It was sad when she had told me that because of me should would never love again. Sadder still when I realized after so many years of solitude and recrimination that I believed her! Suffering is considered heroic when it is in print of course. The actual portion that little boys love is the acclaim they may one day achieve for their endurance in same. Little girls ever conscious of a pinprick. For myself I tend to surround myself with the exotic forms of paper in print topics of drama that recounts real life experience. How can that stack up to the communal fantasies that all are expected to live by? To relish being judged by your attentiveness to the current fashion that you venture out of the door dressed within? To be admired for the intricate knowledge of the toys that you ride about town or go on vacation with? For some, the ability and opportunity to fashion such things from scratch? How so? How can one say I am without getting crowded out of their own proposition by so many that if you had anything extraordinary that was worthwhile to the present conversation in the popular realm would crowd you out? Real suffering is a solitary exercise devoid of any possibility of obtaining outside help or sympathy. Even for the toymaker’s, also known as your parents, you are stretched too far and at a fair distance from the solution. If you wade too deep in quicksand you will sink into its mire and cease to be a problem for the rest of the waking world. Then and only then, you get the benefit of total experience.
At my age you are lucky that you can fall in love unhesitatingly with any girl that takes your fancy. On the Internet that is! On the Internet husbands sell the best of what their wife is feeling for the sake of a random thumbs up. Or for that matter, women easily resort to their most demur sense of girlishness all to persuade you to come back next week for a new post. How disappointing real life can be with all its awkwardness and land mines potentially toppling the moment into some unexpected misunderstanding to ruin the day. If things go sour online you just click on another link or string search a better match! You can always hang around even if it gets testy. It is fascinating to see the rough edges or fangs that might stay hidden till that aforementioned moment of divisive opinion in life. You find yourself picking up pointers on the most amazing terrifying things that occasionally go far beyond imagining. Maybe considering this, having a mobile phone makes a lot more sense for the lovelorn? Or possibly those who are considering travel to a distant place. Forget it! Say on the Internet. Life as a virtual experience is the best! Everything else is fraught with disappointment. Kinda like being on drugs, or not! In the end at the conclusion of each day you end up where you belong. There is no place like home after all. Just remember that when you sign in for another new day!
There were only two opportunities availed to humankind he thought as he scanned the ceiling looking at the dim shadows dancing from the stirring of another day just outside his bedroom window. One was from the perspective of a woman that valued what people thought and felt inside. And the other from that of a man who most of the time didn’t give a damn. At least until much later in life. Perhaps it was a chemical thing? It sure wasn’t religion as religion for the most part now existed in a social vacuum. Something that many mentioned in conversation out of some sense of social obligation. The slushy swish of a car on wet pavement outside a natural segue to the plateau of the next thought he was ascending to. That might be too conventional? His eyes now focused straight and empty like two adjacent manhole covers sucking in the thoughts swirling over them. He was alone, Though it seemed from his intimate experience of women they would never tell him anyway. Certainly not the answer he wanted to hear and not in the way that he wanted to hear it. Perhaps that is why he found himself alone and posing chess games with his mind before the start of another day? Copernicus had said that the Earth traveled around the Sun and everyone today was forced by convention to believe him. But as a man he knew that for his side of the species it was as much a battle as to whom that honor would most properly reside. Maybe he was a bug? Some kind of termite that burrowed mindlessly ahead unaware that his own particular type of universe involved billions of others of his kind that he was unlikely to see. But one that had all others like him unknowingly condemned to perform the various functions of life in the exact same way. Nicholas was his name but maybe more of a name tag for his phylum than his species?
