Friday, May 22, 2015

Rolling In It

by Jean Roberta

I recently reviewed a scholarly book, The Sexuality of History: Modernity and the Sapphic, 1565-1830, by Susan Lanser. As the author shows, “woman + woman” (primary relationships between women) were described during the period under discussion as 1) impossible (especially if they included any activity that could be called “sex”), 2) new and “modern,” despite the general belief that the poet Sappho, from the Island of Lesbos (circa 600 BC) was the original foremother, and 3) a dangerous epidemic that could destroy civilization. This book includes evidence of “the sapphic imaginary,” including much speculation by anxious conservatives about the debauched practises of women who supposedly had too much freedom.

There needs to be a book about the “slut imaginary,” and maybe there is. At various times in my life, most of the people closest to me have accused me of “wanting it all the time,” and even of doing it all the time, presumably with no breaks for eating or sleeping, let alone earning money by holding down a non-sexual job. According to some men (e.g. my late ex-husband), too many women are Biblical demons who have no other function except to tempt men to spill their seed.

Accusations of sluttery are often motivated by political bias other than contempt for women in general. Queen Jezebel in the Old Testament wasn’t necessarily an adulteress or a nymphomaniac. According to the story, she was the foreign wife of a Hebrew king named Ahab, and she brought the worship of “false gods” to her husband’s people. In the centuries since her story was first written down, it has been assumed that such a “pagan” woman would be a slut. Most visual images of her focus on her lush, sinful curves.

Skip ahead to the late 1700s, when Queen Marie Antoinette of France was still known to her enemies as “the Austrian woman,” a foreign invader who married the dauphin of France when she was a teenager. On the eve of revolution, written stories about her “furious womb” (uncontrollable need for sex) circulated widely.

Note that King Charles II, who ruled England from 1660 to 1685, was a famous “libertine.” Historians estimate that he fathered between 12 and 19 children outside of marriage. (He had a wife, but she couldn’t carry a pregnancy to term.) Apparently no one suggested that he was unfit to rule because of his prolific sex life. At the time, more of his Protestant subjects seemed shocked by rumours that the king was a closeted Catholic!

When I was still fairly young and horny, I learned from experience that no one can really do it “all the time.” (I’ve also been accused of writing “all the time” as well as reading “all the time.” If there are only 24 hours in a day, how can time be multiplied?) Males, in particular, have a disadvantage if they want to do it “all the time.” Most guys, no matter how healthy and full of juice, need some reloading time after ejaculating before they can fire again. Girls/women are capable of multiple orgasms, but not for hours at a stretch. Human energy is limited.

The general Western (Christian?) fear of “excessive” sex really seems like fear of the impossible, much like a medieval fear of having one’s crops or general well-being destroyed by a witch’s curse. Nonetheless, I’m sure I wasn’t the only girl whose parents recommended “therapy” of some kind (medical or psychiatric) to eliminate those inappropriate feelings. The only alternative to being a “fallen woman” who presumably wanted it all the time was to be a “nice girl” who was supposed to do it only with her husband, but not to like it.

The flip side of traditional fear and dread of uncontrolled lust (especially in women) is desire for unlimited pleasure. My earliest “porn” stories (as I thought of them) were about some other country – it might have to be on some other planet – where my sexual ability would be admired, not sneered at or punished. I could have high rank (i.e. be an earthier kind of Disney princess), be initiated into sex in some public ceremony, and not lose any status because of it. Au contraire; my “people” would love my sexual generosity.

The surrealistic plots of Lewis Carroll’s fantasy novels, Alice in Wonderland (1865) and Through the Looking-Glass (1872) seem like reactions to the Victorian social order, and even though they don’t include any mention of sex, they do include a surprisingly assertive young heroine. In my fantasy story, “Becoming Alice,” she accelerates through puberty by drinking a magic potion (one of the bottles labelled “Drink Me”), and then makes her debut, her presentation to the King and Queen, in a sexual sense. In Wonderland, this is all as it should be. (This story appears in my single-author collection, The Princess and the Outlaw, and in The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 13.)

For a brief time in the late 1960s and early 1970s, I thought a Sexual Revolution might really be on its way, and it would liberate people in general from undeserved guilt and shame. That revolution never arrived, and I probably won’t see it in my lifetime, which is probably more than halfway over.

