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  But still, this white boy right here, I appreciated the effort in his black suede shoes, highwater dark blue pants, matching jacket, and shiny silk white vest with ruffles. He even wore a fucking black bow tie that matched his cheesy grin.

  “You look—you look even more beautiful in person, ma’am!” he gasped, eyes lit up. I knew I looked good in my skintight white dress that hugged the curves of my body, low-cut, showing off luscious breasts, a slender belt of gold cinching my waist, white pumps I’d stoned myself, sparkling. I wore a long, black, dark, and lovely wig that rested just above my collarbone. I glowed with the dew of makeup and humid city air. He stared me over, again—could you blame him? My hips, my bust, my ass, no foam or padding here, I was real, as real as the Tiffany diamond studs in my ears.

  I smiled and petted his damp cheek with a creamy white acrylic nail. “You’ve been my dream all along, Teena…”

  “Chile.” I laughed, batting my falsies.

  He was on a cloud, this one. As harsh as it may have seemed, I had to burst that bubble and bring him back to earth real quick. One hand on my hip, the other extended, meaningfully, waiting. With a big smile, he took my hand. He turned it over to stroke my palm with his thumb. I blinked, thinking, Bless his heart, this fool, but what the fuck is he doing, and who the hell does he think I am? When he seemed about to knit our fingers together in a tight embrace, I cleared my throat and raised my brow to remind him why we were here. He blushed, let go of my hand, and nodded. He removed his wallet from his pocket.

  I counted the cash; exactly one fifty. Mr. Big Spender took the door handle from the doorman and held it open for me, ushering me in. My voice went from deep to high as I chirped, “Why, thank you, dear!”

  Sally’s II, formerly known as Sally’s Hideaway before it was damaged by a serious fire in 1992, was like a disco-cabaret love child. It held a circular bar, two flights above the street, and a small lounge, up another flight of stairs at the side of the bar. The low-ceilinged lounge area consisted of dozens of small cocktail and pool tables, where some cross-dressers could be found laughing like hyenas, toasting to nothing but the rhythm. There were mirrored disco balls hanging from the ceiling, strings of flashing rainbow lights illuminated the expansive dance floor packed with men grinding on one another under a rain of confetti to the thumpa-thumpa. This was my illusionary world, my safe haven, my home.

  My date didn’t seem taken aback by anything or anyone. I figured that he’d been here before, even though I could also tell that no one here knew or recognized him—no one greeted him with a wink, a smile, or a hello. He had a charming, cool air about him. I saw in his confidence a clear respect—he knew that all the customers and performers here were contour specialists, self-made stars, show personalities; we were liars, cheaters, scam artists, frauds, blackmail extortionists; we were victims of circumstance, battling AIDs; we were leaders, role models, and survivors. We were a family daring to be beautiful, amazing, electrifying.

  I met eye to eye with a few of the glamazons who also stood many inches taller than my boy. They were decked out in dramatic furs; wild, feathered, showgirl headdresses; ridiculous sky-high pumps; catsuits; and radiant, rhinestoned costumes. Some were practically half-naked, as epic and divine as hell. And my boy didn’t seem at all out of place. I had told some of the gorls I’d be bringing this strange boy along for freewheeling fun, and they smiled and waved me in with a loving “Hi-eee, bitch!” and “We still on for our silicone appointment tomorrow?” and “I want to be as pumped as you, Teena, gurl, you look sickening!” as still, my date was ignored, as if he weren’t even here, like some cuckold. He couldn’t stop smiling; he loved it.

  After I blew kisses at the emcees, the Dolls, politely, my date once more took me by the hand, and this time he pecked it a most sophisticated kiss that said, I’m ready when you are. I checked the time on his clearly expensive, shiny gold Rolex wristwatch, as did he. With a wink, I led us to the back dressing room. It was dark and seedy, setting the mood perfectly. All of the girls had clearly just left, fully painted and ready for showtime. Hairspray and that heavy, waxy, powdery, and vanilla-ish essence of drag makeup and strong cocktails perfumed the air.

  There was a mirror here, a mirror there, mirror, mirror, everywhere—we couldn’t miss or hide from our reflections even if we tried.

