When she woke up the next morning, she felt sick and exhausted. She knew she was feeding her disease with its cause. As if a thousand pricks in her could obliterate her need to be ravished again by the one man who had crumbled the thin shell of her sanity. She was not submitting to the other men for a moment' s forgetting. Their bodies on top of hers and their thick, hard cocks delving into her pussy gave her a sharp, screaming recollection of the black- jacketed maniac who had used and sullied and discarded her in one- half an hour. Most horrible of all, she would not or could not forget him. She was, in her suffering, intensely and hysterically alive. She hated it with a rage that made her wanton and destructive… as if she were shrieking to the men, " Destroy me before I destroy the world!" Yet they could not destroy her. They could barely touch the cavern of anger beneath her soft flesh.
My flesh is a disguise. I should be mottled and green and pockmarked. The ugliness inside should show, as the white eyes of my rapist had revealed his barren soul.
His barrenness had excited her, exhausted her. He was a man she could never have. A man who did not have himself, who had nothing. To search for him was to offer a primitive sacrifice. But she would sacrifice herself by killing her god. Yes, she would rivet his body onto her, as though she were the cross of Jesus. And she would pierce his heart.
I must dominate him, and I will, I will, I shall give him his death. I will be second only to his mother, who gave him life. And mine is the more fearful role. I know how he' ll look at me when I stab him – with milky eyes of contempt and surprise. He is waiting for one of us to destroy him. It is strange, when the poisons seep into our actions. The men I have hated with a smile on my lips and did not know that fear and loathing were making me dead to my desires. But they feared me, too, in their mother- shaped heart. What could we do but confront each other with masks? Yes, they can fuck me with the vestiges of need and contact. My passion is not free. I know that. My passion is a struggle, up, up from the dungeon of fear. These men who crash against me know the dungeon is there: mossy and molding, inviting death. His sperm will be my Eucharist.
She moved her feet to the floor beside her bed and lifted her body with the caution of a dying centenarian. I must buy a douche, she thought, and a diaphragm. What a monster would be born out of this sex rattle.
She walked into the bathroom and turned the tap on. The hot water splashed into the enamel tub. Beneath the white gleam on the tub was an iron base, and she fingered the chipped exterior that revealed it. She felt almost relaxed as she prepared some coffee in the kitchen, knowing that the pain and madness would be back in her within a few hours.
She reflected on how when she' d struggled to consciousness from the depths, she' d felt that she was coming forth from the source of pain, and for the moment she' d lain resolved and depleted. Then the world that she had lived in for twenty- four deceitful, suffering years beckoned her, and she rose crushed and doomed.
As fearful as she found her dreams, they still locked out her consciousness. In dreams, she suffered with the frustration and protection of echoed sounds. The reality of life was worse. It' s the mystery, she thought. At least in my dreams, I act directly and fully believe. It' s the not believing that wounds us. In dreams, there is only one voice, our voice, and we believe it with the faith of children or simpletons. Now my only belief is the rapist, my longing to destroy him, the singularity of a dream. And she knew, therefore, that she would not give it up.
She stripped herself of the clothes she had slept in and sank into the hot smoking bath. Her body gave itself to the soothing balm as it had never been given to a man. The water rose, green and clear, to outline her breasts, and her hips spread languorously. The rapist had unearthed a chain of orgasms that gave her no gratification, and she felt her body, like a mocking enemy, grow hot with passion in the tub. The horror, the aloneness was gone. She rushed her fingers under water to get at her sobbing cunt, but the water made her fingers slippery and ineffectual against the insatiable pit. Desperately she rushed from the bath and pressed a thick, absorbent towel to her vagina. She rubbed mercilessly, and thought of the knife she had placed in her handbag that she was going to use to kill her god.
Maybe I should just cut my sex away.
Her death was of little importance to her. But his death… She rubbed eagerly and her body responded with its empty orgasm.
