Vile Men Read online

  PRAISE FOR VILE MEN

  “Rebecca Jones-Howe’s Vile Men is an exciting, dark, sexy collection that is convulsively beautiful and bright. Each story digs a great hole and is filled with the most savage, brutal, human emotions: love, desire, addiction and the impossibility of satisfaction.”

  —ANTONIA CRANE, author of Spent

  “Rebecca Jones-Howe fearlessly tackles the ugliness most of us manage to hide. Each broken character blurs the lines between villain and victim as they bathe in sex, horror, dignity, want, resignation, and darkness. Vile Men is the handbook to uncovering your damage.”

  —MERCEDES M. YARDLEY, author of Pretty Little Dead Girls

  “Rebecca Jones-Howe takes you on a tour of the human psyche that is dark, disturbing, and exquisitely written. The sentences in this book are the best kind of dangerous. Just when you think you’re safe another one comes along and draws blood.”

  —ROB HART, author of New Yorked

  “Rebecca Jones-Howe’s Vile Men shows us characters driven by desperation to do violence to themselves or others, but behind these sharp stories about the horror of gender and sex is an empathetic insight into human weakness. Jones-Howe might bring us to the darkest parts of the human heart, but her stories remind us that we are all a little bit vile, too.”

  —LETITIA TRENT, author of Echo Lake

  “Vile Men is dark, provocative stuff. The men found within these pages are indeed bad news, but the most dangerous paths aren’t always led by them, as Rebecca Jones-Howe’s narrators take us right past the expected awfulness of dead-end, drug-addled relationships, bad sex on ant hills, or navigating the treacherous rubble of the bar scene, where her women can find satisfaction and even surprise flashes of triumph amongst all the emotional jetsam. ‘There’s a certain kind of man who goes for damaged girls,’ she writes. They may be broken, but as vile as these men may be (and always such needy little beasts) they don’t get to have everything.”

  —DAVID JAMES KEATON, author of The Last Projector

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. NO PART OF THIS BOOK MAY BE REPRODUCED IN ANY FORM OR BY ANY ELECTRONIC OR MECHANICAL MEANS, INCLUDING INFORMATION STORAGE AND RETRIEVAL SYSTEMS, WITHOUT PERMISSION IN WRITING FROM THE PUBLISHER, EXCEPT IN THE CASE OF SHORT PASSAGES QUOTES IN REVIEWS.

  THE STORIES CONTAINED IN THIS ANTHOLOGY ARE WORKS OF FICTION. ALL INCIDENTS, SITUATIONS, INSTITUTIONS, GOVERNMENTS, AND PEOPLE ARE FICTIONAL AND ANY SIMILARITY TO CHARACTERS OR PERSONS LIVING OR DEAD IS STRICTLY COINCIDENTAL.

  PUBLISHED BY DARK HOUSE PRESS, AN IMPRINT OF

  CURBSIDE SPLENDOR PUBLISHING, INC., CHICAGO, ILLINOIS IN 2015.

  FIRST EDITION

  COPYRIGHT © 2015 BY REBECCA JONES-HOWE

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CONTROL NUMBER: 2015943880

  ISBN 978-1-94-043051-5

  EDITED BY RICHARD THOMAS

  DESIGNED BY ALBAN FISCHER

  MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  www.thedarkhousepress.com

  To my high school drafting teacher, Mr. Bouwman.

  You always said that I would dedicate my first book to you,

  so here you go.

  CONTENTS

  The Paper Bag Princess

  Blue Hawaii

  Tourist

  Grin on the Rocks

  Masturbating Megan’s Strip Mall Exhibition

  College Glaciers

  Slippery Slopes

  Thinspiration

  Better Places

  Historical Hotties

  Plot Points

  Cat Calls

  Modern Beasts

  Ghost Story

  VILE MEN

  THE PAPER BAG PRINCESS

  The guy at the bar is wearing a T-shirt that says “Honey Badger Don’t Care.” He’s skinny enough for the shirt, but he cringes when he takes a sip from his bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon.

