Trois

In which a lover from the previous piece is seen with a new lover.

Zsama tells this story whenever asked that age-old question, "What's your biggest secret?":

"...You're sure you want to know? I will tell you. I'm like that. Plus I know about the dead hooker in your closet, so if you go n' try and turn me in or something, I've got something on you, you hear? No I'm kidding. But I WILL tell you, love"

(Zsama says "darlings" instead of "love" if telling this story to a group instead of a single recipient, but otherwise this story, told many a time, remains essentially the same in each telling - having been much-practiced, no doubt.)

"But I WILL tell you, darlings- because of my trust in you. You hear? Good. Then listen.


"It begins in the middle ages - my middle teen-ages, that is, at Walker High - love, the saddest educational institution you ever did see - cause no, Zsama was not always the well-stitched and fabulous individual Zsama is now - Zsama was poor - and at Walker High, where everyone was always half-asleep, like they were possessed by aliens doing a half-assed job of masking as humans, yours truly was no different, loping from algebra nap past tumbleweeds to equally sleepy lunch hour for cold soup and sandwich and then back to class for the chemistry snooze hour. Theoretically the school gave out As; but no one tried hard enough for more than a B, and the teachers didn't feel like taking the effort to give out A's for effort.
"A shitzone, basically. A black fucking hole.
"I was, of course, a dreamer. Sleeping so much... lots of dreams. Whenever two kids went out at Walker High, they'd hold hands, mosey around the halls like a couple of pilgrims, and occasionally, mumbled rumors would have it, kiss. I dreamed of more. I saw my Hollywood movies. I looked at my scrambled adult channels in those fatuous days before the Internet. Masturbated. Slept. Masturbated. Dreamed. My sheets were white before high school... I waited. For what? Well, duh, dude. For the Internet!
"AOL! Ah-hmm.
"The school got Internet before most of the kids did, which shows you just how poor we all were. But eventually, Roland's marked down their modems, and AOL saw potential and offered the whole town three months free, banking accurately on us all being too lazy to cancel when the time came, or to argue with the bill. But, business aside, soon Walkerville had Internet.
"It took me two hours to find porn. By which I mean to illustrate how immediately this horny fifteen-year old sought sex, and not how slow our Internet was back then. Though that is, incidentally, also true.
"For most of my freshman and into my sophomore year, I was content with the new landscapes of fantasy and grainy (but uncensored!) video laid out before me from my sticky keyboard to the vanishing point somewhere beyond the computer screen. Zsama's eyes were opened, yes. But eventually, a young virgin longs for Coca Cola - The Real Thing, darlings.
"I held some hands around school. Even pecked some cheeks beneath the sycamores in the courtyard. Sweet stuff. Boring as hell. Whether my classmates had long ago had all the sex and fantasy sucked out of em, or whether they, like me, were just a bit too shy to overcome the sleepy inertia we'd been trapped in - together - since elementary school, who knows. Either way, I was forced to look outside Walkerville for my fulfillment."

At this point Zsama usually takes a sip of something, a pause for refreshment. Zsama has this story down pat. Zsama usually picks up the pace:

"Want to tell me what you think I did?
"A guess? Hmm? No I didn't prostitute myself. craigslist didn't exist yet. Nor did I date via AOL chatrooms. In fact, I would not lose my virginity until college. Believe it! This story isn't How did Zsama's virginity get whisked away? This is What is Zsama's biggest secret? And as nature would have it, Zsama, the Dreamer, discovered Zsama the *Fantastic* - Zsama the **Fabulous** - Zsama the ***Powerful*** long before Zsama the Lover. You might say it wasn't until I met a certain peach of a human being that I understood there was a difference between Power and Love, but that, still, is another story.
"What did I do?
"Pictures.
"I shan't describe myself. Doubtless I have fermented, and you can use your ticklish little imaginations to work backwards to what I must have looked like back then, in the very Mesopotamia of my puberty. I used the scanner at the library, and suffice to say that frankly I am surprised the glass itself was not shattered by my image."

Usually Zsama makes a funny face now to elicit a laugh and break the aura of self-aggrandizement. Then continues:

"Of course these pictures showed me naked as a jaybird. And no, I no longer possess them; I've heard that I could end up a jailbird for possessing underage pornography at my current age - despite the pictures being of myself! Strange world.
"I went to the chatrooms, and I used my instant messenger, and I found myself some forums, and I distributed myself."

Zsama looks at whoever is listening keenly at this point.

