Rat Bohemia Read Online Free Page A

sexy. That was the first time I ever felt that thing. Desire.
    Further down , I thought. Please put your hands further down. I got angrier and angrier as her hands stayed the same.
    â€œYou’ve got to ask for it,” she whispered. She said it like a threat. “You’ve got to ask for what you want.”
    â€œPut your hands down there.”
    â€œDown where?”
    â€œIn my pants.”
    She lifted me onto her lap and fucked me fully clothed.
    â€œ You are a brave young girl,” she said. “You’re a darling girl. Keep your clothes on and it will always feel good.”
    The next and final time together, it was my turn to touch. It
was an inquiry. I hadn’t yet discovered shame. But Maria’s cunt didn’t open to my fingers the way mine had to hers. That’s when I realized how trust shows in sex. It has nothing to do with how they act or what they say. It shows physically. I learned, instinctively, the telltale signs.
    Being a salesgirl was a trap. That was clear from the start. Dad’s new girlfriend Erica worked in sales and she was obviously trapped. The staff at J. Chuckles was trapped. The manager was trapped. Even the customers were trapped by the lousy selection of overpriced clothes. I knew that I was only seventeen. I knew I was young. This job was just a moment. It was just about saving up for a camel’s hair coat. The coat was so dashing. It was substantial. It was something I had never seen before except on the back of a woman on line at Cinema One.
    Saturday afternoons, after work, I went to Shield’s Coffee Shop on Lexington Avenue and had an egg salad sandwich on rye. One dollar and five cents with a pickle on the side. I sat at the counter, exhausted, and stared out the window at the people on line at Cinema One. It was New York couples at Christmas time. The kind that went to foreign films. They had good taste. They weren’t tacky little hitters from Queens. The girls in tight jeans and sparkle socks from my neighborhood spent their whole lives smoking Marlboros in front of candy stores. Their boyfriends died in car accidents or never got rid of the drug habits they’d picked up in Vietnam. Those girls wore blue eye makeup. They listened to Elton John and Yes and Black Sabbath at parties. They listened to Tommy by the Who, and Bachman-Turner Overdrive. They did quaaludes with their older boyfriends and then eventually used needles and drank tequila right out of the bottle. They never saw foreign films. I hadn’t
either, but I would someday. That was the difference.
    Outside the couples were standing on line. I ate my egg salad slowly, watching. Framed by the picture window was a distinguished older couple. The man wore a topcoat. His wife’s hair was done. She linked her arm into his. They both looked ahead while discussing so they could watch and comment at the same time. Behind them stood a younger version. The woman’s cheeks blushed pink. She had gold earrings. The younger guy wore a scarf and a jacket. His hair was long, hatless. Behind them stood two women, arms linked as well. They were engaged, laughed easily. One had to bend over slightly so the other could speak into her ear. And then something happened that changed my life forever. The two women kissed, romantically. The one nearest the window wore a camel’s hair coat.
    The next Saturday was Christmas Day. As soon as I could get out of the house, I took the Seven train into the city directly to Cinema One. I sat down in the virtually empty theater and watched the same foreign film those two women had watched. It was called Cries and Whispers .
    In it, one woman touched another woman’s face and kissed it. Another scene showed a different woman take out her breasts while a fourth laid a hand on them. Then the first woman put a piece of glass in her vagina and rubbed the blood across her mouth. Throughout, a clock was ticking and people were whispering in