“Then what did you do?” asked Avie. She sat at my tiny kitchen table, wolfing down cheese curls like they were goin out of style.

“I took of his clothes, and then I knelt down…” I said.

“Were you naked?” My half-sister wanted ever detail.

“I had on my panties,” I said. “I was having my period, I told you.”

“Was he lying on the bed?” asked Avie.

“No, that’s a good point, Avie,” I said. “Gene was standing; I asked him to stand. He was uncomfortable about this, maybe because of the way the ceiling angles; he was nearly hitting his head. You know what he said?”

“What?”

“He said, ‘Clarissa, you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to demean yourself.’”

“What a gentleman,” said Avie. “So, then he laid back on your bed?”

“No, I gave him a kneeling…”

“You didn’t!” cried Avie. “Oh, Clarissa. That is so demeaning.”

“It is not,” I said. “It’s no such thing. It’s very practical. I get better leverage. When a guy’s seated, I get a stiff neck.”

“But they act all exalted, like they’re lording it over you,” said Avie.

“They act like that when they’re seated, too, like they’re on a throne,” I said. “Same diff.”

“But that should bother you,” said Avie. “That they’re getting off on the power trip.”

“Avie, going down on somebody is about making them feel important. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“It has political implications in a patriarchal society,” said Avie. “He didn’t grab you and force your head onto him, did he?”

“No, of course not,” I said. “He was a perfect gentleman. He just brushed my hair and face lightly as I…”

“How big was he?” Avie demanded.

“What, are you planning to blow him yourself?” I asked.

“Just how big is he?” Avie repeated. “Is it a state secret?”

“It was big enough for my hand top wrap around the base, but still feel the knob hit the back of my throat, if you must know.”

“Eight or nine inches!” said Avie, gasping. “Oh, my God.”

“Maybe not that big,” I said. I have little hands. “But a good size.”

“Then what did you do?” Avie poured more cheese curls into the bowl. She proffered the bag. “You want some?”

“No thanks,” I said. “Everything was going fine, except when my head went back and forth, he kept being pushed back and hitting his head on the angled ceiling.”

“No kidding!” Avie turned and looked into my studio, studying the angle of the ceiling above my bed. “He must be fairly tall.”

“He is,” I said. “At one point, I almost knocked him senseless. After that, I let him sit down.”

“Was he finished by then?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “But then my neck started getting stiff, like a said. It’s not a good angle for me.”

“I guess with that thick carpeting, it wouldn’t be so bad on your knees,” said Avie. “So, did you lick his balls? Guys love having their balls licked. But you should never do it. It’s degrading to all femininity.”

“I’m not going to tell you everything, Avie,” I said. “Besides, it’s not degrading.”

“You did it, didn’t you?” said Avie, slapping the kitchen table. “Then what? Did he come?”

“I told you, my neck got stiff,” I said. “So I suggested he could do me up the butt if he wanted.”

“No!” cried Avie. “You are a freak, Clarissa.”

“I am not a freak,” I said. “I’m not telling you anything more. What’s the matter with you, anyway? You must not be getting any; I can spot sexual-frustration eating a mile away.”

“I’m in love with another gay actor-dancer,” said Avie, forlorn. “All he wants is to have his balls licked—while he jerks off. He won’t go anywhere near my pussy—not with his fingers, not with his tongue. And especially not with his…” My sister looked like she was about to cry.

“Oh, Avie, I’m sorry,” I said, taking my sister in my arms. I brushed the orange cheese-crumbs off her sweater, which covered boobs immensely bigger than mine. “It must be hard, being only straight.”

“I just live vicariously through your perverted stories,” she said, her tears now welling up. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You need to start dating engineers or accountants or something,” I said. “You can’t keep falling for guys in your theater department.”

“Are you going to see him again?” asked Avie. “The Purple Penetrator?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “Gene’s busy, working undercover and all that. I think I might have scared him off. He wanted to take me out, get to know me, take things slow. I always ruin things, going too fast. Aren’t we a sad couple of sisters?”

***

Actually, I had a feeling I would be seeing Gene before too long; I was merely exaggerating my feeling of desolation as a way of consoling my sister. In fact, I felt pretty content and proud of myself. I’d promised myself I wasn’t going pass up another opportunity, and when it came my way, I seized it. Lord, he was handsome. And sensitive. And a gentleman. It wasn’t ideal, since I was having my period, and he had to come on me rather than in me. But boy, it was the most gratifying protein treatment my little boobies ever received. For once it was my partner who was left feeling a little short-changed—wanting more of an emotional connection—and not me.

