Behind the Bathroom Door

This story was initially written for my advanced fiction writing seminar with Professor David L. Robbins. This is the final draft of this story (up to this point) but an earlier draft of the story is being published in Winged Nation.

The door clicked shut. Robert flinched and held his breath, listening for movement in the other room. He didn’t want to wake Jon up. Not hearing anything, he stepped away from the door. Stretching the skin of his cheek flat and jutting out his lower jaw to examine his pores, he leaned into the mirror. Robert peeled off his shirt and turned to the side. He frowned at the silhouette of his breasts in the mirror. Twenty years ago those breasts had been for sale in every gift shop in Key West—a mermaid on a postcard, two for fifty cents. Robert had paid $8,000.

He brushed his hair, counting backwards from one hundred. The bottom six inches were haggard and frizzy. Pulling a section in front of his face, he counted four split ends. Time for a haircut. Numbers were so important to his daily routine; just right and he could emerge from the bathroom looking like a woman. He watched in the mirror as he shaved his underarm. Electrolysis had taken care of the hair on his chest and back, but there was something about shaving armpits and legs that made him feel connected to all the other women who performed this daily ritual.
The bedsprings creaked from the other room.
“Dana? Are you done yet?” Jon called out.
“What do you want?” Robert let a tinge of annoyance sneak under the door.
“I need my slippers…”
“Get them yourself!”
“My stomach hurts. I had surgery. I almost died!”
“Oh hush, will you. I’ll be out in a second.”
Robert turned back to the mirror. He couldn’t go into the bedroom without clothes and make-up. Large but deft fingers picked up a bra from the back of the chair, slid the straps over his shoulders and hooked the clasp. He kicked off his boxer briefs. Robert pulled a large beige lycra gaff out of the dresser and stepped into it, drawing it over his thighs, feeling it pull his penis close to his body. He tugged up on the waistband, pulling it flat over his hips to his belly button. It smoothed and defined the lower half of his body. Robert turned to the side again, placing his hand on his stomach. He straightened his spine, seeking a reflection that would confirm his femininity.
“Dana!”
"Hold on!” Robert shouted, slamming the bottom drawer. He put on blue shorts and a tight tan and white striped tank top. Pulling compacts and tubes from his make-up bag, Robert took inventory of the day’s tasks. He was going to the car dealership at 3:00, which meant an extra layer of foundation to hide the afternoon stubble that would return along his jaw line. Robert spent the next few minutes retouching his face, angle by angle. Years of practice made the task nearly automatic. He trimmed a few stray nose hairs, tossed his long, blonde ponytail over his shoulder then attempted a smile.
Assessing her reflection, a disappointed sigh escaped Dana’s lips. It was hard to be a 50-year old woman; age continued to take its toll. She was rarely satisfied by the results of her morning routine anymore. She crossed the bathroom, looked over her shoulder one last time and stepped into the bedroom.
“What did you want, Jon?” Dana asked, trying to establish a better tone now that she was ready. Jon was still sitting under the canopy of the bed surrounded by messy piles of paperwork. He took off his glasses and looked up at her. Even after twenty-two years, Dana had never let him see what happened on the other side of the bathroom door and she always eagerly anticipated his first reaction.
“Never mind,” he said smiling, his eyes twinkling. “Come sit down.” He moved a stack of papers then patted the empty spot on the bed. Dana knelt on the bed, tucking her white shoes beneath her.
“What is it?” Dana asked.
“I think I’ll take today off of work. We can go down to Saint Augustine. Some sun would be good and we could eat at that restaurant you like with the patio."
Dana leaned back, slightly annoyed, imagining the things she would have to do before she could be ready to go to the beach. Waterproof make-up, different underwear, waxing, a bathing suit, not to mention what she would have to bring along. She clutched at the edge of the bed as she slowly resigned herself to the idea.
“What do you say?” Jon asked after a pause.
“Why not,” Dana sighed, standing up slowly and turning away.
“Well, it’s settled then,” said Jon, his voice already muffled by the closed bathroom door.
In the mirror, her under-eye skin was puffy. Dana burst into the bedroom.
“You know what, Jim? We’re not going to the beach. I’m tired of you making decisions without really caring how I feel. You act like you’re the only one who works around here but you’re not. Do you know how much time I spend in that bathroom every day just so I can look good enough to go out in public? I’m done pretending it’s okay. I’m tired of it. We’re not going to the beach today. We’re staying here. And if my make-up runs, you’ll just have to deal with it.”

Sonata in C Sharp

This story was initially written for my advanced fiction writing course with Professor David L. Robbins.

