Nude Men

little train rides, meant to be educational. We are all sitting there, in the vehicles, watching with great boredom the fake-looking Audio-Animatronics (these are life-size dolls that move a bit, accompanied by spoken words). Not one of us three wants to be here, not even Sara. I am certain, I instinctively know with every shred of my being, that she insists on going on these rides to find opportunities of getting closer to me, of manipulating me and charming me in every imaginable way. My mother goes on these rides because she doesn’t want to miss a moment of being with me. I go on these rides because we are a sandwich, and I am the baloney.
    Some of the lines are long, thirty minutes or more. My mother is complaining, so I tell her she can go walk around with Sara while I stand in line. Sara says no, she wants to wait in line with me, but she encourages my mother to walk around. My mother leaves us (to my great surprise, because for the first time on this trip, she is going to miss a few minutes of my presence). Sara is in a fine mood. She is nice to me.
     
    “H ow much do you weigh?” my mother asks Sara. “About one hundred and fifteen pounds.”
     
    * * *
     
    Sara acts languorous, like a cat, draping herself over the seats of the rides. Every chance she gets, she hugs me with fright. She plasters her body against mine.
     
    M y mother says, “Look at that cute little prick over there. Nice and fresh. Right out of the oven.”
    But what’s the point? No one hears her. I guess she’s just venting her anger. I guess it’s just the principle of it.
     
    T o Sara, it’s like a game. She tries to be seductive when my mother is not looking. It makes me very uncomfortable, to say the least. She gives me furtive kisses, not on the mouth but, still, nearby. I want to say, “Mommy, did you see what she did to me? Make her stop.” The few times that my mother does see something, she says, “Aw, it’s so cute.”
     
    S ara says, “When you’re solitary, and it’s a problem, the antidote is in the word. Soul it airy. Which means you’ve got to make your soul more airy and light. People will like you more if you’re less serious, and you won’t be solitary anymore.”
     
    I am very physically attracted to Sara. She is extremely sensuous, in addition to being beautiful. Very supple. What she wears looks absurdly, grotesquely sexy on her. Just shorts, not particularly tight, not particularly short. Flat shoes. She also wears miniskirts, but they are not tight; they are full and loose and totally appropriate for her age. She wears no makeup and looks all the more stunning for it. She is very physical with me, always touching me. I wonder if she’s the type of person who is always touching everybody or just always touching me. In any case, she’s not always touching my mother.
    She sometimes gets mad that I don’t respond to her caresses and kisses and cuddles. She tries to make me jealous by pointing to older men she finds attractive. Also very old men.
     
    M y mother makes kissing sounds to passing men.
    “That’s not in those books!” I tell her.
    “No, but it’s all coming back to me now.”
     
    W e buy Mickey Mouse masks. Mickey Mouse for me, Minnie Mouse for Sara. My mom refuses to get grandma Minnie Mouse, even though they have one. She gets no mask.
     
    I try to flirt with women, so that Sara will see I’m interested in women my own age. I also try to get her to be interested in little boys.
    Sara points to an old man in a wheelchair and says, “Isn’t he good-looking? He’s so charming.”
    I look at her, shocked, and realize it’s not only to make me jealous that she does this; it’s to show me that she likes older men and that if I don’t give in, another man probably will.
    A few minutes later I point to a five-year-old boy and say, “Isn’t he good-looking? He’s so charming. You should go talk to him.”
    She bangs her shoulder against mine and says, “Oh, yeah, right.”
     
    “H ello,” says my mother, in a small, suggestive voice, to men who walk by.
     
    S ara has the face of a child. I cannot be in love with that beautiful child’s face. It’s just too young.
    “Pretty,” says my mother to men.
     
    M y mother does not have a very high opinion of me. She finds me socially inept and retarded. “What is even worse than being incompetent with your career and your love life,” she tells me, “is being inept at everyday life.” She feels sorry for me and is