He rolled out of the covers into the unpromising grayness of a mist driven Sunday morning wet horizon feeling his internals shifting about. The light of the sun drained of all color leaching it out of the dim corridors around him. What is a man but a worm turned inside out? A big convoluted inner tube wound around itself in some useful but inexplicable manner to the mind. The bright idea to grow legs and crawl up upon the land so many billions of years ago being one of the many compounded fatal mistakes. How much nicer it might have been to remain swimming in the saline tainted waters of prehistory like some inert tuber swaying back and forth free flowing? No, that was not how things worked. It was always an oddball that came out of nowhere within the species that fucked it up for the rest. God, I hope that I am not him he mused. He looked outside at the grid-like matrix of roads and houses that extended into an amorphous dark gray mush. No great all encompassing impressions of any consequence beyond an uneasy feeling in the bottom of his belly. A hollow emptiness significant of a desire for being filled. Topped off like the gas tank of his car that sat devoid of consciousness but would feign the power of existence when tickled by the spark of a circuit being closed. Motivation? What in the Hell was that to him. He had run his tires bald chasing for a sense of something that he could not find. It wasn’t praise or money though they were ever in short supply. It was something implanted within him. Not like a spurt of new life like a baby found in the womb. Something else invisible and cloaked masterfully elusive. Something not quite of his own concoction as a consequence of unintended life experience as the college textbooks on psychology might suggest. Just something.
But like his original thought laying on the flat of his back launched once again into the absurd fallacy of this waking existence an ongoing drama with no discernible hint of its conclusion. Maybe women always hoped for a happy ending as their inherent maternal nature ever desired the mandate of something safe? As the launching pad for the human species that was probably their right. But the solipsism generated for those that were all too eager to inseminate them hoping for the best consequences were ever unmindful of what they were getting themselves in for. The brain as usual a completely useless accessory once again. Who cared at the end of the day if this was so and that wasn’t and what had supposedly happened way back when? You did what you thought was right which after all was simply a matter of habit. Something that you had gotten away with umpteen times int he past that no one else seemed to comment on. The hackles of society very straight and razor sharp but aligned in such a manner to allow one to keep from being cut if they just paid attention. Again, another male oriented pearl clawed out of the shell. For a man you could mark your daily existence monthly by where the piles of dust around the room lay undisturbed. For a woman there was likely to be no telltale dust at all? Perhaps that summed up the perpetual gulf between the two? Men made history and women eventually swept it away. Maybe that is why the book or the scroll was really invented he thought? If anyone remained as the fixed center of things as a matter of universal congruence beyond the light switch then what hope was there for anyone else forced to perpetually orbit eternally around it?
“So look you kook!”, the pot bellied old man said snidely in a thick European accent, “Who invited you to the party?” The tall Nubian looked at the gray haired fossil with complete disdain. His car was still smoking from its engine the fro end crumpled around an even older oak that had prevented it from careening into the sixties era split level house. A voice cried out behind the two on the front lawn from the side door of the residence. “The police are on the way!” , said the elderly homeowner’s portly wife as she cautiously stretched past the entrance’s screen door. “Shut up Ofay Bitch!” the black man slurred back with a heated malevolence amplified by a red eyed stare. “Harry!“, the old woman’s voice rang out again even more emphatically. “Come back in the house, the police are on their way!” “Don’t worry Madge, baby, I can handle his punk with one hand behind my back!“, the old man replied over his shoulder, “This ‘schvartza’ is so high as a kite that he can’t even see straight!” “Oh no, white man?“, the black interjected as his hand went suddenly searching behind him to his waistband. “I’ll show you whose fucked up you old muthafukker!“, and his arm swung around with a small automatic towards the old man. The gun hand carelessly coming level an instant from a trigger click when a deafening shotgun blast rang out carrying the tall African to the side five feet his head exploding like an overripe moat against a wall. A young white boy shot gun still raised to his shoulder shivering just the other side of the car. “Cut right there!“, said the director as he hung over his editor’s shoulder who was sitting at the flatbed Steenbeck editing board.
