Blake jimmied the bedroom window with a rusty crowbar he found on the side of the house under the Chevy Nova up on blocks. His favorite brand of white trash: those who thoughtfully provided their own burglary tools.
He crawled through the window and found himself in the bedroom. It was a typical low-rent SoCal suburban house — crappy shag carpeting that looked like it hadn’t been replaced since the ’70s, a color that fell somewhere between shit, blood and pumpkins. The double bed had no frame; it sat on its box spring with the floral print sheets tangled like serpents fucking. Blake checked “under the bed” off his mental list, tossed his empty gym bag onto the bed to fuck with the snakes and went for the closet.
Guns, Omar had told him. I need guns for this job me and my homies are pulling tomorrow night. This white trash wannabe pimp I know is always braggin’ he’s got guns, .45s, .38s, Dirty Harrys, that kind of shit. I hear he keeps them stashed in the clothes dresser. Find ’em for me. Five or six guns — automatics, revolvers, I don’t care, but handguns. Easy to hide, understand?
Blake didn’t mind guns, really, but on principle the job offended him. Blake was a jewelry man, really. Which is not to say he’d ever ripped off any jewelry to speak of, or that he’d even really seen any. He’d just spent most of his time in juvie reading all this jeweler’s crap on the Internet, all about how to tell diamonds from fugazis and that kind of shit. He figured if he ever got a chance he’d be able to pick out the real ice, but Omar wanted guns. We’ll get you jewels, Blakeyboy. Get me guns, I’ll find you an ice job.
Blake had been out of juvie for a year now, clear and free — no parole, no nothing. Since his records had been sealed when he turned 18, he’d been able to score this flunkie security job at the mall, which was even less glamorous than it looked. About the only thing Blake liked about his job was that he could cruise by Victoria’s Secret about twice an hour if he timed it right. Those furtive glimpses of G-strings and Wonderbras on mannequins were enough to keep him entertained for hours when he got home, going over them in his mind’s eye. And the one time he’d been called in to cart a lingerie shoplifter to the manager’s office, he’d just about busted his load right there walking through the tasteful displays of sweet nothings with the pretty salesgirls eyeing him like he was a freak. The shoplifter smacked him in the face and ran like hell. He’d gotten written up for that shit, but what the fuck? It was worth it for the trip into the sacred confines.
He’d met Omar and his homies when they started dealing weed out of the back parking lot. Blake turned a blind eye and they greased his palm a little. Unfortunately, some bitch had seen him turning a blind eye and that was the end of that job. Omar had said he wouldn’t forget what Blake had done for him, and he’d started hanging out with the “homies,” who thought it was a fucking gas to have some peckerwood geek with horn-rimmed glasses asking them if he was supposed to hold it in his lungs or just breathe it out like a cigarette. They busted his peckerwood balls something fierce, but he hung out with them anyway, since he wasn’t exactly long on friends and besides, Omar had kept promising to get him laid. But not with one of ours, he told Blake. And I get all the white ones. I’ll find you a Mexican chick, a fine Chiquita banana for you, my boy. You do it with a black lady and I’ll fuckin’ kill you. Blake didn’t think Omar really meant it, it’s not like he was, like, a black separatist or anything. But no chicks of any persuasion were offering, so the issue never came up.
Unfortunately, his unemployment had started to run out, and rent was due on Blake’s crappy little hole-up in Hollywood. He’d started begging Omar to set him up with a job. I can burgle, Blake had told him. Oh, you can fuckin’ burgle, can you? Yeah, Blake had said. That’s what I got popped for, breaking and entering. Omar’d laughed. Way I heard it, you got popped for sniffing some lady’s panties, Blakeyboy. Blake’s face had gone all red and hot in an instant. Who the fuck told you that? I’ll fuckin’ kill him, that’s bullshit, it was B&E, I was ripping off silverware. Man, you think I’m a fuckin’ pervert, Omar? But Omar just slapped him on the back and said he was busting his balls and shit, he oughta lighten up.
That’s what had led him to this skanked-out dump in this crappy burb with Omar’s borrowed Chevette parked on the other side of the neighbor’s fence, so he could lift some cheap-ass firepower so Omar and his boys could heist some shitty liquor store in bumfuck Barstow or some-fucking-where, and Blake could make his fuckin’ rent this month.