  I wonder if he can fuck a girl like me and really not care.

  I like to tell myself that I’m not that ugly. I’ve studied my reflection enough times to believe that my cheeks aren’t that chipmunk-like, that my teeth aren’t too big, that my forehead isn’t too high. Those features are all I know, but self-confidence is a difficult thing to maintain when you live in a society that judges everything on face value.

  Having bangs and make-up helps.

  So do paper bags.

  I should have been offended the first time a guy said he’d only fuck me if I covered my face the entire time. Truth is, I was tired of being defensive. It was easier to allow myself the privilege of being selfish, because the guy was suave and sexy and entirely worth banging, the sort of guy I’d never bang if it weren’t for the one condition he stipulated.

  So I swallowed my pride.

  It was scary, at first. His breathing got heavy as soon as I slipped the paper bag over my head. He kept calling me his Little Fuck Doll and I lay there imagining that I was the broken-headed Barbie I owned as a kid. He grabbed my tits, squeezed them hard. I never asked him to stop. My reactions just made him try harder. He propped my legs over his shoulders and fucked me maniacally, his grunts echoing over my covered face, his sweat dripping, leaving spots on the paper bag. He fucked me so hard that I came before he did. When he finished, he pulled the bag off my head and asked me if I liked it. I was so high off the endorphin rush of climaxing that I couldn’t even answer the question. I just lay there and grinned.

  A broken Barbie’s an easy fix. Just press her head on good.

  There’s a fresh paper bag inside my purse. I dig it out and set it on top of the bar and that’s when the guy in the honey badger shirt looks over. To be fair, he notices the bag first. Then he looks at me. He meets my gaze and scrunches his face.

  The features he sees are the chipmunk ones, but I’m okay with that. Honey badgers will eat practically anything.

  He walks up with his poser beer and leans against the bar. “So uh, you’re that girl, right?”

  “Yup,” I say.

  “Like, the paper bag girl?” he asks.

  I glance at the bag on the counter and look back at him.

  He takes a sip from his beer and laughs. “I thought people were joking about you.”

  “Nope,” I say. “I’m legit shit.”

  “That’s sweet,” he says.

  “Yeah,” I say. “It’s just straight up dope, isn’t it?”

  He takes another sip and he looks me over, studies me from the neck down. He wants the experience, the opportunity to brag. He looks at my face again and I smile. I make him nervous. He looks about ready to concede, but he’s wearing the wrong shirt to do that.

  “So, uh,” he takes another drink. “Do we just…”

  “We do this in the handicapped bathroom,” I say.

  “Right now?” he asks.

  “Right now,” I say.

  He takes another drink. “Fuck it,” he says. “Why not?”

  “Fantastic,” I say.

  He smiles way too eagerly.

  I reach for the paper bag. “So, you want a face or would you rather do the headless thing?”

  “What?” he asks.

  “I’ve got faces,” I say, digging into my purse for the cut-outs. Tonight I’ve got Audrey Hepburn and Courtney Love and Kate Middleton. His brows furrow when I hold them up. “You don’t have to pick one,” I say. “It’s just that some guys get weird about doing me when there’s nothing to look at.”

  “I’m not weird,” he says.

  “I could also draw a face on the bag,” I say, reaching for the Sharpie in my purse.

  “Okay fine,” he says. “I’ll pick a face. A real one.”

  I fan them out for him, the heads of the women I’ve kept forever in my mental toy chest. He picks the Duchess of Cambridge and instantly I know what kind of fucker thi
s guy is.

  “You like her?” I ask, wagging Kate’s face at him. “You think she’s hot?”

  “She’s okay.” He cocks his head to the side and takes another swig of his beer.

  His confidence is kind of sexy, even though it won’t last. He’s the sort of guy I would have dreamt about getting with in high school, except back then my idea of getting with a guy was more like holding hands and going out for ice cream and shit. I’m sure behind his pent-up ironic obnoxiousness that he’s probably thinking of taking Kate Middleton out for ice cream. He just seems like the kind of guy who started out a romantic.

