Portland Noir (24 page)

“Uh,” she finishes her text and puts her phone away in her purse. “Some of them ejaculate, I’ve heard, which is absolutely hilarious.”

“Good call. Number three, some of them light up. I even had one once that had glitter in the middle.”

“Isn’t that a health hazard?” Amy asks.

“Not if you wash it properly. Your turn. Four.”

“They don’t forget your birthday,” she offers.

“Oh, bitter. I like it.”

She adds quietly with a smirk, “And they can’t get you pregnant, either.”

I nod. “Six. They never get jealous when you sleep with someone else.”

Amy rolls her eyes. “And they never choose to play Xbox over you.”

“You can easily twist the base to adjust the speed.”

“Number nine … When they get tired, you can just put in more batteries.”

“Excellent point. And number ten, of course—multiple orgasms. Thank God for the Hitachi magic wand.”

Amy puts down her cup mid-sip. “Wait,” she says. “I thought the Bunny was the best one.”

“You mean the Rabbit. And you watch too much
Sex and the City
.”

“So then which one do I buy?”

“Well, that depends,” I reply, “on whether you have clitoral or vaginal orgasms.”

Amy bites the tiny swizzle straw in her latte, opens her mouth, and then closes it again.

I try to translate. “Neither?” I ask as we pull into the strip mall parking lot. The windows are frosted white and the neon sign above the door is written in swirly red letters with a heart dotting the i:
Cathie’s
. Amy opens her door and jumps out of the car to avoid the question.

Inside, I help her decipher the wall of fake wieners. I explain the difference between jelly, cyberskin, and plastic, and the importance of noting battery sizes.

“See this one?” I pick up a slim white number from the wall. “This one takes double-As, so that means it’s kind of like a quiet hum.” I pick up a bigger one, an inch and a half in diameter, with a pink leopard pattern all over it. “This one takes C batteries. It’s like having a didgeridoo against your clit.” I smile and close my eyes. “Mmm. My favorite.”

Amy bites her lip. “How do I know which one to pick? Should I get that thing with the hook on the end?” She picks up one that looks like a dentist’s instrument—long and thin with a slight curve at the tip.

“Have you found your G spot? That’s what the hook is for.”

Amy cocks her head in response, her body now mirroring the shape of the vibrator in her hand. The way she holds it, it almost looks like an abstract self-portrait.

I smack myself in the forehead with the pink leopard wiener. “This is ridiculous,” I say. “Do you do anything down there besides piss and put in the occasional tampon?”

Amy smirks and puts it back. “I know you think I’m an idiot, Kate, but I’m not.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I’m getting more head than you right now,” she says with a self-satisfied smile.

I roll my eyes. “Boy head, whatever. He doesn’t give you orgasms!”

“Sometimes orgasms aren’t everything,” Amy explains.

“Only people who can’t have orgasms say stuff like that.”

Amy picks up a slim silver vibrator with a body that slowly moves in and out. The base is cupped like a spoon. The box says,
Hummingbird
. “How about this one?”

I nod. “Sure, it looks good. I think that little spoony part is for your clit.”

Amy holds it firmly, decisively. “Okay. I think we’re done.” Her eyes dart around the store and she lowers her voice to a whisper. “See that lady over there?”

I turn to the display of butt plugs and pick up one like I’m interested. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot an older woman in her forties with bright yellow hair hanging in crispy, over-gelled waves down her back. She’s wearing white shorts and her skin is brown like a hot dog. She’s holding the largest bottle of lube I’ve ever seen. It looks like a Big Gulp cup.

I snort, Amy giggles, and then we cover our mouths with our hands. She whispers, “I hope our vags never become so sandy.”

“Amen.”

I notice a fat guy with a mustache reading a book in the corner. The cover says,
Guide to the Female Orgasm.
I poke Amy in the ribs and jerk my chin at him. “Do you think that’s the guy?”

Amy glances at him and shakes her head. “Nah. He looks like some married man with a sad wife.” She adds, “Can we please get out of here now?”

The girl at the cash register looks like she’s not much older than us, with a lip ring and short pink hair. She takes Amy’s vibrator out of the package, shoves batteries into it, and twists the base, which makes it hum. She disassembles it just as quickly, kind of like a soldier with a gun. The whole thing happens so fast that Amy just stands there with her mouth slightly open. Her wide eyes tell me that she’s going to thoroughly disinfect her purchase before it touches her body.