Maybe Dana was rubbing off on me more than was healthy.

Anyway, I was starting to feel like I deserved to have the partners I wanted, and that I should start asking of the world what I really wanted more often. That was a good feeling.

I was so pleased with myself that after I got rid of my sister, I put on my Ms. Megaton Man uniform, donned my civilian street clothes, grabbed my book bag, and went out for a cool, Saturday afternoon stroll.

It was bright and sunny for mid-November, with a thin dusting of snow over the Warren Woodward University campus and around the Cultural Center. My first thought was to hit the undergraduate library, but then I remembered Nancy had a drawing class, and that Dana was the model. So, I marched over to the Self-Important Art School.

The instructor had stepped out for a smoke—I thought I’d seen her on my way into the building. I stuck my head in the classroom. Students stood at easels with large sheets of paper clipped to Masonite, making marks with vine charcoal and rubbing with squares of chamois and their fingers, silently contemplating Dana, who had restored her stiff, spikey Mohawk since our intimate evening together. No one even noticed me as I slipped in and found Nancy—real name Agatha—halfway through a forty-five minute study.

“Hey, Clarissa,” she whispered, genuinely happy to see me.

“Hey, Aggie,” I said. The last time I’d seen her it was in a group at the Bottleneck & Tie-Up, when I’d spurned Dana’s affections. I gave Nancy-Aggie a non-committal peck on the cheek which drew a few sideward glances from the square students, and a glaring scowl from Dana.

“So, how’ve you been?” asked Nancy. “We barely had a chance to chat, last time I saw you.”

“Oh, I’ve been busy,” I said. “Writing my senior thesis and stuff.”

“You seeing anybody?” she whispered.

“Kind of.”

Nancy-Aggie was a little crestfallen at this. “A guy?” she asked. “Me too. But it’s nothing great.” She dabbed a bit at her drawing with her chamois. “We should get together for Sunday brunch tomorrow, just you and I. You know the place I used to work?”

“What happened? Did you get fired?”

She smiled and nodded. “It is so awesome. The boss was always hitting on me, so I ratted him out to his wife. Now I get to go back as a customer and fuck with them some more!”

“I’m up for that,” I whispered.

Dana’s lip curled and she made an audible growl.

***

Dana was set up for a long pose on a platform in the middle of the room. She was seated on an old wooden armchair, one of those where the arms connect in one semi-circle to form a back. It might have once had a cushioned back, but now that was missing. It didn’t look too comfortable, but Dana didn’t seem to mind. She held a broomstick in one hand like it was a scepter or spear jabbed into the floor; she looked like the grim Queen of the Underworld enthroned.

When Dana wasn’t glaring at me out of the corner of her narrowly-slit eyes, she watched the door. There, some guys who weren’t in the class had assembled to ogle her. Dana didn’t have a stitch on other than a black leather choker around her neck; Nancy and I were at a side angle, but the way Dana was slouching back on her throne with her knees languorously apart, I was certain the guys could see her glistening labia from the door.

Dana smiled coldly at them. She was getting off on the attention. She enjoyed the power she wielded over people, particularly men who could only look at her from afar, admire her beauty, but never touch. One could easily imagine the Queen of the Underworld beating the sniveling curs with her scepter if they tried.

“Vat goes on here?” cried a woman’s voice from the hall. “Zis is no peep show. Vee are doing serious Verke here. You sign up for class, or you go beat off. Scam!”

It was the instructor; the boys disappeared.

She seemed ancient to me, over sixty, and very much of the Old School. She strode slowly among the easels, sniffing at her students’ drawings dismissively. “Anyvone else vant a cheap trill, you go to dirty bookstore down street. Vee do serious Verke here.”

She stopped to give advice to several students in low, hushed tones.

“That’s Mrs. Lichtig,” whispered Nancy. “They call her Mrs. Lick-Thighs—a bit on the predatory side, if you believe some of the rumors from her students. She’d turn you off of women for good.”

“Is it okay for me to be here?” I said. “Both you and Dana invited me.” This was only half true; Dana had more or less dared me to drop by the Kirby Center for Visual Studies to see what really took place during an actual nude model session.

No sooner had I asked this than Mrs. Lichtig spotted me. “Vat is going on? Vee have no visitors in meine Atelier.”

“It’s okay, Patricia,” snarled Dana from her throne. “She’s with me.”