  I pull the roll of tape from out of my purse and I attach Kate’s face to the paper bag.

  “So, are you ready for this?” I ask.

  He tilts the PBR back but doesn’t finish the beer. His fingers tighten around the neck of the bottle as I lead him to the bathroom. I hang up my purse, turning the lock on the door before handing him the paper bag. He takes it, holds it gently. Then I unbutton my dress. He stares. He’s turned on even though it’s still my face that’s staring back at him. He adjusts his jeans, gropes there a moment.

  I dig a condom out of my purse and toss it at him.

  “Are you serious?” he asks, setting his beer on the counter.

  “You might not want to think you’re fucking me but you still are,” I say.

  His belt buckle clinks when he undoes his pants.

  I take the paper bag and pull it over my head. Now I’m a princess and I hear the sound of him tearing the condom wrapper.

  The air in the room is cold, but his hands are colder when he gropes at my chest. He pushes me back against the counter. I bite my lip and prop myself up. He reaches between my legs.

  It’s funny how I once thought I was vulnerable.

  “It’s better when you say something,” I say.

  “Yeah,” he says, moving his hands, spreading my thighs, his touch just as soft as his voice. He clears his throat and repeats himself. “Sure, yeah.”

  I’m sure he thought he’d sound more dominating.

  “Yeah?” I ask. “That’s all you can say?”

  “No,” he says.

  “You’re letting me down, honey badger,” I say.

  He shoves me back. My head hits the mirror and my lips twitch. I smile behind the paper bag.

  He’d probably grab my hair if he was actually looking me in the face, but Kate Middleton’s hair is too perfect, so he grips my wrists instead. It’s sexy, the way his fingers tighten and his frustration cuts off my circulation. His groan meshes with the distorted bass that throbs from the speakers.

  “Maybe I don’t wanna talk,” he says.

  “Are you shy?” I ask.

  “Maybe I don’t have anything to say to you,” he says, his voice getting deeper. “I know what you are.”

  I bite my lip. I try not to laugh. “You supposed to treat a whore like a princess,” I say.

  He grunts and pulls me toward him. I slip over the counter, tightening my fingers around its squared edge. He grips my waist, slides his hand down. He grabs my ass and pushes himself into me.

  The moan I make is legit.

  “Am I a real princess?” I ask.

  He slaps my tits.

  I don’t sound like Kate Middleton, but he fucks me like I’m a princess. He digs deep, buries his nails into my thighs. His breath catches, the sound filling the room with desperation and exhaustion.

  I’m grateful that I can’t see his expression from behind the paper bag.

  “Fuck,” he says. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  This is probably how he masturbates when he’s alone, all of his aggression and anger and frustration in a crescendo of solitary release. He comes before I can, but his taut grasp burns a release through my limbs. He slips over me. His chest beats against my stomach. He gasps for breath and then he groans and lets me go.

  He pulls off the paper bag and I’m fixed again.

  I press my back against the mirror. Goosebumps form on my flushed skin. I reach up and rub the back of my neck, drawing a breath of cold bathroom air. He’s already turned around, his back to me.

  “Did you like that?” I ask.

  “That was fucked up.” He yanks the condom off, his shoulders already tightened, already pretending. “I can’t believe you do this shit,” he says.

  “Was it like fucking a princess?” I ask.

  “No.” He tosses the rubber in the garbage and then bends down to pick up his pants.

  “That’s too bad,” I say, “because you made me feel like one.”

  He crumples up the paper bag, crumples Kate’s face. He throws the bag at me and he does up his pants, buckles his belt. His eyes dart up at me as adjusts his shirt.

  Honey Badger Don’t Care.

  “You totally care,” I say.

  “What?” he asks.

  I point at his chest. “You’re wearing that ironically, right?”

  He looks down at the badger and then back at me.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “We’re all human, right?”

  “Fuck you,” he says. The door closes behind him and I’m left alone again.

  His beer’s still beside me on the counter. I bring the bottle to my lips. The dregs are warm and awful, but the last of my endorphin rush makes the taste almost tolerable.

