The Slick dashed into my john to take a leak; how romantic, I thought. In the front room of my studio garret apartment, I stripped off my civilian clothing and stood barefoot in my Ms. Megaton Man body suit, waiting. I wondered if he’d have the courtesy to put the toilet seat back down when he was through.

When he came out of my bathroom, he was covering his crotch as if he’d had an accident.

“What’s the matter? Problem with your alien space suit?”

“This is very embarrassing,” he said. “It opens up for me when necessary, but sometimes it doesn’t want to close up again.”

Gosh. With my megahero uniform, I only had to worry about my cape flying off and getting into trouble—it had a mind of its own. But the body suit my Grandma Seedy made for me was inert; it didn’t regulate when I could go to the bathroom or dictate when I could have sex. Thank God.

“You can’t leave like that,” I said. “Detroit has a bad enough image without roof-runners swinging around the city with their junk hanging out.” Although, maybe the Slick was into that. “Why don’t you sit down and make yourself at home, at least until your suit decides what it wants to do.”

I was hoping the suit would decide to completely go away and leave the two of us alone, so that I could have at that really nice body.

The Slick nodded and went over to my bed and quickly sat down, grabbing a pillow to put over his lap.

“Make yourself at home,” I said. “Don’t your gloves and boots come off, at least?”

He shook his head.

“What about the utility belt?”

“Oh, sure,” he replied. The pillow still on his lap, he unlatched his belt—pistol, hose, fluid reservoir, and all—and let the whole works drop to the floor next to my bed.

Clunk.

I’d felt like I’d emasculated him.

I peeled off my Ms. Megaton Man body suit and put it in its garment bag, then hung it in my closet. I was nude now, except for the under-panties I wore under my suit.

I turned to him and smiled. “Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.” I pulled off my panties to demonstrate.

He slowly removed the pillow from his lap. His crotch was covered again in the puce-colored fabric of his uniform. His alien space suit had sealed itself up.

“That’s no fair,” I said.

I sat next to him on the bed.

“I was going to pose for an artist just a couple days ago,” I said. “Not an artist, but an art student. He asked me to, for an art project.”

“I can see why,” said the Slick. “You have perfect proportions.”

“Thanks, you’re very nicely-proportioned yourself.”

“Maybe I should go now,” he said.

“Do you want to go?”

“I’m not a very casual person.”

“You’re the second guy to say that to me, lately,” I said. “Boy, all these megaheroic gentleman.”

“Maybe if you turned out the lights.”

I wondered if the Slick had some hideous scars from a space battle or something that he didn’t want me to see, or really bad acne. This would be a turn-off, of course, but there was only one way to find out.

I got up and turned off the light in the kitchen and then in the studio. My apartment was dark now. I heard him stretching out on my bed but I couldn’t see him; my eyes hadn’t adjusted to the darkness yet. In fact, the light that usually filtered in from the street lamps outside my windows was eerily absent; my entire room was shrouded in pitch black.

Knowing my own tiny studio, I easily found my bed in the darkness and stretched out alongside him. His alien uniform didn’t feel like rough rhino hide now, or even thick and leathery. It was more like smooth, cotton-knit fabric.

I tried kissing him on the mouth, but his bug-eyed helmet still covered his face.

My twin bed only had room for him to lay on his side and me on my back.

“Why don’t we just get to know each other a little bit?” I said.

I closed my eyes and began touching myself. I felt like if I demonstrated I was aroused and didn’t need him to perform, this would put less pressure on him. I opened my eyes after a while; they were beginning to adjust to the dimness. I could make out the angled attic roof of my garret apartment. But when I turned my head to look over at the Slick, I still couldn’t make out his face or body, or even his green-glass bugeyes. I knew this made no sense because faint light was leaking in from outside my bedroom window, and my eyes had had plenty of time to adjust.

My arm brushed against his torso; I felt skin now, not fabric. Skin with thick chest hair.

“Where did your uniform go?” I asked.

“It slithers back into my utility belt when I don’t need it,” he said. “I guess I don’t need it now.”

I looked down at the floor next to the bed and saw the last bit of his costume, like fugitive mercury, get sucked into the padding of his utility belt.

His voice no longer sounded muffled or filtered; the tinny echo from when he spoke before was gone. I felt for his face; there were no ventilation slits over his mouth; just full, soft lips.

I kissed him on the mouth…

When we were finally done, his body disappeared inside the envelope of his alien space suit. The dim light before the dawn was already seeping into the room. The whole time, I never saw his face.

“You may be slow warming up,’ I whispered, “but you certainly turned out to be forthcoming.”

He counted on his gloved fingers, then laughed. “I get it. You’re funny.”