In the meanwhile, I can only imagine a world in which sex would never be considered a problem unless 1) it was forced on someone who didn’t or couldn’t give meaningful consent, or 2) it resulted in unwanted consequences (pregnancy, disease), or 3) it interfered with other aspects of life (eating, sleeping, working). Otherwise, an “oversexed” person could be considered an “overachiever,” someone who accomplishes more than the rest of us.

Wednesday, May 20, 2015

Oversexed (in three disparate parts)

by Daddy X

I recently saw an article about a guy living in a senior facility outside Philadelphia who was caught with a prostitute (very much alive) under his bed. He was in his 70’s and selling booze to other seniors who paid—so he could play.

My kind of guy.

Although I developed crushes on girls all through grammar school, I didn’t discover masturbation until turning 13.

Wow.

But it was wrong. So wrong, according to the Catholic belief system. I had, of course, been long aware that there was no Santa Claus, no Easter Bunny and no Tooth Fairy, but some old folk tales did persist. I still thought playing with my pecker was wrong, wrong, wrong. After all, somebody who lived in the clouds was judging me. When I got up the gumption to confess those sins, the priest ordered five Rosaries as a penance. You  Catholics know how long that takes. Fuck! I had things to do, for Christ’s sake.

Well, I did it. I did the penance. Not long after that, I stopped going to church. I figured that the harmless, benevolent act in which I was indulging with my own body, in my own bed, with nobody else to know… was nothing to feel guilty about.

For what it’s worth, here’s the Catholic catechism answer to “What constitutes a mortal sin?”

First, the sin must be a ‘grievous offence’. (Hmmm… no grievance there.)
Second, you must know it is wrong. (I don’t think so, not so much.)
Third, you must do it anyway, knowing it’s wrong. (In the words of Tweety Bird: “If I dood it, I get a whippin’! … I dood it.”)

It was obvious by the heavy penance that the priest considered masturbation a serious sin. What business did he have informing me that what I did was a grievous offence? He, in a sense, was attempting to create that sin for me in my own mind. And happy to do it.

I wanted no part of a god who saw such an innocent pleasure as evil. Or a clergy who decided what was my sin. Especially from some turkey who’d embraced a life of abstinence.

So I embraced masturbation in a big way. I’m talking blisters, open sores. Was I oversexed? Were the turkeys right after all? I pleasured myself every single day, every night, sometimes six, seven or eight sessions a day. When I learned that most boys my age wanked a lot, I felt more comfortable with my strong libido, but in talking candidly with friends, it seems either that I did it a whole lot more than they, or the others were too embarrassed. 

And fuck if I was going to waste any jerkoff time reciting rosaries!

In retrospect, what the experience did accomplish was to jump-start a proclivity for critical thinking. Was all I’d been taught just plain incorrect? Everything I learned in Catholic school? Where the accepted intelligence was that you got a better education than in the secular system.

When the kids from public school were dragged in for religion classes, they seemed so stupid to us, not having memorized the basic catechism, fumbling for answers to questions with no context in experience. Baloney. It was years later when I realized that much of what I had been taught in parochial school was patently wrong. Just plain bad information: Evolution didn’t exist. God lived in the sky. It was a mortal sin to eat meat (in those days) on Friday or fail to go to mass on Sunday. (Ever wonder what happened to all the poor fucks burning in hell for eating a meatball before Vatican II?) Hell was under us. How would that be possible on a round earth? How many non-Catholics who've lived since the dawn of mankind were stuffed down there?  

If a kid questioned these tenets, they were told “That’s one of God’s mysteries,” by the more reasonable teachers. Or we were punished by the zealous kind. Beaten up.

Those seeds of rebellion set me up for a life of guiltless sex. I have always seen sex as a positive, and have not (to my knowledge) made enemies with my dick. After all those fuck-happy years, I began writing erotica at 64 years old. I’m now 70 and still like to play, whether on the page or in the sack (although these days my mental appetite tends to be larger than my genital stomach). Guess that appreciation is still working, at least on some level.

Wow. This post went sideways. I was going to write about a guy I knew who once told me he wanted to bed 100 women within a year.

I don’t have that many words yet, so I will tell the story:

First, I should say that the guy was absolutely gorgeous. Tall and of good physical proportion. His face came off somewhere between James Caan and a young Marlon Brando.

I worked with him at a restaurant where we were both lowly line cooks, so it wasn’t a matter of sexual harassment of underlings. He screwed a waitress after his first shift. He wound up sleeping with the majority of them. A new girl would be hired, and he’d bed her within a few days. Saw it happen time and again (not literally).

