Trapper and Emmeline (9 page)

Well, I asked for this.
I waited to feel something—a stab of pain, resentment, anger. So far I felt nothing but envy for Mike. Envy, and a growing excitement. It was as if I had punched a hole in the bottom of our boat, and arousal was now flowing over us and threatening to pul us into a bottomless ocean of lust.

I could watch her for hours.

“Emmeline, you’re such a tease!” I laughed with incredible falseness. Mike laughed along. “Mike, you take care of her, dude.”

“I wil ,” he said, looking quite detached from the world. “I wil . I wil -wil -wil .”

“Okay,” said Emmeline, “see ya later, buddy!”

She kissed him again.

He stopped moving, perhaps stupefied by sensory overload. He didn’t react when I hauled Emmeline into the elevator.

I had a stupid grin on my face, I couldn’t help it. Emmeline watched me the whole trip with a flinty, appraising grin. That was her expression whenever she realized I was, at heart, a simpleton.

We stepped out of the elevator and walked until we were alone again.

“This wil be easier than I thought, Trap.”

“Real y?”

“Most of my male friends I only know from classes. We’ve only talked for a few weeks. That means they don’t real y know me. For al they know, I
am
a kissing bandit.”

“You are from now on.”

“You real y got off on me kissing him?”

I knew she was asking about the jealousy.

“You were wonderful. You total y blew his mind.” As usual, words failed me and I didn’t want to keep blathering goofy compliments. Wel , maybe just one more. “It’s like I have a new, incredibly deluxe toy!”

“
I’m a toy!
” she crooned, kissing me on the lips. “I’m a toy for al men!”

I felt firsthand what Mike experienced—a sudden, soft, moist pressure on my lips, gone al too suddenly. My head was ful of her scent.

“Do you think Mike wil think of me later?”

“He’l think of either you or me, it’s too close to cal ,” I said.

“Wil he think of me in a sexy way, like we want?” She was grinning as if we’d pul ed off some daring plan.

“Shit, yes, Emmy! He’s probably wondering if he can jerk off in the bathroom downstairs.”

“How picturesque.” She glanced around. “So, what do I do next?”

“Go somewhere private and take off your underwear.”

“Alrighty, then!” she took my hand and led me away. She was flushed and ful of raw energy. She glowed with excitement. Flaunting to her friend Mike had turned the handle of some kind of inner faucet, as if we had tapped a deep wel of libido.

Everything we were doing just felt right. She moved with a devil-may-care swing in her hips. When men glanced up, she trapped their eyes. It was something universal and primordial in her movement.

“So many rules, so many rules. They’re hard to remember.”

“I’l write them out for you,” I said.

“Nah, I remember them al . I was just kidding.”

By the end of the day Emmeline greeted and spoke with several more friends. They were mostly males, though a few females sought her out. Since Emmeline was easy to spot wherever she was—just look for the girl with men clumped around her, or if she was alone, just fol ow the needy gazes of the men staring at her—so friends who wanted to chat located her easily.

I watched her get petted, patted, and awkwardly hugged. She accepted the attention with bright smiles, and returned every touch she received. The men who weren’t completely awkward with Emmeline (few and far between) took every opportunity to caress her. They held her hand as they spoke, or rubbed her arm, or even curled their fingers in her hair against her neck. It was al innocent, but not innocent. She didn’t stop them, she pretended not to even notice, because the touches obviously meant the world to these men. They used any pretext to reach out to her.

Meanwhile, I wasn’t scaring anybody off. They probably didn’t know I was the boyfriend, or they would have been less grabby. At least I hoped so
.
Note to self: work out and become more imposing.

Above al , Emmeline was kissed.

Though it was just her first day of kissing, everybody caught on quickly, and nobody seemed disapprove the new custom. Individual men were surprised by the kisses, but usual y got a second chance at her lips when they left. When two or three men stopped by to say hi, the first man was surprised but the others were ready when it was their turn. We men can be trained quickly with the right teacher. One or two of her friends even swung by our table a second time, after finding their books, just to bid her farewel for the day—and pick up another few kisses.

