Pity Fuck
by d. g. k. goldberg

In the near death light of predawn that turns all colors to ash I laid listening to the soft breathing of the anonymous young man beside me.

Hand on my belly almost fluttering south I sensed rather than saw the rise and fall of your chest. I felt the shift of your careless young body stirring slightly between alcohol and a dreamless abyss. Across the movie screen of my mind I replayed your open-mouthed tongue swirling kisses, expertly executed tongue thrusts despite an inordinate amount of tequila.

"You kiss beautifully," I said as you rolled toward me, the comforter clutching your long legs, your light hair tangled with my darker hair. We shared the same pillow. I had wanted to say something clever, planned it before you drifted to consciousness but what came out was that insipid adolescent phrase, worthy of a black tighted neophyte who spends her evenings in Waffle Houses scribbling empty phrases into notebooks and calling it poetry. You-kiss-beautifully, I can't believe I said that.

You kissed me then. Blocking out the overdue bills on my bedside table, the clatter of trashcans, the growl of bad transmissions. You really do kiss incredibly well. I went boneless and wet hot wanting. I felt the desperate need to pull you inside me, envelope you, wrap my legs around your waist. I wanted you to ride me hard. You did.

What a precious man you are. You ignored the laborious nipple tweaking that's like adjusting the knobs on a stereo. You forgot the grubby ass kneading -- like playing with Play Dough---that so many men think is a turn on. You skipped the obligatories and gave me what I wanted.

"Thank you," I said and you laughed. It seemed to make you nervous, my gratitude. Eyes shut, head on the pillow while I traced the lines of your face with the tip of my finger.

I would have thought that you'd be used to gratitude. Last week I told you that you should pursue a bare midriffed twenty six year old in spandex and sequins. You told me you preferred more experienced women. It sounded like a line, and it was ---on both sides. You didn't really know how old I am---no one does. It helps being bird boned and ballet dancer bodied; no one ever thinks a tiny woman is old. You should have listened to me last week. Last night you should have stood up, wobbly legged with a shit-eating grin and bought a drink for the nearest Nicole or Tiffany.

Damn, you kiss well. I keep reliving the way you wrapped your arms around me cupping my ass with one hand teasing my nipple with the other. Standing, you had to bend down quite a bit to reach my mouth. In bed I slithered up your chest like a succubus. "Men are always at a disadvantage when they're horizontal," I said.

Daylight leapt through the blinds assaulting my eyes. Overdue bills, car trouble, late for work, the stuff of day.

"I don't think so," you answered a cat-satisfied smile on your face. You allowed me to move next to you. I stroked your chest.

Daylight eroded the murky post-sex haze.

Morning. I know how to do mornings with younger men. Leaving you in bed I shrugged into a silk dressing gown, all lace and Victoriana.---I know what works with my looks. Routine. I ground coffee beans, beat eggs with a whisk, grated cheese, sliced blood toned tomatoes, sliced mushrooms skin thin. My kitchen is a good setting, a frame for my role as halfway artsy borderline exotic older seductress, herbs on the windowsill, copper pots, everything cluttered like a still life, a butcher block table weighted with books. Yeah, I'm ridiculous; my charm lies in knowing exactly how absurd I am.

I'd allowed you to pursue me for a few weeks, a few sloppy drunk kisses near closing time, a few walks to my car after happy hour, all the while I stalked you I said, "It's not going to happen."

Last night you slid into the seat next to me a drink past happy hour. The TV behind the bar spewed Sarah McLachlan bleating into the smoke. "I will remember you," in all its maudlin masturbatory glory whined into the shards of conversation and clink of glass. I was teary-eyed looking at the television, the song served as background for a camera pan across the shattered library of Columbine High School. Folded bits of yellow paper marked the spots where bodies fell. They looked like tacky place cards for a church potluck supper and seemed more insulting than death–economical reminders of where bodies sprawled. They really could have done better than that cheap display.

Sensing you next to me I turned from the TV, "That damn yellow paper. It's degrading. It's insulting that I'm getting weepy. I really don't care, canned emotion, I'm no better than the things I condemn."

You nodded. It didn't matter to either of us if you understood what I meant.

You nudged a margarita across the bar. It sat wickedly in front of me, damn near winking. You remembered that I take them without salt. I drank relentlessly, morosely, drifting into one of my standard monologues about life being a meaningless mantra of pain, boredom, dirty dishes, and letters from the DMV. I don't know if you really listened, I felt your thigh against mine, heating my flesh.

Four drinks later, after I'd actually bought a round you said, "I have some news that will cheer you up."

I shrugged and looked at you. I made a non-committal go-on noise, the favored sound of shrinks and drunks.