I don’t like guns, said Blake. How about if I rip off some high-class jewelry for you and then you sell it and buy some guns?
You my homie, Blakeyboy. But you fuckin’ steal these guns or I’ll fuckin’ cut your balls off.
So he was stealing guns.
The whole place smelled like liquor, sweat and cigarettes. When he opened the closet door, there was a new smell — perfumey, like dried flowers mixed with musk.
“Shit,” he said out loud, and then “Fuck.” Then, “No. No. No.”
Crammed into the little closet was a chest of drawers. On top of it was a pile of neatly folded panties — white and lacy, black and see-through, flower print like the cheap tangled sheets on the bed. Blake felt his cock beginning to rise.
“Do not do this,” he said, and slammed the door. He looked around the bedroom: dirty jockeys, socks and oil-stained jeans on the floor, T-shirts scattered across a couple of folding metal chairs. A hamper crammed with stuff. Do not look at the hamper, he told himself. Do not look at the fuckin’ hamper. Another chest of drawers with a little Gold Star television and an ancient VCR sitting on top of it.
Listen, just let me rip off their TV and shit, then you can buy guns, he’d said to Omar, just before the son of a bitch had put him in a headlock and threatened to shove a widescreen model up his ass if he didn’t come back with some fucking guns. I thought all you fuckin’ gangsters could get Uzis and shit all the time, Blake’d said, which was how he got the big-ass bruise on his eye and the spiderweb crack in his specs. Gangstas had no fucking sense of humor.
Blake went through each of the drawers, starting with the guy’s jockeys, then undershirts and socks, then T-shirts, each time picturing the dresser in the closet. Panties, he thought. Fuckin’ panties. Jesus, she probably wears them all French cut and shit, and oh, man, look at that hamper. They’re probably just sitting under there. Panties. Fuckin’ panties for days. As soon as I find the fuckin’ guns, I’ll take a look. Maybe I can even snag a couple. He stole a longing look at a picture in a frame next to what he figured was the guy’s side of the bed.
Man, she was a looker, blonde and beautiful with one of those little white-trash pig noses that always drove Blake wild. Bras, too, he thought as he dug through the guy’s wifebeaters. Jesus, she probably wears those fuckin’ Wonder bras, look, she’s got totally small tits. Blake had a thing for small tits, something Omar and he had argued endlessly about. More than a mouthful is wasted, he always told Omar, to which Omar would say, If she ain’t got the boobage she don’t get no tubage, which Blake didn’t even really fucking understand. What the fuck was tubage, anyway? Fuck, thought Blake. That fuckin’ hamper smells. I wonder if that’s her underwear or his that stinks so bad. Fuck. Oh, fuck, it’s probably hers. His hands started to shake.
He got to the bottom drawer, where the guy kept the shit his Mom had probably bought him — polo shirts, an “I HEART JESUS” T-shirt and a purple shirt that said MCINTYRE FAMILY REUNION 1994. Fuck, that was one good thing about being an orphan, at least, you didn’t get goofy-ass T-shirts from your fuckin’ Mom. Blake pulled the bottom drawer all the way out and reached in and felt around, but there wasn’t anything underneath. That’s when it hit him: perfect place to store your tough-guy contraband, right? With your girlfriend’s underwear. You’re looking for an excuse, he told himself as he sprinted for the closet. He stood there, aware that he was about to enter the sanctum sanctorum of a woman’s underwear drawer. He stole longing glances at the hamper and the picture of Mrs. McIntyre or who-the-fuck-ever she was. He headed for the closet.
Bottom drawer, he told himself. Start with the bottom fucking drawer, it’s the least likely to have panties in it, save the panties for last, save the panties for last, save the fuckin’ panty drawer for last. He pulled the bottom drawer out. Jeans. God damn, they looked tight. Blake wondered if you could see her panty lines when she wore them. Panty lines drove Blake nuts.
He found nothing underneath the clothes, nothing underneath the drawer. He started working his way up. Second from the bottom were gym shorts and socks. Who the fuck keeps their socks in the second drawer from the bottom? he wondered, and the answer hit him like Omar’s knee in his balls. Some chick who has so much fuckin’ lingerie it takes up four whole drawers. His cock was hard again in about two seconds. He skipped through the socks and moved on to the next drawer up.