I turned him on to an apartment for rent, located in a building where I knew three sisters who lived in two other apartments. He screwed all three of them the week he moved in. One time I covered for him while he and a coworker dallied in the walk-in.

What this guy had was charisma. As far as I knew, none of the women wound up hating him—despite his indiscriminate carousing. He was a fuck toy, happy with the fat ones, skinny ones, uglies who’d never fucked before. Beautiful ones threw themselves at him with abandon.

I didn’t know him long enough to learn if he ever hit his goal, but I did (and do) wish him well.

Again, my kind of guy.










Tuesday, May 19, 2015

Romanticide by Suz deMello

I had a mad crush once on an art history professor. I was a seventeen-year-old freshman and he was twenty years my senior. I had gotten laid exactly once before we met—a disappointing experience that took place the first weekend I went away to university. I did not bother repeating it for months until I found myself crushing on...let's call him James.

I turned into a madwoman. From where had all this passion come? I didn't know, but what I knew was that I wanted him more than my next breath. 

I made my interest clear and he did the same. But he didn't seduce me until his class was over, so it wasn’t until the next semester that we finally got what we both wanted—sort of.

One memorable night, I found myself thoroughly fucked in a cozy bed aboard a houseboat—very romantic. He was great. I felt as though I was flying, in total bliss and joy.

Then he said, “So, you have trouble coming?”

I crashed to the earth and couldn't fly again for years.

Monday, May 18, 2015

Oversexed Erotica?

Sacchi Green

Too much of a good thing is apt to be indigestible. I won’t try to define “oversexed” when it come to individual people, but I see all too many stories that I’d class as oversexed. Bear in mind that the operative term here is “I’d class,” so this is all a matter of my own possibly jaded opinion

It’s not exactly a question of too much sex, but of too many actions, “dirty” words, sexual paraphernalia both organic and mechanical, and anatomically improbable acrobatics crammed together with little or no focus to draw the reader into the experience. Gay porn writer Lars Eighner, in his book Elements of Arousal (a fine writing guide even if you’re not writing erotica/porn,) uses the example of a circle-wank scene where one super-stud after another shoots his load, but there’s no one viewpoint character for the reader to identify with. Switching from one viewpoint to another and then another and on and on irritates me just as much, as happens in many an orgy scene, but that may say more about the inflexibility of my aging mind than about the general appeal of such hopping between heads and sets of naughty bits.

There are plenty of other ways for a story to be oversexed. A good story needs pacing, and flow, and varying levels of intensity, with sexual tension that builds toward a literal climax. If there are multiple climaxes, a chance to breathe now and then gives the next wave time to swell. There’s also a tendency to throw so much into the mix at once that the writer has to strain to think of ways to top what’s already been written, sometimes with results that cross over from the stimulating to the ludicrous, or even the baffling. “Wait…she was bent frontwards across a solid table,” the reader thinks. “So how can anyone be biting her breast?” Or the eternal question arises of how many limbs doing what where at which angles can any two people (or three, or whatever) manage? But that one isn’t directly related to too much unrelenting sex.

“Unrelenting” of course brings to mind BDSM and various flavors of power play, but in some ways the elements of dominance and submission and other forms of edge play provide enough of a range of experience besides basic stimulation of sex organs that they may well be over the top, for individual values of where the top is, but not precisely oversexed. (The whole matter of how closely sex and power differentials are related could make for an interesting discussion, full of debate about definitions, but let’s not go there just now.)

It occurs to me that I could just as easily argue against everything I’ve just said. I know perfectly well that a really good writer could make an all-sex-every-instant story work, and that plenty of readers get off enthusiastically on non-stop fucking. “Oversexed” as applied to stories is every bit as much in the mind of the beholder as when applied to people. I don’t have just time now to argue with myself, though. I have to dive back into erotica submissions for the anthologies I’m editing, and try to overcome my urge to skim past any long, long paragraphs packed with sex to see whether there’s any framework of an actual story there.      

Friday, May 15, 2015

What is this "over" sexed you're talking about?

My little half-baked dictionary on my computer defines oversexed as "having unusually strong sexual desires". That seems a beige and generalised definition to me. For it to have any relevance, then we'd need to establish a baseline as to what usually strong sexual desires might be.