“You vit Dana?” said Mrs. Lichtig. She looked me up and down. “You look familiar.” She suddenly smiled. “Agathe show me some drawings of you, no? You model?”

“No, not professionally,” I said.

“You like, I’ll put you to work,” said Mrs. Lihtig.

Dana gritted her teeth.

A few easels over, Chuck Bradford was busy rendering away. I hadn’t noticed him before then, but old Mrs. Lichtig made a beeline for his easel when she saw what he was drawing. Chuck had chosen to take the Queen of the Underworld literally, and was doing his best to convert Dana into a fully costumed fantasy paperback cover. He gave his queen a winged helmet, arm bracelets, fishnet stockings, and a draped, gold-and-jewel encrusted thrown. He was in the process of throwing in a few skulls at her feet, a shield at her side, and tall, smoldering censers on ornate, Art Nouveau metalwork stands—all from his imagination. It was a nice drawing, a bit heavy on the stylization, but I thought very creative.

“Vat is zis?” the old drawing instructor shrieked. “Zis is not serious Verke—zis is trash illustration.”

“It’s the pose you set up,” Chuck replied.

The entire classroom gasped. Apparently, no one ever talked back to Mrs. Lichtig.

The old bat tore the sheet of charcoal paper off the easel. “You do your girly peen-up across the way,” she said, meaning the commercial art department in the other wing of the building, not the fine art side. “Vee do serious Verke here!” She tore the drawing into four pieces, threw them to the ground, and stomped on them. “I go for smoke,” she said, and stormed out of the classroom.

Dana, unperturbed, sat motionless in her chair. But she wasn’t smiling. Even she felt bad for Chuck. Chuck, for his part, looked like he was about to cry. He picked up the pieces to see if they could be salvaged in some way.

“I better get going,” I said to Nancy. “You better help Chuck. He looks like he’s about to have a nervous breakdown.”

I went back out into the cold November afternoon. The sun was lower in the sky but still an hour or two from setting. As I headed toward the museum, I heard Lichtig, who must have been standing where I hadn’t seen her, call out to me. “You vant to model, you give me call.”

I wanted to turn back and tell her, “I would never model for you, you dried up old cunt,” and shake my fist at her. She had hurt the feelings of one of my friends.

But I didn’t. I just pretended not to hear her and kept on walking.

Maybe a few bucks modeling might come in handy sometime.

***

The next morning, I met Nancy-Aggie outside the restaurant, the Pommes Frida in the Park-Shelton building, named after Frida Kahlo, who stayed in the hotel there while her husband, Diego Rivera, painted his murals in the Fine Arts Museum’s court. I thought better of meeting Nancy alone, lest I give her the wrong impression about getting back together, so I brought Avie along, who was always up for a good brunch, as a buffer. Luckily, Nancy invited Chuck, who was still reeling from his Mrs. Lick-Thighs drama. This took care of me and Nancy, but Avie and Chuck had a history, so it was still a bit awkward.

I couldn’t care less; I’d work the night before and made good tip money, and was starving.

After the waitress took our order, the owner—the one who’d harassed Nancy—came over. “What do you think you’re doing here?” he said, in a barely controlled stage whisper. “You know my wife is divorcing me now, Nancy, thanks to you.”

“I thought I’d bring you some business,” said Nancy. “Looks like you’re going to need it.”

“I want you all to get up quietly and leave,” he whispered hoarsely.

Chuck and Avie looked like they wanted to crawl under the table. Nancy just winked at me.

I was sitting at the end of the booth, nearest him. I set my foot down on his shoe, gently at first. Then, I began applying pressure. He doubled over, mouth open, trying not to scream. I grabbed his tie. “Would you like me to shout ‘Racist?’ or just snap your spine in two?” I said, smiling.

He must have caught a glimpse of my Ms. Megaton Man uniform, which I was wearing under my hoody and jacket—I’d forgotten to throw on a T-shirt that morning. “You’re that primary-colored megahero,” he said. “The one spotted flying between midtown and Ann Arbor.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny,” I said. “But I can make sure you’re never able to grope even your own cock again.”

He was sweating profusely when I let him go. “Never mind, Nancy,” he said with a nervous smile. “You come back any time you like. Enjoy your meal, everyone. Everything’s on the house.”

We saw him whisper something to the waitress. She looked over at Nancy, giving her a wink and a thumb’s up. “Way to go, Ms. Megaton Man,” said Nancy, giving me a high five.