"Poetry is pretentious. It has very little to do with the real world, you know?” Jasper took a drag of his cigarette. “I mean, you gotta say it with real-world words, not that rhyming couplet crap some people say means love.”
Sasha eyed the tattoo on his left arm. He crossed his arms self-consciously and continued.
“Honey, love’s a lot grittier than that. You can’t be afraid to get your hands dirty when you start writing about love.” Cigarette ash fell to the floor. His panty hose cut into his waist and tugged at light, sparse leg hair. Jasper found their tension against his skin unfamiliar. He re-crossed his bright green heels and again brought the cigarette to his wine colored lips. Smoking was his greatest art. Sasha’s eyes said his L’Oreal Diamonds lipstick was convincing, probably catching the reflection of the lighting. Blue neon lights hung above the bar and that was perfect. He’d always looked natural in blue. Jasper flicked outwards and looked around at the knee-high fog the owners used to set the mood. His favorite waitress walked by and smiled. He scrunched his nose at her.
“This one time,” he turned back to Sasha, “this guy I knew—back before I knew—” He put out his cigarette and moved his hands to his lap. “Well, he was the first time I knew I really liked men. I wrote this god-awful sonnet. That’s the problem with poetry—you start out with good intentions and next thing you know, your embarrassingly sappy love poems are posted all over the bathroom walls. On a ship with 200 men, you might as well scream ‘gay.’”
“That must have been a while ago?”
“It was on the U.S.S. Clark. 1979. We were stationed just over at Fort Monroe, actually. Ha. Things were a lot different then.”
Sasha shrugged. Jasper couldn’t quite tell what she meant. A pink spotlight kicked on from the back of the house.
“Hey, that’s my cue.” Sasha walked to the stage, gritty hair dangling long and wavy around her shoulders.
Jasper nudged the girl next to him.
“This is going to be amazing,” he said.
“Is she good?”
“Honey, if you don’t get wet by the end of the first song, this next drink’s on me.”
The girl took a gulp of her gin and tonic. She didn’t seem used to talking about sex.
The sound system screeched. Sasha adjusted the mic and said “hello.” Her deep almond-butter voice coated the room. She giggled, breaking the spell. That’s what he’d always liked about her—the contradiction. She strummed into the first song, leg up in her chair. Words poured out of her smile, rippling in the air. The girl beside him was already beaming. Southern girls can be so easy sometimes, he thought, laughing under his breath. He took a sip. The sting of the vodka grabbed at his tongue and he swallowed quickly. Going down, it gave him mixed feelings. It was good to have a cool drink sliding into his stomach, but he already felt a little tipsy. The bubbles felt like they could either spark a ridiculous adventure or some vomiting.
Jasper focused on Sasha. She really had talent. It wasn’t her music so much, but her ability to be attractive. From the stage she could draw anyone in, stop all conversations. Even people who hadn’t come to see her couldn’t keep talking for long once she started playing.
“Would you sleep with her?” The girl beside him asked over the music. He smiled.
“If I still slept with women.”
“Me too.” She grinned sheepishly, looking down. “If I slept with women.”
They turned back to the music for a while. He didn’t mention he had slept with Sasha once. Loneliness could be enough to make a gay man have sex with a woman. With anyone. The girl beside him was cute. Good body. Young, though. Probably about his daughter’s age. He pulled a cigarette from his purse and lit it. Sasha ended one of her more bittersweet songs. He checked his watch.
“Are you waiting for someone?” the girl asked.
"Only if you believe in fate. I’ve been hoping he’ll come through that door there for a while now.” He pointed. “I’ve been practicing the laws of attraction. Have you seen The Secret? It’s about our individual power to make anything happen. You just have to want something and watch for the signs.”
“Do you think you really can make things happen?”
“Well, that’s part of the theory. You have to really believe, so yeah, I guess. It hasn’t happened yet, though.”
“What type of guy are you looking for?”
“I’ve been imagining someone good-looking with brown hair and nice teeth. Rugged, muscular, type A.”
“Isn’t that what we’re all looking for?”
“I don’t know.” He eyed Sasha on stage and turned back to the girl. “Is it?”
She blushed.
“Do you want to meet her? There’s a little party afterwards. We’re walking from here. You’d be welcome.”
“I don’t know. Maybe?”
“Here’s to making things happen,” he said. They clinked glasses.