(Side note: I'm aware all kinds of studies have been done. I'm also blissfully and wilfully unaware of statistics in these matters. Some things can be measured and quantified, and for me, some things shouldn't be. After all, it's not how big it is, it's what you do with it...right? Am I right? I'm right, right? When you're right, you're right...right? Right.)

One of the issues with that particular definition of oversexed is its apparent focus on quantity or frequency of feeling. What about quality? Or range of tastes? A person can feel a completely normal amount of lust, yet feel it for an enormous range of people (and/or objects). A bisexual person has twice the range of lust objects a heterosexual person has. Polyamory, just as a word, sounds oversexed. Yet none of those examples automatically fits the definition. A person can be bisexual but still have a low libido, for instance.

Personally, I gladly and wholeheartedly confess to being utterly oversexed. At least in a mental and emotional sense. Like most people, I don't act on it physically every time I feel the urge. Hell, I'd never get a scrap of work done.

And it's not the bikini-clad models on billboards or the ice-cream-licking strumpets in advertisements that work me over. Blatant overuse of sexuality to sell crap has been pounded so hard it's gone numb.

But it's partly being a writer which has honed my particular oversexedness. A need to try and understand more people, and understand people more. The need to make educated guesses about motivations. Essentially, to sound overtly and tritely male, to get inside them.

Every day, all around me, I see desirable women of all sizes, shapes, ages and colours. Those with a finely tuned fashion sense, and those who, like me, think Jimmy Choo is a character from Thomas the Tank Engine. It's clear, too, that as I've aged, so my tastes have expanded.

Nowadays it's the subtle and unsuspecting sexiness of people around me which gets me all worked up. People as average as myself. In comments with the previous round of posts here, I discovered I was not alone in finding small, rogue slivers of skin to be one of the sexiest visual treats ever (hi, Annabeth!) That moment when a woman takes off her sweater and her blouse rides up a little, revealing a gorgeous plump belly, maybe with a few little stretch marks she'd normally take great pains to conceal. The velvet skin of a throat either side of a black choker. Or the holy grail; the sweet skin of a curvaceous thigh between a skirt and a three-quarter-length stocking.

As a means of contrast...a drunk woman running up to me in the street, pulling out her breasts and shaking them at me would be a sensory assault. A businesswoman removing her glasses and rubbing the bridge of her nose is way sexy. It's those intimacies which really set my pot a-simmerin'. Little nothings that hit hard because that person has let you into them just a little, without even realising it in most cases.

Living in a subtropical city, with its barely-there winters and free-wheeling spirits, those moments arise so very often. On the bus, at the shops, in the park. Taking into account the vast array of feminine physicality which appeals to me, I simply cannot go anywhere without seeing a hundred different moments which hit me.

Moments which provoke in me an unusually strong sexual desire.


Thursday, May 14, 2015

"Did your father ever... touch you?"

by Giselle Renarde


Here's me in bed. I'm twenty-two and tiny and tight as they come.

Here's me in bed with my ex.

Except the year is 2002, so he isn't my ex yet. He isn't my boyfriend, either. He's the man whose mistress I am. That's the best way I know how to describe him. You remember this guy--he's fifty-three and married to somebody else.

I'm the best he's ever had.

I love hearing that, and he tells me all the time. It's nice to get my ego stroked. It's not a favour I really return--except by sleeping with him every other day, I guess.

We've been at it since just after 6. Did you know they have one of those in the morning now? I never did, until he started letting himself into my one-room apartment, undressing at my kitchen table, then slipping between the sheets on my Ikea futon.

He joins me in bed just after 6 in the morning because 6 in the morning is when he usually goes to "the club." That's what he calls his gym. If he comes to my apartment (which is conveniently located only blocks away from "the club") instead, then his wife never asks where he's been. And if she never asks, he never needs to lie. It's like he isn't even cheating at all.

Almost like I don't exist. 

But if I didn't exist, how could I wrap my little hands around him? How could I take him in my mouth?  How could I roll with him in the muddled sheets while the cat runs and hides in the closet?

I'm here. I exist. And I'm sure his wife knows, because I hear wives know these things--even if they don't know they know.

But I don't think about the wife while I'm sucking her husband's cock. I'd probably feel guilty, if I did.

The sun hasn't even come up yet and we've already got one good fuck under our belts. We'll probably get another one in before he leaves, or maybe half of one. He doesn't usually finish the second time. After all, he is pretty old.

I feel tiny in his arms, and warm and precious. He traces his fingertips up my spine and down my side. He touches me everywhere and it feels so good that I simply enjoy the sensation. I never reciprocate. I don't consider that he might appreciate those tender touches. It doesn't even cross my mind.