Amy pays with a debit card and the lady asks for her signature.

“Why do I have to sign if it’s a debit?” Amy asks.

The girl smacks her gum as she explains, “We have to track all the purchases. People like to get high on meth, steal people’s identities, and buy porn.”

Amy doesn’t know what to say to that. “Oh,” she replies.

“God, I can’t believe we’re doing this backwards,” I say to Amy. “I thought it was porn, identity theft, then meth.”

Amy sighs and shakes her head. “I guess we’ll get it right next time.” She hooks her arm through mine. “Let’s just skip the identity theft and go home to our meth.”

I pat her hand. “Okay, honey.”

The girl behind the counter starts to put the Hummingbird in a black plastic bag. Amy waves her hand, “I don’t need a bag.”

“You sure?” she asks.

“Yeah.” Amy grabs the vibe and tucks it into her purse. It fits snugly.

The girl shrugs. “Have fun, ladies,” she says.

We’re on the road again, driving fast but aimless, zipping north on the 205 to the 84 west, racing along next to the MAX train. I refuse to roll up the windows, so we yell to hear each other over the wind and the Pretty Girls Make Graves album. I smoke three cigarettes between Cathie’s and Lloyd Center, careful not to burn my long hair as it whips around in front of my face. Amy’s fingers are fast on her phone.
omg i bought a vibrator!!

I pull the car into the mall parking lot so we can ride the train for free downtown. You’re not supposed to do this, but everyone does.

We get off the train in Chinatown and walk to Voodoo Doughnut so Amy can get the one with cocoa puffs on top. She says she needs some comfort after being traumatized by the wiener wall. I smile at her fake drama.

The line outside the tiny shop is understandably long and most of the people waiting for doughnuts are dressed to go out—punks in torn-up jeans and spikes, sorority girls with hard nipples pressing against their tube tops. I’m wearing jeans and a T-shirt, but Amy, in her platform sandals and halter top, looks like she could go clubbing. She’s even got big sweeping strokes of purple eye shadow over each eye.

“Shit,” I whisper.

“What?” Amy looks up from her phone.

I point. “It’s Liz.”

“Oh crap,” Amy says. She knows Liz is my ex-girlfriend and that our break-up sucked, but she doesn’t know that Liz dumped me after she found out I was “humping that whore from Hillsboro”—her alliteration, not mine.

Liz is easy to spot in a crowd. She looks like a Latina pin-up with dark skin, big eyes, and pouty lips. She dresses like a vintage model in big black Mary Janes, fishnets, and bright red lipstick. She keeps her black hair cut short in this sexy Louise Brooks kind of way.

I still want to fuck her.

I suddenly wish I’d worn something cool. Liz loved my soft butch look. She said it was best when I wore my long auburn hair loose with pinstripe pants and a button-up shirt.

Amy watches me staring. “Do you want to go?”

“No,” I say. “There’s room for two lesbos in this doughnut shop.”

Liz doesn’t even notice me while she orders a McMin-nville cream—my favorite too, a custard-filled doughnut with maple frosting.

Some skinny dyke wearing tight jeans and Converse sneakers has her arm around Liz’s waist the whole time, but I realize when they turn to leave that the girl is remarkably flat-chested and her face is blunt and chiseled under her big black glasses.

Then I see his Adam’s apple.

I want to stop myself but I can’t. I follow them out the door and leave Amy standing at the counter.

I yell down the street, “I didn’t realize you were into dudes, Liz!”

Liz and her boyfriend turn around. She blinks once, slowly, her eyes weighed down by multiple layers of mascara, and says, “I’m not, Kate. I just like people who aren’t assholes.” She nods at the doughnut shop, where Amy is still inside. “Have fun with your
puta nueva,
” she adds. Liz knows that Amy is only a friend, but everybody is competition to her.

Her boyfriend flips me off. Liz sashays down the street and doesn’t look back.

Amy appears next to me, her mouth full of chocolate cereal and frosting. “You are a total failure at life, you know that, right?”

I shrug. Amy doesn’t get it. Amy didn’t make Liz come in a parked car. I still get off to the image of Liz in her tight black dress, leaning her head back with her red mouth open while I worked her clit with my fingers. And tonight I’ll probably fantasize about pushing her up against the wall of that doughnut shop and reaching my hand inside her fishnet stockings. I loved the way she held the back of my neck when I fucked her, forcing my lips against hers. She gave the dirtiest kisses.

