"two choices"

Posted by Menagerie on October 01, 2004 at 20:17:49:

TWO CHOICES
Sigh. What to do?
Rae rolled over on the bed, stared up at the ceiling. She just didn’t know. She thought about Tony…thought about Paul…the more she thought, the more her head hurt. She couldn’t choose! She’d always been able to choose!
She’d always done the choosing, every day of her life. She picked her clothes, her schools, her men, her life. Hers, hers, hers. There had been many paths, but she always chose which way to go. No, she hadn’t always picked the right paths, but they were hers. Nobody, nobody, was going to make decisions for her.
That was the way it had always been, and it had all come so easily. Rae was so self-assured, friends said. She knows what she wants; she gets it. Work, love, life; it was getting easy. It was getting boring. Rae did a lot of brooding, spilling handfuls of things onto a table, examining them one by one, scooping them back up; there had been too much taken and then discarded, too much business unfinished, in the name of hurrying along to the next joyride.
And then…along had come Tony, the friend of a cousin; the curly hair, the deep chest, the bashful glance to his toes. They talked, walked, went out. The third time, they came back.
Hair curled on his chest, a cacophony of raspy frizz. His small, slightly crossed eyes peered at her over a bulbous nose; so funny, she had to laugh, even as they lay naked. His arms were massive, thick; he’d been a roughneck before he moved to town, and the sun had permanently etched his skin creased and brown.
Those huge arms, wide hands, were surprisingly gentle, played Rae like a fine instrument. Fingers delicately traced along the contour of her full breasts, came to a stop as they pressed a rib, then restarted the route. A flat hand followed her back as if forming a sculpture of clay, as if smoothing her already buttery skin. Up the high slope of her buttock; along the most tender flesh of her inner thigh.
Then, suddenly, playfully, he was upon Rae, grasping, squeezing. Tony’s bulk enveloped her, but it was a comforting feeling, a heavy blanket of flesh that lulled her into a sleepy, warm lovemaking. It was like--she decided-like being trapped by a big, meaty pillow.
How she adored him, and he, her. They were lost in each other, whether they were joined on her old, roughened quilt, or lounging together on the overstuffed couch on a Sunday. Or even at the supper table. For all of his bulk, Tony was a surprisingly picky eater, preferring bits of this and that, rolling it in his mouth and pursing those heavy, bow-shaped lips, closing his eyes and emitting tiny sounds of pleasure. Rae delighted in preparing the most unusual of meals for the two of them; the sheer enjoyment that surged from Tony with each little forkful--it felt as good to Rae as if she were doing the eating.
And at the end, his eyes would snap open, clear and a phosphorescent green; his broad smile would almost be reflected in them. And he would gush about the meal, as enthusiastic as he was after each tremendous bout on the quilt. Tony was hers, a big, happy, sensitive lunk; Rae had chosen him, and was glad.
And then, she chose Paul. He surely wasn't Tony. No, Paul was slim, hard, angular, angry. Dark eyes glowed as he debated the world, its insensitivity, its unfairness. He organized rallies, wrote letters, fought City Hall. Rae saw him at a meeting, from the gallery; the young man cowed the older men and women whose rules he found so oppressive. And he seemed to speaking straight to her--no, through her, to her marrow. His voice chilled; it thrilled.
There was coffee; then, sandwiches, late at night. He'd started in the big city, at a big university; this life, he felt, was his calling--going where they needed help, a voice to challenge the establishment. Such a cliche, and yet it fit. He would work in each place for just a few months at a time and then would move on, with little pay and less belongings. He made, she told him, a difference. He nodded.
He was so unlike Tony, who filled Rae with a kind of mellow pleasure. Paul set her on fire. He was so intense; when they spoke, it was as if she was his entire universe, as if he desperately wanted her to hear him out. When she dared to visit his tiny, unkempt apartment--an overdue rent notice lay on a forlorn kitchen table--it was with a feeling of anticipation, approaching dread. He was forceful, direct; his fingertips dug into her arms, his lips pressed against hers as if to leave a mark.