And then he asks me, "Were you ever abused by your father?"

I don't know how to answer that. I don't know what he means.

He says, "Did your father ever... touch you?"

No. No!  Why would you even ask me that? No!

"Well, sometimes the memories get buried and you only remember later on, in adulthood."

He's asking if I was sexually abused as a child, and I find the question shocking because it's so far from my experience. My father was a mean drunk who was abusive toward my mother, but even that abuse was rarely witnessed by us kids. My sister likes to say we were emotionally abused, and I'll concede to that, but never anything physical.

My father is far from my favourite person, but I guess there must be a trace of care left in my heart, because I don't want people thinking he's a child molester. My best friend was sexually assaulted throughout her childhood. It's a life-altering torment I'm relieved not to share.

But this man in my bed thinks he's on to something. He gets all Jungian on me. Freudian, too, and he only ever brings out Freud in desperation.

"Because, really, a young girl like you who's sleeping with an old man like me... well, you're obviously seeking a father figure."

Okay, I'll concede to that if you don't make me think about it too hard. This relationship starts to feel like a boot-sucking quagmire once you really start to THINK about it. But that's just psychological icky-ness. What's it got to do with abuse?

"Well, it's just that you seem to ENJOY sex so much."

Yes. Yes I do.

"You're so EAGER, and you're GOOD at it. You want it just as much as I do--maybe more."

Yeah. So?

"So I'm not sure it's natural for a woman to crave sex quite the way you do."

I see...

"Behaving in an overly sexual manner is a classic symptom of child abuse."

In children. I'm twenty-two, in case you haven't noticed. Hormones have kind of taken over. Sex is my God now.

"You say you weren't abused, but maybe you've blocked it out. It'll all come back to you, one day."

Doubt it, old man. But I'll always remember this conversation.

~

Wednesday, May 13, 2015

"Night Games" An oversexed story

 (The story I originally tried to write for this week fizzled on the runway.  This story was originally published on the Grip in 2011.  I've shopped it around but, not surprisingly, no publisher will touch it.)



“Night Games”

By
C.  Sanchez-Garcia








            She came out of the walk in closet holding a dark paisley neck tie and held it up for him to see.

            “That’s my good tie,” he said. “Hell, no.”

            “What then?” she shook it impatiently.

            “Use the gold tie with the green stripes.”

            “I gave you that gold tie,” she said, wounded. “You don’t like it?”

            “It doesn’t go with anything.”

            She walked back into the closet and came out with a rayon gold tie with hideous green bars like a school crossing zone. “Anyway, it’s made strong,” he said. “You can’t rip it, no matter what.”

            “You just don’t like the stuff I pick for you, I know better than you. You get your shitty taste from your mother. Jesus Christ, that woman.”

            He took the tie from her. “I don’t care, this is the right one for this kind of thing.”

            She stood petulantly in the closet doorway. “You ought to consider what I want once in a while,” she said. She was already dressed for the evening. She wore pink bunny slippers and a tattered, pink bathrobe. Her hair was in curlers, maybe so he couldn’t grab ahold of a hank and drag her around by it. The curlers were hidden under a red Rosie the Riveter kerchief with white polka dots. The old bathrobe was tied off with a cloth belt in a simple loose slip knot, one that could be undone with one swift solid yank as he slammed her up hard against the bedroom wall screaming “Give it up, bitch!” so loud it always made his eyes pop.

            Under the bathrobe he knew she’d be wearing her oldest pair of panties, probably with a small tear along the seam to facilitate one handed ripping while he squeezed her neck with the other hand. And her breasts would be bare. He liked that part. It was sexy, but practical too, just like the belt. As they grew older her breasts changed; swelled, sagged, saddened and the big down pointing nipples had become a little more wall eyed pointing away from her chest in opposite directions. They’d tried it the first time with a bra and discovered how very hard it was to rip it from her while running down the hallway, thrashing and fighting, all those straps and tiny buckles and damned little hooks. The movies made it look easy. In the real world it was like trying to rip the bridle from a panicked horse, until it became impossibly tangled around her ears and she’d laughed and cussed at him for ruining a pricey Toulouse Chez fashion bra and the moment was just hopelessly lost. Also it was nice without a bra. It was more exciting – more satisfying – to be able to tear her robe open and just have them hanging down there, ready for him to go to work on her with nothing in the way.

