The First Male (4 page)

Carefully, he clicked on the light switch and glanced around the cramped bathroom, making sure there were no snakes curled in the sink or near the tub. The room looked innocuous enough,
so he stepped fully into it and quietly closed the door behind him. A part of him wanted to slam the door shut; for no other reason than to frighten Brooke and jolt her out of her sleep; if he couldn't sleep, then why should she?

After he dried his face with the rough green towel that hung on the wobbly wooden rack on the wall beneath the clock, he examined his eyes. Already, he could see the beginning formations of the bags that would appear underneath them in the morning; his fair skin had never been able to hide the dark circles that formed under his eyes when he was tired, and he had been tired for days; barely sleeping.

“Shit,” he mumbled to himself.

Ssssss-simon
.

He jerked around quickly, knocking the plastic toothbrush holder to the hard floor. It clanked loudly as it bounced across the room, eventually crashing against the side of the tub.

“Be quiet!” Brooke screamed from the other room. Simon heard the loud expulsion of her breath and her shifting violently in the bed, but that was the least of his concerns. His eyes bulged in his head as he scanned the room. Everything seemed normal. The clear, plastic shower liner was still dotted with soap scum; the brown ring around the tub was still there; the roll of toilet paper still sat on top of the toilet lid, instead of on the holder designed for it; the lumpy tube of toothpaste was still missing its cap; pieces of white soap covered the caked-on soap stains that decorated the indented part of the sink that was meant to hold a full bar. Everything was fine.

Except, he had heard a hissing that called his name.

He shook his head and rubbed his face with his hands as he leaned against the cool sink. He didn't flinch when his skin touched the cold ceramic; he needed to cool his body. The night had
already been too much, starting with the party, then his fight with Brooke, then his dream and his anger, and now he was hearing hissing sounds while he was awake. Maybe he was simply tired.

“Get it together, Simon,” he said to himself as he rubbed his face.

Simon had always had an unusual sleep pattern, among other unusual traits. Sometimes he could go for more than a week on practically no sleep, stealing tiny naps and nods during breaks at school or on his lunch break at work; other times he'd sleep so hard someone would think he was comatose. When he was eight years old, his foster parents told the social worker that something was wrong with the boy; he never slept and was never tired. They were so spooked by him that they returned him to the system with the same ease as they would return an unwanted birthday gift to a department store. He never forgot the quizzical expressions on their pale faces as they drove away in their dark blue Mercedes station wagon. They weren't the first family to return him. It was a pattern in his life. Perfect couples, driving perfect cars, would come looking for the perfect child to complete their perfect family, and they usually fell in love with Simon's perfect beauty. Invariably, however, after some time, their perfect view of him would shatter as he displayed some unusual . . . talent.

When he was four, his foster mother, Danielle Robinson, who had a predilection for foreign language films, was watching a French movie as Simon played with his Tonka truck in the living room. The actress on screen burst into a room and looked at the body of a woman splayed across the sofa. With alarm, she looked at the male actor onscreen and screamed,
Qu'avez-vous fait à ma mère?
(What have you done to my mother?), to which Simon replied with ease,
Votre mère est fine. Elle a eu trop de vin
(Your mother is fine. She's had too much wine), in perfect French. This
happened several times, albeit sporadically, with several different languages, until Danielle was so unnerved that she had to let Simon go.

When he was six, he
drowned
in a lake during a family camping trip. His newest foster father, Ralph Knight, sitting on the edge of a big rock a hundred yards away from the lake, saw Simon jump off the pier into the lake. He saw the splash of water leap into the air when Simon cannon-balled into the frigid water. Ralph immediately panicked; he had been told by the agency that Simon couldn't swim. He raced to the lake and jumped in head first. It was nearly ten minutes before Simon was found and was pulled out of the water, unconscious. When he was pulled to shore, Ralph frantically performed CPR to a crowd of gasping onlookers, but the boy would not breathe. Right before paramedics arrived fifteen minutes later, Simon woke up, drowsy, as if he had been simply napping. To this day, Simon recalled jumping into the lake and the horrible feeling of his lungs tightening as he inhaled water. He remembered the feeling of panic, he remembered everything going black, and then he remembered waking up.