If Tony was a cushy pillow, Paul was a blunt instrument, a bundle of kineticism; Rae gasped as he positioned her yet again, showed her ways she'd never even dreamed. Her soft and pampered body was challenged; she’d stiffen and then give, a gasp becoming a squeak as sensitive inner skin was touched, hard. Tony was a dream; Paul, an experience--like a ride at the fair. When it was done, Rae wept, tears of exhaustion.
Rae's life became one of dizzying contradictions. A day with the angry young agitator would be followed by a night of cuddling and gentle caresses. Weekends, she'd dart from basement lounges and three-piece acoustic bands to the comfort of an airport cafe, and then back to Paul's darkened, cramped room, the harsh, blinking lights of downtown playing against the windows, an irregular oscillation of color and intensity. On Monday mornings, she couldn't remember where she was, or what she'd done; it had all been a blur. Endless moments of delicious pleasures ended in bewilderment; Rae no longer knew if she was the sensuous woman who huddled into warmth and subtlety, or a wide-eyed creature who stood, arms out, to welcome a barrage of pressure and pain.
She could no longer choose. And the feeling tore her apart. Lying on her back, blue eyes scanning the upside-down ceiling for some sign, Rae thought again about food. Where Tony was careful, delicate, Paul was voracious. He often ate while still standing, gesturing and half-articulating between mouthfuls, as if eating was costing him valuable time. He expended such energy; it didn't surprise Rae that despite huge, careless meals, he stayed hard and lean. He sought out what he could eat quickly, to stoke that red-hot engine of passion within him; the quantities could be staggering. These two, her two, thought Rae, so different--how could she have them both?
How could they both have her?
A wild, desperate thought took hold, dragged her in, deep. Rae had lived two lifetimes in these last weeks. All her previous years had been all about herself, and what she could take as her own; now, she was sharing precious, few hours with two men, each of whom gave her more than she could stand.
Rae determined to repay them. Together.
They had met once, briefly. It had not been awkward; the two were so vastly different, it didn't occur to either that they could be rivals. Tony was there to seek business; Paul, an audience. Rae was chatting with one as the other arrived; she introduced them, they shook hands, warmly, talked idly about life, work, a bit about her. Each left with high thoughts of the other. Rae would bring them together, again.
There was a man. Rae had met him at the basement club, way out of town, the one Paul frequented. It was, he often said, the one place he could relax--of course, he never relaxed. The man was older, bushy gray hair and beard, clothes that were baggy and raggy. But he always had with him a bag, and within that bag, the most extraordinary treats. Little bits that tasted at once of nature and of the city, a pungency or sweetness that captured, but did not overwhelm. A texture that just barely satisfied between the teeth, a flavor that danced in the throat.
The man--Paul called him “Doc”—lived near the club, where there was not much else. He boasted that he could make a meal of anything the Deity could throw at him. "Even," “Doc” had told Rae, his eyes wide as saucers behind his narrow shades, "of you." As Paul laughed dryly, Rae nodded, transfixed--the man was so serious. It was not a joke; it was not a threat. It was a fact.
It would take some arrangement. She was going on a long trip, she told friends; she may not be back for a good while. They nodded; she looked haggard, burning the candle, and many knew about both Tony and Paul. You get some rest, they told her. She paid for her place, six months' advance. That part was easy.
To her men, Rae's message was more intimate, and intricate. I'll be gone, she said, and may not return. We have to remember the times we had...you met him, you liked him; he, and you, are dearest to me. I want the two of you to spend an evening together. Rae could imagine both of them saying--she's ordering us around, one more time. Tony would chuckle; Paul would nod, somberly. And they would both do it; she knew them that well.
“Doc’s” place was not easy to find. Lots of concrete, a fence, a few foul-looking trees, drooping as if in misery. There was surely no welcome mat; the door looked like it hadn’t been opened in years. “Come,” said the muffled voice; it was not locked.
He wanted her at ease; he knew right away, he said, what she wanted--but was it really what she wanted? Rae nodded, determinedly; “Doc” sized her up for hesitation, looked for a telltale, hard swallow, an aversion of eyes. Her gaze never wavered. You can do it, she told him. That’s why I’m here.