* * *

The girl Hillary stumbled on the pavement. She grabbed Jasper’s arm. Her fingers were damp and icy. The touch made Jasper smile. She blushed. They walked down Main Street, past his car, towards Sasha’s apartment building. The whole group walked together, singing and rowdy from the night’s drinking.
Hillary tripped again. Jasper threaded his arm through hers.
“Okay, honey?”
“Yeah. Stupid heels. I guess you understand, though.”
“I only wear these on Saturdays,” Jasper said lifting one toe.
Jasper waited while Hillary took her shoes off. She stood up and pointed to his tattoo.
“So tell me about Lindsey.”
“We were young. Just out of high school. We had a kid. Then I joined the Navy and I never went back, really.”
“Was it being with guys all the time?”
There were so many things Hillary wouldn’t understand.
“Well, it’s like prison, kind of. Since there are no girls around, well, things happen. Once you start sleeping with someone, though, it can get complicated. It’s nothing innocent like a bunch of schoolgirls fooling around after school. It’s about power. Especially in prison.”
“You were in jail?”
“Drugs. About ten years ago. That place made me who I am, I think.”
A silence fell. Jasper pulled his cell phone from his purse. No missed calls.

* * *
Jasper leaned over the kitchen counter, watching the party. Sasha’s laughter caught his attention. She radiated light. Beside her, Hillary’s nipples were hard under her white tank top. He swirled his drink. Froth formed on top and spiraled around. He downed the rest of the glass, the bitter sour mix sharpening his taste buds before the warm whiskey flavor melted over him. He set the glass on the counter. Nothing left for him here.
“You okay, love?” he asked, drifting over to Hillary, but he already knew the answer.
She nodded.
Jasper walked out of the apartment and down the stairs, wondering if anyone had even noticed him leaving. He sighed. Probably not. Jasper walked back down the street to his car. He shifted to drive, rolling down his window and lighting a joint. He pulled into the street and turned up the radio. The car moved quickly out from the city toward the highway. The roads were deserted except for a few cars timidly sulking home and stopped at traffic lights. The highway shined with rain. Jasper switched on the wipers and rolled up his window to combat the spray from an eighteen-wheeler. It started to sprinkle again. The inside of the car shrank with the rain, enclosing him. He felt safe.
Jasper pulled off his wig, throwing it into the passenger seat. He was making the drive home alone again. Mantras, chakras, prayers, everything, and still, nothing. He missed the Navy, where someone was around, although it wasn’t always someone you wanted. Jail was better than being alone too, in some ways. Even with all the violence.
A powerful chord from the radio snapped Jasper back in touch with reality. The classical piece was beautiful, filling the car with a heavy atmosphere. Deep bass resounding, drums pounding. The 1812 Overture. His cock throbbed. He smiled, thinking about the last time he’d been on a date. Some guy he’d met on the Internet. Jasper rubbed the bulge through his skirt. The guy had gone down on him the whole way home, sucking him so close to coming a couple of times until he was sure he was going to run off the road. Jasper tugged up on the skirt, pulling the hem above his thigh. Adjusting in his seat, he slid down his pantyhose and underwear. Holding the wheel with his left hand, he stroked up and down with his right. He’d recently started masturbating for the fun of it instead of the utility. After six months of being single, he needed something more than just getting off. It seemed a lot closer to sex when he actually took time to enjoy it.
The tension rose in the music and his cock shuddered and throbbed again, getting harder than it had been for quite some time. The rain spattered against his windshield and the wipers made an odd rhythm that echoed against the music. He inhaled and shut his eyes momentarily, forgetting that he was driving. The melody carried him through a series of moans. He wanted to time it so he would come when the music crescendoed.
A horn blasted. Jasper snapped both hands back to the wheel. Looking over, he saw the cab of a big transport truck. The driver rolled down his window and motioned for Jasper to follow him.
Jasper froze, conscious of his penis lying mostly flaccid against the side of his leg. Sex was sex. No doubt about that. And better a lonely truck driver than some bar sleaze he’d have to see every weekend afterwards, but you never know with truck drivers. He was far enough south that he worried constantly about waking up in a ditch, bloody and naked. Not exactly an image that helped you keep a hard on.
The truck signaled. They pulled onto a back road. The street grew narrow and they slipped into the darkness away from the highway. Jasper didn’t really know this stretch of road and thought about turning back. Where’s your sense of adventure? Brake lights came on and Jasper’s cock surged again. This is happening. The truck turned onto a dirt path that took them deeper into the woods. They drove for maybe a minute before the truck rumbled to a halt, brakes hissing. The driver idled and turned off the truck. Jasper put the car in park and wiped sweaty hands on his shirt, engine still running. He shifted around, nervously, tucking himself back into underwear and stockings. His hard-on flexed against the material uncomfortably. Eagerly. He checked his make-up in the visor mirror, glancing every few seconds at the driver pacing beside his truck. He turned off the car, tucking his keys in his purse. The woods outside were screaming with the sound of crickets. He stood up with one hand on the car, a little woozy. He remembered that he’d been drinking. What the fuck am I doing? Still, his feet carried him forward.
The driver was wearing a blue and green plaid shirt. He smiled. He had nice, bright teeth. They stood next to what looked like a clearing. There were no lights anywhere.
“So what’s your story,” the driver said.
“I’m Jasper.” His eyes started to adjust to the darkness enough to make out the rest of the features on the driver’s face. They were good looking and didn’t seem angry, but kind of cocky.
“What’s your real name, though?”
“I was born Frank Clark, if that’s what you mean.” “A good Christian boy then, hey?”
Jasper didn’t know what to say.
“Not exactly,” he drawled. The driver pulled him by the hand in front of the truck. The engine was still putting off a lot of heat.
“Do you always jerk off in the car like that?”
“No. I was lonely.”
“You want to get fucked then, right.” The driver grasped Japser’s cock through his skirt. His words stung a little.
“Yeah. I think.”
The driver slammed Jasper against the front of the truck, hard. The metal burned his thighs.
“Oh, I’ll fuck you, alright.”
A branch cracked in the woods.