"Many older men looked at them. Masturbated to them. This excited me of course. I was fifteen. I wanted to be wanted. Awakened; aroused.
"I won't tell you about most of the men, or the conversations I had with them. I don't want you losing sight. This is my secret; not theirs. Of course they're the bad men. Of course I know that now. But it wasn't until the police came to my door that I knew it then.
"I was sitting at home, eating a Twinkie, watching T.G.I.F., imagining lewd things about the poor innocent cream-filled pastry. Squish, squish, lick. The door; the police. They looked at me. They looked at a little notebook they had. One officer shook his head; the other looked at me and nodded with his cheeks looking like Louis Armstrong's playing the trumpet. Eventually the embarassed one realized his partner was about to burst, so he spoke, told me I was in trouble.
"My parents were mostly confused. When the officers told them, they mostly asked questions about the Internet and what was this chatroom thing? as opposed to about why I was using their Polaroid with the time delay to snap pictures of me bending over with my hands- Well. Yes. The point is, I didn't get into terribly hot water. The police were mostly relieved that I hadn't tried to meet these men. They warned me it would have been cataclysmic if I had. I nodded, I would never try, I promised. So I got to keep the Internet - and my stash of photos, which I had claimed I had mailed off.
"That night, I went online. I used what online wiles I had to disguise my identity lest the police be tracking me; and I went to the chatroom where I had met the one man they had mentioned.
"One of the others there, he got majorly pissed off when poor sweet me came along and asked after my accuser. 'You got him in trouble,' he said. 'You're a naughty child.'
"So I sent him some pictures.
"And here's where it gets... Well, let's say this is the part of the journey where you buckle your seatbells as we pass the barrier into Zsama's cold, black heart. A region that thankfully can only be visited by time-travel, worry yourselves not; but a dark place all the same.
"I had learned a few things from the investigation which I could apply to reduce my paramours' chances of getting caught. Sure, if the men were stupid, they'd surely be 'napped by the police. But I was certain I could avoid adding to their danger.
"In other words, nothing would be an accident.
"See, I had learned something. I had learned that, in exposing myself, in freeing my sexual soul to roam the world (via the Internet), I was dangerous. I had sent a man to jail. I could, like a siren, tempt a man, maybe even a woman, to his or her doom. Why? Because the world said so. The world said I was dangerous. And so, love! I was. Fabulously dangerous. Fantastically primeval, the serpent in the fucking garden. And so - what did I have? C'mon say it with me. I had power.
"This turned me on."

Zsama pauses here, but improvises the intermission. If shame and fear is called for by the faces of the audience, Zsama swallows as if dry in the throat for admitting such a thing; if brashness is called for, Zsama raises an unrepentant eyebrow, flirts with a lock of hair; or sometimes what is called for is a roll of the eyes, a toss of the head, a tsk-tsk-ing of self. Zsama's truth is that all of these are accurate; so Zsama allows the one the audience requires at that moment. -A blank-faced audience gets all three.

Zsama continues, typically reining in the flourishes for honesty's sake:

"I was young and I had discovered hurt. I had discovered that it said something about me when someone else was hurt on my account.
"So I pursued it. With relish.
"I went and did it. Before the distance of miles and just enough of a touch of innocence had kept me from meeting the men. But now - knowing what I would have to not do to protect them - I also knew what I could do to entrap them.
"And I did.
"I cast my nets. I assumed some identities, hid my face, but showed every last thing about my body. I learned that every last thing about my body was ambrosia to someone - the cornucopia of fetishses. I tempted them all like the little succubus I was becoming.
"And. I turned them over to the police.
"Eleven. Eleven in all, not counting the first accidental one. Eight men. Two women. One androgyne.
"I got hornier the more I hurt them, and the more I hurt them the more I needed to hurt the next one, the more the challenge had to be, to get me off. Five years sentence. Seven years. Ten years. Life. First, easy, lonely men. Then, younger men. Men with gorgeous wives who tried desperately to ignore me. They went to jail screaming entrapment. And then, women. True victories.
"I always was demure around the police; but I suspect the puff-cheeked sargeant grew wise, and accepted me, under the table, as a deliverer, a vigilante of sorts. I proved self-sufficient enough, and anyways I was already tainted. People will accept just about anything if it brings a pedophile to justice.
"You might be thinking this went on until I turned eighteen and couldn't do it anymore. But no; first of all, I researched and discovered ahead of time that I would still be able to ply my trade, so long as I convinced the victims that I was underage. I wasn't sure I'd still be able to send people to jail; but I could get them as far as the courtroom after my age of majority, and at least ruin their life a little bit, which would have to be good for at least a couple nights' masturbations.
"But I didn't get that far.
"In fact it didn't last more then a few heady, wild months. I worked my way boldly up to the women - and then came the androgyne.
"Silver4040. Unlike most of the rest, I never got naked pictures from Silver. Silver was adamantly demure, but somehow even more demanding of me and my pictures. All I ever got from Silver was a pair of grainy early web-camera photos; one of part of a cherubic face with a gray eye, one of a pale, smooth part of the body which I swear, turn it and enhance it though I might, I could never decide whether it was a breast, or an ass cheek, or a knee or a penis for that matter. To this day I'm not certain it wasn't a closeup of an uncooked turkey.
"Silver, unlike the rest, played games with me. Silver and I had sessions; Silver would tell me what to do - by this point I had acquired a scanner myself after working extra hours at Roland's after the school day snored to a close - and I would send fresh pictures. Silver would tell me I was doing it wrong; would get mad and sign off. I would freak, afraid I was losing the challenge. Silver would come back the next weekend, try again. This time I would somehow do it right; Silver would praise me, and thank me. Silver would suddenly become candid, sharing very funny stories about Silver's work - selling extremely upmarked antiques to dumb wannabe rich people."