"You're off the hook. I got laid today." You lit a cigarette discarding the match carelessly.

In no mood to be discarded I said, "What if I don't want to be?"

You sucked in your breath, your eyes widened. You thought I missed that, but I miss very little. "Well, fuck me running," you said shaking your head slightly as if someone had just told you an impossible truth --- the world really is flat, OJ didn't do it, the government is here to help.

You lurched to your feet, long legs unsteady inside faded denim. You leaned on the bar while I gathered my pocketbook. We wove through the crowd to the door. Outside you stepped behind me, "I want to watch your ass," you said.

"Some women might find that sort of statement insulting," I said.

"But, you don't."

"You know what I really find insulting? That frigging TV show that had that fat chick that's on the lawyer show playing Snow White. After years of anorexia and bulimia I'm supposed to readjust to a politically correct world where fat chicks are beautiful. It invalidates my entire life. Watch my ass all you like."

You laughed.

We staggered and leaned into each other floating on alcohol and lust. The streetlights cast an unreal glow turning the familiar littered streets into a backdrop, the artificial light like a movie, like a dream. Already I remember it better than it was, I always do.

I fumbled through my purse for keys while we stood burning with impatience on the porch. You interrupted my search with a kiss, leaned me against the door and almost had me there. "We'll fall into the azaleas," I mumbled. I bit your lip.

Once in the entranceway, twice in the bed. Then again this morning.

In the kitchen I listened for sounds while I slipped an omelet onto a plate. My plates don't match. I own a curious collection of mismatched cups, odd plates, and bizarre bowls. It's part of the package, poetess, gypsy, wanderer through life. It suits me; I look dreadful in a plain skirt and blazer.

You stood in the doorway, shirt tail out of your jeans, hair shower damp. I got teary again; you are so young, so handsome. It absolutely hurts to look at you, like looking at a Rodin sculpture, a painting by Renoir; some things are so exquisite that the world doesn't deserve them. "Hi," I said, I blushed.

"I never thought of you as domestic," you said.

"Did you think I was imported?" I poured coffee and sat opposite you.

You gave me a small gratuitous laugh a sort of post-sex bad joke courtesy and began to eat.

"I want to tell you a story," I said. I adjusted my body so the sunlight was behind me; I swept my hair over my shoulders.

"Sure."

"I'm not certain how to begin." I drank some coffee. I was being coy. I hate it when I'm coy but once I start inertia grabs me.

"Oh, how about once upon a time or but that was long ago, in another land and besides the wench is dead." Clever. You are clever. You chased a bit of egg with toast. Food and light seemed to energize you, like a reverse vampire you seemed stronger, more solid as the day took hold.

"The wench is dead might be a better ending than beginning." I took a deep breath. "You see I do things to men."

You snickered, well, of course you would at that point.

"No, really, bad things. You see, I first noticed it years ago. The first time it happened I wasn't even twenty. I met a man in a bar, the usual sort of thing. He was staring at my legs and I was about half past drunk so I said stop staring at my legs, of course I meant please go on staring. Anyway, we ended up in bed.

His name was Don. Don was an all night DJ on an alternative rock station and just a wee bit manic-depressive. He had all these things going on --- he made jewelry, had a short book of verse published, had paintings in a zillion juried shows. He saved money for months and took me to London with him; he was going to hook up with some band or some gallery owner. After two days in London he decided to go to France because I speak French. When we got there he got royally pissed at me because I spoke French and he didn't.

We came back to the states and he quit radio. Got involved with some people building an amusement park, had some critic really interested in his paintings, went back to school to do something with computers. In Richmond he was working for a company that downsized and he handcuffed himself to his computer, they had to get the police to make him leave that was his last manic act.

After that he drifted. He didn't want to do radio. He didn't want to work with computers. He stopped painting. He ended up somewhere in Chicago where the CTA fades into Spanish and women stab their boyfriends in laundromats. He works in a warehouse, shipping and receiving. He doesn't go out much."

You looked confused but remained attentive, it's the price men pay for getting laid. Dinner and a movie are cheap by comparison.

"Oh, it was much worse for David. David was next, I met him in college. He was a standard issue Jewish intellectual psuedo-revolutionary. We all were back then, even blondes like you became culturally Jewish, it was what one did. Anyway, where Don just wanted to fuck me, David wanted to marry me.

It was okay, I suppose, not that I would have done it but, it was an okay thing for him to want. Except one night he got furious because after we had sex I started talking about something---I honestly don't recall what---it could have been anything, Greek myth, taxes, a new dress. I really don't remember, just simple conversation.