profile me

If I were to die I'd be happy but maybe...I'd be sad because I couldn't get the word out that I'd put the white flag up for all the times I hadn't said the pledge of allegiance and had said stop believing in Jesus, pick up a pen and write.

If I were to die I'd want to be flown to Scotland and put somewhere where the sun touches the water and there were no bombs and people would read this, come visit me, and point.

If I were to die without hydration I would be sad that I had stopped empty handed when freedom places the power to shape my life into my own hands.

If I were to die a patriot it would help everyone by showing them that when the sun rises and the bugle wakes you up you are proud to be working for something bigger than yourself--even when you're not sure what that bigger thing is or if you really believe in it.

If I were to die I would feel cut off from a chance at finding that person and the ring, being an and and getting a house, a home, a space. He'd have been a Capricorn.

If I were to die I'd want to talk some bull so I'd find a phone to call and would ask someone about Stonehenge, feelings, and promise to give up suffering and smile.

If I were to die I would call you twice and offer you my hand anytime anywhere, pledge it for the good times, the sunshine, and for the worst.

But I ignored all the writing so I don't know how to end, but I'm pretty sure that if I were to die I'd just turn into a flower and I would paint my emotions with petals pulled off my stalk by a little girl's fingers.

Update

Anything posted from 5/5/06 is a product of my semester-long poetry course that I took during second semester my junior year. There are a few other posts from summer and fall of senior year ('06-'07) and the ones which will preceed this message should be timestamped correctly.

tastes good.

Sometimes we don't realize how trapped in a male-created society we are--and we think it will be so easy to get out--but then we remember that what we are writing--we are doing so with a pen--a definite phallic symbol, perched indefinitely on a Lolita's cherry lacquered lips.

brautigan series two

ping pong
is kind of a metaphor for life
batting a ball back and forth
amongst ourselves.

. . . . . . . . . .

once you've been a two, a between, an us, a pair...
there is no going back

when you wake up alone
you don't get to make anyone else eggs.

. . . . . . . . . .

a letter looks the same
written at 2:00 AM or PM
but a cell phone call
is decidedly different.
The rapid rate of ascension
is weakening the American family,
nuclear and otherwise.

brautigan series one

One the opposite page
from something profound
half lackluster words
can lose all their momentum.

...............

My too-tight skirt smelled
like Brunswick stew
and my life was in one
large, shattering piece.

...............

Pristine pages make turning the page hard.
A crips clean fresh life needs help breaking into the game from time to time.
We can't see it until it hits us behind,
but we keep running forward.

...............

It's never what any one given memory or experience "was"...
it's what it will continue to be and do throughout the course of our much longer lives.

acid series

everything is
green red blue
yellow
Sorry, I can't do that I'm wearing fur and holding a cigarette instead of your hand.

. . . . .

That tree is really yellow
and there are stupid girls behind it.
You are here and I am done.

. . . . .

We look like drag queens.
Your face is turning blue and I am purple
drinking the color
and our hands fold
around whole.

. . . . .

The door shut and I watch Electric Ladyland
stroll through the gardens in our shadows.