Attracted

“It sounds a lot like Danzig,” he says, “but only the first two records.”

He stumbles around my kitchen, in a brown leather jacket, with a hammer and sickle around his neck.

He walks into the corner of the stove. I hand him a bottle of vodka.

“I am Russian.” He says. He takes a drink from the bottle. “I kill.”

I laugh, feeling nervous.

“No no no,” he says. “Listen to me. You — ” putting his finger on my chest –

“You are not Russian.” He says very seriously, “I AM Russian. I will kill you.”

“I am Russian.” I say quietly.

“No,” he says, “You’re not Russian. You don’t know Russians. You don’t even know.”

He drinks from the bottle, he looks at me. “Have you ever fucked a Russian?”

“You’re so — ”

“I have.” He says. “I’ve fucked Russians. I’ve fucked a lot of Russians…

“Listen to me.” He says, “I AM RUSSIAN.”

He pulls his shirt off. “I’m not like anyone you will meet.” He says, “I will fuck you.”

He puts one finger on my clit and one on my forehead. “Here,” he says. “I will fuck you.”

He presses his finger in the center of my forehead. “I’m going to fuck you for hours.”

“That scares me,” I say.

He takes my clothes off. “I know,” he says. “Let’s talk about it.”

“Well, I’m PART Russian,” I say, reaching my arms over my head.

“You LOOK Russian,” he says, grabbing my neck.

“That’s because I am Russian.”

“No you’re not,” he says. He kneels on the floor.

He pushes his tongue on my clit. It is violent.

He presses his finger inside me.

In a blue room on a vast Russian tundra, he stands in the West, and I sit in the East.

He scratches his moustache with a hammer. His tongue, he holds in a tiny triangle, dangling from the center of his mouth.

He winks.

“Say it,” he says.

“No,” I turn from him, my back against the vertical blinds.

He pulls a blanket from the bed, and whips it to his side like a bullfighter.

He wears a small bolero, a peck of chest hair, and a blinking pager.

“Cold?” he asks.

I shiver. He walks to my side and grabs my forearm in his fist.

“Say it,” he says.

His jaw is clenched, he pushes his thumb on my teeth, he tears the pager from his belt.

“I’ve never — ” I start, my words muffled in his grip.

“Yes?” He pushes his hand under my chin.

“Seen — ” I say, he pulls the back of my hair.

“A — Russian’s — dick — so — ”

**************

The blows came first to my face then to my body. The music they played was strange. Someone said the band was Australian. Girls and highways. Power chords. At high volume, very loud. I grew up in Chicago. They made fun of my name. When the naked woman came to my cell, I professed my values. In truth, I thought she was cute. I would never say. Honestly she was not strong. Her hits increased my resolve. Her fingernails were dirty. That’s what I remember. She turned the lights on much brighter. I closed my eyes. I would not disclose my fantasies. As she struck me I hid my joy and my shame. I have never left the country. That is the truth. I went to New York once. When I was a boy. My father lives there. He did not come back with us to Chicago. I tell her I like the wind. She does not understand. Her skinny arms swing her whip again. My face shows no pain. A male soldier punches me. I am not so fond of that. I describe my time in Los Angeles. I have never been there. Skateboards on the boardwalk and letters on the walls. They turn the music up. Up to this point, I shed no blood. Now my nose is broken. Then my jaw. The girl did it. She dropped her stick and her whip. She struck me with her fist. I like her still. I strained against the ropes and handcuffs. I want to be with her. They left me alone with the noise and the light. I could not sleep. She came back to kick me. I try to pucker my lips but my jaw and my face are broken. She kicks me again. I can hear and feel my ribs crack. The rest of them come back. They tape my nose and mouth. It is now and it is then. They throw me on the floor. I try to tell their boots apart, hers from theirs. I cannot. They kicked me all at once. She would have smaller shoes, but their kicks were rapid and hard to tell apart. Their shoes were all the same. Blindfolded I could not tell if she was naked any more, nor if she ever was. Their sounds went away, the noise of their boots stuttering away from me. Some time later, soft sounds return. I cannot rise from the floor. What seems to be a small boot presses against my throat. I think I hear her voice. A bit of pressure against my windpipe, then a little more. I cough and gag under the weight of her foot. I have nothing to say, nothing to tell them, or her.

________________________________

Jessica Garrison and Larry Fondation are collaborating on a series of fiction “duets.”

Larry Fondation is the author of four books of fiction, all set in inner city Los Angeles. His most recent, a collaboration with artist Kate Ruth, is called Unintended Consequences, a collection of short stories.

Jessica Garrison is the author of a series of mini books called $1 STORIES. She has also published collections of short stories and zines with a writing collective called Pale House. For more info visit: http://www.jessicaleegarrison.com/