Everybody accepted his kisses without remark. You don’t editorialize when a gorgeous girl kisses you on the lips, you just blush and try not to get flustered. You receive it and thank her quietly, deep inside your heart.

And after your surprise kiss, you walk away (or back away, like a lot of the guys did) with your world brighter and friendlier. You have a new sensation for your lips that you wil never forget, and a new girl-scent in your nose that wil be sparked at the strangest times and make you thankful—and wishful—al over again.

Al this attention played wel with Emmeline. She was glowing from the heat she generated, her brow damp and hair a little moist. She had a permanent blush that spread appealingly down her neck to her chest, where it disappeared under the light fabric of her smock and seemed to make it glow. Al the blood in her body was coursing just under her skin, waking her nerves to every touch and caress. Her lips were swol en, soft, and hot—I knew because I couldn’t stop kissing her.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” she whispered.

She reapplied her lipstick with shaking hands.

“I didn’t know you had so many male friends,” I commented.

“I thought I was supposed to feel dirty, or slutty,” she said. “But this is so natural. Everybody is so nice. Why haven’t I been kissing people my whole life?”

“You don’t have to feel dirty unless you want to. And also, Emmy, sometimes the men might be not so nice to you. I just don’t want you to be surprised. Sometimes when you put yourself out there, the feedback from the world won’t be pleasant.”

She gave me a pitying look. “Trapper, I
know
that. Don’t worry about me. I have no il usions.”

Emmeline’s Lesson

What I said next was a big mistake. But it led me to one of the biggest discoveries of my life.

“I just feel guilty about corrupting you, sometimes.”

She laughed out loud, and drew a lot of looks in our direction. “
You?
Corrupt
me?
”

“What's so funny?”

“Trapper, I'm a girl! Men have been hitting on me since I got breasts! And I got them when I was very young! I grew up in Queens and Manhattan. I've received every disgusting solicitation you can imagine. I've strung along every kind of old pervert to get favors. I’ve flirted with whole groups of guys just to stay safe until the train reached the station.”

I stared at her, groping for words. I knew this was general y true for women, but it happened to Emmeline too?
But she
was special!
What kind of baggage was she carrying? I grabbed her hand, my mind fil ing with apologies for the male race.

She put a finger on my lips. “But you want to protect me from the world, at least when you’re not slutting me out to strangers? Have you just realized that the world corrupts? You want to apologize to me for that. Tel me I'm wrong.”

“You’re not wrong,” I said.

And she wasn't. I couldn’t say when, but at some point during puberty, after I started noticing girls, I started noticing
other men
noticing girls. It was humiliating to suddenly witness how crass and transparent we are. At that instant, some kind of psychological flywheel switched over in my mind, and I began to feel sorry for the women. They had it tough! Always hit on. Never a moment when someone
doesn’t
want to look down their shirts. Al that male guilt and empathy was exhausting to young me, especial y when my hormones were driving me to proposition and hard sel every girl I met.

In high school, a waitressing friend showed me a note she received from one of her regulars, an 80-year-old man who always tried to touch her ass. He wrote:
Can we date? I love your titties poking out. I think you will suck my dick just right.

I can pay. With the money, you can go to the movies or buy a purse.

Maybe I was projecting, but if I were a young woman, what percentage of me would want to read notes like that? Zero percent, that's how much.

She saw these thoughts reflected on my face.

“Trapper, I can’t believe you think I’m innocent. We’ve been dating for three weeks. I string along your roommates. I have a nipple picture on Facebook. I am now kissing every man I see. What else do I have to do?”

“Okay, okay. I’m just trying to wrap my head around this.” It was a revelation, if you want to know. “I guess I meant to say, I feel a little shitty because, before we started dating, you were sweet and friendly. You stil are. But our rules are going to make you cheap.”

“I know I’m cheap,” she said. She liked me to say that, in a sexy way, and usual y I liked to say it to her. But this time she was missing the point.

