Your film library shelf has a dusty picture of her—the one that slipped her thin arm down your trachea, formed a fist inside and sucker-punched your heart. It took you nearly a year to remember the original beat, your heart still wincing at the sound of her name. The couch on which I’ve stretched out my dark thighs reeks of her: the original Slav whom I am meant to reincarnate tonight. I stare at the beautiful face with a dimple on her left cheek—the face you’ve planned to find in your firstborn’s crib. That face you must imagine in order to cum all over my breasts tonight.
You’re getting me a drink in the kitchen:
“So, just hot water then?” you sound condescending. You always sound condescending. You probably whine to your shrink about continuously falling for the exotic, foreign girls; about your wishing to procreate with your own kind. But white women don’t fuck like we do—the brown, foreign girls. They don’t do the dirty work, on their hands and knees, like our immigrant mothers: they don’t lick your taint; they don’t nibble away at your nipples or lap-up your Catholic shame. They don’t make you shriek, “What the fuck are you doing?” while you stare in awe at the action between your legs.
I drop my register a couple of notches, where my native tongue usually dwells: “Come here,” I purr on the couch. I am just playing my part here.
We begin a film that I’ve attempted to watch many times before, on other white men’s couches; because they can’t get off without a lesson or two on their culture. So, they make me mixed CD’s; and they over-annunciate when I ask them to repeat a cliché. They dust off their father’s copies of Citizen Kane and The Godfather (Part I and II—never III):
“Hwhat?! You’ve never seen this?” No, I haven’t. They didn’t have TV’s where I come from: Bosnia or the Ukraine. Or Ellis Island. It’s all the same to you.
I put my feet under your thighs, then on top of them. Someone is already overacting on the screen, in black-and-white. I scoot down like a bitch in heat. I caress your thinning hair and exhausted eyelids. There, there, my little boy. It’ll all be alright, in the end. Your lips, dry and large, start looking for your mama’s breasts; and in the act, they forget the condescending grin. And for that second: I can see you—you on the first day of your lungs inhaling; you, before a lover stuffed her holes with your organs; because it was much easier than working on her own shit. That you makes my ovaries flip like a Romanian gymnast.
So, I rip my face through the air, toward yours, even though I know you’re already gone, thousands of sexual ticks overcrowding you self-awareness. Your mouth tastes like Jack. And pot. A sad twofer prone to be found in an American lover. I reach down to confirm the case of a Whiskey Dick: Bingo. I try not to lose my hard-on to pathos but I know if you do get some wind tonight, you’ll have to turn off the lights and close your eyes.
Which you do.
“You like that?” you ask, quoting your favorite porn, in the dark, with nothing but the must-see American classic illuminating your skin to that color of translucent white. I’m getting fucked by a ghost here. “Hmmm? You like that? Tell me what you like!” you repeat. It’s your couch—it’s your game.
I do have a choice though: to pull you out of me, fix my skirt—and leftovers of my dignity—and walk out of this typical tale of pathetic Hollywood sex; then, cry inside my car, then call up a girlfriend to dis your name. Or I can lie.
“Oh yes. Just like that. Right there.” I lie. A terrible actor in another warzone of an unworthy love story.