The Wages of Love by Sandra Bell My girlfriend is a model. She holds trays of chips on a TV reality show called "Double Down." There are other models but she is the most beautiful. I would watch the show every week only to watch her. I noticed how she smiled with one side of her smile crinkling into little lines and how she stood with one hip cocked and how a muscle in her upper arm was defined when she held the tray. I even wrote her a fan letter and she sent me an autographed eight by ten. I got a nice frame for the picture and hung it on the wall in my bedroom. Then I met her. The first time she took me home with her I had to dash for the bathroom and puke; I was so excited and scared. I put a bunch of her toothpaste into my mouth and held it there until it hurt and then I spit it all out and carefully cleaned up the sink. When I got back to her she led me to her bedroom and I was shaking so hard, I couldn't get my clothes off, let alone hers. She had to undress us both after I tried and failed to unhook my own bra. I had always thought of myself as something of a great lover, able to stay in control and pleasure my women. But that night I was as wild as an otter as I rolled and tumbled over and under her. It's all a big blur but it lasted all night and then I slept without dreaming until I woke up in a pool of drool and licked the salt from the side of my face. I pushed my nose into the sheets. They smelled of her perfume, our sex, and her warm animal smell lingering after many nights of unwashed sheets. The smell was so good I kept snuffling into the sheets until she ran a finger down my backbone. *** I pretty much moved in with her after that first night. I couldn't get enough of her so I took a bunch of accrued vacation from my job as an airplane mechanic. She only taped her show once a week plus a few photo shoots so we had lots of time together. I even went to the tapings and the shoots. You would think we would get sick of each other or that the sex would go stale but these didn't happen. Sometimes we would role-play and I would come to the door dressed like a plumber and seduce her in the shower. Or she would go to a hotel bar dressed like a businesswoman and I would come in drag as a businessman and pick her up. Stuff like that. Finally my vacation time ran out and I started in on sick leave. I was sick, sick with love like in the Song of Solomon where he says, Comfort me with apples for I am sick with love. That line really gets to me; it's so true. I took to wearing my mechanic's tool belt around the house with a couple dildos among the other tools because this pleased my girlfriend so much. I need a repair job, she'd say. What seems to be the problem? I would ask and wiggle my eyebrows. *** Sometimes we would go to events. This gave us a chance to dress up. I wore my Gucci suit and my girlfriend often got to wear a designer gown. I liked to put one arm around her waist with my fingers showing against her gown. The other hand would rest casually on her hip and it was like I was presenting her and claiming her at the same time. Once in a while we were photographed and our picture would show up in some fanzine. This pleased us both. When does passion become obsession? My friends accused me of unhealthy obsession with this woman or of being in some sort of sexual thrall. But I think they had never been in passionate erotic love and I was as strange to them as a monkey with blue eyes. My days with my new girlfriend turned into months and then into one year and then into two with no lessening of desire. I had run through my vacation pay and my sick leave. I kept calling in sick anyway and began getting warnings and write-ups. Finally they fired me. I ran through my life savings and had no prospect of a job that would allow me to spend most of my time with my girlfriend. I didn't want to be a kept woman. I decided to become a bank robber. I figured I would rob a bank every two or three months and rob random locations not anywhere near our home in the Hollywood hills. I decided to go in disguise as a man. I got my hair cut even shorter than usual and had them save the cut hair for me. Then I cut up this hair into even smaller pieces and covered part of my face with spirit gum. After about twenty minutes I carefully applied the hair. My girlfriend shrieked with laughter when she saw me but she had to admit that I looked pretty convincing. I had her help me bind my breasts with an ace bandage. For the final touch I decided to pack. I put on a pair of tighty-whities and shoved in a realistic fake penis and balls that I called Mr. Softly. I wore jeans and a Raiders jacket and cap. I looked like a regular jock but kind of a small one. I put a toy secret agent gun in my jacket pocket and I was ready. I was calm as I drove to Pasadena. The day was perfect with a Walt Disney sky and white capped mountains in the background. The bank was warm and soothing like no one had any money worries. They had stuffed bears all over the place: little tiny ones and big ones about five feet high. The whole place was designed not to intimidate and that worked on me. My gun was now in my waistband, my stickup note was in my hand. I got in line behind a man with a bad cold. I hoped I wouldn't get it. Then the teller called me. She was a very pale blond who wore a nubby pink sweater buttoned up to her neck. One cheek was speckled with some sort of rash. I handed her the note and pulled back the jacket to show the gun and that I meant business. She gasped and her hands began to shake as she fumbled for the money in her cash drawer. It's OK, I said quietly. Just take a deep breath and you'll do fine. Tears formed in her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. Finally she got the money into a bag