Wesley could remember the way his skin felt up against Skyler’s. The remembering felt like dying. The remembering felt like emptiness, like little cold spots all along his left side, like concave parts, like indentations.
Wesley was lying in bed at three in the
afternoon, and he propped himself up on his left elbow. He stared
over towards the dinged-up vanity he’d picked up at Goodwill. Scrutinized
his reflection in the greasy mirror. He still looked good. Like a
Two hours of crying and the eyeliner wasn’t even smudged, hardly. Nary a mascara trail. Thank god for M.A.C.
Wesley’s eyes wandered to the top of the dresser. He blinked. Skyler’s walkie talkie sat there, winking at Wesley.
Skyler and Wesley used to work together at the Pink Pucker, at the bottom of the Castro. Here’s what happened: It was Folsom Street Fair two years back, and Wesley was done up in all his regalia, and that’s when he’s she. When he’s Wynona.
And Wynona was as much Wesley as Wesley was Wynona. Wynona is who Wesley is. She was really into pink that year, which was how she ended up working at the Fink Fucker, as she and all the other worker bitches called it. Wynona took coincidences seriously, so when Mickey offered her a job there, she jumped on it.
Pink and the stewardess-in-the-fifties look. Wynona walked through the crowds of men with their penises on leashes like a preening peacock. She was decked to the nines in clear magenta platform sandals, salmon fishnets, a so-shiny-it-looked-like-a-chocolate-easter-egg-wrapped-in-foil bikini, and a little TWA-lady pillbox hat. She’d refurbished it herself in ballet-pink and added netting. The netting came to the bottom of her eyes, which blinked slow as a cow’s, all metallic rose false eyelashes and dilated pupils.
It was hot hot hot and Wynona’s heart was beating a steady flamenco, e and blow coursing through her veins like a cyclone. She was walking all diva and her hips sank from left to right as she strutted over asphalt. Wynona was feeling really good, which is the only time these types of things happen.
She saw Danika first. An Asian girl body-painted with the giant face of a leopard. She was pretty eye-catching, to say the least. She was completely butt-ass-naked, her tits, painted with green eyes, and there was a triangle of cat-nose at the belly button level which stretched down to the white feline mouth that spread across her pussy. All the rest of her was covered in orange and leopard spots up to where a boatneck shirt would have stopped, below the collar bone.
In Wynona’s current state of distorted mental capacity, this already-noteworthy sight was even more fascinating. She couldn’t contain herself.
“Wow! Nice pussycat!” Wynona’s eyes followed a chain around the tiger girl’s neck to the man attached to it. Six foot three, hairless, with rippling muscles, and one arm missing. Head shaved clean-bald. No shirt. Black leather pants. Big combat boots. Wynona had never seen anyone or anything more beautiful or perfect in her entire life. The e gave her confidence. The e gave her joy. The blow gave her ballsiness. The blow gave her a sense of humor. “Hey Mister, I like your Pussy.”
“This is Danika,” One-armed beautiful buffed man spoke in a voice like spandex stretching over a calf.
“Hi Danika.” Wynona fixed her attention on the only person there she was interested in. “But who are you?”
“I’m Skyler. I painted her myself.”
“I painted me myself. Quel coincedence. I’m Wynona.”
Time stood still. Planets and stars flashed. Comets grinned. The earth held her breath. Danika got bored and wanted to go look for a drink somewhere. Skyler’s one hand slackened, and the chain that circled Danika’s neck slipped from his loosed grip like marbles. She sauntered off. Wynona reached one of her two hands out, almost grabbing a pec before she could gain control of herself. Skyler caught her wrist in his one hand and guided her palm to his chest, placed it on the taut flesh, right over his heart. Wynona could feel the sun caught there, the warmth of outside in the skin, the gold of it all. She could feel a little stubble underneath. When she exhaled, she fell forward, and Skyler’s mouth caught hers.
They fell in love hard and fast and Wynona could be Wesley or Wynona and Skyler was just as in love. Wesley got Skyler a job bouncing at the Pink Pucker, where Wynona danced five days a week. They were wrapped in the eachotherness like a magic blanket, walked to work together, and then walked home together nine hours later. It was right.
Until it wasn’t. Wesley started getting sick, only wanted blow, was angry a lot. Got fired from the Fink Fucker for stealing another girl’s tips while she went pee. Skyler had been begging Wesley to slow down, to stop, to get a grip, to try meditation, yoga, praying, NA, anything.
But Wesley liked to feel strong and amusing and confident and his perspective was slipping. Soon Wesley was hardly ever around, it was mostly Wynona. But Wesley was all that ever really was. At least, that was what Wynona was most afraid of.
Wesley didn’t want Skyler to see all the seams coming apart inside his soul. So he avoided Skyler. But then the missing would start. And sometimes he would call Skyler. And last night was one of those nights. He begged Skyler to stop by after he got off work.
But Skyler was just worried, not in love. Not anymore. Just sad, and scared for Wesley. And Wynona. And so he came by to check. And Wesley tried to crush his mouth against Skyler’s. And Skyler had had to push him down on the bed as gently as possible. Wesley had been clawing and pulling and screaming, and then just cried a lot, and finally passed out. Which was when Skyler left, forgetting his walkie talkie- which had gotten shoved aside in all the needing and desperation and sorrow- on the vanity.
And now Wesley was watching it, staring back at it, praying to it. Because it meant he would get to see Skyler, be held by him, one more time. At least once more.