Fuck. T-shirts, all pink and flowery and shit. He rooted around and came up empty.
Blake stared at the next drawer for a long time.
“Fuck it,” he said, and pulled it open.
“Oh yeah,” he heard himself saying, as his hand came up full of the holy fuckin’ grail. He felt tears welling up in his eyes. He felt his cock throbbing in his pants. Oh yes. Oh Jesus, yes. What he’d been looking for, what he was sent here to find. He rubbed them over his face: soft fuckin’ silk, smelling of detergent and, faintly, far underneath, this tiny hint of pussy. Not dirty, filthy, like the ones he’d find in the hamper, but clean, beautiful, ready to be gently slid over her supple, gorgeous legs and settled daintily onto her shaved dancer’s pussy. He heard himself weeping as he ran the silk over his face, touched it to his lips, suckled on the cotton crotches. This was what he’d come here for. He started digging through the drawer, but under the thin layer of panties there were just these fuckin’ guns. .45s, .38s, one of those fuckin’ James Bond guns and a shitload of cartridges and clips, what-the-fuck-ever. He made a mental note, slammed the drawer and moved on to the next. “Fuck yeah,” he heard himself moaning out loud, as if he were a fuckin’ autistic or something. “Fuck yeah. Hell yeah. Hell motherfuckin’ yeah!”
The next drawer had more panties and more guns. G-strings. Fuckin’ G-strings, so skimpy they were barely there at all. Jesus, these must be the ones she wears when she’s dancing. He pulled out handfuls of G-strings, little tiny thongs, mesh see-through shit and — oh, Jesus — a pair of I-am-not-fucking-kidding-you fishnet fuckin’ underwear. No fuckin’ cotton crotch or nothing, just pure fucking net. Blake almost creamed right there. He rubbed the fishnet panties on his face, drooling on the stretchy material. He knew he should just cram it all into his gym bag and wank to it later, but he couldn’t put it down. He just fuckin’ couldn’t. He pushed his lips up against the crotch of the silkiest, skimpiest G-string he could find and lost himself in the gentle touch of satin to flesh. When he yanked open the next drawer and found her garter belts (along with more of those fuckin’ annoying guns, taking up valuable drawer space), things only got worse.
He barely knew what he was doing. He felt the soft sheets of the bed underneath him, and then he was kicking off his sneakers, ripping off his T-shirt, jeans, jockeys and rubbing handfuls of lush satin, mesh and cotton all over his naked body. He pushed his face into the sheets as he stroked a pair of smooth silk ones over his hard cock; he took a deep, deep breath and smelled her there, her sweat, her musk, her fuckin’ pussy against the sheets (her scent mixed with the dude, but he tried not to think about that). Then it hit him like a pile driver. He needed ’em. He fuckin’ needed ’em.
He was across the room in an instant, upending the hamper and digging through it. It was all mixed together, the dude’s skid-marked jockeys with the girl’s G-strings, but Blake zeroed in on his prey, snatching up every piece of lacy shit he saw in the pile, his cock pulsing as he saw the soiled crotches. Then he was back on the bed: tangled in the sheets, tangled in her underwear. Moaning. Pressing the dirty crotch of a G-string to his face, huffing it like a rag of goddamn toluene. Stuffing one, then two, then three pairs into his mouth, suckling them, tasting them as he rubbed another pair of panties over his cock. The lace abraded him and he quickly found another, this one smooth like a baby’s fuckin’ ass, like a dancer’s shaved pussy. He wrapped it around his cock and started stroking, getting closer and closer as he inhaled her pussy like it was the last air in a sinking fuckin’ submarine.
He was close, really close, when he heard the front door slam.
Fuck, he thought. How long have I been here? He looked at the clock: he’d popped the window at two, and Omar had assured him that nobody would be home before three. The clock said two forty-five. Fuckin’ white trash flakes — why couldn’t they work a full day like everyone else in the fuckin’ world?
Blake heard footsteps in the house. His mouth was stuffed with lace, and he was wearing a G-string or two on his head. He was covered in panties and buck-ass naked. Except for his socks, of course.
