Nikki refused to touch the gun. She just liked watching us shoot it. She always loved to watch.
Craig was the jealous type. Pawing at us when we got too close to each other, sliding in between, his every pore oozing Look at me. Want me. Craig, with his égo?ste cologne and his crooked front tooth, textbook dim, meathead sure of himself, but somewhere deep beneath the roided-up muscle meat—somewhere in the blood or marrow—he must have sensed the truth. He was an appendage. He was Nikki’s Velveteen Rabbit, all of us waiting for him to turn real. She was done with him, bored with him, didn’t love him. If I knew it, he must have known it, too.
Sometimes he ignored her and went at me like an octopus, tentacles grasping with a need neither of us actually felt. And always, when he pawed me, he watched her, hoping it would hurt. You could feel him deflate when she cheered him on. It was supposed to be every guy’s dream, two girls, one dick, everyone rooting for a home run. He wasn’t allowed to say no. To say, Too weird, too twisted, too freaky for me. To say, I want you to myself in the backseat of a car or the empty locker room or even, on a special occasion, in some honeymoon suite rented by the hour. He wasn’t allowed to say, I don’t want adventure, I want crabs-infested upholstery and a vibrating bed. So he did as he was told. And maybe he had to drink himself sick or get stoned off his head to deal; maybe he thought there was something wrong with him; maybe we made him think there was something wrong with him, teased and flicked him when he couldn’t get it up, devised demented games and awarded ourselves points when we pushed him too far, spiked his drink now and then to give ourselves some time alone, enjoying the spectacle of King Jock brought low by his concubines. Maybe there actually was something wrong with him, ever think of that?
I liked the sound of the gun when it went off. I liked how you could feel the sound in your fingers, and how it hurt.
Later.
Craig passed out beneath a tree, so it was just the two of us again, me and Nikki, evening spreading out against the sky and all that crap. We lay side by side. I cradled the gun against my chest, wondering if Kurt had a gun, if he loved it as much as I could love this one. I could take it home with me, I thought. Slip it under my pillow, hold it as I was falling asleep, let it follow me into my dreams, where we would be one, we would be all-powerful, we would be safe. I rubbed it, long and slow, like it was Craig and I could feel it harden to my touch, and laughed to think it would stay hard forever. Less trouble, in all ways, than flesh.
“We should trade in men for guns,” I told Nikki, and it was late enough, we were high enough, that it felt profound.
“We could be men, with guns,” she said, and touched it for the first time, took it in her hands like she knew exactly what to do, held it to her crotch, raised its mouth slowly toward sky. “Bang.”
Nikki started it. Remember that, even if she never did.
“You ever think about it?” she said. “Having one of these?”
“I dreamed I had a dick once. It was so real I woke up freaked out enough to check.”
“When I was a kid, I saw a movie where that happened,” Nikki said. “Girl wished she was a boy and woke up with a little something extra in her pants.”
“That’s fucked-up.”
“Scared the crap out of me. Then. But now?”
Craig was slumped against ancient bark, head tipped back, eyes closed. He would have looked deep in thought, but for the drool.
“Now I wonder,” Nikki said.
Didn’t we all? What it would be like to be one of them. To have power, be seen, be heard, be dudes rather than sluts, be jocks or geeks or bros or nice guys or boys-will-be-boys or whatever we wanted instead of quantum leaping between good girl and whore. To be the default, not the exception. To be in control, to seize control, simply because we happened to have a dick.
“Imagine if it were that easy to get off,” Nikki said. “I don’t know how they ever get anything done. I’d be jerking off nonstop.”
“Not worth it,” I said. “You really want something hanging off you that just pops up whenever it feels like?”
“Or doesn’t.” She giggled. Craig had a tough time getting it up when he was drunk. That October, he was always drunk.
“Or doesn’t. Seems very inconvenient.”
“Good for peeing, though.” She stood up, held the gun tight against her zipper, aimed it at the ground. “I bet I could spell my name. In cursive.”
“You’d be a lady-killer.”
She grinned, spread her legs wide, threw her shoulders back. Held the gun with one hand and smacked an imaginary ass with the other. It was Craig’s favorite pose, though he usually accompanied it with some improvised porn music, bow chicka wow wow. “Yo, dude. Check out my package.”