“Tell Arnie in production that the head shot has to be just a flash of tomato sauce!“, the thin balding figure sharply quipped. “My names not Peckinpah!” “These fucking post guys always want to push the envelope for their own personal reel to try to make head of the department one day!“, he said in a barely audible tone. the leisure suited director walked swiftly out of the suite mumbly. “Let them get their own Emmy on somebody else’s time, I ain’t got time for that crap.” Herbert Fine was no Don Seigel and he knew it. He had a Wednesday night TV series running half way through its second season of reruns working on producing a third. The studio was already giving him mixed signals about their uneasiness about this new tack of gritty urban drama. Quite frankly, he wasn’t so keen on it either! But Maury, his wife’s uncle had say as far as the producer’s ear and was trying to break out of the umpteenth generation of tried and true format of crime drama. The industry was well past the doubtful social messaging of feature length ‘Blacksploitation’ tales. Fine’s assistant came rushing down the narrow hallway towards him. A nice young ‘kolboynik’ still only two years out of Cal Arts film school with too many ideas. It would take him at least another two before he caught on the the way things really worked at the studio. Herb grabbed the young ‘goy’ by the upper arm. “No need to rush young man!“, he crooned authoritatively in his thick Brentwood polished Yiddish accent. “I need to get voiceover on the ‘schvartzer’ on episode three!“, Herb said in his commanding tone, “The asshole keep fucking using swear words!“. “Huh?“, said the young assistant. Herb frowned shaking his head, “The black lead actor, for Christsakes!” These college boys responded better when you boomed at them he thought to himself.
Herb had learned the business the hard way. Staring out with a runner’s job hoofing costume changes over to different sets in the the middle of the night at the old Burbank studio. There he had met Hazel Birnbaum who worked as a secretary in the front office at the cafeteria during breakfast when he was getting off work. Fate had worked its magic and he soon had a fiance and the ear of one of the backbone producers who took him on as a lowly production assistant. He knew enough to mind his place and make sure any of his bright ideas were those of anyone her was assigned to work with. Ten years of hard work and ingratiating himself to some of the worst old pricks that studio budget money could buy had seasoned him well-enough to understand that if you wanted to get anywhere in this business you had to know your place. Currently, he was a well-respected TV unit director. He wasn’t looking for any Academy Award feature opportunities but was happy to stay safe with an occasional TV critic’s choice award or maybe some day, an Emmy. His assistant hurried away ambling down in the opposite direction towards the Foley studio. Herb watched the young man from behind thinking that he wasn’t such a bad kid after all. He just needed a little trimming off that puppy-like ambition. This industry would kill you if let your own hopes rise too high. Keep your nose to the grindstone and stay on schedule, or better. That was the ticket to success around here. That and having a relative or two in the business that could occasionally make a call.
Herb was not really thrilled with the change in writing for the new season. The swing towards what the head of production of the studio called ‘authenticity’ bugged him. A new writer from New York had been flown in in the middle of Spring. Some guy that had won an EUTV or Taomina or some damn award over in Europe though it turned out that he had been working in TelAviv. Jason Lawrence was his ‘New Testament’ name. Jacob Rabinowitz to his rabbi and his mother. He was no Norman Lear, but you would have thought otherwise the way that everyone made a big stink about him in the front office. Hazel had said that she had heard he had some big connections both there and in New York. They had given him a contract with an option to renew for five years. Something considered unheard of for anyone without three years or more of a hit show safely under their belt. All Herb knew from dealing with him was that he was a real ‘shicker’. Someone that would probably step over your sputtering corpse to pick up the possibility of another slightly better deal. It was better to keep your mouth shut because he seemed to have an ‘in’ with that unnamed committee in the room that for anyone outside the higher ups of the studio, officially didn’t exist. The place where a ‘yeah’ or a nay’ could lop any project off at the knees if it didn’t conform to the narrative that was set for the coming year. This year it was urban drama leaning towards street level violence scripts without the ‘Spic’s or ‘Schwoogle’s’ especially if he had a little ‘sheeny’ somewhere behind it. The empathy factor was leaning to the left with a white schmuck cop or power broker made out to be the cause of all disasters in the third act. You could ‘kvetch’ and ‘plotz’ all you wanted about the audience rating demographics and mixed ratings but in the end the decision was made for you. After all who were you to complain, the sponsor? Be a ‘mensch’ and mind your own business and make a silk purse out of a piece of ‘schlock’. And of course, hope like Hell you got through a full season!
