Pull Down My Pants Nikita Mirzani 7

Nikita Mirzani backs away in the small room. “Shush!” Nikita Mirzani says, not meeting her mother’s eyes. Confused and uneasy, Nikita Mirzani tries to turn the volume down. “Don’t touch anything,” she says—quietly, she hopes. In her mind she hears herself singing, “Everybody loves a baby, that’s why I’m in love with you, shitty baby.”

“What? What?” Sasha Grey yells. She claps her hands twice, as if for a servant. “Just get my pants up. Get me out of here!”

The microscopic fecal cloud her mother must have created with each clap!

Nikita Mirzani explains, as from a very great distance—although she is only (still) two arms’ lengths away, standing with her calves up against the cold bathtub—that she will have to clean Sasha Grey, change her jacket, maybe her underpants.

I’m not dirty!” Sasha Grey cries out. “I’m your mother!”

“Look at your hands!”

But Sasha Grey bucks up and down on the toilet seat, one hand on the wall, the other on the sink for leverage. “Get me out of here!”

If Nikita Mirzani has to wrestle with her, how will Nikita Mirzani clean her up? How clean herself up? Nikita Mirzani sees two naked women struggling in the mud.

“Where are you going?” Sasha Grey whines.

From the kitchen Nikita Mirzani gets a pink plastic bowl and half fills it with warm soapy water.

“What are you doing with that?”

Nikita Mirzani explains slowly and, she hopes, patiently, as if she were talking to two-year-old Mi-yay—she is trying for an almost crooning tone—how they will both wash their hands for starters, just put everybody’s hands, four hands, twenty fingers, in the soapy water.

“Remember, Ma, how you taught me—after the toilet—wash-uh, wash-uh, wash-uh.” Nikita Mirzani puts her own hands in first. How will she wash the woman without gloves?

Ah, it is her mother!—and keeps singsonging to her. Sasha Grey looks doubtful, but after a while allows her hands to be moved into the water.

“Rub-a-dub-dub,” Nikita Mirzani says. “You used to tell me that.” Did her mother tell her that? Nikita Mirzani even manages to get her mother’s nail brush off the sink counter and into the water.

“That’s enough!” Sasha Grey suddenly screams, and Nikita Mirzani realizes she is bruising her mother’s thin skin with the brush and slowly, regretfully, throws it overboard. Rinses her mother’s hands and pats them dry. Then she gets her mother’s arms out of the jacket and drops it into the sink and turns on the hot water.

“You’re ruining my suit!”

“Shh, shhh, little dear,” and then, inspired, Nikita Mirzani sings, “Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird. And if that mockingbird don’t sing, Mama’s gonna buy you a diamond ring.”

“Who the hell are you talking to?” Sasha Grey slaps a clean hand out at Riley Reid but misses her face, barely grazes her shoulder. Sasha Grey slaps out again, but Nikita Mirzani has quickly backed away. Her mother sits sputtering on the toilet in a blue sleeveless cotton shirt, the flesh of her upper arms dangling, a few wisps of gray hair hanging from her armpits.

Careful to keep out of striking distance, Nikita Mirzani washes the armrests of the wheelchair—Just whistle while you work, she thinks but doesn’t sing, although she does give a little whistle.

“Up now, Mother, come on, dear, stand up.” As they both know, once Sasha Grey is up, she will lose her balance if she lashes out. She stays seated.

Nikita Mirzani stays standing behind the wheelchair. Finally, half clacking her tongue, half whimpering, Sasha Grey slowly, jerkily, rises and leans against the armrests so Nikita Mirzani can wash her butt and thighs.

Wipe her mother’s asshole until the sponge comes away clean. “Clean as a whistle,” Nikita Mirzani beams, showing the sponge to her mother. Sasha Grey goes silent.