After that, Avie and Chuck were relaxed, and we had a great time.

***

After brunch, we tumbled back out onto Woodward Avenue. Avie and Chuck must have really gotten along, because they announced they were ditching us to go to the museum. That left Nancy and me.

“I need to walk this off,” I said, “Or those three omelets are going to go straight to my thighs.”

“Good,” said Nancy. “I want to show you this abandoned house nearby. I’m going to do an installation there for my end-of-semester project.”

We walked north a few blocks in a round-about path back to Nancy-Aggie’s apartment. Along the way, we came to a street that had seen better days. What was ironic was it was just a block away from a rather well-preserved block, where a row of mansions stood—among them the Charles Merrill Ferry house. Ferry had been a Detroit industrialist in the heyday of the Motor City; he’d donated most of his vast Asian art collection to Washington, D.C. and the leftovers to the Detroit Museum of Fine Arts. His mansion now housed an educational institution run for Warren Woodward University for hearing-impaired children. The other mansions, while less impressive, were equally well-cared for. But on the block where Nancy was going to make her art project, the architecture had not been given as much love. The house Nancy had in mind had boarded-up windows and cheap, peeling siding—that fake brick made of shingle material, and other structures were caving in. Somehow, Nancy’s designated house had escaped the predations of Devil’s Night, although it looked like the kind of edifice that wouldn’t have been missed had it gone up in the conflagration. This was the paradox of modern-day Detroit—that such achievement could coexist side-by-side with such abject, wanton neglect.

“What are you going to do it?” I said. “It doesn’t look heated, and it’s winter already.”

“Oh, we’ll just go inside and build a fire,” said Nancy. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

We walked around the periphery of the yard. Nancy-Aggie showed me where she actually planned to cut more openings into the wood-frame house, like some famous modern artist did. “You can earn college credit for that?” I asked. “Is that even art? It doesn’t sound safe—you could get killed.”

“If you’re worried, you and some megaheroes could help,” she said.

“Audrey could tell you where she and Wilton hid their killer robot, too,” I said. “He could burn holes with his laser eyes.”

The chain-link fence was pulled back, so we circled around to the back yard, coming to the garage. I was still checking out the house, but Nancy gasped when she saw the side of the garage, in clear view of the alley. Someone had spray-painted on it in big, block letters:

Ms. Megaton is Skank

“Is that what you wanted to show me?” I asked.

“Of course not!” said Nancy-Aggie. “That’s horrible.”

“What does skank mean, anyway? Is that like slinky, or suave?” I asked. I had heard the word at Boswick-Addison Middle School, but never in a clear context.

“No, it means slutty,” said Nancy-Aggie.

“Oh,” I said. I felt my face and neck get hot. “That is terrible. Who would do such a thing?”

“Somebody who knew I was your friend—but I can’t imagine who, or why. Oh, I feel awful, Clarissa.”

I went up to the garage and smelled the paint and swiped my finger along the letters. “It’s relatively fresh,” I said. “Hasn’t even dried completely in these freezing temperatures.”

I had my backpack with me, and I brought out my cape and buttons. “Cape, take care of this,” I said. It fluttered to life and scanned the wall. “Try not to burn down the neighborhood.”

My cape started burning off the top layer of paint with its intense, magenta laser beam, beginning at the end of the sentence. Nancy-Aggie and I took a step back, so as to be at a safe distance, in case the whole garage went up. But my cape seemed to be doing a very precise job.

“Dana,” I said. “It has to be Dana. Notice how she left out the word ‘Man’ out of my name—she loathes the word so much.”

“Could be,” said Nancy. “She helped me scout this location. But why would she write something so horrible about you?”

“I told Avie about my recent love life yesterday morning. Then, Dana heard you and I talking about seeing other people at the drawing class yesterday afternoon. She must have gone straight home to the communal church residence and pumped Avie for details, then gotten really pissed off.”

“That girl has some issues,” said Nancy-Aggie.

“Do you think I’m a skank, Aggie?”

“If you are, then I’m one too,” said Nancy-Aggie. “What you did in the restaurant got me so hot and horny.”

She took my hand and pulled me toward her. We kissed as snow started falling. My cape had only succeeded in obliterating the letters “n” and “k” from the end of the sentence, then fluttered back into my backpack. The graffiti now read:

Ms. Megaton is Ska

“You do rock, you know,” said Nancy-Aggie.

I sighed. “I’m going to have to kick Domina’s ass,” I said.