  He stood there, as boyish as ever, gawking at me all over. I went to him.

  Now he was hard; his average cock rubbed against my tucked crotch as I leaned in to kiss him. His lips were so small and skinny, mine naturally overtaking his, as a moan and quiver escaped him. I sucked them whole with my tongue flickering, moist; his breath was sweet mint that I craved, sucking the taste from his mouth. I pulled him in closer and tugged at his bow tie, a collar and a chain.

  I sucked his bottom lip with a tug, letting go. “Get on your knees,” I growled deeply. I pushed him back away from me as I glared; he looked overwhelmed with glee and a little touch of fear. “Who’s a dirty pig?”

  “I’m a dirty pig, I’m a dirty pig…” He shivered, finding his balance then looked down on the filthy, sticky floor, catching his breath. The look in his eyes was so needy, so eager, it was hard to tell if he was euphoric or ashamed. I smirked.

  “Say it again,” I demanded.

  “I—I’m a—d-dirty—p-p-pig.”

  His stutter! Oh, that was so fucking hot that I knew I had to give him what he wanted. He blinked, and I undid my tuck, everything hanging out beneath the hem of my skirt. He looked up at me, more like a puppy than a swine, still on the floor, where I wanted him. “You’re such a good boy…” I cooed as I petted that chin, smooth and shaven clean. When I lifted that chin up, I smiled at his sorry lips stained with hibiscus.

  His Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped, taking in the sight of my cock. He looked me deep in the eyes and I spat—not on my cock but my left pump, saliva shining against the rhinestones, twinkling like his eyes. “Cocksucker. You’re a bootlicker, too, aren’t you?”

  Did I even have to ask? Oh, he was a fast one! He was so quick when I ordered him to lick my spit. There was no way this was his first time, fast and professional as he was, working his tongue around every crevice of the jewels. I stepped back and laughed high and mighty as he pouted. My legs began to shake under the pressure of the pumps and excitement. I needed to sit down; I wasn’t going to let him see me fall. I moved to a chair, where I began caressing myself from waist to tummy as my nasty pig kept on licking. Once he licked me dry, I leaned over to spit on the floor, grinding my heel into the dribble to let him clean that, too. He cuffed his hands around my ankle, loosening, tightening his grip and holding as he licked and licked with a pant and groan. Did he know his thirty minutes were almost up?

  He froze immediately when I ordered him to stop so he could unzip his pants and reveal himself to me.

  He wore silk black panties, fishnet stockings, and a dainty little black garter belt that held them up high. When he pushed the panties down, his shiny metal cock ring, hugging at his base, against all that pubic hair, flashed. His mouth gaped open, drooling, as I began to caress my cock. I ordered him to clean that shit up—“Lick your own spit, bitch.” He broke his gaze away, doing as he was told, Barbra Streisand’s “One Less Bell to Answer/A House Is Not a Home” booming from the front of the club. I felt a surge of optimism, of romance, run through me, wonderful and weak.

  I lifted my skirt, caressed my balls, wagged my cock like a tease to oh, I should be happy… He opened his mouth wider, only to stop to kiss the tip of my cock head, swallowing a pearl of precum. I gasped in shock at the sweetness of this, at the warmth of his mouth on my skin. I smiled, I closed my eyes, feeling his thin lips soft as rose petals against my brown skin. He thought I was in control, yet I wasn’t. I watched him jerk himself off, his doleful eyes crowning at the head of my cock, taking me whole into his mouth. Slowly he sucked, his tongue dancing fast; my palm found the back of his head, running my acrylic nails through his shiny hair, greasy with pom
ade. His eyes watered as he inched his way down my shaft, as his throat opened, and by his command and pace and control alone, my cock dove deeper into that throbbing wet hole. Base deep, his lips trembled, jerking himself so fast the sight gave me whiplash. He bobbed faster, and harder, so confident and sure, his passion rising so high, so brilliantly. The vibration of his moan against my cock made us cum in unison. He pulled back only to push forward, again and again. He finally opened his mouth, showing off his tongue slick and gooey, holding me in his mouth.

  “Rise!” I ordered.

