The First Male Page 3
“Be quiet!” Brooke screamed from the other room. Simon heard the loud expulsion of her breath and her shifting violently in the bed, but that was the least of his concerns. His eyes bulged in his head as he scanned the room. Everything seemed normal. The clear, plastic shower liner was still dotted with soap scum; the brown ring around the tub was still there; the roll of toilet paper still sat on top of the toilet lid, instead of on the holder designed for it; the lumpy tube of toothpaste was still missing its cap; pieces of white soap covered the caked-on soap stains that decorated the indented part of the sink that was meant to hold a full bar. Everything was fine.
Except, he had heard a hissing that called his name.
He shook his head and rubbed his face with his hands as he leaned against the cool sink. He didn’t flinch when his skin touched the cold ceramic; he needed to cool his body. The night had already been too much, starting with the party, then his fight with Brooke, then his dream and his anger, and now he was hearing hissing sounds while he was awake. Maybe he was simply tired.
“Get it together, Simon,” he said to himself as he rubbed his face.
Simon had always had an unusual sleep pattern, among other unusual traits. Sometimes he could go for more than a week on practically no sleep, stealing tiny naps and nods during breaks at school or on his lunch break at work; other times he’d sleep so hard someone would think he was comatose. When he was eight years old, his foster parents told the social worker that something was wrong with the boy; he never slept and was never tired. They were so spooked by him that they returned him to the system with the same ease as they would return an unwanted birthday gift to a department store. He never forgot the quizzical expressions on their pale faces as they drove away in their dark blue Mercedes station wagon. They weren’t the first family to return him. It was a pattern in his life. Perfect couples, driving perfect cars, would come looking for the perfect child to complete their perfect family, and they usually fell in love with Simon’s perfect beauty. Invariably, however, after some time, their perfect view of him would shatter as he displayed some unusual . . . talent.
When he was four, his foster mother, Danielle Robinson, who had a predilection for foreign language films, was watching a French movie as Simon played with his Tonka truck in the living room. The actress on screen burst into a room and looked at the body of a woman splayed across the sofa. With alarm, she looked at the male actor onscreen and screamed, Qu’avez-vous fait à ma mère? (What have you done to my mother?), to which Simon replied with ease, Votre mère est fine. Elle a eu trop de vin (Your mother is fine. She’s had too much wine), in perfect French. This happened several times, albeit sporadically, with several different languages, until Danielle was so unnerved that she had to let Simon go.
When he was six, he drowned in a lake during a family camping trip. His newest foster father, Ralph Knight, sitting on the edge of a big rock a hundred yards away from the lake, saw Simon jump off the pier into the lake. He saw the splash of water leap into the air when Simon cannon-balled into the frigid water. Ralph immediately panicked; he had been told by the agency that Simon couldn’t swim. He raced to the lake and jumped in head first. It was nearly ten minutes before Simon was found and was pulled out of the water, unconscious. When he was pulled to shore, Ralph frantically performed CPR to a crowd of gasping onlookers, but the boy would not breathe. Right before paramedics arrived fifteen minutes later, Simon woke up, drowsy, as if he had been simply napping. To this day, Simon recalled jumping into the lake and the horrible feeling of his lungs tightening as he inhaled water. He remembered the feeling of panic, he remembered everything going black, and then he remembered waking up.
As a child Simon could never understand what he did to offend his foster families so much that they had to return him. The things he had done were done naturally, like a child taking his first steps. Maybe Danielle would have preferred that he was dumb and barely spoke English. Maybe Ralph really wanted him to drown. His experiences taught him to temper his words and to be careful about what he did. As he grew, he learned that his talents were not appreciated and he learned to keep them to himself. Even still, Simon spent years facing rejection, after rejection, after rejection, until all he knew was rejection. So, he stopped letting people inside.
