50. I Touch Myself
TIFFANI WOOD
HELL WEEK: THURSDAY, DAY FOUR
December’s in a murderous mood.
So is Little Death.
I’m on my terrace, flat on my back on the fake grass, wearing only an oversized Aerosmith tee and panties.
The withdrawal is so intense
I’m sweating.
The style’s called: horny homebody decay.
The sky’s corpse-blue above.
My guitar’s lying across my stomach,
my fingers trembling on the strings.
It’s day four of not leaving my penthouse.
Not having an orgasm.
Not touching myself.
Somewhere across the city, Andrew’s at work, wearing his bellhop smirk, all Jersey boy dimples and self-control, all ‘let me get that bag for you, sweetheart.’
Meanwhile, I’m out here seeing tongues in the clouds, hearing his voice ricochet through my head, saying shit like—
‘C’mere, baby,
Want your pussy spread over my mouth,
drippin’ all over my fingers,
my chin, my tongue,
And I ain’t stoppin’
‘til you’re a sobbin’,
soakin’-wet
mess.
And we both know I don’t do quick.’
I’m two seconds from texting him,
begging for mouth pics to jerk off to.
Little Death’s pacing my bloodstream,
with dark circles around its eyes,
sharpening its knife,
pissed I’m starving him,
whispering, just be a good girl
and open your fuckin’ legs, Allison.
And I do.
The sun pins me to the terrace,
the horizon pries them open,
and as a cold breeze slides between my thighs,
I close my eyes and see him,
feel him,
feel winter lick the center of my panties.
A gasp slips out of me,
and my thighs fall wider.
The sky holds my hips down
while December mouths my pussy,
another cold wind brushing my clit.
I whimper, lifting my hips into it,
dragging a finger over the low E string,
and the acoustic moans.
A growl crawls out of me, chasing it.
I throw my fist down into the grass,
my growl splitting into a scream.
96 hours without coming,
and I’m humping the fucking sun.
I shove winter off my body,
dig my nails into the neck of the guitar,
strum something violent,
almost tear the strings off.
“This one’s called Seasonal Depression in my Panties.” Then the words spit out of me, dunked in rage—
“Fuck you, Andrew /
but fuck me harder
go on break my spine —
call me Miss Martyr /
You’re the mouth I —
wanted to ride
still I’d sit on your face —
dead or alive
before I sit with my feelings
Cause I hate you /
I want you /
I hate that I want you
you infuriating fuck
Joisey-born disastuh
Putting on a front /
making me dry-hump December
yeah dis poor vagina
bout to catch pneumonia
So come tongue my slit /
or I’ll slit your tongue
Cause fuck you Andrew
I’d rather punch you with my pussy /
and get eaten out by the sun
Yo this flow’s undone /
it’s not like I get credit —
for any /
of these /
songs
I’ma make you hate me too
make you run back —
to /
your /
moms—”
My palm slaps down on the fretboard.
I sit up straight.
“Moms,” I say,
light bulb buzzing in my head.
// 11:36 AM — UNION CITY, NJ //
“You know what’s crazy?”
Celie continues her rambling.
It’s not even noon yet. We're idling half a block down from Andrew's house, snow flurries floating all around. Union City’s a cold breath on the windshield, engine's running low, heater's blowing in our faces.
“Monday, I say, ‘come see DJ Crush with me’ and your bitch ass tells me ‘No, Celie, it’s the Fuckening. It’s Hell Week.
I’m a selfish sex addict who refuses to leave my penthouse just so you can eye-fuck DJ Crush durin’ Let Me Lick It’.
Fast-forward to today, your ass hits me up.
All’a sudden the princess changes her mind and wants to leave her tower, and I drop everything.
Now I’m out here in Union City, bein’ a better friend than you, just fuckin’ sayin’.
But I’ma act like I ain’t mad about it. I’ma act—”
I flip the visor mirror shut and turn to her, snapping her ramble in half with one sentence. “Hunter’s outta prison.”
Brakes from a city bus hiss in the distance.
Then all noise drops dead.
Her head swivels, eyes widening.
“Shut up. No the fuck he’s not.”
I rifle through my bag for lip balm, fingers steadily shaking again with the mention of his name.
With everything going on:
The Fuckening,
Hell Week,
withdrawal,
Andrew,
it was easy to keep myself from thinking about Hunter.
(Not totally true. I had Brooke submit a witness protection application to the FBI, ensuring I’m the best candidate for their program.)
But just saying his name out loud once, and the memory of those horrifying days moves across my mind like storm clouds.
I check the rearview and side mirror for him. “Yep. He’s out. Saw him Sunday night. Drew almost killed him.” I shrug. “Wish he did. It’s no biggie though. Your girl’s all good. Just need a distraction, aight?”
I feel her gaze petting the side of my face.
I feel her looking at me with sorrow.
With pity. With worry.
“Stop lookin’ at me like that. I’m fine. Run the plan by me one more time. Word-for-word.”