David's face collapsed and he got all pouty, all crushed little boy, he said we just made love. He couldn't stand me saying anything other than endless 'I love you's.' I didn't. I really only loved myself.

He pouted and sulked and couldn't handle it that I wanted to talk about anything other than the eternal bliss of being in his arms. He couldn't stand it that I said fuck, thought it was vulgar.

We did the backpack through youth hostels routine and he got absolutely bent because I fucked a Dane in Edinburgh. He threatened to kill himself or me.

What happened? He went from revolutionary, from selling the Daily Worker on street corners to a degree in Poli Sci. Then he went from that degree to some cubicle in an insurance business. He married a woman with a pageboy haircut and produced 2.4 children. He lives in a split-level, drives a Volvo and worries about his cholesterol.

Insurance---do you see what I mean?"

Letting my robe fall away from my body I went to the refrigerator for a container of yogurt. I'm not all that fond of yogurt but I can do such interesting things to men when I eat it around them. I licked the spoon slowly.

You said, "It seems like you are just talking about men who grow old."

I walked back to the table, my robe flowing like water my body revealed then obscured. "No, it isn't merely getting old. It's giving up dreams. I met Jerome when he was a sketch artist, doing precise painful pen and inks. He started doing advertising drawings for Belk's Department Stores. I knew Jonathan when he cared deeply about the foster children in his caseload. Now he's CEO of a managed care company that won't pay for anything---children wait six months for glasses and God help them if they need surgery. Carl was a renegade, he ran for local political offices while riding a bicycle. Now, he works for the feds, eighty thousand to write regulations and make rules. Over and over. I meet them, I fuck them and something dies. Something beautiful and pure and honest dies and they become part of everything I hate."

You drank the remainder of your coffee. I didn't really expect you to understand. I supposed you thought I was way over the edge, a bunny boiler, a card carrying 10-74, an absolute nutter auditioning for Jerry Springer. At the very least, I suppose I thought you'd decided I was crazy.

Slipping the robe from my shoulders I crossed the clean floor and straddled your lap. I kissed you. You had kissed me before but this time I kissed you, holding your face in my small soft hands I raped your mouth with my hungry tongue, my unquenchable need.

You couldn't help it. Your hands moved to my breasts, squeezing and toying, your hands slid down my narrow rib cage to part my thighs, plunder my sex. I was hot and moist and all those begging things women do to control men.

I leaned back, exposing myself, capturing you. "Don't you see? I do it. I suck the life from men."

You shook your head. "It's just years, it's just life," you said.

"How can you know?" My voice a whisper, my throat going dry.

"What else can it be?"

I laughed softly, an elfin sound, a sound from the mists and legends of an inarticulate, unrecorded past. "It is me. Nothing else. And, you're next. You've had me and your dreams will turn to dust, your fire will turn to ash, everything you've wanted to do, everything you've planned will fail. You'll lose everything that you could be. All your potential will drift away."

You looked at me. A glimmer of comprehension, a flicker of slow acceptance crossed your face. "So what do I do?" you asked, wanting, I think, to believe this was some mad rant, and knowing it wasn't.

"You break the chain." I spoke in flat tones. You didn't want to listen; it was too easy and too terrible to contemplate. "You break the chain, end the sick Lilith power that follows me. It can stop here, it can stop now. You needn't sell cars, you don't have to wake up forty and afraid of dying without having lived."

"What do I do?" you asked.

You were never more beautiful than in that moment, alone with your fear and realization while I straddled your lap naked as any woman ever was.

"You know." I answered knowing you needed me to say it.

"Well fuck me running, I haven't a clue." You shook your head, strange bright hair falling like sunlight.

"You have to kill me. It's the only way to stop it. If you don't you're next. You'll end up selling car parts, working crossword puzzles, joining the local Baptist church because it's good for business. You have to do it – kill me or it continues, you next then who knows how many others." I kissed you. It started slow, and then I hunched your lap like a bitch in heat, nibbled your lip, pawed down your pants and held the throbbing length of you. My fingers stroked around the rim, I squeezed while I sucked your tongue. Then, suddenly, still holding the shaft, I drew my face a mere inch away from yours. "You have to kill me, strangle me, stab me, choke the toxic life from me. Don't you see? Can't you see what I do?" While I whispered I rubbed my hand up and down the velvet length of you.

So, what do you do? You haven't long to decide.

d. g. k. goldberg's work has appeared in a range of small press magazines and anthologies. d.g.k.'s dark fantasy novel Skating on the Edge is scheduled for March 2001 release from Time-Warner's electronic division. d.g.k.'s horror novel Doomed to Repeat It is scheduled for later in the year in trade paperback format through The Design Image Group. Both titles will be available through the usual suspects on-line.