As a child Simon could never understand what he did to offend his foster families so much that they had to return him. The things he had done were done naturally, like a child taking his first steps. Maybe Danielle would have preferred that he was dumb and barely spoke English. Maybe Ralph really wanted him to drown. His experiences taught him to temper his words and to be careful about what he did. As he grew, he learned that his talents were not appreciated and he learned to keep them to himself. Even still, Simon spent years facing rejection, after rejection, after rejection, until all he knew was rejection. So, he stopped letting people inside.

Simon stepped close to the tub, reached in and turned on the
shower. He waited until he could see steam rising from the water before he stepped in. He hoped the warmth of the water would relax him and ease his anxiety. He placed his right hand on the wall of the shower and leaned into it, stretching and extending his entire body. He let the water bead down his body and cascade over his face. It felt wonderful, even though it would have been far too hot for most people. He stood motionless, with his eyes closed for several minutes, letting the water wash away his troubles.

Simon was tired. It had been at least four days since he had six consecutive hours of sleep. Maybe that explained his irritability and lack of patience with Brooke. Maybe that explained his nagging headache. Finally, he understood why people complained about having a headache. This was a new experience for him, and he didn't like it at all. Something was going on with him, but he didn't know what. All he knew was that he felt . . . odd.

After about five minutes, Brooke entered the room quietly. Knowing the water would scald her, she instinctively reached in and added some cold to the powerful stream. When Simon looked at her, she smiled, as if to say, “I'm sorry.” He closed his eyes, not sure he was ready to forgive her.

She stepped into the tub and placed her arms around his waist from behind him. Her breasts felt like heaven against his sensitive skin; her hardened nipples tickling his back. He took a deep breath as his manhood swelled to life. She reached her hand around to his front and grabbed it. He moaned.

“I'm sorry, baby,” she whispered. She planted several small kisses on his back as she moved her hand up and down his member; her hand could barely fit around his shaft. He wanted to say something, to accept her apology, but the fire in his genitals burned away his voice. Besides, she hadn't done enough work yet. He wasn't ready to forgive her. He'd withhold his absolution until she kneeled before him.

She turned him around and kissed him; her eager tongue aggressively explored his mouth. He wanted to remain firm, to punish her as she had punished him, but his body betrayed his intentions. He returned her kiss with equal zeal as his manhood rubbed the warmth between her legs. He loved her, but hated the
flesh power
she had over him. At this moment, all he could think about was being inside her, exploring her mouth, sucking her ripened nipples, licking her fruit, and digging into her treasure.

He cupped her sizable breasts and licked and sucked her nipples ravenously. They tasted sweet, as if covered in nectar. Her left one was far more sensitive than the right one, and his warm mouth covered it completely, sending her into a frenzy. He could feel her whole body shake. He couldn't seem to get enough, and he became increasingly forceful with his mouth, his teeth bearing down with a bit too much force. She winced, but he could not let her go. She moaned, louder and louder until her moans started to sound like whimpers and cries to his ears. He finally let her pull away and they stood staring at each other breathlessly, not sure what exactly to say. The tension they shared consumed the air in the room, but they had used sex many times before as a remedy to their relationship ails; sex could say
I'm sorry
in ways words never could. Slowly, she gave him what he desired most. She kneeled before him, as he knew she would.

After she finished, she stood up and kissed him again. With her hand, she guided him into the space that he loved the most. When he entered her, he was seized by such warmth and pleasure that he shuddered. At this point, he knew she had complete control of him and she worked her magic in such a way that he was ready to submit; he was ready to give in to all her desires to stay there. His weakness had always been good pussy, and she had the best.

After they finished and dried each other off, they lay back down in bed together, her head resting on his massive chest.

