Richmond Noir by Andrew Blossom

Author:Andrew Blossom
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: ebook
Publisher: akashic books
Published: 2010-09-04T22:00:00+00:00

PART III

NEUROSIS

The whole infelicity speaks of a cause

that could never have been gained.

—Henry James, on Richmond

PLAYING WITH DABLONDE

BY TOM DE HAVEN

Manchester

They’d finished having sex, Tacko and DaBlonde, but her husband Louis (you couldn’t call him Lou, she called him Daddy) was still taking pictures with a small silver Canon PowerShot. He’d circle the bed, crouch, loom, even push in between DaBlonde’s open chapped thighs. She’d threaten to trap him there, scissor him, and they’d laugh. Weird shit. Very weird shit, thought Tacko.

Louis was a big guy, obese, and whenever he’d kneel on the bed for another shot, it crunched and sank. He had on a tent-sized black T-shirt and gray Nike sweatpants. He always kept his clothes on. Well, both times so far. “That’s enough pictures, Daddy.” DaBlonde shook a foot at him, making short flicking motions with her toes.

She was at least fifteen years younger than Tacko, who was forty-eight. She might have been still in her late twenties—slight, almost skinny, a pretty face that looked dairy-maid wholesome when she took off her glasses. Just now, though, she’d kept them on through everything, fellatio included.

Louis was nearer Tacko’s age. A friendly, blunt-talking fat cuckold. Tacko didn’t use the word in mockery, merely as description. So the guy enjoyed watching his wife do strangers—so what? Other guys enjoyed tramping out in the dark and bitter cold to shoot at deer. And as far as Tacko could tell, DaBlonde loved the variety. She loved it, Louis loved it, therefore no problem. Weird shit, though. Tacko was in the presence of people the likes of whom he’d never come upon before. They were like TV Martians, human-looking but deeply different underneath. Being with them was exhilarating.

Till now Tacko had been a pretty standard guy, suburban youth in the ’70s, ever-rising, ultimately tiresome career straight out of college. He went to church. Episcopal, till he was thirty-five. All told, he’d had nine sex partners (including DaBlonde), considerably less than the national average for men, which he’d read was thirteen. With his first wife, but certainly not his second, he’d watched porn, but always the tame and corny stuff. Deep Throat. Devil in Miss Jones. He’d never been to an orgy, a strip club, a live sex show, or known any swingers or fetishists, that he was aware of. So yes, hooking up with the Amboys and balling her while the husband filmed it—that was extreme sport for Tacko.

“Really and truly, Daddy, no more pictures. Do you know if there’s still coffee to reheat?”

“Should I look?” Louis tapped the camera’s on/off button and the snouty lens retracted with a tootling whir. It amazed Tacko how agreeable the guy was, like a new boyfriend or a seasoned butler. “Mr. Tacko?” he said. “If there’s coffee, do you want a cup?” Louis only called him Mister. DaBlonde, come to think of it, never called him anything. “Or do you want another glass of wine?”

“Coffee sounds great.”

After Louis went out, Tacko turned on his back, pulled the sheet over him to mid-chest, and folded his hands behind his neck.

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