Amy licks her fingers. “Let’s go to Backspace,” she offers. It’s one of the few late-night coffee shops downtown, which means it’s always full of high school kids. I don’t really want to go but, until we turn twenty-one we don’t have many other options.

Amy buys a second latte and grabs a deck of cards from another table. There’s a group of boys with laptops at a big table in the back and they’re all playing some computer game together. One of them leans back in his chair and sighs, “This is so fucking gay, dudes.”

Amy deals gin, which means she wants to talk. We’ve been playing gin since we were in the Girl Scouts. We used to play a quarter per point against other troops and clean them out. She spent all her money on makeup and I bought books. “How old is Liz, anyway?” she asks.

“Twenty-five,” I say.

“So does that mean it was, like, statutory rape when you were dating?”

“Nope. Just sodomy.”

“Oh.” Amy looks a little disappointed, like she was hoping for a felony, but her face brightens as she lays out her hand. “Gin.”

“You’re a cunt,” I tell her and slap my cards on the table.

She shrugs. “Homo.”

“Prude.”

“Dyke.”

“Breeder.”

Amy deals another hand and then leans across the table to whisper, “Don’t be mad that you can never have me.”

“Mad?” I point at her bug-bite titties. “There’s nothing there to motorboat. Forget it.”

Amy shakes her shoulders in an effort to make her nonexistent tits jiggle, which makes me snort. “Is that why you loved Liz?” Amy asks. “Because of her motorboat-ability?”

“And her apartment,” I answer. “It was nice to have a place where I could escape.”

Amy nods as she picks a discard. “I didn’t see you much then.”

“Yeah,” I say. I feel my cheeks tinge pink. It’s true. I dated Liz for nine months, right at the end of our senior year. I would live at her place on the weekends and never answer my cell phone. Amy sent me so many texts:
where r u? call me. iron chef tonight? answer yr damn phone, plz!!

But I didn’t want to deal with anyone else. I just wanted to be in Liz’s apartment and see her looking disheveled in the morning. I loved the way she would roll over and smile at me with crusty raccoon eyes. “Morning, Glory,” she would say. Then she’d kiss me and I’d run my hands over her bare breasts, over her back, into her panties.

“Well, too bad she was a nut job,” Amy laments.

I nod and half-smile. “And now she’s straight too.”

Liz had moods sharp like knives. She said she was stressed with grad school and would apologize, but then she’d go into rages, break dishes, and yell at me to get out. One time she bit me so hard on my arm it left a scar. My mom asked if a dog did it.

“Some of it was good,” I say. Amy looks up from her cards. “I loved going to brunch with her on Sundays. And she wrote me letters, even when we saw each other every day. Sometimes we just sat together on her porch, reading books and smoking cigarettes.”

Amy nods thoughtfully. Then she gives me a big smile and I groan. “Gin,” she says.

By the time we head back across the river, the train is almost empty. We sit side by side, Amy texting a mini-novella while I stare out the window.
so then i got a donut and kate was a total bitch to her ex and we played gin and i won every time and we’re heading home now so maybe i’ll come over later and you can meet my hummingbird?

A guy about our age in an Old Navy T-shirt is sitting across the aisle. He’s rocking his head back and forth singing “Brown Eyed Girl” to himself.
“Sha la la la la la la la la la ti da,”
he mumbles. He’s got short brown hair and a hooked nose. I look at his hands because he’s drumming his fingers on his leg and his hands are all fucked up and scarred and dirty. He looks familiar.

He catches me looking at him and lopes over to our seats. He goes, “Hey.” He’s got pale skin and he smells wet and sour, like a gutter that’s been pissed in too many times. I breathe through my mouth. I look at Amy and we don’t say anything.

The guy smiles like one half of his mouth is all shot up with Novocain. “Hey,” he says again, and leans closer to Amy. “You’re really pretty.” She tenses up but doesn’t move. He runs a finger along the edge of her hair, from the base of her neck down to her shoulder blade.

I swat his hand away. “Hey, man. Don’t fucking touch her!”

Amy is red and frozen, not looking at either of us.

The guy straightens up and laughs. “Whatever. I’m just giving her a compliment.” His Adam’s apple bobs in his neck and suddenly I want to wrap my hands around his throat. Make him shut up. Make him sorry. His eyes roll around, like he’s not sure where to look. He stares into Amy’s lap, at her purse. “Hey,” he says again, and points. “What’s what?”