Blake grabbed the underwear and started to stuff them in his gym bag. He heard a woman’s voice calling “That you, hon? Home from work early?” just as he zipped the bag shut, and then the door open and he stared blankly at her.
“Hi,” he said, which wasn’t a very suave thing to fuckin’ say but at least he didn’t have panties on his head any more.
The girl in the doorway gave a surprised little yelp, then looked at him with wide eyes. Then she let out a long, relieved sigh before her face took on an annoyed expression.
“Oh, did he let you in? Bobby, I mean?”
Blake just stared at her for a minute, painfully aware that his hard-on was sitting there like a swollen sausage between his legs.
“Um… yeah,” he squeaked. “Um… Bobby let me in.”
She let out an exasperated sigh, bent over and started unlacing her cherry Doc Martens. “I keep on telling him, I don’t want to see customers before work! That ain’t your problem, though. Here, let me get undressed. What’s your name?”
She had a heavy Southern accent — Georgia, Mississippi, New Orleans, some fucking thing like that. She was the girl from the photo and was 10 times hotter in person, even if she looked all sweaty and kind of trashy with her hair pulled back and no makeup on, her tits crammed braless into a skintight blue-and-white striped halter and a pair of faded cutoff jeans hugging her narrow hips.
She kicked off the Docs and her legs scissored together as she peeled off her little baby socks.
“What’s your name?” she repeated.
“Blake,” he said like a dipshit.
“That your first name or your last name?” That Southern accent was just killing him; she sounded like Sissy Spacek in fuckin’ Badlands, that movie they always watched in juvie.
“Last,” he croaked.
She walked into the room and began picking up the piles of laundry where he’d dumped them. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Blake. I am so sorry about the mess, that Bobby never does clean up after himself. You can call me Coquette. He might have told you my name’s Tanya, but it’s really Coquette. I mean, sure, Tanya’s my real name, but I always go by Coquette. I mean even my fucking drama teacher calls me Coquette now. That’s the name I dance under at Buddy’s up in South Pas, it’s a nice club, you ever been there?”
“Um… no,” Blake said, wondering why his hard-on wasn’t going away.
“You could see me dance if you went there tonight, that’s why I was a little surprised when I saw you, I mean, I gotta be at work at five and I told Bobby, I don’t want to see customers right before work, you know, but look, it’s OK, I know it’s not your fault.” She crammed the clothes methodically back into the hamper, crouched down low so Blake could see her panty line through the stretched denim shorts, which locked his vision like he was hypnotized. “Man, I told Bobby to clean up before he went to work! I am so sorry about the mess, he’s a total slob.”
She set the hamper upright and closed the lid, Mr. Skidmark’s tightywhities strung like entrails from the opening. She stood there looking like a million fucking bucks in two-dollar clothes, her body outlined in tight spandex and denim, and Blake just stared at her hungrily wishing she’d turn around so he could see if she had a visible panty line through those tightass fuckin’ jean shorts. He could see her nipples through the halter. “I’d clean up more for you, but I figure you want to get down to business, anyway?”
“Yeah,” he managed to squeal. “The quicker the better.”
“No problem, I’m in kind of a rush myself. What do you want? Oral or full service? Or you want a little half-and-half? It’s all the same price, you did pay him, right?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Blake. “Of course I did.”
“Good. Then what do you want?”
“So you’re easy to please, huh?” In a swirl of dancer-smooth movement, the chick lost her halter and her gorgeous tits — B-cups, probably, or maybe B-pluses — came bouncing out, all perky with their erect nipples and shit. Blake’s hard-on throbbed. This can’t be fuckin’ happening, he told himself as the chick — Colette or Broquette or what-the-fuck-ever — unzipped her jean shorts and let them slide down her glorious legs. Blake’s whole world exploded in that instant. She was wearing this totally see-through mesh G-string, so low-cut he could have seen her fuckin’ pubic hair if she’d had any — but she didn’t. She hooked her thumbs in the G-string and started to pull it down.
“Can… can you turn around?” he rasped.
Coquette brightened, her little white-trash pig-nostrils flaring as she smiled like a kid on Christmas. “Oh, you want to see me strip, do you? Well, that’s something I can do — let me put on some music!”