Thank god for Hazel! Her kin were a group of tough minded Sephardi’s that had come out to Hollywood in those glory days before sound. At least a generation or two before all the Ashkhenazim from Germany and overseas took a liner over to escape Hitler. Though the five ‘kings’ from Poland’s ‘pale’ had made the business what it was today, there was ever the division between old money and new. The Six Day War in sixty-seven had shifted the focus somewhat as Golda and Mehachem seemed to take the U.S. ‘bull’ literally by the horns and led it around for the sake of God’s chosen people. It didn’t hurt that Ladybird and Lyndon were purported to be ‘crypto’s’. Of course all this mean’t spit down the palm lined corridors of Bel Air. The ‘big macher’s’ were fighting their own battled with their second cousins in the East Coast for keeping things cost effective and on the West Coast and not on location! Oy Gevalt! The ‘meshuga’ late nineteen-fifties with that Screen Gems’ “Naked City.” The well had almost run dry in town over the last couple decades fighting cash cows like “Hawaii Five O” or “Miami Vice” that had been filming entirely on location throughout. The unions and the studios had made some pretty compromising deals that left the rest struggling against each other to stay busy. Herb was on his fifth pilot and into his third series which wasn’t chopped liver! But a career here could disappear like a soap bubble in a cactus patch if the wind started blowing the other way. That’s why ‘Mr. Lawrence’s’ marvelously creative insights about fostering a new sensitivity about race relations by shifting the audience’s empathy from the victim to the ‘real’ victim, the perpetrator, were considered gold. An underlying level of role reversal based scenarios that was helping to foster new era of more civil race relations. After all, ‘R&B’ was out and ‘Rap’ was in tune with the meaner ‘street’ temperament of the times. And those times were not looking too good.
Had anyone asked Herb, who wisely kept his mouth shut he might have reminded that the major audience spending money on washing machines and pain medicine was not in Compton or any other urban center of minority populations. All the pain medication that they needed to get was freely available at street level. It was a big risk to start ringing the same sort of bell for blacks on the topic of discrimination as one could with the six-million chant of the the sacrosanct Holocaust. The cities that burned down in the Sixties with King’s death didn’t inspire much empathy from the grandparents of the whites that soon fled in big numbers to the suburbs. Herb knew that the name of the game for most of the audience was ultimately some vicarious entertainment where they got to identify with the hero. Not feel bad for the ‘neger’ breaking into his home. Things were changing that was true! But how much and how fast could leave a lot of bodies by the roadside out of work. And he was determined that he wasn’t going to be a clay pidgin for anyone. There were some good ‘shwartza’ comedies that did well! Some good ones with ‘spic’ actors too. That made everyone feel good! The gritty stuff was walking down a dark corridor to who knew where? But that what was coming out of every meeting in ‘the room’. He figured that the floodgates for that sort of thinking would have to be opened by some big budget feature from MGM or Paramount. Van Peebles and Gordon Parks had trailed off into the creative jungle. Those gates were rattling hard from young upstarts like that black kid from New York, Spike Lee. Not a good development for the old guard of Hollywood urban features. But a sign of what might be down the road for their television based cousins. He still could recall the hubbub with “Roots.”