and handed it to me. I squeezed her hand and smiled, Good job sweetheart. Then I walked out of the bank with a little swagger. It was done; it was easy and I felt great. I got on the 210 and wished I were driving a convertible. When I got back, my girlfriend practically tore my clothes off me. She whispered, You are so hot and so bad. I wanted to get that hair off my face: it itched and pulled but she just couldn't wait. Afterwards I felt very tired and fell into a hard, dreamless sleep. It was dark when I finally woke up and my face itched like crazy. I got the hair off and it left a beard shaped red mark all around my face. It reminded me of the teller and her rash. A little stab of guilt poked me in the belly. Over the next few days I felt fine about robbing the bank—no guilt at all. But I started to feel real bad about the teller. I knew I had caused her to suffer and I had to know how she was doing. I drove back to Pasadena and opened an account in the bank that I had robbed. It was sort of strange to be putting money back in the bank I had taken it from. The teller was nowhere to be seen so I asked how the teller who had been robbed was doing. They said she was out with PTSD. I said, You mean like the Iraq war vets and they said, Yes. Damn shame, I said. *** That night I saw myself on TV on a program of crimes caught on video in the Los Angeles area. I felt strange, like the top half of my brain had floated to the ceiling. I don't think anyone would recognize the small man with the cap pulled low over his shades. I began to feel dizzy and my girlfriend put a cold washrag on my forehead. That night I dreamed about the teller in the pink sweater. She screamed and held out her hand. I took the dream as a message. I kept going back to the bank and after two weeks the teller was back on the job. I went to her window and withdrew $100. Her rash now covered her whole face. She looked at me and her eyes blinked fast. I said, Nice day. She sort of jerked and said, Yes it is. I put the money in my wallet and she said, Have a nice day. I said, Thanks, you too. I don't know when I've had a more stupid conversation and I worried all the way home that she had recognized me but guilt was greater than worry. She didn't appear to be in very good shape and I wanted to do something that would make her feel better. The next day I told my girlfriend that I was going out job hunting. It was the first time I had ever lied to her. I drove to the bank and sat in my car where I could see the front door. I figured the teller would sooner or later come out for her lunch break. I drank a coke and smoked about five cigarettes. I had to pee but I didn't dare leave. Finally, she came out. She was sort of hunched over like she was protecting an egg and she looked all around her as if looking for bad guys. I tossed my cigarette and walked up to her like we had met by sheer coincidence. Oh, hi, I said. Remember me? She smiled and chewed on her lower lip for a moment. Yes, from yesterday. But you look more familiar than just that. Had she made me? I've been in the bank before; I'm a regular customer. She laughed for no reason, That must be it. I asked her if she was going to lunch and said I needed to eat also so we ended up going to a gourmet pizza place. I drive a Beemer and that impressed her. I tried to be sophisticated and ordered an apple and garlic pizza. She had a cheese pizza from the standard menu. I heard you got robbed. Yes, it was awful. Did they get the guy? No, and they don't seem to have any clues. They made me look at the surveillance tapes over and over but I didn't know who he was. Bummer, I said, that must have been scary. It was terrifying, she said and she teared up. And I was thinking shit, shit, shit. We agreed to meet again the next day for lunch and I drove back home in a blanket of guilt. My girlfriend asked how the job hunt had gone and I said pretty good but I wanted to look some more tomorrow. I went outside in the heat and tinkered with the Beemer. My girlfriend came out and hung over me as I hung over the engine. Most people would find this annoying but I found it comforting and hot. We played around in the front seat until it just got too hot. I mean both ways too hot. The next day the teller and I went to a British restaurant. I had meatloaf and a British beer and she had an egg salad sandwich and iced tea. I kept my knee pressed against hers the whole time. She would move her knee away and then I'd move mine again. Finally she just let her knee stay put. I asked her if we could have lunch at her place tomorrow and she agreed. *** Her apartment was tiny with the kitchen, bedroom and living room all in one room. The bathroom door was so small you had to squeeze sideways to get into the bathroom. I had brought two avocado sandwiches and she supplied beer and coke. We sat on the end of the bed and ate off a little table that pulled out from under the bed. She had been talking about the robbery and I took a deep breath and hugged her. She hugged me hard. I put my lips on her nick and she stiffened but didn't pull away. I undid a couple buttons on her sweater and put my hand on her breast. She jerked and said, I've never done this before. I said, Trust me, you'll like it. And she did. I kept all my clothes on and I didn't kiss her on the mouth. I hoped that made what I was doing not infidelity. I made love like the very good mechanic I am and I felt no desire for her at all. But I did feel a sort of love, like the love you might feel for a kitten you just pulled out of the drainpipe and maybe it was your fault that the kitten was in the drainpipe in the first place. We lay side by side. Don't lesbians kiss, she asked? I lied and told her I was a hard butch and that we didn't kiss on the lips