“Baby,” she said gently, “I think you should see someone about your headache. You've had it for days now.”

He kissed the top of her head. “I don't need a doctor. I'm just tired.”

“No one has a headache for four days. I'm worried.”

“Don't be worried. I'm fine. Really. I just need some sleep.” She exhaled. He could tell that she was worried. “Besides, it's not like I have health insurance.”

“I told you a friend of my dad will see you. I told him about it, and he said you should come see him.”

“You've been talking about me?”

“Baby, I'm worried,” she said in a soothing tone, “I want you to be okay.”

“Why would your dad want to help me? He doesn't even like me. After that fucked-up dinner party we had, I'm surprised he hasn't hired someone to beat the hell out of me—a la Tony Soprano.”

“Just because we're Italian doesn't mean we're in the Mafia,” she said as she gave him a playful nudge in the side. “You know Daddy isn't like that. And I didn't say my dad. I said a friend of my dad.”

“Oh, so you're going behind dear old Dad's back for me, huh?”

“I'll do what I have to do to make sure you're okay.”

“I really am okay. Trust me. I never get sick.”

“What do you mean you never get sick?”

“I mean I don't get sick. Besides this headache, I've never had a cold, a cough, the flu, or a stomach ache. I've never vomited or been dizzy or had chicken pox or any of the other shit people complain about. So, this headache will pass. It's nothing.” The ease with which the words slipped from his mouth surprised Simon. Instantly, he thought of the families who had taken care of him only to return him when something about him rattled
their spirit. He had violated one of his central tenets: never share too much information about himself with others. Folks would think he was odd. When he spoke about his medical history to Brooke, his words weren't boastful; they simply told the truth of his perfect health. He hoped she wouldn't freak out and leave.

Brooke sat up and looked at him curiously. As soon as her eyes met his, he regretted his confession.

“What?” he asked.

“Are you serious?”

“About what? Never being sick? Yeah, I'm serious.”

“You must be the luckiest or healthiest man in the world.”

“I take care of myself. I eat right, don't do drugs or smoke, and I exercise—you know how I do.” He tried to make light of the situation but he felt a nervousness rising inside, twisting his stomach.

She lay back on his chest. “Well, if you've never been sick and you have a headache now, you should definitely see a doctor. It could be serious. Will you call him? For me? At least think about it?”

He paused. “Okay, I'll think about it. For you.”

“Your twenty-first birthday is coming up in a few weeks and I want my baby to be healthy and happy. I have things planned for us.”

“I'm sure I'll be fine by then. You don't have to worry.” Simon focused his eyes upward and looked at the matted clumps of paint that made little hills on the ceiling. Sometimes when he couldn't sleep he'd stare at the clumps hoping to discern some hidden pattern. Focusing his energy on something so inane usually relaxed him and allowed sleep to overtake him. He wouldn't need such a cheap trick tonight. He was tired. Dog tired. He could feel his body succumbing to sleep. He adjusted himself slightly to allow for maximum comfort while Brooke wrapped her body around his. He closed his eyes, happy to have Brooke pressed against
him. Her warmth, her scent, and the feel of her body, all felt so right. This moment felt perfect, particularly after the horrible fight they had earlier.

Ssssss-simon
.

He snapped open his eyes in a fright. This wasn't his imagination. It felt real. He lay perfectly still in bed, too afraid to move. Brooke didn't budge, and she clearly hadn't heard the macabre whisper in the quiet of the night; a whisper that sent chills racing up his spine. His stomach churned and tightened. Even though it was an unusually warm December night in New Orleans, the room suddenly felt as if the temperature had dropped. He swore he could see his breath leaving his mouth as he exhaled.

He remained still for several minutes more. He didn't even want to breathe.

Don't be afraid. Don't be afraid
. A familiar, masculine voice, one that Simon had heard many times before, echoed inside his head. The voice was smooth and calming; Simon had heard the voice in his head at different times, over the years, though it had been many months since he had heard it last.