Simon stepped close to the tub, reached in and turned on the shower. He waited until he could see steam rising from the water before he stepped in. He hoped the warmth of the water would relax him and ease his anxiety. He placed his right hand on the wall of the shower and leaned into it, stretching and extending his entire body. He let the water bead down his body and cascade over his face. It felt wonderful, even though it would have been far too hot for most people. He stood motionless, with his eyes closed for several minutes, letting the water wash away his troubles.
Simon was tired. It had been at least four days since he had six consecutive hours of sleep. Maybe that explained his irritability and lack of patience with Brooke. Maybe that explained his nagging headache. Finally, he understood why people complained about having a headache. This was a new experience for him, and he didn’t like it at all. Something was going on with him, but he didn’t know what. All he knew was that he felt . . . odd.
After about five minutes, Brooke entered the room quietly. Knowing the water would scald her, she instinctively reached in and added some cold to the powerful stream. When Simon looked at her, she smiled, as if to say, “I’m sorry.” He closed his eyes, not sure he was ready to forgive her.
She stepped into the tub and placed her arms around his waist from behind him. Her breasts felt like heaven against his sensitive skin; her hardened nipples tickling his back. He took a deep breath as his manhood swelled to life. She reached her hand around to his front and grabbed it. He moaned.
“I’m sorry, baby,” she whispered. She planted several small kisses on his back as she moved her hand up and down his member; her hand could barely fit around his shaft. He wanted to say something, to accept her apology, but the fire in his genitals burned away his voice. Besides, she hadn’t done enough work yet. He wasn’t ready to forgive her. He’d withhold his absolution until she kneeled before him.
She turned him around and kissed him; her eager tongue aggressively explored his mouth. He wanted to remain firm, to punish her as she had punished him, but his body betrayed his intentions. He returned her kiss with equal zeal as his manhood rubbed the warmth between her legs. He loved her, but hated the flesh power she had over him. At this moment, all he could think about was being inside her, exploring her mouth, sucking her ripened nipples, licking her fruit, and digging into her treasure.
He cupped her sizable breasts and licked and sucked her nipples ravenously. They tasted sweet, as if covered in nectar. Her left one was far more sensitive than the right one, and his warm mouth covered it completely, sending her into a frenzy. He could feel her whole body shake. He couldn’t seem to get enough, and he became increasingly forceful with his mouth, his teeth bearing down with a bit too much force. She winced, but he could not let her go. She moaned, louder and louder until her moans started to sound like whimpers and cries to his ears. He finally let her pull away and they stood staring at each other breathlessly, not sure what exactly to say. The tension they shared consumed the air in the room, but they had used sex many times before as a remedy to their relationship ails; sex could say I’m sorry in ways words never could. Slowly, she gave him what he desired most. She kneeled before him, as he knew she would.
After she finished, she stood up and kissed him again. With her hand, she guided him into the space that he loved the most. When he entered her, he was seized by such warmth and pleasure that he shuddered. At this point, he knew she had complete control of him and she worked her magic in such a way that he was ready to submit; he was ready to give in to all her desires to stay there. His weakness had always been good pussy, and she had the best.
After they finished and dried each other off, they lay back down in bed together, her
head resting on his massive chest.
“Baby,” she said gently, “I think you should see someone about your headache. You’ve had it for days now.”
He kissed the top of her head. “I don’t need a doctor. I’m just tired.”
“No one has a headache for four days. I’m worried.”
“Don’t be worried. I’m fine. Really. I just need some sleep.” She exhaled. He could tell that she was worried. “Besides, it’s not like I have health insurance.”
“I told you a friend of my dad will see you. I told him about it, and he said you should come see him.”
“You’ve been talking about me?”
“Baby, I’m worried,” she said in a soothing tone, “I want you to be okay.”
“Why would your dad want to help me? He doesn’t even like me. After that fucked-up dinner party we had, I’m surprised he hasn’t hired someone to beat the hell out of me—a la Tony Soprano.”
“Just because we’re Italian doesn’t mean we’re in the Mafia,” she said as she gave him a playful nudge in the side. “You know Daddy isn’t like that. And I didn’t say my dad. I said a friend of my dad.”