or take off our clothes or let ourselves be touched in personal places. I told her that if she got off it made me get off too. She seemed satisfied. I took a shower and scrubbed hard to wash off the smell of her so my girlfriend wouldn't suspect anything. *** It seemed like the next few weeks were about telling lies. I saw the teller one day a week at lunch and then again in the evening. I told her I couldn't see her more often because I did undercover work the rest of the week. I told my girlfriend I was helping a guy restore a car. I had a sort of sick feeling most of the time and I couldn't eat much. I lost some weight and both women noticed it and didn't like it. I guess it was all worth it, though. The teller's rash cleared up and she became glossy and confident, like a well loved cat. I felt I had done more than restore her to her former self; I had improved her. Surely this made up for any injury I had done her. *** Things went along pretty well. I cased banks for male tellers and I only robbed those banks and those tellers. I knew this showed a pattern but I hoped it wouldn't be noticed. I tried pulling away from the teller. I would tell her that she was smashing attractive and that she could get any guy or gal she wanted and that she deserved more than one day a week. But she said she wanted only me. I continued to have that sick feeling and I took to drinking lots of milkshakes to keep my weight and because I could hold them down. Summer turned into winter and we had a little mudslide into our house. The good, hard labor it took to clean up made me feel a little better. I decided to volunteer with a group that built inner city parks. *** One day I was at the teller's place and I was in a hurry so I didn't take my usual shower. I got home and kissed my girlfriend. She drew back and in a stony voice, You've been with another woman. Yes, I said, tired of all the lying. I tried to explain that the woman meant nothing to me and that I was just trying to make her feel better after harming her. My voice shook as I told my girlfriend that I never kissed the teller on the mouth; that I kept my clothes on and didn't let her touch me and that I never used the strap on. You will give her up or you're out of my life, my girlfriend hissed. She had tears in her eyes and they suddenly brimmed over and dribbled down her cheeks. I tried to put my arms around her but she shoved me hard, You can't treat me the way you treated her, you bastard. You think you're so hot that you can cure anyone, you conceited bitch. Silently I gathered up some clean clothes and went into the shower. I sobbed and the sobbing was sincere but the sneaky part of me hoped that my girlfriend could hear my sobs above the sound of the water. *** The next week I took the teller to a really nice restaurant where we both had steak. What's the occasion, she smiled with trust. I told her we'd talk about it later but that it was bad news. I thought about lying to her and telling her I was being sent abroad but somehow I was sick of lying, literally sick. For the first time in a long time I ate my whole meal. We drove up into the mountains and walked to a small stream. The air was thick with the smell of pine and forest loam. A chipmunk darted in front of us. I took the teller's hand and told her the truth. That I loved her but not in the right way; that I already had a girlfriend who demanded I break this off. She sat still as a boulder and then began a kind of gagging, guttural howl. I held back from comforting her by putting my arms around her. I wished that I had lied to her. I had told her the truth for my own good, not hers. I led her back to the car by almost carrying her because she could hardly walk. We drove back in a car filled with that awful sound she made. I took her home and carried her into her place. Suddenly she picked up the toaster and smashed it as hard as she could across my face. I staggered but didn't fall. All the fight went out of her and she collapsed on the bed. There was no more to be said or done. *** By the time I got back home I had a big bump on my forehead and one side of my face was black and blue. I guess you broke up with her, my girlfriend said with satisfaction, you bastard, you had all that coming. I got out a package of frozen corn and put it on my face. My girlfriend put her arms around me and put her hands in my back pockets and pushed until my jeans started to come down. We made a desperate, clawing love on the living room floor. My phone rang. The voice at the other end was semi hysterical and hard to follow but the gist was that the teller had cut her wrists in her tiny bathtub and was now in Huntington Hospital in Pasadena. The caller was the teller's sister. I told my girlfriend what had happened and she said, go. I guess that sort of response is one of the reasons I love her so much. I drove fast down the curves of the hills and onto the freeway, feeling a small surge of pleasure at the responsiveness of the car. The sister looked like an improved version of the teller, confident and clear skinned. Her eyes were red from crying but she didn't seem to bear me any animosity. The teller looked really weird, paler than I have ever seen anyone. Heavy bandages covered her wrists and a couple of tubes sprouted from her arms. She was under sedation. She almost died, the sister said and came foreword to hug me. I took her in my arms and hugged tight like I was trying to hold onto something good. We sat down and I held her in my lap. Now I had wronged her. With a feeling of dread I slid my hand between her legs. Sandra Bell lives in Pasadena, California with her spouse and a small white dog. When not writing she likes to vegetate. | home |

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