Big Swiss(63)

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WITH MEN, Greta had always thought of her vagina as a blind driveway. The men drove in and out, but it was largely hidden from Greta, and there was no convex mirror that allowed her to see the entrance, the strange comings and goings. But now that she was behind the wheel, so to speak, and Big Swiss’s driveway was so clearly marked, Greta could see every exquisite detail. In fact, she’d become addicted to watching herself go in and out, and resented having been deprived of this view for so long. Of course, the view was overly familiar from porn, but it was altogether different when the POV was your very own.

“I think I get why men are so ‘visual,’?” Greta said. “It’s because they can see their own dicks at all times.”

Big Swiss rolled her eyes. “It’s sociological. Men are taught to be visual, to objectify. It’s not a biological trait.”

“I think it might be as simple as see dick, see Jane, see dick go into Jane.”

Greta brought her hand to her nose and inhaled. Only one thing rivaled the view, and it lingered longer, affected her like lavender was supposed to, and sometimes got her through the unbearably long weekends, which were off-limits to Greta.

“Nothing gets your smell off my fingers,” Greta said.

Big Swiss didn’t say anything.

“Yes, I’ve tried kerosene,” Greta said.

“Is this a problem?” Big Swiss said, sitting up. “I mean, is it interfering with your life?”

“Calm down,” Greta said. “I was kidding about the kerosene. I stopped washing my hands weeks ago. I relish sniffing my fingers, especially at the grocery store.”

“You’re different when you’re on top,” Big Swiss said. “You look different, and your personality changes.”

Greta thought about it. “I feel more like myself. My true self, I mean. Not to sound corny, but I feel like I’m accessing—and inhabiting—one of my past lives.”

“Which one?” Big Swiss asked.

“I was a guerrilla living in the jungle.”

“A big gorilla,” Big Swiss said, nodding. “That makes sense. I can see that.”

“Guerrilla,” Greta repeated. “With a U and E. My point is, I feel radicalized, ready to fight.”

“We’re just having an affair,” Big Swiss said.

“Think of all the calls you’ve missed, the meals you’ve skipped, how late to work I’ve made you. Think of all the surprise raids in broad daylight.”

Big Swiss shrugged.

“Who have you told about us?” Greta asked.

“Only my therapist,” Big Swiss said. “He’s local—you might know him. I’m kind of embarrassed to say his name.”

“Om,” Greta blurted. “He buys weed from Sabine. He’s over here all the time and hangs out for hours.”

This was a lie. Om knew where Sabine lived, but he didn’t know her exact address.

“Your mouth’s doing that thing again.”

“Can you maybe not be super specific when you talk about me? I don’t want him looking at me all knowingly in front of Sabine.”

Big Swiss would probably tell him fucking everything now, including all the bad things. She’d already told him Greta’s first name, she said, which Greta said was fine, so long as Big Swiss didn’t mention where Greta lived, or with whom.

“Who have you told?” Big Swiss asked.

“No one,” Greta said.

“Not even Sabine?”

“Especially not her,” Greta said.

“Why, is she homophobic?”

“Pistanthrophobic.”

“What’s that?”

“A fear of trusting people, or getting cheated on.”

“But you’re not in a relationship,” Big Swiss said carefully, as if this were news to Greta.

“Yes, but you are,” Greta said. “I’m sleeping with a married woman almost half my age. She’d say I’d lost the rest of my marbles.”

And she would be right. Greta was beginning to feel more than a little unstable.

Big Swiss straddled Greta and pinned her wrists with one hand. She thrust the other hand between Greta’s legs. It had been over a week since Big Swiss had touched her down there—or anywhere, really.

“How do you feel now?” Big Swiss asked.

“Like you, maybe. A guarded pillow queen.”

“We talked about this,” Big Swiss said. “I’m up to my elbows in vaginas all day. Being on top feels like work to me.”

Greta sighed. “Pillow queen” wasn’t quite right, anyway. When she was on the bottom, Greta felt like one of the Tahitian women in a Gauguin painting. Beneath Big Swiss, Greta felt poor, foreign, and fetishized. She would’ve said as much, but Big Swiss probably had no idea who Gauguin was, even though a coffee-table book of his paintings lay on the bathroom floor upstairs. The book belonged to Sabine and always seemed to fall open to the painting titled What! Are You Jealous?

Outside, Greta heard a vehicle roll into the driveway. Pi?on sniffed the air, hackles raised, and gave a low woof. Greta recognized the seductive thwomp of a Mercedes door closing. Boots crunched snow. Downstairs, the Dutch door unlatched, creaked open, banged shut. Boots clomped across the concrete floor. An armful of logs fell into the fireplace; newspaper crumpled. Sabine started swearing.