The new script revisions called for more focus on the character of the black perpetrator. The evaluation as taken from the rushes suggested that the footage was making him look ‘too scary’. The penciled notations along with the accompanying neatly typed ‘suggestions’ offered that he should, present more humanity! Make him look angry and confused sure, not high on drugs and dangerous. The facial expression on the boy with the shotgun should be more vengeful and angry. That should be the enduring mental image that the audience should have in mind before the cut to commercial. Herb stumbled down the hall back to the editing suite as he paged through each of the notations cross referencing them page by page with the script. “Eddie!” His editor looking up abruptly from his spinning reel before him. “Dig up some of those closeups on take four where Tommy has just existed his smashed up car!” “You know the one where he starts laughing but then almost breaks into tears.” As his editor went to the bin opening up the door to rifle through the shots, Herb looked up at the wall to study the old stained and tattered movie posters that had been tacked up by some other unknown duo years before. “Casablanca”, “Von Ryan’s Express”, “I Love Lucy”, “The Pawnbroker.” Boy, those were the days!”, Herb unconsciously muttered musing aloud. “What boss?“, said Eddie turning around. “Naw nothing, just nothing at all!“
The workings of the civilized world of humankind are enigmatic to me. Much is taken for granted in terms of pronouncements that are made as if they were simply a common sense recitation of factual reality. In fact they have more resonance in an echo chamber within popular public discourse as far as what most are told or in their hearts wish to believe. But the reality at ground level suggests that the true mechanism of ruling humanity is something completely foreign to anyone’s understanding. Something hidden and not explicitly in view as most would assume to be the case. A key element of whatever the true system may or may not be found in the fact that popular consensus bed upon a long taught belief system is at the foundation of it.
I knew her from a time that seemed liked childhood. And from that time I felt that she belonged to me. Not like a possession mind you. But in a way that those fated to become man and wife eternal. Or perhaps if, as some people say, we had allays been so. So much time had we spent as youthful companions that it seemed even the forces of nature had by this impolitic accident of birth bound us so.But one day, when she had reached her eighteenth birthday I received the news that she was going away. “College?“, I said. “No.”, she replied, “I’m getting married.” I was dumbstruck. It had never dawned on me that her family having come from halfway round the world would hold on to their ancient custom of arranged marriage. Worse yet! They were true believers. All those funny looking emblems around the house about some guy named Mohammad suddenly clicked.
I came by one afternoon to find her preparing herself for a trip that she would never return from. I could hardly believe this was happening? “What are you going to do?“, I asked her as if I were someone who though they hadn’t been asked was ready to do all in my power to rescue her. She wasn’t at all moved as she sat in from of the mirror primping. Her hair was different now and she was wearing makeup the combined effect serving to make her look like some sort of doll that one might find at an asian variety store under cellophane. “I’m going to go away to be married!“, she said as she turned around to be with a completely emotionless expression. He sudden indifference hit me like a brick int he face. It was obvious from her demeanor that all my own inner leanings to grab her by the hand and lead her away to some undisclosed place of safety far away from anyone either of us knew was a pipe dream. My mouth seemed to form the word as my conscious mind remained dumbstruck. “Why?” Her facial expression never flinched as she related that it was more important to her to meet and marry this rich man who would secure her future in a higher style of luxury that she had ever known thus far than to entertain childish notions of Western love. Besides her parents had raised her up to be, “A good girl.”
That was the last time I saw her. I recall leaving the house that to me at least had seemed a second home. But now in my mind was erased as if it had suddenly burned down to the last stick of wood completely to the ground. The occupants who I had chosen to believe was a second family dead consumed to the ashes. I could not understand how I and all the years that I had shared had been so easily proffered for the material promise of financial security? And worse yet! How big a fool that I had been all my adolescent life for believing otherwise. Many years past and the flower of my young manhood was passed in solitude. Women had become a shallow dish that pretended to offer happiness. But in fact were illusory reflections of my own foolish fantasies. People raised in different ways from backgrounds could not be trusted to have the same implicit understandings of the world as my own. And so I drew away within keeping some small part of myself in reserve and accessible theoretically for my own kind. But the danger presented by the fickleness of women as a separate species of life form was ever lurking just outside my conscious mind.