  I slip off the counter and pick the paper bag off the floor. I smooth out the lines on Kate’s face. She’s not really a princess but everybody likes to pretend she is. She mirrors my smile and I fold her nicely before slipping her back into my purse.

  I’ve kept every single paper bag I’ve ever worn.

  BLUE HAWAII

  The jogging stroller squeaks to the time of my sloppy pace up the hill. My calves ache, and all I can think of is relief, the sound of rum rushing from the bottle to a glass. Distraction. It’s the sort of thought that jogging can’t push away.

  Every run uphill makes me feel like I’m starting over.

  The dry summer parches its way down my throat, making every exhale a cough. I wipe at the sweat on my face, smearing the cover-up above my lip.

  “Shit.”

  The baby starts crying. Leaning over the handle of the stroller, I reach out and touch her cheek. Her eyes close into tight wrinkles and her mouth gapes wide. Her screeches fill my ears.

  “Please stop,” I gasp.

  She doesn’t. I turn the stroller around and walk back to my sister’s townhouse. The baby’s wails force me to shut my eyes. Even the speed bump at the complex entrance feels like a burden.

  “Hey, there. Hey!” It’s a male voice calling.

  I turn around and the new neighbour jogs past.

  “Hey,” he says again. He’s wearing a navy blue shirt and white jogging shorts. A sweatband pushes his brown hair back. “You okay?” he asks, running in place. “You don’t look so great. You look beat. You’re probably dehydrated.”

  He’s tall, lean, with a pale face and a beard. His pupils are dilated, but I can still see that his eyes are the colour of a Blue Hawaii, the first drink I ever had. All I can think of is the chilled pineapple sweetness as my gaze trickles down. He’s sweating, and the fabric of his shirt clings to his chest.

  My fingers tense around the stroller.

  He takes a drink from his water bottle, and then rotates it in his grasp so the water clings to the sides. “You live just over there, right?” he asks, pointing. “I know because I saw you. You were in the window with that other girl. You were watching me move all my shit.”

  “That was my sister, Marie,” I say. “I live with her and her baby.”

  “You should come in,” he says, paying no attention to the crying infant in the stroller. “You’re not busy, right? I can show you my place.”

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “Come on.” He jogs backwards, his smile too nice, eyes so intense like Blue Hawaii vacation excitement. “Come on,” he urges. “You can have a glass of water. I promise I’ll make it cold and refreshing.
I promise. I guarantee, even.”

  There’s an ant’s nest beside his front door, a swarm of black crawling around my feet. Inside, his place is barren, the boxes still taped up, stacked beside his kitchen counter. There’s a couch in the living room. The suede clings to the sweat on my thighs when I sit down.

  He gets me a glass of water and sits beside me. He watches me drink. “You had a cleft lip,” he says.

  “What?”

  “You did at one point, didn’t you?” He rubs at his nose, sniffing. “I mean, it doesn’t look like it, but I can see the scar.”

  My hand flinches, touching the uneven skin. He catches my wrist, his palm hot, sweaty. I jerk my hand away.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. He laughs, leaning forward, unable to sit still. “I’ve seen all those pictures of babies with cleft lips. It’s crazy that those kids can look so normal, isn’t it?”

  “I guess,” I say. The scar throbs and I stare down at the floor. I flinch, thinking of the ants on the doorstep, crawling around my feet like early memories: learning to speak without slurring, trying to explain to classmates why my mouth was so ugly, all that social withdrawal sewn up inside my restructured upper lip. It’s hard to breathe. I turn my head and take a drink. The water’s cold but it doesn’t provide the right kind of relief.

  “Do you want to do something?” He edges closer, his hands shaking, fingers brushing against my leg. “Do you want to fuck?”

  My grasp tightens around the glass.

  “Sex is just the best when I’m high,” he says. “It feels so fucking good.”

  I brace myself when he slides his hand up my thigh. “What are you high on?” I ask.

  His lips curl into a smile. “It’s coke,” he says. “It makes me want to fuck you so fucking hard.” He fingers at the leg of my shorts, pinching the fabric.