Pagan Moss' Peep Show Stories

Saturday, November 20, 2004

NaNoWriMo: Chapter Four



I sit across the table from Tuesday--scrubbed, rubbed and smelling good-- with a plate of heated-up spaghetti in front of me. I hold up a tightly wound fork and plead, "Are you sure? I can't eat all of this."

Tuesday downs the last of her red wine and repeats, "I'm not hungry, really. I stopped and grabbed a slice of pizza when I was out." I'm not sure I believe her, but there's a certain intonation in those last words that cause me to drop it right there. I finish half the spaghetti and Tuesday covers the rest with foil and stuffs it into the rear of the refrigerator. She grabs her keys and purse off the table and then we're out the door. On the way downstairs, Tuesday stops halfway down the first flight and motions for me to come closer. "I meant to warn you earlier that DeeDee's a little strange," she says in a hushed voice. "I mean she's totally nice, but I think she's a little out there." Tuesday has this look on her face like she's holding back some juicy little secret that she's dying to tell me. I decide to play along with her. "What makes you say that?"

"People who know her say she see things," she says, raising her brow.

"Like God? . . . or dead people?"

"No . . . creepier, " she says. Her eyes get really big at this point and she leans over and whispers in my ear: "She can see the date you're going to die scrawled across your forehead."

I must make a face cuz Tuesday grabs her stomach and folds over in laugher.

"Are you kidding me?" I ask.

She stands up and tries to regain her composure. "No, I swear it's true. I was just laughing cuz of your face--your eyes practically bugged out of your skull."

"Yeah, that stuff really freaks me out . . . thanks for telling me right before I meet her."

She starts laughing all over again. "Well . . . it's not like she goes around telling people when they're going to die. I mean, she goes to church every Sunday and if she told people . . . wouldn't that interfere in God's plan?"

"I suppose," I say. "So . . . the whole time you've lived here, she's never told you when you were going to die?"

"Nope," she whispers. "The only reason I know about it is because her son, Wayne, who does the maintenance around this place . . . he told me. He came to one of Eva's parties and got totally fucked up. He started spilling the beans about how he couldn't believe his Mom didn't help Kate because she knew Kate was going to die." Tuesday wrinkles her face and shudders. "Wayne said his Mom knows when everyone's gonna die."

We start down the stairs again in silence and I think Tuesday must be fucking with me. If I had only known her longer--like a month or a year-- I could surely tell then. We get to DeeDee's apartment and Tuesday raps on the front door with a large gaudy knocker shaped like an angel. A handsom man in his mid to late thirties opens the door and smiles at Tuesday. Tuesday lights up and smiles: "Hi, Wayne. Your Mom around?"

Wayne nods and ducks back into the apartment without saying a word. He leaves the door cracked and we can hear him call for his Mom. Seconds later, DeeDee comes shuffling up to the door, wiping her hands in a towel. She's an old, fragile looking woman with a large grey bouffant hairdo. She's much older than I anticipated and even with her son's help, I wonder how she manages this place. She blinks at us through incredibly thick lens as if she has forgotten why we are there. Strangely, her right eyebrow appears to have a white stripe running through the gray like someone has meticulously painted it on. Several seconds of silence pass by and Tuesday finally chimes in: "Hi, DeeDee. This is Martha . . . the girl I told you was interested in the apartment?" DeeDee smiles, seeming to remember, and pulls out a key. "Oh, yes," she says in a wisp of a voice, "nice to meet you, Martha." I can't help but search her face, looking for any signs of distress from seeing the date of my death on my head, but she just stands there and smiles. It's a good sign, I think. I'm a young woman and surely if I were to die tomorrow, or anytime in the near future for that matter, she would certainly not be smiling.

"Nice to meet you, too, Ms . . . " I pause, waiting for Tuesday to fill in the rest, but Tuesday just stands there idly biting her nails.

"That's OK, dear," DeeDee says with a sweet smile, "we don't go by Misses around here, anyway--DeeDee's just fine." She hands me the key and tells us to take as long as we want. "Just drop the key through the slot when your done," she says, pointing a bony, spotted finger toward the slot in the door. "I'm sorry, I'd better go," she says rather abruptly. "I've got something cooking on the stove."

DeeDee shuts the door and Tuesday's off in a flash of hair up the stairs. Before I know it, she's yelling down at me from the landing on the next floor: "Hurry up, slowpoke, I can't wait to check this place out." I finally catch up to her and she's leaning seductively against the door, working the knob with her fingers. She looks up and winks and starts pawing the door. "Is this your place, baby?" she asks in a low husky voice.

"Yep!" I snap back.

She swoons and starts playing with her left nipple, which lasciviously shows through her thin white tee. She licks her full pink lips and asks, "You look like you got a big one, Daddy. I was wondering if you wanted to fuck?"