I was living in a world run by spiders and the connubial practices of the preying mantis. Life for me was never the same again. Though I did not directly hate the unnamed perpetrators of the entombment of my own heart into cold limbo I did begin to revile their kind. If they had done this to me? Then what mischief were they capable of perpetrating against my own kind? I seemed to read about it in the papers more and more every day. The very country where the woman I once knew know anonymously resided was always threatening my own. An inner voice within commenting at how politics and personal feelings were now part of the same old ancient corollary of staying with your own for nothing else but simple survival. How foolish I had been to listen to my teachers growing up about a world that implicitly was of the same mind. Though humans all performed the same animal tasks, they were not the same. And as I had found out, would never be, The happy world of childhood cartoons where animals and everyday implements sang and danced in singular harmony was now as empty and cold as its adult equivalent. I had been lied to by them. This world did not exist.
It was many years later in middle age when through some unexpected happenstance of circumstances that I was told that my childhood sweetheart had left her husband in that far off land. Nothing else about her from that point on was ever available to tell. The many intervening years that stood between us from back then to the present accommodating several careers and my own solitary presence of mind. Friends had come and gone and the sands of time had erased the comfort of my own family. The world had eroded slowly almost incrementally to that little plateau of sand that only was able to support myself. My presence in public was just an act staged for strangers to keep them off the track of my own paucity of feelings and indifference of regard. I was a good actor. This empty palace of the mind was now set in stone. Immovable and immune to any shift in its view of the horizon across the moat of protective solitude. Humanity beyond it now simply another train from an ant colony passing distantly involved in their own enigmatic sense of continued being. The world outside of the glowing warmth of the Sun and it’s daily cycle and equally unfathomable enigma. The ability to change a human trait no longer.
A back room somewhere. Cigarettes burning. Two men sitting by a table talking. Nothing special. In fear of Mr nobody. The biggest fear anyone regular has is that no one knows them anymore. Nix. You don’t exist! No one to call when you get into trouble. Totally self-sufficient. Now that might work for a psychopath. But what does that say for a regular human being? How many guys have gone ‘gaga’ for some dame only to find at the end of many months of years that she laid him off as a chump for whatever she could get. Some say that little package is in the genes. But a regular guy hung out to dry will always make the same mistake. He’ll get lonesome and try to make a stranger a friend. A big buddy for his sorrow. And that is his downfall. I mean given that a guy whose some sort of ‘schlub’ gets a little lonely and gets some broad for hire to go down on him every once in a while but then he thinks that she owes him something? Like a little discretion. But that is not how the game is played. He’s just become another mark.
A standup guy could hold his own water. He didn’t give a shit if anyone thought he was a saint or not. That was his mother’s job. That’s if he ever had one. The high life was a private affair that one said little about. As he did about when he was alone by himself saying nothing. Just alone with his thoughts. No Internet. No smart meters. No monitoring. No nothing. It’s a fact that now you can’t get away with the same shit now that you once could back then. Now you can’t even recite your bank account aloud to yourself because your phone or your TV or something might be listening in live on behalf of some government agency. See, then you are soon to become another ‘nobody’ who is padding your cell and don’t even know it yet. You’d want to be ‘Mr. Nobody’! That’s if you had any sense in your head! Just think. Nobody knows you nor cares to. Totally ignorant. Somebody fucks with you, fine. When nobody is a round you whack him. Who did it? Hey! It must have been nobody. Cops pick you up you keep your trap shut. Don’t even say hello, it’s a nice day.Keep your mouth shut. Nothing. You’re Mr. Nobody.