            “So where you wanna rape me at?” she said. “Garage?”

            “Garage floor is cold.”

            “I don’t mind.”

            “Last time you hit your head.”

            “Don’t mind.”

            “I changed the oil yesterday. Hard to get engine black off your back. And if you get skinned up, its bad for the wound.”

            “Goddammit, Henry, did you get oil on the garage floor and just put that goddamn kitty litter on it? Did you? Don’t you clean up after your shit? Are you a grown man?”

            “Nobody gets raped in a garage, Fran.”

            “Plenty women get raped in garages, I’ll bet.”

            “Those are parking garages they get raped in.”

            “So?”

            “It ain’t, I don’t know, authentic, trying to get all raped to pieces in your own damn garage. It’s silly, is what. How about I go ahead and rape you on the bed?”

            “Like that’s authentic? That the best you got for me? The bed?”

            “Women get raped in their beds once in a while, more than the garage anyway.”

            “Henry.”

            “I mean I want you should be happy and all, but come on. The garage?”

            “You don’t want to haul off and rape me in the dark when I’m getting out of the car?”

            “There’s cockroaches in that garage, Franny. You know about me and roaches.”

            “I don’t know what kind of crazy grabasstic motherfucker rapist you think you’re supposed to be.”

            “I’ll rape you up good and plenty on the bed just fine, you’ll see and I’ll give you a nice massage.”

            “Ain’t no mean ass hell fire rapist ever gave a massage I ever heard of.”

            “You might need one.”

            “Oh bullshit. You wouldn’t know how to rape a damn chicken if somebody was holding it up for you. Okay, bed then.”

            “Good,” he sighed. “I’m sort of tired anyway.”

            “Some hellacious scary motherfucker rapist you are.”

            He wrapped the tie around his left fist and looked over at the bed. What was the matter with a perfectly good bed? It was solid brass, with heavy vertical bars on the head board you could tie a woman’s hands to, nice and tight. Took two men to lift it. Franny wouldn’t be going anywhere tied down to that thing. Hell, you could hog tie a woman like Franny to that headboard and go to town on her up one side and down the other. Tie her legs up to the foot board too if that’s what she wanted. Rape the holy shit out of her all night long if she wanted it that way. What was it about some dirty garage that seemed to get her off so much? Any sensible woman would rather get it on a nice clean bed any night. She’s plain crazy.

            “What do you want for work tomorrow?” she said. “I got to get my ironing done first.”

            He went in the closet and picked out a blue cotton dress shirt and navy khakis. And that blue paisley tie, to tick her off. He handed them to her. “Back in a few minutes, honey, you know I won’t let you down,” he said. “Just be ready.”

            “You be ready,” she said. “Get your pecker up good or you’re gonna have a long night, I guarantee.” She turned to him as he was leaving. “Henry.”

            He looked back, “Yes, Franny?”

            “You’re good to me, Henry. Love you.”

            He closed the bedroom door and heard her inside setting up her ironing board and turning the TV to Miami CSI. He listened to the voices hum as though underwater.

            He rolled up the tie and put it in the back pocket of his jeans and began going around the house methodically turning out the lights. He checked the cat’s dish to make sure it had Purina and let himself out the back door.

            The cool early October air was sharp and refreshing. He felt a little more alive. He walked to the end of the backyard and stood in the dark looking up at the moon and stars. The house was dark now except for the light in their bedroom. The windows were closed so that she could scream for help and howl and beg for her life and raise hell generally without the neighbors down the road getting the wrong idea.

            Close to the moon he picked out the Big Dipper. He followed the dipper’s leading stars and picked out the North Star, there it was, and over there, that was Orion. Orion was the second constellation he’d learned as a Cub Scout. He pointed and followed down Orion’s belt to the sword holder thing – there. Now, that star, the second star, that wouldn’t really be a star at all it was a nebula. Hell, he thought, that’s where they make stars. Ain’t nature something?

            He saw the light change in the bedroom. She’d have packed up the iron. She was ready, but he wasn’t. His pecker wasn’t up at all. . He unzipped his pants, felt the cool air on his balls and felt them retreat into his body. He spit in his palm and worked it a little, trying to get it up but it wasn’t cooperating.