The desire in her grew in intensity. She rushed to the kitchen and saw an empty thin- necked bottle of Chianti. With a groan, she lowered herself heavily on the bottle and felt it plunge into the tortured folds of her insane flesh. She spun meaninglessly on the bottle top, and then stretched flat on the kitchen floor. She began to methodically pull the bottle in and out of her grasping cunt. The cool glass grew warm and wet in her. After a few minutes, she came against the bottle and lay nearly unconscious on the floor.
I must get out of here. I' ll walk, or go horseback riding, or do something to get my mind off my cunt. Maybe I can control it. What is a brain for? To find bottles and towels? " Oh God," she whimpered. " Have other women gone through this? Are we a society of prickworshippers, or despisers? – It' s the same thing. Will I look back at them and recognize them? I hate them; I hate the women like me, the pathetic beasts. I must get dressed and get out. That' s the first thing. Surely I can hold onto myself long enough to get dressed. It' s like an attack that overwhelms me. His attack. Over and over. I get the same sensation of panic as that moment when he kneeled between my legs."
She dressed herself with fevered haste, as if a monster was in the room with her and she could leave it behind.
She rushed down the stairs and out into the sunshine of an innocuous day. The people on the street looked calm, not particularly alive. The pattern of their existence insulated them. Up at eight, work at nine, lunch at twelve… how had she lost their world? She wanted it back. She wanted the serenity of habit.
She looked aimlessly into shop windows. The plaid skirt, the Etruscan art, the modern jewelry made no impact on her blind eyes.
She looked up and down the street for him. A man in a black jacket. A man with no face. She saw a black- jacketed man walking casually towards her. Her heart choked her and her knees drained of strength. The joints in her body lost their adhesion, and she would have fallen to the ground had she not seen in a moment that it wasn' t him. The world seemed filled with men in black jackets. A hundred times her eyes found him hiding behind other faces and indifferent bodies.
Possibly I' m completely insane and I never was raped. Maybe there never was a man with white eyes in a black jacket. And why am I indulging myself like this? It is an indulgence, yes. Why don' t I say it' s over? It happened once and now I' ll forget it. I can cut him out of my mind. But can I cut him out of my cunt?
And with that thought, she felt a deep throb that made her lean against a plate glass window for support. She tried desperately to catch her breath.
I must sit down; I must get my fingers into me.
Across the street, she saw that the Art Cinema was showing, " On the Waterfront," for the eight- hundredth time.
I' ll get into the theatre. There won' t be many people at 2:30 in the afternoon.
She brushed against automobiles, using them for support, and got to the ticket window. Her hands trembled as she paid her money and then handed the ticket to the unfriendly elderly attendant. She climbed high into the balcony and sat down in a far corner. Ahead of her were seven or eight heads, scattered in twos and threes. She leaned back and slid her fingers up her thigh to her wet cunt. But there was a sudden motion next to her and she jumped with fright. She had forgotten that she was not alone in the world.
A man sat next to her, busily removing his coat, then reaching into his pocket for a cellophane- wrapped package of caramels. He held them out before her, and she shook her head. The man' s face was indistinct in the darkened room. She could barely make out his profile. On the screen, a bunch of thugs were pounding Marlon Brando' s face, and a skinny blond girl was looking agonized.
Maybe he' s a stevedore. I should go to the docks early in the morning, and look for him.
The man next to her rapped her shoulder again and stuck a bag of popcorn in front of her nose. " No, thanks," she said. " I' m not hungry."
But the man didn' t take his hand from her shoulder. It rested lightly against her, and the contact intensified the yearning in her body. He moved his hand down her arms, deliberately brushing against her breasts. Her soft cashmere sweater welcomed the caress. His fingers circled one breast until they found and formed the hard outline of her nipple. His thumb and forefinger pinched it gently and her body buzzed from breast to cunt. Then he moved closer to her and reached his arm across the back of her chair. His other hand found the other breast, and four fingers worked with sure mastery. Her head fell back into the curve of his arm and she gasped incoherently as he luxuriated over a pointed stiff tit.