“Oh, so you’re going behind dear old Dad’s back for me, huh?”
“I’ll do what I have to do to make sure you’re okay.”
“I really am okay. Trust me. I never get sick.”
“What do you mean you never get sick?”
“I mean I don’t get sick. Besides this headache, I’ve never had a cold, a cough, the flu, or a stomach ache. I’ve never vomited or been dizzy or had chicken pox or any of the other shit people complain about. So, this headache will pass. It’s nothing.” The ease with which the words slipped from his mouth surprised Simon. Instantly, he thought of the families who had taken care of him only to return him when something about him rattled their spirit. He had violated one of his central tenets: never share too much information about himself with others. Folks would think he was odd. When he spoke about his medical history to Brooke, his words weren’t boastful; they simply told the truth of his perfect health. He hoped she wouldn’t freak out and leave.
Brooke sat up and looked at him curiously. As soon as her eyes met his, he regretted his confession.
“What?” he asked.
“Are you serious?”
“About what? Never being sick? Yeah, I’m serious.”
“You must be the luckiest or healthiest man in the world.”
“I take care of myself. I eat right, don’t do drugs or smoke, and I exercise—you know how I do.” He tried to make light of the situation but he felt a nervousness rising inside, twisting his stomach.
She lay back on his chest. “Well, if you’ve never been sick and you have a headache now, you should definitely see a doctor. It could be serious. Will you call him? For me? At least think about it?”
He paused. “Okay, I’ll think about it. For you.”
“Your twenty-first birthday is coming up in a few weeks and I want my baby to be healthy and happy. I have things planned for us.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine by then. You don’t have to worry.” Simon focused his eyes upward and looked at the matted clumps of paint that made little hills on the ceiling. Sometimes when he couldn’t sleep he’d stare at the clumps hoping to discern some hidden pattern. Focusing his energy on something so inane usually relaxed him and allowed sleep to overtake him. He wouldn’t need such a cheap trick tonight. He was tired. Dog tired. He could feel his body succumbing to sleep. He adjusted himself slightly to allow for maximum comfort while Brooke wrapped her body around his. He closed his eyes, happy to have Brooke pressed against him. Her warmth, her scent, and the feel of her body, all felt so right. This moment felt perfect, particularly after the horrible fight they had earlier.
Ssssss-simon.
He snapped open his eyes in a fright. This wasn’t his imagination. It felt real. He lay perfectly still in bed, too afraid to move. Brooke didn’t budge, and she clearly hadn’t heard the macabre whisper in the quiet of the night; a whisper that sent chills racing up his spine. His stomach churned and tightened. Even though it was an unusually warm December night in New Orleans, the room suddenly felt as if the temperature had dropped. He swore he could see his breath leaving his mouth as he exhaled.
He remained still for several minutes more. He didn’t even want to breathe.
Don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid. A familiar, masculine voice, one that Simon had heard many times before, echoed inside his head. The voice was smooth and calming; Simon had heard the voice in his head at different times, over the years, though it had been many months since he had heard it last.
Now, it was back.
His body tightened.
Don’t be afraid.
Something was hissing his name, and now it seemed as if someone was speaking to him inside his head. Tomorrow, he’d take Brooke’s advice and see that doctor, although, at this point, he didn’t think he needed a regular one.
He needed a shrink.
CHAPTER 3
Simon awoke the next morning to find an empty bed. Brooke, no doubt, had quietly slipped out in the early morning hours to make her eight o’clock class. When she stayed over the night before an early class, she was usually careful to not wake Simon on her way out. He always appreciated her thoughtfulness, but that was her nature. Caring. Considerate. Kind. In his whole life, Simon had never been doted over the way Brooke did.
