Fake House by Linh Dinh Page A

The mouth has no taste, only texture. I cradled his head with one hand and pushed him down onto the bed with the other. He slipped his hand under my T-shirt and fondled my breast. His palm was rough, calloused, and it made me shiver. He was slowly gaining on me, erasing my advantage. He took his shirt off, then his pants, then his underwear. I glanced at his shadowy crotch. It was a scumbled charcoal drawing, with the middle part lightly erased. He said, “Am I freaking you out?”
    “I’m all right.”
    We continued. I was stung by his question. How did he know? When his hand slipped inside my panties, I began to tremble. My pelvis tried to wiggle away; it was thinking on its own. His hand was clamped to my crotch. My entire upper body began to convulse. It was a grotesque display, this loss of control: Now he’s seen everything. He was about to pull my panties off, but I said, “No, Tom.” I said, “No, please, don’t.” I steered his hand away in panic. He was touching me, down there. I was shaking violently. I was sobbing. Between sobs, I said, “I’m sorry.”
    “It’s okay,” he said, and kissed me on the forehead.
    We slept. Or he slept and I pretended to sleep. I looked at his dark form and felt heat emanating from his back, from his asshole. In the middle of the night I peeled my panties off and pressed my body against his. He was lying on his side and turned away from me. (My body conformed to his.) I looped an arm around his torso, felt my breasts squished against his back. I could feel his ass.
    The night was long. I touched myself, down there. I made myself wet.
    At daybreak, as the blue light entered the room, I lifted the bedcover to peek at Tom, at this naked person. I had never seen a man naked.
    Here was an eating/peeing/shitting body, nourished and exercised through two decades, a body at the pinnacle of its perfection, destined to be slashed, killed, corrupted, destined for ugliness. Here was a real human body, sleeping in my bed.
    He was like a child. That’s what a naked person is, a child. He opened his eyes and turned toward me. He smiled, brought his face close to mine. We kissed, but leisurely this time. He slid his face down, clamped his mouth around my nipples. First one, then the other. It’s like eating. He squished my breasts together with his hands. Then he guided one of my hands toward his penis.
    What is a penis? A silky stem, a paperweight, a pliable turd, an addendum. Something ancient, a dinosaur, a sage. It did not feel like it belonged on his body. Krazy Glued, it would snap right off with one hard yank. The head was shaped like the blade of a shovel, something to excavate with, or the reed of a saxophone. A downcast yet arrogant creature, defiant, dismal. Now I’ve touched a penis. I yanked it. I said, “Am I hurting you?” He laughed.
    He rolled on top of me. His weight prevented my escape. I thought,
This is fucking. I’m being fucked
.
    He lifted his torso to look down at our colliding pelvises. He wanted to register this unlikely act, to stash it away in memory. His soul was trying to escape from its solitary confinement. I heard the monotony of that swishy, swishy sound.
    Afterward he lay draped over me, beached, his head nestled between my breasts. I asked, “Have you been with many people?”
    Tom looked into my eyes, smiled, shook his head.
    I stroked his black hair. He was twenty. I was nineteen. I had just been fucked.
    I dressed quickly while he was in the bathroom. I did not want to be seen naked in daylight. When he came out, I was surprised to see that he was hard again.
    He kissed me on the forehead before leaving. I had escorted him to the door. I was anxious to get rid of him. I wanted to be left alone to think about what had happened. I wanted him out of my apartment.
    I went into the bedroom and took my clothes off.
    I lay on the bed, uncovered. I opened my legs. I closed them. I kept them spread in a thirty-degree arc. I looked at the ceiling and