I kissed him on the vented grating covering his mouth. It was hard and leathery. His bug-eyes only stared back at me, vacantly.

I sat back on the stool, my cheeks making the leather seat slippery.

“I guess you’re not going to show me your secret identity,” I said.

“I think I just did,” he said.

Maybe he was right. Maybe that was the real Slick I made love to in the dark, and that was all I needed to know about him.

He checked his fly and adjusted his tool belt. I smiled at his inscrutable eyes and just watched him turn and walk to the door.

I returned the favor of admiring his ass this time. It looked so cute, framed by his utility belt and the priapic pistol and hose that hung to one side.

He stopped and looked over his shoulder at me. “Can I see you again, sometime?” he asked.

“Only if I can see you,” I said.

He stepped out into the hall and closed the door behind him. I heard his footsteps recede down the hall.

“Four times,” I heard him say. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

I was serenely sleepy, and had fallen back to sleep. At nine o’clock, I hadn’t showered or even washed my face, but I threw on some clothes and coat, put on my rabbit fur-lined gloves, Abyssinian Wolves knit cap and scarf, grabbed my bookbag, and ran downstairs. I met Avie in the gravel parking lot as she came out of the church residence, punctual as ever, to go for a late brunch at the Irony Skillet. She wore an army jacket and jeans, made elegant by a beret and richly textured muffler. Even though it was an overcast day in December, she found the daylight bright, and put on her sunglasses.

She looked me up and down, hopping cheerily in the cold.

“You’re in a good mood,” she said. “But you look like hell—like you just rolled out of bed. Out with it—what’d you do last night?”

“I did just roll out of bed,” I replied, smiling. “But it ain’t what I did, it’s who…naturally, a costumed crime-fighter.”

“Not another one!” she said, as we marched alongside the church toward the street. “Do you guys ever actually fight crime? Or just fuck all the time? All I’ve seen so far are megaheroes making babies and grappling with their sexual identities.”

“You sleep with theater people, I sleep with megaheroes,” I said, taking off a glove to wipe sleep from my eyes. “What’s wrong with finding companionship among your peer group? Besides, I’ve had way more civilian partners.”

“Yeah, but sometimes we theater people put on plays, too,” said Avie as we hit the sidewalk. “You megaheroes mostly battle one another—that is, when you’re not balling one another. So, who was it this time? Or did she not have balls?”

We walked to the corner of West Forest and Second Avenue and turned right. We strode at a swift pace to stay warm.

“Avie, you’re always more eager to hear me tell about the girls I’ve slept with than the guys I’ve done. Ever notice that? I realize it’s just a political fascination with you, but I think you should try a girl yourself sometime, just to see what it’s all about.”

“Ew. I’m woman enough for myself,” said Avie, clutching her large shoulder bag. “I could never go that way; I’d vomit from the smell. No offense.”

Indeed, Avie was woman enough, I thought to myself, admiring my half-sister’s top-heavy boobs under her army jacket.

“So, was it a girl?”

“It was a guy, for your information.”

“A guy megahero,” said Avie, wondering who it could be. “You don’t know that many straight ones—Soren and Kav are both gay.” She suddenly stopped and grabbed my arm. “Not Jasper! …He’s twice your age! But, come to think of it, he was awfully cheerful this morning—I could hear him whistling down in the pantry.”

“No, not Jasper,” I said. “For God’s sake, Avie.” We continued walking. “Like I would want Rubber Brother groping me with those long, slithering, serpentine fingers.”

Actually, that didn’t sound so bad when I heard myself say it.

“It was a new megahero, at least one you’ve never heard of,” I said. “He’s called the Slick; at least, I call him the Slick. He swings around downtown on a sticky rope he shoots from an extremely phallic-looking pistol.”

“I’ll bet,” said Avie.

“You don’t know the half of it,” I said. “His uniform is actually an overly-protective space suit left to him by a dying alien, and it took some doing to get him to open up. But it was worth it—his real phallus was more impressive than his pistol. He ended up being very forthcoming…if you know what I mean.” I winked at her. “Get it? Fourth coming. He liked my pun.”

“I got it,” said Avie. “You made him come four times. I can’t get a guy to come again, lately. It’s one and done. How do you manage it?”

“I used every orifice except my ears,” I said proudly. “He came twice in my pussy, once down my throat—and I mean a gulletful. Then, once up my…”

“Ouch!” said Avie, wincing and clenching her butt at the same time, which threw off her gait for a step or two. She almost slipped and fell on some ice; I had to catch her. When she recovered, she said. “Thanks. I could never let anything go up my butt. That’s why I don’t like hearing you talk about guys as much. Ms. Megaton Man must have an indestructible butthole—for us civilians, it’s just not as pleasant. It’s just not designed for that kind of wear and tear. My dainty bottom hurts just thinking about it.”

