Juliet my Juliet, he’s cuming. His fat block hands are on our neck and in our hair, his gobstop tight and wrinkled marbles on our chin. We shut our eyes and shiver, take the load, hard hot and moving, roof of mouth. We run our hands down, up down, up and down his thighs and swivel headed prose. We tongue him as he finishes.
He plops, a walrus to the bowl, his greyface sated, distant, plucks idly beneath the swell of porpoise. Daubs dry the mouth gunk, as we sit back, chinny between picket fence posts. We watch him Jules, we watch wide eyed and whisper, ‘Coaksy’. He’s our man now, long and hefty wilderness of chig. His big grey eyes are yellow in the white. Jelly saucer quick blink monkeys hold us tight. He reaches, harsh and epic, tangles curls to fist, and tugs us close. In belly go his rumbles and let loose, our cheek tummy tucked and sweltering, funk enormous. Gag Juliet, shake steady and you gag.
Coakes wanders Macy’s with his miss, dollybird keen at his side. She races off, grabs peagreen dresses, holds them up for his inspection. He displays beneficence, nods quiescence to one superfluous purchase after another. “Twirl”, he says, and “Excellent.”
His bit of rough is peachy, a fine dark after dinner mint. The first meathole in years that Coakes has used and not immediately cast off. Her name is Juliet. She is Hispanic, Coakes’ favourite vaginal ethnicity. She displays the quick temper and inconstant affections of her kind. Yet yields acceptably at the mere threat of his hand. Next to Juliet, Coakes is calm. He feels an odd stability. Protective even. The girl’s so slight, wicked gorgeous beneath rebel curls. He wants her next to him as he pulls tight turns in an Aston Martin over Tuscany. He wants her sunning on his deck as they power through the last leg of the Americas Cup. He wants to buy her things, twinkly treaclish things that chicks dig. Sure, he’s had to pull some strings to reel her in. But, for this moment, Coakes is whole.
In lingerie Coakes picks out panties and a peephole bra. Juliet dons them double quick, and opening the change rooms slatted door, motions him inside. In the tight mirrored confines of the changing room, Coakes is swollen and fidgety. Juliet fingers his shirt buttons and kisses him. Not on the cock, nowhere near the fetid dumpster of his arsehole. Not even on the milkdud of his furred and cankered outey. But on the lips, soft, delicate, child like. Coakes pulls back, scandalised.
“Hush”, she tells him, kicking off her sandals to stand on his feet. Coakes lifts the girl once, twice. Clumsy steps. Walks her to the corner, hoists her effortlessly to his waist. Juliet runs a hand through the grease lump of his hair, wipes a fleck of spittle from his open lips. Coakes tenses for a kiss that never comes. Opens his eyes. Juliet just looks at him. Right at his grim wide jaw. Right at his thin broken nose. Right at his blood shot, fur browed eyes. Reaching down, popping his belt, she holds his tiny crooked dick. Coakes begin to shake. Right then, a voice. “Excuse me sir, you can’t be in here. There’s no canoodling in the changerooms.”
Coakes drops the girl, turns, cock out of course. Juliet slips free, away giggling into the store. Coakes is alone with a black. A stout white haired woman, mid forties, fingering a belt of police tools. Sprays, cuffs, batons.
“Put it away sir.”
Coakes begins to lose control. Raising his fists, he begins to slap, fishlike at the guard. His wrists are limp, and his cock, still public, leaps and twitches with each blow. Over the tanoy, some rogue shop minion has snuck a knife track on the playlist. And Coakes can see all the little balls rolling down the hill, myriad colours. Pepper spray in his eyes. A world in red and blue. Promises made and broken. The floor rises up, cold and familiar, hard and heavy from below.
It’s hot. I’m sweating. It’s doing its usual trick, pooling in the pit of my lower back, burning the cracked psoriasis skin there. I shift my weight onto the other foot, the brown moleskin loafer lets out a low grown as the rubber twists. Melody, the ungrateful, looks up from her New Yorker. There. Her usual wrinkle nosed fear as she weights for the bombardment of airborne faecal matter. But not this time, it’s just the shoes.
I smile, and pat her on the shoulder roughly, unfamiliarly, her eyes widen. She takes a sharp breath.
“I’m sorry Dad, it’s just that..” She looks down at her feet. Her sequin sown Harriet the Spy sandals. I stare back at the road, concentrating. Roughly perhaps, I grab her hand, and yelling “Now”, rush out into the traffic, dragging her across the road.