She bounded over to this crappy little Fisher tape deck they had crammed into the corner and punched the button. Music started to grind out — it was Don fuckin’ Henley. “All She Wants to Do is Dance.” Oh, this had to be a joke. This had to be a fuckin’ joke.
“I love this song,” Coquette said rapturously as she started to sway, her hips grinding in slow circles as she slid her hands down her belly and drew his attention to that skimpy little G-string she was wearing — as if that was necessary. Blake stared wide-eyed as she turned slowly around and bent over, and he could totally see that tiny little string going up her ass-crack and — oh, Jesus — when she bent over low he could see the silky little crotch of the thing was crammed so tight against her pussy that he could see her lips around the edges, and he realized he was beating off. Coquette began to inch down the G-string and he started moaning. She slid the G-string down her long, smooth legs, stood up straight, kissed the garment once and tossed it to Blake with a lascivious wink.
Blake was the worst fucking catch in the universe, but he caught these. Caught them and crammed them against his face, huffing them like a rag with paint fumes in Mrs. McGillicutty’s garage when he was a kid. “Fuck yeah,” he heard himself saying. “Hell yeah. Hell motherfuckin’ yeah!”
Then she was on him, down on her knees, pulling his hand out of the way, polishing his knob. At first he couldn’t believe how good it felt — he’d never had a blowjob before, or for that matter much of anything except a couple of swats on the ass from Jenna McCardle in sixth grade — but then he was lost in the sensations of the G-string crammed into his mouth, the tangy taste of Coquette’s pussy as he sucked on it.
“So you’re a panty man, huh?” she panted as she came up for air and then climbed on top of him, her naked dancer’s body moving like a serpent striking as she straddled his crotch. “I love panty men. Panty tricks are always the most fun — you guys get so excited.”
“Really?” he asked, his voice muffled. He had always figured he was the only guy in the world who did this shit, but this girl was talking about it like he was, like, into blondes or something.
“Yes, really,” she said.
It wasn’t Don Henley on the tape deck any more, now it was Robert fucking Palmer, for God’s sake. This chick had one sweet body but man! She had worse taste in music than the guards in fuckin’ juvie!
He realized that somehow she’d gotten a condom on him — when the fuck had she gotten time to do that? Then he forgot all about the condom as he felt her hand on his cock, and then — all in a rush, while he spat the panties out and rubbed them all over his face — he felt the tight embrace of her pussy.
If he’d had any doubts about whether he was a fucking doofus or not, they would have been shattered by what he did next. Out loud, he said: “Fuck. I’m not a virgin any more.”
Coquette didn’t seem to hear him. She was propped up vertically on his cock, bouncing up and down while she squeezed her nipples and moaned “Oh yeah. Oh yeah, big boy. Give it to me, big boy. Give me your big fat cock. God, I’m gonna come, big boy. I’m gonna come all over your hard fat cock, big boy! Give it to me give it to me give it to me!” Her hair scattered everywhere as she shook her head violently back and forth.
Fuck, was this chick a pornstar or something? Probably not a very successful one, Blake figured — she looked kind of like someone having one of those apoplectic fits or something. She started making weird growling noises mixed with little animal squeals. For a second Blake thought she really was having a fit and he wondered if he ought to find the phone and call 911. Then he took a deep breath and realized that the thick odor of the G-string was depleted, its pungent issue sucked out like the guts of a goddamn pixie stick.
Fuck, he thought, realizing he was starting to lose his hard-on. He couldn’t do that. He was finally fuckin’ getting laid, and if he lost his fucking hard on she was going to think he was some kind of a pansy or something. Blake looked up at Coquette: she was still having her little episode on top of him, pounding up and down on his softening cock while she jiggled back and forth and said “Make me, Daddy, make me do it! Make me take it!” Jesus, chicks like this hated it when you lost your hard-on, or at least that’s what Blake figured. Desperately, he reached out for his gym bag, which he’d crammed just under the bed. He started to work the zipper open and got it just wide enough for his hand. He rammed his hand in and grabbed a fistful, pulled them up to his face. Pay dirt.