  His dick was limp and wet in my palms as I held it, and he gasped as I squeezed. Our lips met in one wet, sloppy kiss, our tongues swapping my cum back and forth, mouth-to-mouth, as if we were old lovers, tender and holding hands. Together our hips rocked together, slow dancing as if on prom night. Then, suddenly, we let go. We gulped.

  “Will I ever see you again, Teena?” His usual shyness was there, but he also sounded sad and weary. He waited for my answer.

  He smiled when I took his hand, as if there was hope, when I was only looking to his wristwatch to check the time again. Our thirty minutes had ended. I pouted and sighed. “Well, there’s always the next appointment, sugar. You know which number to call…” I joined our fingers in an embrace.

  When he took my free hand, we kissed again, our hands knotted ever more, and this time it felt as real as life could be. Were we really this fucking lonely? Face-to-face, mirror to mirror, we saw each other for what we were. As the audience in the other room applauded the end of the act, onward we kissed.

  Reach

  by Roxane Gay

  I enjoy tormenting my wife, Sasha. I do it because she lets me. Sasha lets me torment her because she enjoys it. We play little games, share mutual interests. She likes watching me chop onions before I fuck her over the kitchen counter so that she can taste their bite and cry without cause. I like watching her humiliate herself for me. There is a balance between us. “Annie,” she’ll say, while we’re sitting next to each other on the train, on the way to work. There’s always urgency in her voice, and I know what she’s going to say before the words fall from her mouth. I’ll turn to look at her, then look away, quietly observing the other passengers—the way the man across the aisle from us adjusts himself when he thinks no one is looking, the way the woman in the row in front of us keeps jerking her head, trying to stay awake.

  While I’m watching all this, I’ll turn toward my wife, my needful wife, slide my hand across my left thigh to Sasha’s right, squeezing gently, slipping my fingers beneath the hem of her skirt. She’ll clear her throat and look out the opposite window at the passing scenery, a light pink blush spreading across her face. She’ll pretend to be somewhat disturbed. But she’ll brush her thumb across my wrist and lean closer into me. We’ll stare at each other in these moments, and the rest of the world recedes. All I see is my wife, her legs spreading ever wider as we pass through the unknown.

  Later, always, I smell her on my wedding ring.

  Sasha enjoys these torments because she appreciates the view from the bottom. She told me this on our third date. She was kneeling on the floor of my apartment, smiling up at me on the couch, my jeans around my ankles. “I don’t care what you think of me,” she said, with a little laugh. “I like the view from down here.” And with that, she swallowed the length of my cock, continuing to laugh. I could feel the vibrations of her throat muscles at the base of my clit. It was a curious sensation.

  Sasha carries her secrets in tight knots along her spine. When she’s lying in bed, her back facing me, I can see their outlines in the dark. Sometimes I reach for her to trace them with my fingertips. She shrinks away, curling herself tightly. I withdraw but continue to watch. Sometimes, after we’ve shared a bottle of wine and we’re on the couch watching television, she’ll dance around her secrets, try to share a part of herself, but she never gets too far. I don’t push. I don’t want to complicate the games we play with our histories.

  We married after dating for only seven months. I proposed to her after a free jazz concert in Central Park. We were sitting on a bench, where she was trembling and smoking a cigarette. It was cold and windy and miserable. I put my coat around her shoulders, knowing it would smell like tobacco for weeks afterward. It was not a moment. I didn’t make promises I couldn’t keep. But after I asked and showed her the ring, she took a long drag on her cigarette and answered, “I’m going to say yes because I think you have the capacity to hurt me the way I need you to.”

  People think they know Sasha. When they see her, they think she is a thick, energetic woman who is always in a good mood. I see Sasha with her arms bound behind her back so tightly that her elbows are touching. There is anger in her eyes, and her lips are swollen. She is seated on a wooden chair, her breasts thrust forward, a thin silver chain between her nipples. I am standing, one boot on the chair between her thighs, only a few inches away from her cunt. She looks right through me as she tries to inch forward, create a point of contact between us. I simply smile. I hold myself back. And then I don’t.