In Macy’s, I have to buy some new shirts. There are too many stains on my old ones, ketchup mostly, and we’re getting into award season. The roof is low and ribbed above us. The metallic hum of the strip lights, the fans, and the giant freeze room where you test the latest slope fashions, deafen the piped muzak. Stretched back far as a football pitch are racks of clothing, colour coded, with pants and shirts and ties of every hew bunched together, an unwound rainbow.
“So, what colours do you like?”
I look down the rails and squeeze my shoes again, another loud rasp. I flash teeth at Melody, and for a second she smiles back. Cunt. She looks so much like her mother.
“I like purple, gold, imperial colours.” My voice squeaks high and girlish. This time she laughed.
“Don’t be silly dad, come on, lets get you some vertical stripes. Independent Woman Magazine says that vertical stripes flatter the larger gent. The latest research on optical illusions seems to back it up. American Scientist, the research magazine of Sigma Xi, The Scientific Research Society published a paper in June..”
She continues on like this as we trundle down endless rows of clothing. I grab shirts and ties at her suggestion, tossing them into the cart. Occasionally I nod, every now and then smile. She tugs my sleeve. I reach out and grab something off the rack, in my hand a crotchless pant. Her voice breaks through, nervous, desperate. We’re in the lingerie department.
“Dad, do you really wear those?” I want to rake the smirk from that smug little whitehead. My bumbles are not for her amusement. They’re for clever men in lab coats to note down, and record my precious spooneristic wit. I take a moment, like Baseman always says, this is quality time.
“No sweetie. They’re for you. For all your help.” I hold them out, “Give them a sniff. What do you think, will they fit?. Are they clean?” I ruffle the pants in my hand, inspecting. “Some nasty ladies try them on in store, leave their filthy pubes all over them.” I’m panting now, anxious. Something’s wrong, she’s still not happy. Bitch.
“Perhaps not these, other ones.” I reach for her hand, her face is vacant, she’s gone somewhere. Bitches always get like this. I haul her deeper, shoving the cart in front of us in angry thrusts, grabbing fistfuls of early learning bras and French knickerbocker glories. Here we are at last, in corsets.
“Take a look at this…”
Time passes. I’m outside a cubical, eyeing up the piles of soiled, rejected pants, holding back heroically. Here she is, my princess. My voice is high and clear as I say.
“Boy do they fit. Look who’s growing up fast.”
I make her twirl for me, if I were pretty I’d twirl too. This is our finest moment together. I smile, not looking at her face. How fortunate she is to have a hip sweet daddy like me.
Melody cowered in a corner of the booth. Oh sweet Matilda Joslyn Gage, her father was a mental patient. He was in the middle of a florid breakdown. He wasn’t himself. It was much too cold in here. Melody was all goosebumps, the hair on the back of my neck marching in rows. Or maybe it was not the air conditioning. Maybe it was that gaze. Breath again, Melody forced herself to think, where was her shirt? Outside, not far from the cubicle door, Melody could her fathers deep and throaty breaths. Don’t let him in, she thought. Don’t let him come in again. They’d been having such fun together, picking his shirts. He’d listened. Where were her shoes? Where were her hello kitties? Where were her own damn pants.
“Come on, try another, fuckin’ choose!”
It wouldn’t be so bad, if he hadn’t made everyone in the department watch. If he hadn’t called out, ‘Look at them, bigger every day. Daddies little Paris Hilton’. Melody could smell her fathers BO, like a rancid public pool. Think, she told herself. This was one of those moments a well read girl was properly prepared for. As Greer said, ‘Catastrophe is the natural human environment, we are programmed for survival amid catastrophe.’ She could get through this.
“Don’t be such a feminist. Try on that nice lacy one again. I’ve think I’ve figured out this camera function. I just paw at the screen don’t I?”
Photo’s, the internet, her internship with Senator Obama. Melody hunkered down, peered into the next stall. A rotund woman smiled back, tying her shoes.
“Hello dear.”
“Hi.”
She swung in under, pulling herself along beside the woman.
“Oh hello dear. Nice to meet you.” The lady held out a large hand.
Melody shook, motioned ’shush’, and pulled herself into the next stall. Further away from her father.
Minutes have passed. I’m feeling lonely. Inconsiderate cunt. She can’t leave me here in the womans section, I’m a man. I have a penis. I check. Come on. I drum my head against the cubicle door. Come, the fuck, on.
“Are you nearly ready for you close up honey?”
Silence. I decide to play a trick.
“Melody,” I yell, and burst in, camera in hand. But the stall’s empty. “Melody!”
I feel like that fuck Nicholson in Shining. Is she hiding? There such a mound of corsets I can’t tell. I bend, paw and sniff through the heap. Christ she smells like her mother. Minutes later, maybe more. A firm hand on my shoulder.
“Sir, sir you can’t be here. What exactly are you doing?”
“Melody!”
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