass that said, "ruin...me," and, of course, a captioning address. The old quarry up on Corral St. No one at the quarry especially now, so I didn't bring my mask, didn't bring anything. Only the cock. I thought that's all I need. I'd repose in her body, feel none of the usual tension, have none of the unseemly anxiety, and then I'd ditch the scene and slip into bed. For once, I'd live out my power fantasy. If I ended up with Corona, even better, then Maia would care for me a while and I wouldn't have to worry about signing the bills.

Soon, I reckoned, Mother Slut would "turn me feminine" and some rich assholes with a femboy fetish would fuck me and toss me aside every night. I'd never have to worry about anything but myself, and if they can take years off my face with that cream, hell, I'd never have to worry about time either. Long enough spent this way I might turn into Aphrodite. Better than plugging away on keys all day putting away for retirement and budgeting my fucking fast food trips. Being a fuck slut is kind of like getting fast food all the time whenever you want as much as you want and never getting fat or feeling ashamed because it's your everything. Your goals-- your ambitions--have become a crystal-clear point and all you need to do is exist into them, like a reliable train slipping into station.

A sudden burst of alarm broke my train of thought. First, I heard the sirens, then loud terrifying voices, and then I was being doused with freezing water. People outside panicked in a cacophony of moans and screams and the scream of the alarm coated it all in a lurid aluminum. An out-of-breath Mother Slut, stumbled through door her eyes wide with fright. She looked just like a shell-shocked child with ashes in her hands. She regarded me and then doubled over coughing. Flecks of spit glazed my face. She was bleeding from the mouth. She collapsed to the ground, a puddle of blood forming around her head.

In the hallway guards ran back and forth knocking into one another, splitting lips against the wall with a disregard for their cage. Among the ruckus, many bodies were slumped on the floor. One man whispered what sounded like a prayer as streamers of blood sprung from his lips at the inflection of every word. All about me, grizzled, half-clothed men coughed and fell. I walked past them all slowly and carefully. This way I easily snuck past as if they were in a shallow sleep.

Eventually I came to the front of the house met by a tall pair of wooden French doors. A stained glass frieze above depicted Peter choking on his own tears as he falls to his ragged knees, Jesus in the background carrying humanity's burden out of frame.

Outside, the police lined their cars caravan style, two sturdy, gun-wielding officers to every vehicle. The light's blare meant any scenery around me was lost in a haze of red and blue. I walked toward them thinking I can sneak through when out of it all I heard my name in some wretch's blood-filled mouth. Again I heard it and I paused. The voice was familiar, like an echo from the past. The cars before me parsed like steel curtains and there she was couched in the arms of a young EMT, my name dissolving in her wheezes. Maia.

When I came in closer I noticed the EMT decked in a white biohazard suit. He handed her fragile, body to me. Her head rested on my thigh. "Maia," I said, but no words came out, I was silent.

"How could he do this?" She said weakly. "How?"

All the while a milky red film floated upon her eyes and formed scab-like about her lips.

A knock at the door disturbed my sleep. It was dark. For a moment, I wondered where I was but then Mother Slut opened the door and flicked on the light. In one hand was a black leather collar and in the other she swung its adorning leash like a lasso.

"Are you ready for your first day, princess?"