His hard-on was back in an instant as he huffed and puffed and Coquette went apeshit on top of him, reminding of him of that chick in that dumbass movie Showgirls that Omar made him watch on cable one night. Now Blake didn’t give a shit if she was having a fit or not; he rubbed the musky, soiled panties all over his face and moaned, pumping his hips up against her (“Oh yeah, Daddy, pump it into me, Daddy, fill me with your babies, Daddy”) and then Blake exploded, cramming fistfuls of silk and satin into his mouth and sucking and sniffing as he shot his wad so hard he fucking saw stars. Coquette came grinding to a halt (“Oh yeah, oh yeah Daddy, oh yeah Daddy”) and settled down on Blake’s naked body.
Her face was about two inches from his. She stared, looking puzzled. Blake stared back, having the distinct sense that he had really, really fucked up.
“Where did you get those?” she asked.
He made a strangled noise through his panty-stuffed mouth, which was okay because he hadn’t thought of an answer yet. He just gurgled and stared.
The front door slammed.
“Oh, fuck. He’s home from work early.” Coquette got off of Blake. She grabbed a robe and wrapped herself in it, went to the door, then stopped, cocked her head and stared at Blake.
“Are those… my panties?” she asked him.
Blake spat out a sodden wad of chantilly lace and cleared his throat.
“Yes,” he said. “Um… um… Bobby said it was okay.”
Coquette made a disgusted face.
“Bobby and I are going to have a little talk about that,” she said sharply, and went out the door.
Blake had never moved so fast in his life. In the time it took him to open the closet door, he heard Coquette’s hushed voice “…and I think that trick you sent here is a little fucking weird,” then Mr. fucking Skidmark’s booming “What trick? I didn’t send no trick!” and Blake just grabbed handfuls of whatever was in that fucking middle drawer, the fucking James Bond gun and the .45 and a revolver and a couple fucking little .22s and some panties and shit and dumped them into the gym bag and then he grabbed his pants and didn’t even wait to look for his shirt as he sprinted back across the room, the condom coming off and leaving a viscious trail of semen four feet long behind him as he ran. He was climbing through the window as Mr. fucking Skidmark came through the bedroom door and wouldn’t you fucking know it? The white trash piece of shit was fucking strapped, a silver fuckin’ revolver in his hand and pointing at Blake while the guy shouted “Freeze, cocksucker!” Blake went tottering off the edge of the fuckin’ windowsill and fell into space, the gym bag spinning above him and scattering hardware and lingerie all around him as he heard the pop-pop-pop of the guy’s pistol above him, heard the shattering of glass. Staring up as the guy’s shadow crossed the orange drapes, Blake reached out desperately and his hand closed on the butt of something, wrapped in silk — he prayed it was loaded, he pointed and closed his eyes and pulled the trigger…
The fuckin’ world exploded. Blake had never felt such a kick in his life, and his whole hand went numb. He smelled burning satin and gunpowder and heard the guy’s scream. He stared at the gun in his hand: one Colt Python, short-barreled, and one pair of white lace panties burning rapidly and toasting the fuck out of his hand.
He didn’t wait for the return fire. Blake stuffed everything he could in the gym bag and lit out naked across the back lawn, trailing panties. He made it over the fence in one hurdle and dug in his pants pocket for the keys. He saw the guy hanging out the window, blood everywhere even as he pointed the gun at Blake. Blake crammed the key in the ignition and turned it, heard the engine roar to life, heard gunshots, slammed the fuckin’ thing in drive and then there was only the screech as he jumped the curb, creamed a couple of trash cans and went screaming around a corner, a cloud of fried rubber following him.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” he said as he made the main road and headed for the onramp. His heart was beating so fast it sounded like machine gun fire in his ears. He got on the freeway.
Blake looked in the rearview to see if he could merge. He had a fucking pair of panties on his head.
He whipped them off and stuffed them in the gym bag. His hand slipped inside, closed on thick piles of moist satin and lace, mingled with the cold steel of Omar’s guns.
He took a deep breath.
“Hell motherfucking yeah,” he said, and floored it as he merged into the fast lane.
Thomas S. Roche is a worker-owner at Good Vibrations and the author, editor or coeditor of 11 books, including three volumes of the Noirotica series, His and Hers.