Zsama pauses, because whoever is hearing the story will usually know already that Zsama, in fact, makes a lot of money shucking very bad art to very rich people. Zsama concludes:

"I guess I have to admit. I have to say. I. Well, I was being manipulated, of course; but I was discovering a subtler kind of power. I only recognized my power over my victims' sex before Silver; but Silver connected to me. Plain and simple.
"I don't call it love, because I wasn't yet capable. That's another story, and a long one, although it has a happier ending than this one, because...
"Dominoes were already falling. If I had desperately wanted to - if I had... known - I might've been able to stop them. Cut things off completely, right there. But I was naive; but I sensed the potential for an even greater conquest here; but, but, but.
"And so.
"I was... actually, right there, online. When the police came.
"Silver said Silver had to be right back, because there was someone at the door. I didn't think anything of it. Then Silver came back. It was the police. Silver had stalled them, by telling them they had the wrong address, but they would be back within minutes, for sure. Silver typed quickly. Silver and me would have to be cut off for a while; I don't think Silver suspected the police's business; Silver seemed to think it was about taxes, and was just being prudent about our relationship.
"I became instantly more horny than I had ever been in my life.
"I was about to witness it - very nearly, at least - the ruination at my hand. The first-hand effect of my power; the crack in the sky, and my beautous form wreacking it like the Angel of Death, beautiful and terrible. Oh you better believe I was that kind of teenager, hon!
"I tipped my hand, typing with one hand. I said:

SEXIoNE1: Silver, honey
SEXIoNE1: theyre not there for taxes
SEXIoNE1: ;-)

"There was a pause.
"Silver listened. And understood.
"And then...

SILVER4040: ...
SILVER4040: :'(
SILVER4040: Tell me it isn't true.
SILVER4040: Cop?

"I took a picture of myself in front of the computer screen with Silver's question on it, naked.

SILVER4040: Not a cop.
SILVER4040: Then why?
SEXIoNE1: cuz I can
SEXIoNE1: cuz you deserve it you

"I almost typed 'dirty old man,' but left it at that.
"And then. Without being lurid, I will say I was reaching the peak of excitement, darlings - I was expecting anger, denial. I had never witnessed the moment of capture before, although I had revealed my intent before; I was throbbing to finally experience the most perfect moment of the whole masquerade. The coup de grace; it was as if I was a killer who killed with poison, and had only seen the dead body afterwards; but here I was about to witness the moment of death.
"I bit my lip, waiting for the delicious response.
"And this is what came:

SILVER4040: ...
SILVER4040: Okay.
SILVER4040: ...
SILVER4040: For you, okay.
SILVER4040: My heart is yours; if you want it broken, so be it.
SILVER4040: They're here.
SILVER4040: <3
SILVER4040 has signed off"

Zsama's next line is unscripted, but it's always the same. Zsama is a tough cookie, it is often said (and mostly by Zsama); but Zsama, no matter the effort against it, always sheds a tear at this moment.

"Power, my darlings.
"If you're more inclined to philosophy than me - me, it bores me - you can philosophize about abstraction or anonymity or whatever it is. But all I know is myself, and that in that moment, my power broke apart. Eventually I would get it back, but a much fuzzier and cuddlier version; I prefer the new kind, and as I said eventually I would find love too. But at that moment, I lost everything; I thought I had had power, and it turned out I had had love.
"Of course it was a creepy Internet romance, but hey, you're seventeen, what do you know.
"But really! Really, darlings," Zsama says, "This Silver business is all icing on your story's cake. Because I've divulged the dark heart of the secret already, a while ago; I, Zsama of my own personal Salem, doomed twelve individuals in total to prison, shame and ruination. Before I was even a legal adult! If you thought I'm a heartbreaker now... darlings, oh, loves. You had no idea. But now you do.
"Does that sufficiently answer the question?"

Zsama always waits for a reply, although that last line is rhetorical, of course. Zsama means every word.

This is the appendix to the story which Zsama included after one particular telling:

"So now," Zsama said, a finger and thumb casually twirling the martini's lemon peel, "that you've heard this story. Do you still want to come home with me tonight, darlings?"

Jared and Jules both looked at each other. This was the first date with Zsama for both of them (Zsama had winked, said it was a "double date"), although both of them had known the illustrious storyteller for months and months, working up to this moment. Jared's mind was more on the concept of going home with Zsama (and Jules?) in the first place. Jules was thinking about the story, and questions of morality, youth, relativity, fashion sense. To stall, Jules took Zsama's hand - which could have been a gesture of acceptance, or one to soften the blow of refusal, so it passed for hesitancy.

Zsama waited. Sucked at the lemon juice. Smelled the air.

"Have you," one of them asked at last. "Have you... ever reached out and... well you couldn't get them out of jail, but at least... apologized?"

Zsama had never heard that question before; not even from Lin.

"My answer," said the question-asker, "is dependent on yours."

A waterfall of phone calls later, Zsama was able to answer the question to the asker's satisfaction; and so Zsama took the question-asker home and there to bed. Because Zsama knows the difference between power and love.