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You have a girlfriend named Alma, who has a long tender horse
neck and a big Dominican ass that seems to exist in a fourth
dimension beyond jeans. An ass that could drag the moon out of
orbit. An ass she never liked until she met you. Ain't a day that
passes that you don't want to press your face against that ass or
et
bite the delicate sliding tendons of her neck. You love how she
t.n
shivers when you bite, how she fights you with those arms that are
in
so skinny they belong on an after-school special. Alma is a Mason
o
Gross student, one of those Sonic Youth, comic-book-reading
ep
alternatinas without whom you might never have lost your virginity.
od
Grew up in Hoboken, part of the Latino community that got its
heart burned out in the eighties, tenements turning to flame. Spent
ic
nearly every teen-age day on the Lower East Side, thought it
un
would always be home, but then N.Y.U. and Columbia both
said nyet, and she ended up even farther from the city than
before. She is in a painting phase, and the people she paints are
all the color of mold, look like they've just been dredged from the
bottom of a lake. Her last painting was of you, slouching against
the front door: only your frowning I had a lousy Third World
childhood and all I got was this attitude eyes recognizable. She did
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give you one huge forearm. I told you I'd get the muscles in. The
past couple of weeks, now that the warm is here, Alma has
abandoned black, started wearing these nothing dresses made out
of what feels like tissue paper; it wouldn't take more than a strong
wind to undress her. She says she does it for you:Â I'm reclaiming
et
my Dominican heritage (which ain't a complete lie-she's even
t.n
taking Spanish to better minister to your mom), and when you see
in
her on the street, flaunting, flaunting, you know exactly what every
o
nigger that walks by is thinking. You met at the weekly Latin
ep
parties at the Down Under in New Brunswick. She never went to
od
those parties, was dragged there by her high-school best friend,
Patricia, who still listened to TKA, and this was how you got the
ic
chance to strike while, as your boys put it, the pussy was hot.Alma
un
is slender as a reed, you a steroid-addicted block; Alma loves
driving, you books; Alma owns a Saturn (bought for her by her
carpenter father, who speaks only English in the house), you have
no points on your license; Alma's nails are too dirty for cooking,
your spaghetti con pollo is the best in the land. You are so very
different-she rolls her eyes every time you turn on the news and
says she can't "stand" politics. She won't even call herself
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Hispanic. She brags to her girls that you're a "radical" and a real
Dominican (even though on the Platano Index you wouldn't rank,
Alma being only the third Latina you've ever really dated). You
brag to your boys that she has more albums than any of them do,
that she says terrible white-girl things while you fuck. She's more
et
adventurous in bed than any girl you've had; on your first date she
t.n
asked you if you wanted to come on her tits or her face, and
in
maybe during boy training you didn't get one of the memos but you
o
were, like, umm, neither. And at least once a week she will kneel
ep
on the mattress before you and, with one hand pulling at her dark
od
nipples, will play with herself, not letting you touch at all, fingers
whisking the soft of her and her face looking desperately, furiously
ic
happy. She loves to talk while she's being dirty, too, will whisper,
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You like watching me don't you, you like listening to me come, and
when she finishes lets out this long demolished groan and only
then will she allow you to pull her into an embrace as she wipes
her gummy fingers on your chest. This is me, she says. Yes it's an
opposites-attract sort of thing, it's a great-sex sort of thing, it's a
no-thinking sort of thing. It's wonderful! Wonderful! Until one June
day Alma discovers that you are also fucking this beautiful
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freshman girl named Laxmi, discovers the fucking of Laxmi
because she, Alma, the girlfriend, opens your journal and reads.
(Oh, she had her suspicions.) She waits for you on the stoop, and
when you pull up in her Saturn and notice the journal in her hand
your heart plunges through you like a fat bandit through a
et
hangman's trap. You take your time turning off the car. You are
t.n
overwhelmed by a pelagic sadness. Sadness at being caught, at
in
the incontrovertible knowledge that she will never forgive you. You
o
stare at her incredible legs and between them, to that even more
ep
incredible popola you've loved so inconstantly these past eight
od
months. Only when she starts walking over in anger do you finally
step out. You dance across the lawn, powered by the last fumes of
ic
your outrageous sinverguenzeria. Hey, muneca, you say,
un
prevaricating to the end. When she starts shrieking, you ask her,
Darling, what ever is the matter? She calls you:
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