That’s the difference between a professional and any garden variety local yokel. One who realizes the way the world really is. The way it works. And so they quickly adapt. The cops can’t ever get a confession. Everyone else courts this fantasy of some higher sense of morality. It’s a game for squares! There is no God that you won’t let you buy your way into heaven if you have a little ‘vig’. It’s all in your head. St Peter might be standing at the gates? Sure. Or maybe not. But maybe there’s no gates at all? If there wasn’t, then all these other suckers have been chasing the same fox and it’s been their problem. It wasn’t ours. Being Mr. Nobody. Yet what was life really all about? Be smart. Take what you can while anyone wasn’t watching. But is they are then let them know that you’re on top. Who cares what that square thinks? To them you are invisible. Like you are invisible, or else! Mr. Nobody.
That is what’s what. But a regular guy with a regular job gettin screwed all the live long day? What a ‘maluke’! Those guys will never know how lucky they could have been! A real bunch of Mr. Nobody’s!
I met her at a party. I was working and the bank account was flowing enough that I arrived at the event wearing a new outfit that showed that my shoes had been refreshed by a pair of Oxfords. Spiffy, I might have said, it I was one who was wont to regard myself in mirrors using my own paws in making sure all the tags were off the garments. It was a stale affair as these seances tend to be when the reason for your appearance is a referral by an occasional friend. But it was a Christmas party and I was in a ‘what the fuck’ kind of mood. So I walked about from room to room bouncing off corners where exclusive groups of tightly connected friends reviewed their own lives once again fro the umpteenth time that week. As for myself, I was looking for someone. And after a while, anyone to start up a conversation with lest I be the most visible ‘odd man out’ of this gala.
When I saw her, I had to say that I didn’t think much. Not due to any disappointment over how mundane she appeared. The dress was a mismatch for the body size. An attempt to duck and cover the more ungainly curves while allowing the rest to all hang out. By that time I was past caring offering one of the last two beers I was able to scavenge from the twelve pack that I had brought as a token of unquestionable entry. The same one that everyone else involved in their own private fiefdoms were not shy to carry off without any care to acknowledge the sanctity of possibly leaving a few for its donor. Humanity in general being a lost cause as was generally accepted without argument. Her name was Kathy and she was most probably of Irish extraction which would explain the sloppiness of her genetic awkwardness. But given that my most urgent goal of conquest was to form a beachhead of some sort on foreign territory as a stranger in this strange land I was content. It was better than spinning the channel every forty-five seconds at home that night.
Maybe, after somehow self-righteously snagging another round that were another lesser brand of brew she began to look better to me. Or possibly, in some respects due to some misapprehension, I to her, some smiles were raised and mutually toasted. In any case, that is when I abruptly dragged on her arm and said, “Come with me!” Now this in our current era might have justified a rape complaint but I was still three or so decades back where both parties after talking with each other in a generally upbeat fencing match still had enough faith in both sides of the species to take a reasonable risk. Not only from her to me but from me to her. I was well acquainted with situations where spontaneity was suddenly blunted and the mission aborted. The astronauts involved safely returned to earth in order to go their separate ways. Needless to say, in keeping with the Camelot-like spirit of that era, both of us retired the the nearest fox hole and committed ourselves to the expected performance of the required nasty deed. It was not a spectacular ‘Hail Mary’, ten seconds let final field goal on either of our parts. But it was enough to power a month or two of sexual frequency on weekends with the obligatory number of brainless phone calls endured in-between. Needless the sex was comfort. But that is when all the trouble began!
Boredom set in. Try sawing through log with a water balloon! Or drilling into reinforced concrete with a wet sponge! The amount of consumption of alcohol needed soon having the reverse affect intended. Some new sporting events needed to be injected into the expected play at the end of the evening! Neither of us would admit to anything lacking lest it lead to some reasonable conundrum why our present situation might be awkward grounds as the last one. Riding upon my wiggly worm she suddenly declared that she needed to be spanked. Spanked with the flat of my hand on the jiggling mass of her buttocks. Her entreaty was met with a tentative couple of measure swipes leaving an unsatisfying result. The expression of mild disappointment my meter to gauge the necessary power behind each subsequent blow. The fleshy little whirlpool between her legs suddenly tightening providing incentive for my own bell clapper to rise to the occasion of producing the desired effect. From that point, we were off to the races. Experimentation in various forms of possible peril was for the most part unneeded after several decades of B movie interference of helpless heroine at the hands of an expectedly sexually sadistic villain. Clothesline to handcuffs to hastily tasked wire shirt hangers. All were applied with equal fervor until the thrill of its kink dissipated after a round or two of same.
