The Red Primrose

“Fair primrose, we weep to see you fade away so soon”—from Elizabeth Bowen

“I'm freezing!” exclaimed Charline.

Unnoticed and unobserved in the swirling snow, Charlie and Charline stepped around a pile of rubbish in front of a disused warehouse in Old Soulard. The heavy iron door clanged open to a large glowing cavern. Condom on Your Tongue boomed from the walls. Nude models in body paint roamed the floor, stirring the pot for the grand opening of Naughty Gras.

Charlie gestured, “Now this is what I’ve been talking about!”

“I've got something for you,” removing her coat and gloves.

“Dang! I’m shocked by what you can fit in a Winslet,” exclaimed Charlie.

“What did you stare at first?” she said, feeling cute.

“You. Can you breathe?”

“Barely.”

Four hundred revelers had flocked to the bacchanal, away from the veil of everyday life. Sexy art, sensual costumes, a urinal crafted from a female figure, an eye staring out from the female organ, a girl in a thong suspended by Japanese ropes. Breasts for $5, hooters flashing a rainbow of colors from a metal dress form. A painted Jezebel in beads, whose breasts stuck out straight, was worth a stare. For the sense of touch: smooth latex green on a gay cowboy.

A long-haired young man, strangely attired in a gold lamé dressing gown, was waiting to be discovered by Charline. “Uhm, what are we doing over here?” she said, looking intently at an exquisite ten-inch metal cylinder resting on a small boxwood table.

“A reliquary is a container for a sacred relic, like a tooth of John the Baptist,” replied artist Sean Blake Lipé.

“Excuse me, but…it’s not real, is it?” asked Charline.

“It constitutes a container for an exceptional penis,” he said, placing the tips of his long fingers together.

“Exceptional craftsmanship,” said one of the artsy types, taking a second look.

“Timeless design,” said another. “It’s gorgeous, completely.”

“The holes are for air,” explained Sean.

Charline stared at him as if he had six heads.

“Would you prefer something in green?” he said.

“I’ll be at the bar.”

Sean ushered Charlie into a dark alcove where three greenish-glowing glass dildos rested on transparent pedestals, each illuminated by tiny purple LEDs from below. “What’s with her?” Sean remarked, “She almost turned blue.”

“You should see her nose quiver.”

“Does she have any friends like her?”

When Charlie emerged, Charline was holding two shots and had one heel out of her shoe: 

“To your health!”

They emptied the whiskies and dove pell-mell into the electric pianos, screaming saxophones, and swinging drums. Boom Boom Le Coeur was gearing up on stage. Michelle Minx and Katrina the Red were twirling and whirling around their poles, to laughter and cheers.

Charline took a glass of champagne from a waiter, spilling her champagne and almost going down. “C’mon, give me a kiss.”

“That was the waiter, Charline.”

“No way. We need to find something. Anything!” Charline exclaimed, shaking off the arm gathered around her.

“Nancy the Psychic is doing readings in the next room.”

The night of frivolity ended at Charlie’s. Charline poured the brandy, “Here I go again, landing in another boy’s room after midnight.”

“Do you have any suggestions?” responded Charlie, slumped in his armchair, next to a bowl of red flowers. Charline arranged them with her gloves and handed him a red primrose. 

“What's this for?” asked Charlie.

“The smell and color are one of the little extras of life.” 

An anxious frown touched Charlie's forehead. 

She added, “I’ve had it with Sean. He’s cute as hell but not a proper artist—not with real stuff. What did he say about me?”

“He said you were blue.”

“Tell the truth.”

“I just did.”

“The way he was looking at me…he called me a prostitute.” 

“He said ‘constitute’.”

“I don’t give a damn, he wanted to say it.”

“Did you notice the labret?”

“Yeah, but who’d want that?” she said with a curl of her lips.

“I bet he eats a mean box.”

“And I don’t?”

She retrieved a deck of cards and lit a cigarette. “Another brandy? Coffee?”

“I’m good,” he said hoarsely, “Except I don’t believe in reading the future. Fortune tellers are bunk.”

“I got my money’s worth. The Hanged Man revealed a hidden truth.”

“And what was that?”

“That you fucked off to Italy.”

A tremor coursed through Charlie. “Why did that have to come up?”  

“I hate the Italian jobs. What did you do to those girls?” Charline snapped.

His hand lifted an inch or two and failed to reach his right pocket.

It began to snow again. Charline watched the snowflakes fall against the window. She extinguished her cigarette and took long looks at Charlie while she riffled the cards and lit another.

“Don't move. I have an itch on my kiki.”

There was an agitated rustle.

She marched into the bathroom and slammed the door. After a few minutes, she returned. “It seems someone’s been taking files, sweetheart. C’mon, look at me. Hey. Move your head.” Her breath was warm on his cheek. “Can you hear me? Open your eyes. Do that. Let me see you open your eyes.”

There was only the rise and fall of Charline’s breathing and a high, whining noise at the back of Charlie’s throat. 

She let a card fall into in his lap, slid into her coat and gloves, tossed the primrose down the trash chute, and left to hail a cab. When she reached the corner, she flung her cigarette into the street and kept walking toward the car parked under the orange glow of the streetlamp.