The Red Primrose

“Fair primrose, we weep to see you fade away so soon”—from Elizabeth Bowen

“I feel like this may have been a mistake,” protested Charline. “It’s too fucking cold.”

  “The map showed just beyond Fox Park,” replied Charlie.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Heard about it from a friend.”

  Unnoticed and unobserved in the swirling snow, Charlie and Charline stepped around a pile of rubbish in front of a disused, snow-capped warehouse in Old Soulard. The heavy iron door clanged open to a large, glowing cavern. Condom on Your Tongue boomed from the walls. Nude models in body paint roamed the floor, stirring the pot for the grand opening of Naughty Gras.

  Charlie gestured. “Now this is what I’ve been talking about!”

  “Maybe we should just leave.”

  “Yours?”         

  “Oooooh no. We can stay here, I suppose. Besides, I have a treat for you,” taking off her coat and gloves.

  “Dang! I’m shocked by what you can fit in a Winslet,” exclaimed Charlie.

  “You don’t like it?” she said, feeling cute.

  “No, you look sexy. Can you breathe?”

“Barely.”

  Four hundred revelers had flocked to the bacchanal, away from the veil of everyday life. Sexy art and sensual costumes, a urinal crafted from a female figure, an eye staring out from the female organ, a girl in a thong suspended by Japanese ropes, breasts for $5, and hooters flashing a rainbow of colors from a metal dress form couldn’t be ignored. A painted Jezebel in beads, whose breasts stuck out straight, was worth a stare.

  For the sense of touch: smooth green latex on a gay cowboy.

  Charline took a sudden interest in a young man with lanky hair, artist Sean Blake Lipé, in a gold lamé dressing gown. “Well, uhm, what are we doing over here?” she said, peering down at an exquisite ten-inch metal cylinder resting on a small boxwood table.

  “A reliquary is a container for a sacred relic, like a tooth of John the Baptist,” replied Sean.

  “It’s a ride,” said one of the artsy types standing around.

  “Handmade,” said another.

  “It’s gorgeous, completely.”

  “Excuse me, but…it’s not real, is it?”  asked Charline. 

  “It constitutes a container for an exceptional penis,” he said, placing the tips of his long fingers together.  “The holes are for air, which I assume was your next question.”

  Charline stared at Sean as if he had six heads.

  “Would you prefer something in green?”

  “I’ll be at the bar.”

  Sean ushered Charlie into a dark alcove where three greenish-glowing glass dildos rested on transparent pedestals, each illuminated by tiny purple LEDs from below. “What’s going on with her?” Sean remarked. “She almost turned blue.”

  “You should see when her nose quivers.”

  “She wouldn’t happen to have a friend, would she?”

  When Charlie emerged, Charline had two shots and one heel out of her shoe.  “To your health!”

  They emptied the whiskies and another and dove pell-mell into the electric pianos, screaming saxophones, and swinging drums. Boom Boom Le Coeur was gearing up on stage. Michelle Minx and Katrina the Red were twirling and whirling around their poles, to laughter and cheers. 

  Charline took a glass of champagne from a waiter. “C’mon, give me a kiss.”

  “That was the waiter, Charline.”

  “No way,” spilling her champagne and almost going down.

  “Oh, that’s good!” said Charlie, catching her.

  “We need to find something. Anything!” Charline exclaimed, shaking off the arm gathered around her.

  “Well, Nancy the Psychic is doing readings in the next room.”

  “Yes, yes, let’s do that.”

  The night of heightened frivolity ended at Charlie’s. Charline poured the brandy. “Is that the right time?”

“Yes.”

  “Here I go again, landing in another boy’s room after midnight.”

  “Those flowers make me dreary,” Charlie said tonelessly, slumped in his armchair, next to a bowl of flowers.

  “The smell and color are one of the extras of life,” she replied, rearranging the flowers with her gloves and handing him a red primrose. “I was about to say I’ve had it with Sean. He’s cute as hell but not a proper artist—not with real stuff. What did he say about me?”

  “He said you were blue.”

  “Look at my eyes. Tell me the truth.”

  “I just did.”

  “The way he was looking at me…he called me a prostitute,” she said, annoyed.

  “He said ‘constitute.’”

  “I don’t care; he wanted to say it.”

  “Did you notice the labret?”

  “Yeah, but who’d want that?”

  “I bet he eats a mean box.”

  “And I don’t?” a smile curling around her lips.

  She retrieved a deck of cards and lit a cigarette. “Another brandy? Coffee?”

  “I’m good,” he said hoarsely, “except I don’t believe in reading the future. Fortune tellers are bunk.”

  “I got my money’s worth. The Hanged Man revealed a hidden truth.”

  “And what was that?”

  “That you were in Italy.”

  A tremor coursed through Charlie. “Why did that have to come up?”

  “I hate the Italian jobs. What did you do to those girls?” Charline snapped.

  There was an agitated rustle. “Oh yes, your famous heart of gold.”

  “What about the lady next door? The sexy neighbor?” she added impulsively.

  He was silent.

It had begun to snow again. Charline watched the snowflakes fall against the window. She extinguished her cigarette and took long looks at Charlie while she riffled the cards and smoked another.  

  “Stay there. I’ve got an itch on my kiki.”  

She returned from the bathroom, sick of the whole affair, and put her mouth close to his ear so her breath was warm on his cheek. “It seems someone’s been taking files, sweetheart. C’mon, look at me. Hey. Move your head. Can you hear me? Open your eyes. Do that. Let me see you open your eyes.”

There was only the rise and fall of Charline’s breathing and a high, whining noise at the back of Charlie’s throat. She dropped a card in his lap, slipped on her gloves, and dumped the primrose down the trash chute.