I go along with the act: "As long as you suck me first, baby," I say. My words sound strange in my ear. I eagerly slip the key into the smudged brass knob-- Tuesday's blowing in my ear the whole time. The knob turns easily and we both straighten as the door creaks open, spilling a slant of dusty pale light across the doormat. I feel a change of temperature as if all the air in the apartment has suddenly rushed out. "Fuck," Tuesday says--her smile fading.

We step inside the entry, huddled together, and I swear for a moment, my heart doesn't beat. The apartment looks like a derelict version of Tuesday's--the same floor plan, but flipped around. The air is stale, smelling strongly of dust, and the place is covered in filth--from the cracked plastered ceilings to the dirt covered floors. Tuesday covers her mouth and skips across the chunks of white light scattered across the living room floor. She muslces up the middle window and sticks her head out to get some fresh air. She looks down at the ground and yells back, "Damn! It's a long ways down there; I wonder which window she jumped out of?" I look over at the row of windows, which are all bare except for the one on the left. The shade is drawn over that one . . . an old yellowed shade, glowing rosy in the middle. I point to it: "That one," I say, "I bet that's why the shade's drawn." Tuesday pulls her head in and flashes a sinister grin. She walks over to the window and pulls down on the shade, letting it slowly rise to the top. She takes a couple of steps back and her jaw drops: "Oh my God, you're right," she gasps, "this is the window! . . . the glass is practically new. Look how dirty the other windows are." She was right, the contrast was startling and I was barely able to stomach it. Tuesday pulls down the shade and starts back pedalling. "I'm sorry," she says, " I don't know how long I can stay in this place." I agree, so we decide to make a quick jaunt through.

We go to the kitchen and it's just like Tuesday's except the refrigerator is green and the linoleum is orange and brown squares. We start opening the cupboards and drawers and Tuesday squeals with delight: "Awesome! Look at all this stuff!" She's right, this place is fully stocked--from the cheap set of china dishes stacked neatly inside a cupboard to the old set of muffin tins found scattered inside the stove. "You'll have to let me borrow some of this shit," she says, playfully flipping a pair of rather large knives.

Tuesday hangs up the knives and walks over to the nook across the way. She starts walking around a small table, clicking her nails loudly along the edge. "Nice, " she mutters under her breath. She reaches under the table and pries out a small chair, which is crammed underneath. "Only one chair," she says. "I guess she didn't have much company."

I continue to follow Tuesday as she playfully spins into the living room, looking like the scared has worn off her. She starts lifting the sheets covering the furniture. "Hmmm. . . this is some old shit--probably from the 50's," she says with a hint of excitement in her voice. "I bet it all belongs to DeeDee." I go to look, but I hear something moving around in the kitchen. Tuesday sees me freeze and starts to laugh. "It's just birds, scaredy cat. We all have 'em. They nest in the fan above the stove. Don't worry about choppin' em up, though. The fans in this place haven't worked for years."

We check out the bathroom next and again, same as Tuesday's, except this one has light green and pink vintage tiled floors and a shimmery pink shower curtain, uncomfortably drawn. I wait for a moment, wondering if Tuesday's got the guts to pull it back. She doesn't, though, and neither do I.

I switch off the light and we make for the bedroom. We reach the door and Tuesday pauses with her hand on the glass knob. She looks back at me and asks, "Are you sure you're ready for this?"

"Of course," I say, narrowing my eyes, "why wouldn't I be?"

"It's just that this is her bedroom. The bed she slept and probably masturbated in--God only knows how many times--is just on the other side of this door. The outfit she wore out the window that night . . . who knows, DeeDee probably washed it right up and hung it back in the closet. I just want to make sure you've considered what we might find."

I am on to Miss Tuesday and her mindfucking me. "It takes more than just some beds and clothes to frighten me," I tell her, trying to sound cool.

She smiles and turns the knob. The door swings open with a nerve-grating screech. We stand in the doorway and stare into the dimly lit room--the only light is burning through a pair of cheap old shades. I turn on the light, revealing a suprisingly sparse and clean room, containing just a few pieces of sheet-draped furniture and a couple of rolled up rugs. The walls are painted a relaxing blue hue and are bare except for one large painting, hanging on the wall facing the bed. The painting is an impressive portrait of three innocent looking girls with sad eyes, looking off in different directions as they sit in the grass, holding their knees. Tuesday walks over to the wardrobe and throws back the doors. She leans halfway inside and takes a look around. "Too bad," she says, "nothing's in here except for some old wire hangers." Something draws my attention back to the picture. I'm not sure why, but it suddenly occurs to me that Tuesday's living room is just on the other side of this wall, which prompts me to remember that horrifying scratching sound I heard last night. Not only do I remember the sound, but I can hear it right now in my head. The scratching gets louder and louder until I have to put my hands over my ears. I start thinking maybe it's not in my head after all--maybe it's happening all over again . . . for real. I half expect Tuesday to lean out at any time now and ask me: "What the fuck?" But she doesn't--her head stays stuffed in the closet. And just when I think I'm going to scream, the sound stops, and my body's left shaking like wet sand. I try to get a hold of myself, but I can't seem to pull it together. My brain feels funny, too, like someone's wrapped it up in wool. I feel the room closing in on me and I have to purposely form each of my words when I tell Tuesday I'm ready to go.