“Thanks for reminding me of Dana’s hurtful graffiti,” I said. I was pretty sure she had scrawled ‘Ms. Megaton Man has an indestructible butthole’ on a warehouse in Rivertown.”

For different reasons, each of us had suddenly lost our appetite. By the time we arrived at the door of the Irony Skillet, there was already a long line of people waiting for tables that spilled out onto the street. Avie looked at her watch. “Clarissa, it’s like a twenty-minute wait. Are you even going to have time before your test?”

“Oh, shoot!” I said, stopping to check my own watch. “I knew I forgot something—that American history final’s today, isn’t it?” I grabbed Avie’s arm. “I’m going to have to skip the corned beef hash—I only have forty-five minutes to review. You understand…” I kissed her on the cheek.

“No problem,” said Avie, who said she planned to walk five blocks over to the Schnelli Deli to grab a bagel—she said she’d need that long to get my scatological description out of her mind and get her appetite back. She patted me on the shoulder. “Just ace the test, Sissy.”

I ran off to the Warren Woodward undergrad library for a quick review before my test in the adjacent building—it was one of my cross-registered courses at the school. I did well, since I was way overprepared, as usual, but I was still a bit frantic because I like to be even more overprepared so as to get all the extra credit questions, too. In this case, I only got a ninety-six—an off day for me, but not the end of the world.

I went home, bathed and changed. I was still a bit grumpy about not getting a hundred and three percent, like on my midterm, when I met Avie later that afternoon at the Fine Arts Museum Café across from the Arbor State Extension. Funny how school can ruin your mood, I thought, even following the best sex you ever had in your life the night before. But the court was festive with holiday decorations, and the usual white-haired ladies and other cultured visitors began filling up the tables as we grabbed some tea and light sandwiches and found a small, round table. A trio of musicians was over by the cloisters offering some light jazz arrangements of holiday selections.

“So, are you going to see him again?” she asked once we sat down.

“Who?” I replied. I was still stinging about a question I’d muffed on Manifest Destiny.

“Your costumed crime fighter from last night, poop-head,” said Avie. “What’d you say his name was? The Stick? The Spike? When do I get to meet him?”

“The Slick,” I corrected her. “Although he does have quite a nice spike. …I don’t know; I don’t even know his secret identity. He’s kind of a secretive guy, like I said. That was the weird thing—even with his costume off and my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I still couldn’t make out his features. But I’m pretty sure he was Jewish.”

“What makes you say that?” asked Avie.

“I felt his face,” I said. “He had a big nose and wavy hair. And he had soft, full, lips.”

“Sounds like Kav,” said Avie, referring to the Y+Them known as Tempy. “Maybe he has a nocturnal identity, as well as the ability to manipulate temporalities.”

“No, Kav’s too skinny,” I said. “Although I have to wonder when the guy ever sleeps.”

Avie and I finished our snack and went upstairs to the Suit of Armor Hall—ironic, I thought, since I’d spent the night making love to the Slick with his alien space suit—bedecked as it was with Christmas trees and holiday decorations, and went through the Diego Rivera court, where lilies blossomed around a pool nearly year-round. All the while we finalized our holiday plans, at least as far as Mama was concerned.

Mama had split up with Daddy and had her own place near the Civix Savings and Loan branch she managed on Woodward Avenue up near Eight Mile Road. Since Avie and I already had gifts for the three of us, our plan was to shop for groceries, cook up dinner in her apartment one afternoon while she was still at work, and surprise her when she got home—even though it was still a week before Christmas. We’d worry about dinner with Daddy later—one thing at a time.

So, a few days later, we loaded up Avie’s Pacer with our wrapped gifts we had for the three of us—we knew Mama would already have ours wrapped weeks in advance—and went grocery shopping for a long list of ingredients, including ham and green bean casserole and au gratin potatoes and pie and ice cream. After we had all that stuff, we drove toward Mama’s apartment, but found traffic snarled at Livernois and Seven Mile—odd, since it wasn’t yet rush hours—not far from the Civix Savings and Loan. Up ahead were flashing lights.“I have a bad feeling about this,” said Avie.

We were able to turn into Mama’s apartment complex and park, but ran back out onto the street. As we got closer to the flashing lights, I asked someone on the sidewalk what was going on.

“The police have a barricade thrown up at Woodward,” said the pedestrian. “Some kind of armed standoff taking place—a bank, I think.”

“Holy shit,” said Avie.

“Mama!” I cried.