  Sasha wants me to take her somewhere—a place she has no vocabulary for—a place neither of us has been. I can hear it in her cries when we’re fucking, or I’m stretching her limbs across our bed, or we’re crammed into the antiseptic space of the train bathroom. I can always tell that we’re not quite there yet. It creates tension between us. Tonight, I wait for Sasha to return home from work. She is late, as usual. I never know where she goes after work. I don’t ask. I am in our backyard listening to the night when I feel her cool hands on my shoulders. Without turning around, I say, “You’re late.”

  “I know,” she replies and returns to the house.

  I finger my belt buckle and stand slowly. I find Sasha in our bathroom, undressing. She smiles at my reflection in the mirror, unraveling her hair from the two platinum hair sticks she uses to sweep her hair up most days. When she sets them on the counter, the sound echoes through the room. She quietly slips out of her dress, and I glance at the scars along her upper back—scars for which she offers no explanation. Lower, there are scars I have given her.

  The thin, slightly braided scar just above the crack of her ass, that runs the width of her back, I gave to her in Miami. We were staying in one of those boutique hotels in South Beach. We came back to our room after a night of strolling Collins Avenue, drinking mojitos, dancing to la musica Cubana, pretending we were people different from ourselves. She quickly undressed, splashed some water on her face, and crawled into bed with my straight razor. She crossed one leg over the other, the tip of the open razor pressed into her knee. “I once saw this movie,” she said, trailing her hand along the empty space next to her.

  I knelt at her feet, pressing my lips against the exposed soft spot of her inner ankle. I slid my hands up her muscled calf, slightly gritty with sand. She uncrossed her legs. I lay atop her, letting her feel the full weight of my body. Sasha’s chest tightened, and her breathing grew labored. I kissed her roughly, sliding my tongue into her mouth, across her teeth. I freed the razor from her grip, set it on the pillow next to her face. My hands, still rough with sand, slid between our bodies, up her torso, around the outer curves of her breasts. She arched upward, and I moved my lips to her neck, tugging at the taut skin with my teeth until she gasped loudly.

  I turned Sasha onto her stomach and lay next to her, one of my legs draped over hers, my mouth at her ear, whispering to her about all the things I would do to her that night and every night thereafter. I called her the names she likes to be called—whore, slut, mine. I took the razor and slid the dull edge along her spine and across her back, navigating the tightly knotted secrets and scars. I stopped just above her ass, pressed the sharp edge of the razor at one end of her back, and quickly drew it across. She hissed as tiny droplets of blood appeared. I tossed the razor aside and inched her thighs farther apart. We had seen the same movie. I raised her ass toward me and slid my cock inside her. It seemed like all the muscles in her
body tensed. She reached back without ceremony, digging her nails into my skin, urging me deeper. Afterward, I told her I loved her, the way I always did. I touched the drying blood. She sat up, wrapped the sheet around herself, and lit a cigarette. I watched the silhouette of smoke curl around her. Sasha, a lifelong Johnny Cash fan, smiled at me and whispered, “Love is a burning thing.”

  I want to know the stories of all her scars, but I’m not sure I’m willing to pay the price for that knowledge. Sasha continues to stare at my reflection. She is an expert at holding a gaze. She won’t break—not for anything. She’s that way about many things. And I like to find a woman’s breaking point before she finds mine. In this way, we are at cross purposes. She turns around and leans back against the bathroom counter. I pull my belt free from my waist and wrap it around her throat. She arches an eyebrow, feigns boredom. Sasha is very good at pushing buttons.

  I cast my eyes downward, and she reaches forward, unzips my slacks, slides a hand into my boxers. Her touch is cold, and I shiver as she begins sliding her hand up and down along the length of my cock and then behind the base of it, her fingers glancing against my clit. She is neither gentle nor rough. My jaw clenches, and I clear my throat. I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing how much I enjoy her touch. When Sasha brushes her lips across the tip of my cock, before wrapping them around, then pulling away, moving lower, flicking her tongue against the wet slit of me, I stop her, push her away. It is a rough, unkind gesture. Still holding the end of my belt, I start walking away. When there’s a tug, she starts to crawl after me, tentatively at first, then faster to keep up.