            He imagined a scene, maybe in a women’s prison and he was the only man, locked in among the women by mistake. The only hard dick around for a hundred miles. A murderously horny, vicious, Mexican drug dealer lady, big breasted and hairy. Standing naked next to him in the prison shower yelling at him - “Get it up, bitch!” She’d holler insults at his manhood, stepping her legs wide apart. “Get that pecker up bitch!” That got a little bit of a rise. He tried to imagine terrorized Franny tied to the bed weeping and pleading, nononono, please no, not me no, but with legs cooperatively spread eagled, as he shouted threats at her. He got a little harder. But still. Well. He spit in his palm and worked it a little more, imagining himself satisfying the hairy horny Mexican murderer lady up against the wall of the shower room as the other women masturbated and cheered him on.

            That worked. That usually worked.

            Here we go. Got it up bitch.

            He zipped up and moved silently across the lawn, taking his shoes off at the door. He turned the knob slow and opened it carefully, wondering at himself, knowing he could raise a huge din and she’d never hear him coming over the TV sound. He closed the door behind him and passed the kitchen table. Pile of mail. Huh. He opened the refrigerator a crack for the light and picked up the envelopes and sorted through them. Junk. Junk. Junk. Gas bill. Shit. He tore it open, listening for the sound of the bedroom door but it remained closed. He always came in through the adjourning bathroom door anyway. Just more stealthy somehow. Fuck this bill. It’s way up for this time of year, he thought. Its laundry. Running that damn laundry machine every damn day like hot water grew on trees – she think we’re running a hotel here? Why she gotta do laundry every day? Talk to her about that later, big man. Gonna go show her what happens to women who think they gotta do the laundry everyday. Show her good and righteous, fuckin’ A big buddy.

            Give it up, bitch!

            He tossed the mail on the table and took a step away and his foot hit something on the floor that rolled to the wall, bounced and rolled back. Snowball’s red rubber ball. He picked it up. He held it to his face and opened his mouth, touching it to his lips. Just right. Now that, that was a real nice touch. She’d love that. Hell, next time he’d put chocolate syrup on it.

            He rinsed it under the faucet and dried it with a paper towel, in case she asked later. His pecker had sagged considerably in the meantime, mostly because of the gas bill, and he had to conjure the hairy horny hideous Mexican drug dealer woman, banging her hard against the shower wall tiles while women prisoners cheered and bringing himself back into the spirit of the thing. He continued down the hall. He was inside the bathroom. He hesitated outside the connecting door to the bedroom, readying himself to burst in. He put his hand on the door knob.

            Give it up bitch! He mouthed the words.

            In the kitchen something fell on the floor. He froze listening. He waited. There was only the TV. He stood listening.

            Had he locked the door? He thought he had. Did he? The hall seemed somehow a tad brighter. A light?

            “Somebody there?” There was no answer. He stood still and waited. Maybe nothing.

            But why was there light?

            Hunching slightly he padded silently down the hall towards the kitchen, listening.

            The refrigerator door was ajar, the light was on, shining dimly in the kitchen like a candle. But he’d closed it. He was sure he’d closed it. Pretty sure. Well, maybe sure. Sometimes stuff pushes it open. He stood still, listening to the far away voices in the bedroom, thinking of her in bathrobe and curlers waiting. Grabbing. Resisting. Tearing. Breasts swinging – give it up bitch!

            Standing in the kitchen, he felt in his heart, deep inside something he would have thought impossible. A gathering darkness, a quiet flowering of evil.

            This is how its done, he thought. Real world. This is what it’s really like to do this to somebody. Goddamn, it . . it . . . feels powerful.

            The stranger’s sleeping house. The woman alone. The fear, the leering thrill of standing and listening, waiting for the inner signal to take the next step. The rubber ball in his fist. The unbreakable necktie rolled up in his back pocket.

            I want to hurt her, he thought. It seemed like a revelation. He felt the darkness move and for a moment he feared for her.

            He pushed the refrigerator door closed with his fingertips. He stood still, listening in the dark, tasting it. He’d never been this urgently erect in his life. Oh, he was ready now. Oh amen, yes Franny. Daddy’s coming.

            He turned to the hallway, stepped away from the kitchen. Unfastened his belt and dropped his pants on the floor in a heap and kicked them away. Felt a sudden cold breeze that made him turn.

            The back door was open. That couldn’t be.

            Hot breath on his neck. A hand on his shoulder. Sharp metal sticking the skin of his back. Burning as it went in.

            A man’s hard voice in his ear.

            “Time to give it up, bitch.”




Copyright 2011 C. Sanchez-Garcia