The moisture, in drops, began to flow down her thighs, and the man seemed to sense that she could stand it no longer. His hand moved to her skirt and touched her bare knee. He moved up to wet thighs and kneaded them roughly. Then he slid beneath her panties and touched the burning fold of hidden flesh, his fingers darted eagerly, deeply into her. The orgasm began coming and he cruelly removed his hand. She screamed with horror at this denial and saw that Marlon Brando was now a bloody pulp. Someone in the audience laughed, thinking her cry was one of sympathy.
The figure next to her undid his pants, and she said, " No, not here," with desperation.
His voice was a harsh, guttural growl, as he commanded, " Just go down on me."
" Don' t leave me like this," she cried. " Please."
" I' ll finish you, baby," he whispered. " I just don' t want to be left too far behind."
His prick was the only spot of whiteness in the dark balcony. She bent her head to her task and mixed tears with the few drops of sperm that already lubricated the rigid pulsating flesh. His cockhead was hot and velvety as she began to bob her head up and down along the length of the shaft. Her tongue was frantic, and she heard his groan of pleasure. The flesh in her mouth beat uncontrollably and she felt it grow stiffer. Then, like an over- inflated balloon, it seemed to burst in her mouth. The thick liquid streamed in behind her teeth. She moved her head hastily to the side to spit it out, but some of the sperm had already trickled down her throat. It had a musty, exotic taste. Curiously, she swallowed a bit more, and then curved her tongue upward to keep the strange serum in her mouth. There was something disgusting and yet elusive about the flavor. She wanted to throw up and began to gag. But her lips pressed together tightly, and soon her mouth had emptied its load into her tense throat.
She sat quietly clinging to the sensation. Her unknown lover was down on his knees before her. He lifted her skirt and buried his head against her thighs. His tongue leapt out and skillfully sucked her enraged mound of damp hair and the sensitive flesh it guarded. He made deep swallowing noises. For a moment, she felt delirious and separate from the animal at her feet. " Good as caramels?" she wanted to ask. But her tongue would not cooperate with her sardonic thoughts.
He continued to press his head against her; his teeth, biting gently at her pussy lips, seemed to close her into a hidden world of inexhaustible sensuality. She moved her hips contentedly against him, and then a rush of energy along her limbs freed the orgasm. She panted with excitement, wanting him to go on forever. But he lifted his body and sat heavily in his vacant seat.
" Let' s get out of here," he implored. " Let' s get something to drink."
She did not turn to him, but watched Marlon Brando walking heroically toward a blurred building. Some fat idiot was waiting in the doorway.
" No," she answered. " No drink. No nothing. Don' t look at me. Just get up and leave the theatre. I' m going to watch the coming attractions. And I don' t want to see you when I leave, or I swear I' ll call the cops."
" What' s the matter, baby?" he asked. " Didn' t you like it? I got a million tricks to show you."
" I liked it fine," she said sarcastically, " but I don' t believe in repeat performances. I haven' t got time to go around the world twice."
" But, lady, we haven' t begun to go anywhere yet. Believe me, the next part of the trip is better."
" Leave now," she repeated, " or I' ll complain to the manager. I' ll tell him I' ve had to change my seat twelve times. I' m serious. I don' t know exactly what you look like, and I don' t want to know. If you look for me, or wait for me, or follow me, I' ll have you arrested."
" What' s the matter, kid? You got a jealous husband?"
" Yes," she said wearily, " and he' d kill both of us."
The man sat quietly for a few seconds. " You win, lady. I think you' re nuts, but it was a good show." He slipped her a printed card. " If you ever get lonely, ring me. Just mention Brando' s name."
Fifteen minutes later, she dropped the card on the floor and walked back to her empty apartment.