The need for imagination with a taste of the knowingly unknown began to consume me with a new appreciation for those spindly legged little men with snide carefully waxed mustaches and black satin top hats. The consideration for what ever might have gotten a positive rise from my own Mr. Binky sublimated by the need to surprise and wow the ever voracious libido of my partner. I can’t imagine much work in being a victim in general as all one is required to do is look a little worried rather than mercurially bored. Mind you, a little squirming here or there much appreciated as applause might be at the opera for the hard work of those whose duty it is to orchestrate the performance. The male psyche as motivated by appearance ever in contradiction to the snuggling physically intimate tendencies of the aroused female both during and after. To be unkind might be to admit that the female of the species was ever the more greedy of the two. By the end of another month long epoch of hard noodling and great art to enact ever more ambitious gambits. my enthusiasm had been thoroughly drain. The desire for a quick Checkmate on my end was at a fever pitch.
The swan song of the affair came in an old hotel a hundred miles away where running out of any other further ideas I had suggested that we try a change of setting. The musty room aroma and oversized swayback bed set the perfect atmosphere as the perfect site for the enactment of demented mischief. This was to be the perfect setting my unconscious mind told me to make or break off this quickly sinking affair. I had come up with a plan on the spur of the moment to wire her wrists together behind her back secure her ankles with a makeshift stretcher bar and use the one single pants hanger with double alligator clasps and a nipple clamp based restraint. The gag being de rigor as a play along prop of course, though in point of fact totally ineffective. There she stood naked on tiptoes in the drafty old closet. The addition of a handkerchief blindfold as a final last second decision. The options I had were of course some form of direct interaction with this scenario in the form of using my belt on her fleshy hindquarters. But something even more diabolical happened to stumble into view. I closet the old dark stained heavy wooden closet door and quietly left the hotel room.
I suppose if anyone has any doubts about their own motives or personality after an extended period of indulgence in these dark arts it would manifest itself by the amount of mental concern exercised not only for the physical welfare of their ceremonial victim. But over the possibility of unpredictable possible mental damage from unexpected childhood or previous relationship traumas. It was easy in her case to imagine past physical abuse from past parental overreach. So the point where this whole exercise went from some form of ‘hot’ sexual stimulation of an otherwise jaded libido to genuine fright and resultant panic was ever within my mind. I could in my worst imaginings clearly see a scenario where her unexpected freakout could result in attracting the attention of the sparse but occasionally present hotel staff. The police being brought in to find a trussed up naked woman in mild agony in the closet. No amount of explaining on my part being sufficient to keep me out of jail for a period of weeks or worse. One had to gauge the number of minutes with care.
In this case, I chose just over twenty minutes before I noisily re-entered the room hoping all the while I wouldn’t have a very angry reception committee as previously detailed awaiting me within. But to me relief, she like a proverbial piece of toast when released from her cinctures popped out of the closet perfectly sexually done. Her voice quavering and her body vibrating for what was a fast but very hard and every generous fuck. The bear hug that ensued while we both lay within a puddle of communal juices composed of semen and sweat an extra long affair. What was for her an epiphany was for me a warning. The possibilities of this whole thing going amuck in what in this day could have resulted in a jail term or worse yet a decade or two of marriage the final straw for me. My ardor for the uninterrupted enjoyment of a helpless struggling female now exile to a safer island in the safety of my own imagination. Like an old Ben Gunn of “Treasure Island” fame waylaid by pirates, fortune and fate, I freely can count the buried fortune of others without the danger of discovery.