What We Do Is Secret by Thorn Kief Hillsbery Read Free Book Online Page A

connection. Shoulders, backside, upper arms pits to elbows, tender still tonight, ugly still yesterday according to Hellin, toweling my back in her and Paul’s place on Genesee, purple she said, not soft night sky purple, mean hard hurt purple, yellow too, rotting squash yellow, but I try to be upbeat, like Blitzer’s heart,
ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump thump thump,
count the blessings, three in my case, three in Rory’s, three on one but leastways no Elks Lodge massacre: tasers, choke holds, baton charge.
    Darby said.
    Cops in their riot squad gear, it’s just too gay, regulation leather
fetish outfit with military additions, all that bondage stu f, dangling
handcu fs, straps they don’t need and those flash buckles, the only
thing that isn’t kinky is the headgear, instead of leather hoods they
show how insecure they are with bulging robot helmets, oh I swear,
ten cops in full riot gear are better than a whole drag show.
    And they’re shining up their shields at this scary moment, if those fine-vagina-dining sheriffs weren’t telling tuna tales.
    “There’s a sweep tonight,” Siouxsie says. “LAPD. Vicious Circle play after midnight, at the Vex. So late.”
    I forgot about that gig, so I’m glad I’ve already got money from you know who to foot the bill. But that reminds me. I fish a couple of toe-check singles from my jeans and hand them to Siouxsie, for the mackage. But she gives a little push on my shoulder and drops them in my lap.
    I push back, and she says, “He hit me, Squidley, and it felt like a kiss.”
    Then she says my money’s no good in her neck of the woods, they’ve got lots of cash, safely stashed in her C-word.
    And I’m all, Really?
    There?
    “Oh, darlin’, the look on your face, if you could only—”
    “I said neck, not crotch,” Siouxsie breaks in. “You know, cleavage.”
    But I don’t.
    She takes my hand and guides it there.
    The breathe-in rise and breathe-out fall. Surrounding softness, somehow familiar, why? I’ve never.
    Ever.
    Why?
    I don’t know.
    Have I never been curious, or always been scared?
    About girls, of girls.
    About this? Of this?
    I say, “Cool.”
    Then.
    “No, warm.”
    They giggle.
    My hand there on its own now, unheld, waiting for me, Siouxsie waiting too, for what though?
    She likes girls. So this, to her, doesn’t feel?
    Nice?
    Just neutral?
    And what about, if?
    My fingers.
    Cup.
    The heaviness.
    Like this.
    I don’t say what I want to, What’s the difference, to you and only you, my hand there, or Squid’s hand there, shell game, blindfolded, could you tell?
    I say, “Damn. Big.”
    Just like a regular guy.
    But irregulars too, what do they say, hands on heaviness, Stickboy’s, Tony’s?
    Damn. Big.
    It’s just the human fuckin condition.

10
    Squid’s got the craves for a pack of Djarums, thanks to the malingering aroma on yours coolly, but the closest store with cloves is the 7-Eleven on Santa Monica east of Highland, across from that
transvestistas
place where the Mexicans just can’t get enough of pulling off each other’s wigs and catfighting on the sidewalk, and she’s tired of walking, she bruised her ankle earlier, banged it hard on the coffee table during “Strip to My Lou.” So with me as Siouxsie’s bodyguard in case she stirs up pussy envy among the
queñas
, we head out, after Squid swears she’ll do whatever dirty deeds it takes to keep Blitzer on the scene if he shows while we’re gone.
    “Don’t you worry, darlin’, I’ll laugh at his jokes, admire his belly button, anything.”
    And next thing you know we’re walking up the boulevard, north side, arm in arm against the traffic, the full punk couple on their Sunday night stroll, too bad we don’t have a little punk baby.
    Then, just east of Orange, south side, snap-crackle-cops a bullhorn.
    We freeze and put up our hands. There’s more static, then nothing. The engine revs. The tires roll. But not our way. And no siren action like they’re in a hurry