Free World Gone Water by Jaime Clarke Page A

locked in a closet full of gloriously dirty laundry and Erica opening the door after counting to sixty and yelling “Here!” Imagine Erica Ryan throwing her older sister’s bra at you. Imagine her slamming the door shut again and all the girls giggling. I had never smelled anything more wonderful than that bra. Imagine me pressing the cool fabric against my forehead. Imagine me inhaling.
    Years later, in San Diego, I babysat for my divorced piano teacher, Ms. Thomas, who gave lessons out of her house. I was her favorite student. She would sit next to the bench and point along to the music with her slender fingers as I tried to keep up. She smoked a lot, but once you were in her house for a while, you hardly noticed it.
    One night I babysat her two kids, Harry, eight, and Sidney, six. I put them to bed at nine, like Ms. Thomas had told me, and I knew she wouldn’t be home before midnight, so I had plenty of time to myself. I normally don’t like to snoop around because I am impatient and don’t know what to look for, but something was clearly drawing me to Ms. Thomas’s bedroom.
    The dark was cool, and after my eyes adjusted, I could make out a dresser, a bed. The room was a mess, clothes thrown everywhere. I stood motionless, breathing in the peculiar scents the room held.
    I moved over to the dresser, opening the top drawer and pulling out one of Ms. Thomas’s lace bras. The silk and lace sent an electric charge through me, and without even thinking about it, I unzipped my pants and put the left cup over my erection, letting it hang like a lace flag in a stifled wind.
    I’m not sure what made me commit the act. I’m not even sure where the idea came from, except that suddenly I was on my knees at the foot of her bed, and the bra with my cock wrapped inside it was wedged between the mattress and the box spring and I began moving back and forth, like I’d seen in cable movies. It felt awkward at first, a little rough even, but then it smoothed out and felt all right and I was really moving. A couple of times it slipped out and I had to readjust the setup. Right when it started to feel the best, I began to sweat. I moved a little faster and then something went wrong. I wanted to scream. I stopped moving but something was happening and it felt like someone was cutting me with a knife. Finally it stopped and I pulled everything out and felt the hot goo puddled in the left cup. I buried the bra in the rest of the dirty clothes and got out of the room as quietly as I could, shaken and exhilarated.

For a Good Time Just Call
    Jane and I have a game that we sometimes play where I leave and come back.
    I cruise around the block while Jane tucks herself into bed, and when I come back, I pull a ski mask over my face and crawl through the front window of her apartment. The place is dark and I feel my way around the living room to the bedroom. The door badly needs to be oiled, but Jane pretends she doesn’t hear it squeak.
    I leave the door open and pounce on the bed, startling her awake. I press my hand over her mouth and her eyes get wide, a suitably terrified expression comes across her face, and I growl: “I’ve seen you … I’ve been watching you.” On some nights Jane works up tears, and the wetness on my fingers really makes me violent. “I’m gonna make you really cry and
you’ll love it
.” Jane nods fearfully.
    â€œI’ll bet you’ve got a pretty pussy,” I say, and pull the sheets back. She clamps her knees together and folds them up to her chest, but I slip one hand between them, breaking them apart while unzipping my pants. “Show me your pretty pussy,” I say. “Here, pretty, pretty, pretty.”
    I pin her arms to her chest and put all my weight on top of her so Jane can’t flail around. I kick out of my pants and boxers. “Shushnow,” I say to quiet her sobbing, and I pretend that if she’s quiet,