She pops back out of the wardrobe, looking a little disappointed. "Already," she whines, "I was just starting to loosen up around here."

We get back to Tuesday's and I down another Xanax in the kitchen. Tuesday walks in and asks me if I'm feeling OK. I tell her I'm fine, but she's not buying it. She runs into the other room and I can hear her going through drawers. "Ah-hah!" she says with delight, "I have just the thing you need." She struts back into the kitchen and tosses me what looks like a joint. The Xanax is settling in warmly and I think to myself that a joint might be nice. I certainly enjoyed it last night. I hold the joint firmly between my lips and Tuesday snags a lighter off the table and lights me up. I take a long drag and hold. I exhale and start coughing immediately. My lungs and throat feel like they're on fire and my head is spinning. I grab hold of the counter to steady myself. Tuesday gets me a glass of water and I hand her the joint. She takes a hit and exhales a steady stream of skunky smoke my way. "This stuff's different than what we had the other night," she tells me. "It's a mellow sativa my parents call Foggy Mountain. It's very relaxing." She smiles and starts rubbing my shoulders. "You thinking about the apartment?" she asks.

"Yeah, I didn't think it was going to be that creepy," I tell her.

"The apartment wasn't that bad, was it?" she says. "I mean, once Wayne gets it all cleaned up, you'll see . . . it will be like brand new. After a couple of nights, you'll feel right at home." I certainly appreciate her enthusiam, but I'm not so enthralled. My mind, instead, starts drifting toward strange and abstract thought and the apartment becomes some kind of frightening rabbit hole that I'm wary to explore. I go to change the subject when the phone in the living room starts to ring. Tuesday stubs out the joint and skips off to pick it up. I notice the kitchen walls are starting to shimmy so I decide to lie down on the sofa bed, where I watch Tuesday pace back and forth on the phone. She's talking to her friend, Eva, who lives next door, and it sounds like they're making big plans for some party. Several minutes later, Tuesday hangs up and sits down next to me. "Eva's having a party tonight, do you want to go?

"A Christmas party?"

"It's more like a regular party," she says, "except we dress up."

"Like dresses and suits dressed up?"

"More like Halloween dressed up," she says. "And some years we have themes. Like last year, everyone dressed up as their favorite movie character so I went as Neo and Cindy dressed up like Trinity and we won the contest."

"You have a contest?"

"Yeah, we vote and everything and whoever wins, gets a prize."

"What's the prize?"

"A box of drugs."

"Really?" This party suddenly became all the more interesting.

"Yeah, really," she says as if she can barely believe it herself. "Everyone who comes has to bring something. Pretty much the same people show up and we all pretty much bring the same stuff--I bring the weed, and shrooms if I've been to Olympia recently. Eva's cousin's a tweaker so she usually supplies the meth. Ben always has ecstasy and David usually brings the coke." Tuesday looks down at her hands and pauses for a moment. "I stick with the mellow stuff, myself," she says. "I've seen too many people ruin their lives over meth and coke." She looks up at me with a weak smile. "What about you?" she asks.

"Just pot once in a while," I tell her.

She nods and stands up. "So whaddya think? Sound like fun?"

"Yeah, but I don't have anything to wear," I tell her.

"Well, that's easy," she says, "half my clothes are halloween costumes and there's no theme this year so you can be whatever you want." My mind starts mulling over the possibilities and Tuesday starts rattling off some ideas: french maid, a naughty nurse, school girl, dominatrix, genie, little red riding hood . . .

None of them really grab me. "I dunno," I tell her. "What are you going to be?"

"A space girl," she says. That sounded much better than what she had lined up for me. All of a sudden she gets this look in her eye that's slightly evil. "Hey . . . maybe you can be my slave," she says

"Space girls have slaves? " I ask.

"Of course . . . sex slaves," she says, rolling her eyes, "haven't you read any science fiction. In the future, space girls are really horny and sex is like food to them--they need it frequently to survive--so they drag around their slaves wherever they go like packed lunches, partaking whenever they feel a pang of desire."