I had to get through to her.

“Emmy, how can I say this without sounding dumb? You used to be a sirloin steak, but our sex-rules are making you into a Big Mac. You used to be a special meal, but now you’re a value meal that every poor slob can eat.”

“It’s not possible to say that without sounding dumb,” she said.

“What if I used an English accent?”

We were whispering, heads side by side. I don't think Emmeline and I had ever been this serious together. This was the sex talk we needed as our games expanded. This was the check-in where we made sure we were both having fun and doing what we wanted.

She said, “Let me prove it to you, Trap.”

“Prove that I'm not corrupting you? How?”

“Let me show you how I first learned to masturbate.”

Did she even have to ask?

“I’m in! Let’s go.”

Emmeline led me into the subway. We took the local towards Queens, the first train she usual y took to get home. She often transferred to the express at Penn Station. I was curious about where she was leading us, and I didn’t care that I would have a long trip back to the city.

Emmeline, on the other hand, was jumpy.

“Trapper, just remember that I’m a nice girl, okay?”

“Check.”

“Remember that you’re a regular guy, and you put girls on pedestals.”

“Okay.” I was growing slightly concerned.

“But girls are human, not statues.” She watched my face closely to make sure I was listening. “I commute between Manhattan and Queens every day. Let me show you something I do. Then you can tel me if I'm being corrupted by you.”

“What is it that you do?”

She bit her lip and didn’t answer.

As the subway car moved from station to station, it fil ed with tired, beaten commuters. Emmeline moved apart from me and I watched from a distance. She was the wel -put-together exception in the car, the pretty girl with the wide, anxious smile. She had a glowing complexion, a magnificent and shapely physique, and the sure body movements of an athlete.

The translucent summer smock that shimmered around her torso covered some of that amazing body, at least symbolical y.

The dress was no problem for her—men who have hot girlfriends know what I mean. Ask any woman with a slamming body to wear something sexy. They don’t mind, they don’t even think it’s special. Clothes that would be of questionable taste on average women have an ideal showcase with women like Emmeline. Even the most risqué outfits looked more right, and fit appropriately into more social situations, when the body underneath was equal to the garment.

Emmeline was hot, no two ways about it. I had learned that she regularly didn’t give a damn what people thought about her dresses, because, here it comes, she was hot. It was a big mind-fuck puzzle that I sometimes chewed on: hotness is both the cause and result of being hot.

I noticed Emmeline moving further away. I started to fol ow her but she shook her head. Her little dress swished over her ass. Some of the commuters turned to watch her go.

She prowled to the end of the subway car, then turned back. She was the only interesting person in the car. Her legs looked so bare under that skirt! Her chest was scarcely covered by the low, square décol etage. The curves of her breasts were exposed to the longing gazes of the men she passed. So much skin! The men in the subway car noticed her, but pretended not to notice. They speared her through slit eyes, with their heads turned away.

Emmeline stopped by a row of seats where a middle-aged man sat. His shoulder stuck into the aisle. She turned toward the man. She didn’t look at him. Her hip brushed his shoulder.

He didn’t move.

The movement of the train through the tunnel bumped her pelvis against his shoulder. Her hip brushed him again, and then the inside of her hip. She swayed with the subway car and it al looked innocent.

It wasn’t.

Emmeline later explained what I was seeing. “When I first learned to masturbate, I was happy, obviously. But I was at that age when everybody at church, at Sunday school, and al my friends, started saying it’s just plain wrong to touch yourself. I was a good girl, so I stopped touching myself. I was frustrated beyond belief.

“When I began commuting into Manhattan for my gifted high school, I was riding the trains al the time. I was a woman and not yet aware of it—and then one day I
was
aware of it. Because there were al these bodies pressed against each other, with me in the middle. I closed my eyes and imagined I was being smothered by men.

“It was a daydream at first. But it felt urgent somehow. I looked forward to rush hour train rides. Al these bodies pushed together, with the train dry-humping them against each other... and against me.