Simon stretched and yawned, then rolled over and pulled Brooke’s pillow to his nose, drawing her enticing scent fully into his nostrils. Upon the first inhalation, his half-engorged organ stiffened into a powerful erection, which he simply could not ignore. Memories of her firm breasts and sweet nipples replayed in his head. He thought about how good it had been only hours ago. Images of her naked flesh flashed before his eyes. Her skin. Her shapely thighs. The arch of her back. Her lips. He closed his eyes and remembered the sweet taste between her thighs. She had a power over him that weakened him in a way no other woman had, and Simon was no stranger to sex. He first lost his virginity at the tender age of twelve and had led a very active sex life since then. He wasn’t yet twenty-one, but he’d had so many sexual partners that he’d lost count; but Brooke was different from the others. She was not just a notch on his bedpost. Something about her put her well above the rest. Sure, she got on his nerves and sometimes talked too much, but their sexual chemistry couldn’t be denied. The more he thought about her and the more he smelled her scent, the more turned on he became. Over the last few days his lust, alongside his anger, had become insatiable, with him masturbating three or four times a day to carry him over until Brooke was within his reach. It was like puberty all over again, only worse. He could hardly focus on anything other than being with her. As he thought about her, his manhood throbbed painfully with passion. A fire swelled within him that had to be quenched. His hand was a poor substitute for her body, but it would have to suffice. He pumped some lotion into his hand from the bottle on the nightstand, closed his eyes, wrapped his hand around it, and stroked frantically, to completion.
After he finished, he lay in bed and contemplated his next move. Technically, he had a chemistry class at noon, but he had no intention of going. In fact, he hadn’t attended any class in weeks. At this point he needed to drop out, but he hadn’t bothered to do so yet. Fuck the university and its rules, he’d said to Brooke when she had suggested he officially withdraw and take his final classes next semester. All of his classes bored him to tears. Listening to Mr. Long ramble on about organic and polymer synthesis simply didn’t interest him. The elementary methods employed to teach the class only annoyed Simon and he often butted heads with the professor, particularly when the instructor misspoke and Simon corrected him in front of the class. He knew far more about the subject than his instructor, who had a Ph.D.
Simon exhaled and looked around the room. Brilliant sunlight, piercing through the Venetian blinds, cut horizontal swathes across the space, dividing the room into
sections. The light forced him to squint. The sun seemed brighter than usual; in fact, he was certain that he could feel the beginnings of a headache coming on—again—and he was sure it was induced by the light. By the angle of the sun in the sky, he knew that it was not yet ten in the morning. He wanted to get up and go over to the window to close the blinds, but he wasn’t ready to stir yet; that would require far too much energy and the bed was far too comfortable.
Instead of getting up, he buried his face in Brooke’s pillow again. After a few moments of total darkness, he reached over to the nightstand and grabbed the remote control. He aimed it at the television set and waited for voices to fill the empty space in the room. The incessant chatter of the local news team filled the room with sound. Simon could only tolerate silence for so long; silence gave him too much time to think, to ponder things better left alone. Sometimes, when it was really quiet and he was really still, he felt connected to the world in a way that he could never articulate. It was as if he knew the inner workings of the universe and was a part of it. Even as a child, it unnerved him and he never spoke of it. To anyone.
He noticed a note on the nightstand and reached over and picked it up. It was from Brooke.
Baby, you have a doctor’s appointment today. Please go. Don’t let me down. I want to know that you’re okay.
Dr. Gregor Myles
1118 Canal Street
Appointment: at 3:30
“Fuck,” he said to himself. He looked at the note in his hand and tried to suppress his growing smile with annoyance, but he couldn’t. She knew how to take care of him. He thought about Brooke’s sneaky ways. He knew how her mind worked; she probably had made this appointment for him days ago in the hopes that she’d break him down and get him to agree to go. She loved him and was only looking out for him, but the last thing he wanted to do was spend hours waiting at some doctor’s office for some over-paid professional with a God complex who, when they finally saw him, would probably tell him to take two aspirin and get some rest. Simon knew that if he didn’t go today Brooke would nag and nag and nag him until he finally caved in; or, she’d skip class one day and take him to the doctor’s office herself and that was the last thing he wanted her to do. He didn’t want her tagging along, and he didn’t want to fight about it; he didn’t have the energy. He’d go see the doctor just to appease her.