He explained it all. They flipped together through an ancient loose-leaf, stained sheets of different colored and textured paper, elaborately scrawled notations crammed into every corner of each page. Different combinations of herbs and vegetables and berries; blends that had to be just so and in just this order. Each to augment a different cut of meat. Rae was not horrified; she was fascinated. She would be able to do so much…! “Doc” agreed; he was eyeing her, sizing her up. A full saddle, he said, a strong back, a good bosom. It will be a pleasure.
She would arrive in the morning; “Doc” would tell the owner of the little club to shoo everyone out by eleven that night. He showed her out back, the kitchen; shreds of rope hung from steel hooks. A squat, massive wood-fired stove glared back at them, zigzagging pipes cascading away and then out the wall. Jars were lined against the wall, the multicolored innards of each offering a different aroma or piquancy. It would be done here, “Doc” nodded, again looking at Rae intently. And with this, she said, fingering a long knife that protruded from a rack beneath the colorful spices. I am very good, said “Doc”; it will not hurt. Rae told him she didn’t care, and he laughed and said he believed her. “You are,” he said, “the fifth. But always for one before; never two. A lucky woman.”
Paul, of course, knew the place, inside and out; Tony was hesitant, as the owner, a gaunt, unsteady man, led him in silence to the back room. The young rebel was already seated; the place was dim, flickering violet light from the ceiling clashing with the orange glow of scattered candles. They eyed each other. How are you? What did she say to you? Neither asked what she had been to the other. Men guess, but don’t tell; that part was understood.
“Doc” was there, his eyes gleaming a bluish-white through the shades. He brought them a soup, ragged, irregular chunks of meat nestling between luminescent bobs of vegetables. Paul slurped; Tony sipped. Tony’s eyes grew wet; it was so good. Paul felt the strength, and greedily dug for the last shreds. “Doc” looked on, eyes lidded, arms folded, leaning against a doorway as the gaunt man returned with a plate on each arm.
The strips of soft, spongy meat were bathed in a translucent yellow sauce; each bite was reminiscent of smoke and spice, an oil that seared the tongue and chased them to the wine, but left them wanting more. Such a strange texture, like a dough that had been alive, the teeth shearing through it with satisfaction. Their puzzlement had turned to delight; no longer uneasy in each other’s presence, they gobbled the remaining appetizers, Paul with gusto, Tony with just a hint of restraint. And “Doc’s” smile grew broader, as the main course arrived.
Thick and sweet, ringed with ivory, two massive chops were set down with a thump before the men. The gigantic portions hung over the edge of the ornate, oval plates; a reddish pool floated on each steak, dots of fat dancing within. A few potatoes were half-heartedly shoveled next to the meat. Tony and Paul were no longer interested in each other; the soft, steaming flesh beckoned, cajoled, begged for their attention. Tony’s piggy eyes contemplated his dish in sheer astonishment; Paul, almost somber, contemplated his own serving. They gripped cutlery, paused, and began.
It took a while before they were sated. The tenderly prepared cut was seductive; the flavor was unfamiliar, but triggered a desire to devour. Paul stripped every shred he could from the bone; Tony's usual deliberate savoring gradually gave way as he sampled larger and larger slivers from the enticing meal. They sipped wine almost reluctantly, afraid it would drive the lingering taste from their palates. When it was done, they were done; they could eat no more. It was the meal of a lifetime. Two lifetimes.
"Doc" had never left, never even sat. As was his custom--this was the fifth time--he observed very carefully, watch both men's expressions fluctuate from surprise, to caution, and then to rapture as each dish was sampled. Only he knew the care that had gone into the selections; how he had pared each portion from Rae's body, to be prepared in the method set out by the meticulous notes. How her firm, glorious breasts had been slivered, immersed and cooked in the golden sauce until ripe. How her buttocks had been chopped into cubes of red meat and white fat, slowly simmered with the garden vegetables until each took on a strong hint of the other. How her loin had been carved and trimmed, had absorbed the heat and arboreal flavor of the wooden stove, and rushed to the cafe. "Doc" had seen Rae reduced, prepared, brought to the men whom she had chosen.
Her choice.