Live Girls by Ray Garton

difficult to walk steadily.

    He went out front, past Tammy's desk, around the corner to the rest room. He stepped into the far stall and locked the door, experiencing a shiver of déjà-vu in the small rectangular compartment, thinking again of the woman behind the smudged glass ....

    Davey opened his overcoat, dropped his pants, and fell back against the door of the stall, his head spinning as be stared down at himself.

    His white briefs were soaked with a sticky reddish brown. Spots of it glistened in the darkness of his pubic hair and were smeared on the right side of his penis.

    “Dear Jesus,” Davey breathed, “I'm bleeding."

    When he returned to his cubicle, Davey had to sit quietly for a moment at his desk to calm down. He stared at his hands, watched them tremble like leaves in a breeze.

    He'd cleaned himself up, washed thoroughly and clumsily in the stall with soap and water from the rest-room sink. Beneath the blood, he'd found two scratches on the side of his penis. They had barely broken the skin above the vein that was visible along the side of the shaft. He'd cut himself. Pulling his pants back up, he'd hissed curses at himself for being so stupid earlier, for sliding his cock through that rough-edged hole in the wall of the booth.

    Davey had had to sit on the toilet seat for some time. He'd buried his face in his hands and prayed that he hadn't picked up some God-awful disease.

    Standing in front of the mirror before he left the rest room, he'd realized that Chad Wilkes was right; he did not look well. He'd rubbed his pasty cheeks, trying to work up a little color in them. He'd washed his face with cold water, run his fingers through his hair. Staring into the mirror, he could see her, almost as if she were superimposed over his reflection, smiling up at him with her deep welcoming eyes that seemed to pull him slowly, powerfully, toward her, toward those dark, candy lips that had felt so good on him, sooo cooool and smooth and comforting ....

    He'd started suddenly, and thought impatiently, I've got to get some sleep .

    Now he stood, steeled himself for his talk with Miss Schuman, and started down the hall.

    He tried to think confidently, tried to tell himself that he was going to be very firm about her unfairness in giving Fritz's job to Chad.

    Jasmine Barny, Miss Schuman's secretary, sat behind her desk in the outer office, talking on the phone. She was a small young black woman with a very large smile that never quite went away. Standing before her desk, Davey suddenly felt very dizzy. He grabbed the edge of Jasmine's desk to keep from hitting the floor.

    Jasmine hung up the phone and looked at him with concern. “Are you okay, Davey?” she asked, standing.

    “Yeah, yeah, I think so,” he said quietly, straightening up as the sensation began to fade. “Sit down, I'm fine."

    “You sure? You don't look so good."

    He took a deep breath and smiled. “Yeah, I'm fine. I just haven't eaten today. Is she in?"

    “Yes,” Jasmine said uncertainly, watching him carefully as he moved around her desk. “She's expecting you. Go on in."

    As usual, Miss Schuman sat behind her desk, seeming to be in competition with its size, smoking a cigarillo, scanning a paper she held before her in one thick-fingered hand.

    “Miss Schuman?” Davey said.

    “Ah.” She put the paper down and took a drag on the cigarillo, motioning for him to come toward her. “Come."

    Davey stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

    “Sit,” she said, waving her hand toward a rusty-red vinyl-covered chair that faced her. She wore a bracelet with several silver seashell-shaped charms that dangled and clinked loudly when she moved.

    Davey sat and crossed one leg over the other.

    Miss Schuman reached over to an ugly wooden box filled with cigarillos on the corner of her desk and offered it to Davey. “Smoke?"

    “No, thank you."

    “That's right,” she said, “you don't smoke.” She leaned back in her chair