Tuesday playfully pulls my hair and says, "Come on slave, follow me." I"m feeling quite sedate and dumb like a lump of wet clay so I decide she can have her way with me and we got to her room. I flop down on the bed and watch as she pulls out an extraordinary dress from the wardrobe. She takes it off the hanger and carefully lays it out on the bed for me to see. I run my fingers lightly over the remarkable surface. "Is it made out of metal?" I ask

"It's a special kind of chainmail," she explains. "Fabulous, isn't it? I met the guy who made it at a porn show in Las Vegas last year. He had a thing for me. It's custom-made, but we're about the same size so I'm sure it will fit you." She goes back to the wardrobe and tosses me a pair of shiny silver panties and pulls out a pair of tall clear heels with long mirrored straps, which look like they wind all the way up to your crotch. "What size shoe do you wear?" she asks.

"Six and a half," I tell her.

"These are sevens, but they'll work fine just fine. With heels this tall, you really should wear a size bigger, anyway," she explains.

"What about a bra?" I ask.

"You don't need one," she says.

"But you can see through this," I say, poking my fingers through several large gaps in the chest area.

"That's why I gave you the panties," she says.

"I'm talking about my tits. Won't people be able to see my tits?" I explain. "I at least don't want my pink parts to show."

"How 'bout I give you something to cover your nipples."

I'm starting to wonder if Tuesday's setting me up with this dress--like we'll show up and everyone will be dressed normal. "What about you?" I ask, "What are you wearing?"

Tuesday pulls out a pair of tall silvery blue boots and matching colored g-string. "That's pretty much it," she says. "Oh . . . and I'm painting my body blue and wearing lots of silver jewelry."

"You're going topless?"

"I've got some silver glitter for my nipples. What do you think I'm a slut?" she says with a laugh.

"OK," I say, brazenly shedding my clothes, "I'll be your slave."

Tuesday strips out of her clothes, too, and takes a quick sniff under each arm. She puts her hands on her hips and starts giving orders like she's directing a movie: "First, we go to the bathroom and put the body paint on," she says, walking out of the room. I get up and follow her into the bathroom. "Then, there's makeup and hair," she continues, "and after that, we go back to the bedroom to get dressed."

The bathroom is small for the two of us so I work in the bathtub, while Tuesday sits on the toilet seat and smears her calves blue. I can tell she's a perfectionist because she keeps sneaking looks to see how I'm doing and when she finishes before me, she practically gloats over her workmanship. The smoke has reduced my speed to a near crawl and by the time my body's all blue, Tuesday's done. She's an absolute pro at this stuff. Her face looks like some exotic nebula goddess and her hair's slicked back stylishly in sparkly gel. Her nipples have been slathered in silver goo, glittered and spritzed with a fine smelling mist to set--a regular areola sundae you might say.

"I'm going to the bedroom to get dressed," she annouces, batting her tinsel lashes. "Whatever you find, you can use." I go to the mirror and start trying things out--lipstick, liner and shadow in every color imagineable-- but I don't seem to know what I'm doing. When I'm finished, I look more like Violet Beauregarde from Willy Wonka than the sultry sex slave I was going for.

I go back to the bedroom to get dressed and Tuesday's standing in her shiny platform boots, concentrating on the mirror over her shoulder as she skillfully remaneuvers her g-string perfectly on her ass. I slip on my panties, too, which thankfully cover more of my ass. Tuesday walks over to me and takes a long hard look at my tits. She tells me she has these shiny silver seals in a box of stationary that might work, but she's not sure they'll stay on. "What do you think about duct tape?" she asks.

"I don't have much experience with it," I say.

"Do you have a lot of hair on your nipples?" she asks.

"I don't think so" I say.

"Are they sensitive?"

"Well, of course," I tell her.

"Hmmm . . . I've got an idea," she says. We go to the bathroom and Tuesday lays down a sheet of seals on top of the toilet seat. She grabs her top coat nail polish from the medicine cabinet and goes to work, brushing a thin layer of polish over each seal and then sprinkling the entire sheet with glitter. When she's all done, she proudly holds it up: "Perfect, huh?" She was right, she was a regular Martha Stewart right off the ole' cell block, who could teach the prostitutes in prison how to make a festive pair of pasties. My only concern now was if these babies were gonna stick. Tuesday must read my mind cause she reaches out and touches my nipples like she's testing them for optimum stickability. "They feel dry," she says, furrowing her brow. "It also helps that you have innies."

"What do you mean, innies?"

"Your nipples are inverted . . . they don't pop out until they're hard, right?"

"Right," I say--slightly embarrassed, "it runs in the family."

Sensing she might have hurt my feelings, she quickly adds, "It's really not that big of a deal, I know a lot of women who have that kind." She peels off two seals and smooths one over each nipple. They feel secure. Tuesday helps me into the dress and adds the final touches--thick black collar and matching leash. She stuffs a couple of rolled up plastic baggies down the front of her g-string and we're out the door to Eva's.


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A Seattle peep-show girl shares stories of her customers and adventures stemming from her bare-it-all behavior.

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