In this excerpt from surlybassey’s latest work of fiction, a woman sneaks out to a sex party during the height of the pandemic
Photo: David Roemer / Trunk Archive Nessa is trying to decide between the bunny ears, the duck’s bill, or the pig nose and tail. The bunny ears are too basic, she knows, but maybe there’s a way to style them that brings them back around to daring. The duck’s bill is fun, but she wore it to a winter solstice party six months ago and it is still dusted in purple glitter and sticky with dried beer.
In the wavy grime of her vanity mirror, she looks a fright. An obscene Miss Piggy; an especially vulgar art project; a fantasy of a very dirty child’s mind. It’s all she’s ever wanted, really. She leans forward till her lips hover just over the mirror’s dusty surface and blows herself a kiss. Then she throws open her bedroom door.
Instead she reaches way to the back, to the last thing she bought from the store, a can of whipped cream. She brings it out and turns to look Laurie in the eye. She shakes the can, heavy with liquid — she can feel it — then holds out one finger and sprays the cream on it. Instead of a buoyant ball of air, a thick white stream drips like mucus from the spout. Nessa licks her finger anyways, theatrically, while Laurie grimaces.
She had not told Laurie what the apartment was like until Laurie stood on the stoop, her officious little rolling suitcase behind her. “So the thing is,” Nessa said, her voice bright — she always made it bright when she explained it to people — “you have to use your imagination with this place.” She could never afford this neighborhood now, even with a roommate. But the owner of her brownstone had stopped doing repairs sometime shortly after September 11, in exchange for never raising the rent. Nessa pays $650 a month for her share in a two-bedroom apartment in a neighborhood where homes sell for $3 million.
Nessa does not understand this relationship. She could get it if Laurie was keeping him here for sex, but they aren’t having any during the pandemic. Nessa knows this, as she’s held a glass against Laurie’s bedroom door at night and heard only the boyfriend’s deep, blissful snores and Laurie’s furious typing.