She takes a breath, then fires off: “Okay, so, you go in, keep the moms busy, act normal, don’t ask about Six-Point-Five’s suspicious second phone—”
“Celie—”
“Right, right. My lane,” she says sarcastically, her expression facially loud at how ridiculous this shit is.
“I wait outside the basement door till you open it from the inside. Sneak in, find any incriminating evidence—used condoms, secret phones, cocaine, whatever—and get the fuck out before someone calls the cops.”
I uncap my ChapStick with a smirk.
“Good girl.”
There’s still time to back out,
to throw the car in reverse, say fuck it,
drive back to my side of the Hudson,
pretend we were never here.
But we’re not the backing-out type.
Nah. We’d rather look stupid.
“Why we doin’ this again?” Celie asks.
'Cause this boy’s got two phones and maybe an arrest record. Only reason a boy has two phones is ‘cause he’s hiding shit.
“I need to learn more about him.”
She doesn’t need to know about us negotiating a new contract or him moving in. I don’t know how to feel or what to think yet. The last thing I need is her confusing me before I decide for myself.
I toss a bothered look at her.
“Every time I think I figured him out?
“Shit flips sideways.”
Especially this game he’s pulling during Hell Week. I need intel. I need to know what could crack him and make him leave.
‘Cause no man alive has ever outplayed me at my own manipulation.
Reverse psychology? Please.
I invented that shit in preschool.
No one can mindfuck me when I’ve been mindfucking myself first.
I win. By default.
Celie nods, serious, one gasp away from stress-vomiting on the dashboard. “They Italian, right? They gonna kill me if they find me in their son’s room?”
I lube my lips with the ChapStick.
“Eh—fifty-fifty chance. One’s got liver failure. Only thing she gettin’ up for is her last round.”
Celie’s stare slices into me.
I snap the cap back on with a click.
“Don’t gimme that face. If I can’t laugh about death, then the grief will rip out of my eyes. Is that what you want?” She groans into her palms as I fix my earpiece and yank on the door handle. “Strap in, bitch. Hoodlum Shit starts now.”
Wind slaps me across the cheeks when I step out of the car. Sky’s sad and gray. Sidewalk’s iced and ready to break ankles.
By the time I reach the front stoop,
my thighs are numb.
Celie branches off, crouch-walking along the side of the house, chanting “fuck-fuck-fuck” under her breath, moving like she’s breaking out of prison after getting fucked in the ass.
I shake my head and knock.
Seconds go by with no answer.
Before I’m about to knock again,
the door swings open,
heat blasting in my face.
Paola stands there, face blank,
hair in a witchy black-silver halo.
“Yeah?”
Skepticism. Judgment.
For a split second, I think she genuinely doesn’t remember me.
“Hi… it’s… Allison?”
A second passes.
“From Thanksgiving…” I add.
My stomach’s falling,
only for a beat—
Then she breaks.
Her whole face lights up. “Oh for Christ’s sake, I’m bustin’ your chops. Get in here, city girl.” She yanks the door wider with her hip. “Andrew ain’t here. He’s down at the hotel, kissin’ rich people’s asses.”
“I know, was in the neighborhood—”
Then she shouts over her shoulder,
loud enough to shake the crucifix.
“MARIAAA! WHAT’D I TELL YOU? TOLD YOU WE DIDN’T SCARE HER OFF!”
She waves me in deeper.
I toe off my boots in the foyer,
nudging them in the corner.
The TV’s blaring from the living room.
There’s a Christmas candle burning in the kitchen, cinnamon tangled with coffee and radiator heat.
Outside, somewhere near the basement door, Celie is probably crawling on all fours.
When I turn the corner, Maria’s in her chair by the window, thinner than she was at Thanksgiving, eyes still wildfire, still ‘I’ll outlive all you bastards.’ She’s wrapped in the Teddy Vale blanket I gifted her.
But Teddy’s face is melted at the corner, thread singed, like someone accidentally held it over a stove burner.
Probably Andrew.
My mind instantly drops me into the scene: Paola screaming at him as the two wrestle the blanket from each other, ‘Jealous of a crooner. A CROONER! LET GO OF THE BLANKET—LET—GO! Che cazzo—are you INSANE?’ While Maria throws whatever’s closest into the kitchen, the remote, a pillow, a pill bottle, shouting curses in Italian—‘è MIO! MIO! MIO! Leave my Teddy alone!’ Then Andrew, yanking it back.
‘I’m not jealous. It’s weird! She sleeps with that man’s face on her.
YOU DON’T SEE HOW THAT’S WEIRD?! LET GO—MA, stop throwin’ shit!
’ Then Paola: ‘Maria! Stop tryin’ to hit him with the remote—Jesus Christ! ’
Someone on the TV screams into a pillow, and it yanks me out of my head.
One of the dating reality shows flashes across the TV, and Paola laughs, throwing her head back.
“‘I’m overstimulated,” she mock-whines, rolling her eyes.
“Funniest shit. That generation don’t date.
They diagnose each other. Everybody’s emotionally intelligent now, and somehow nobody’s emotionally stable.
And here I am, glued to every episode.” Paola then turns to me.
“Speaking of dates, how was yours with Andrew last night?”