Penelope Prim

by Robert Scott Leyse

  But Stuart’s reservations cease to exist when Penelope very determinedly places her hands on his cheeks, turns his face to hers, treats him to the very look of unequivocal hunger he’s longed to see in her eyes for seemingly an infinity, clearly and heatedly whispers, “Love me!,” and crushes her mouth against his: it’s as if he’s been transported to a place where the impossible is the normal state of affairs. The warmth and motion, impatient insistence, of her mouth is now the beginning and the end of his world, as is her hoarse panting, her heaving chest, her roving hands, her thrusting belly and thighs. And how smooth, soft, strong, and electric with life her thighs are when he slips his hands inside the tops of her stockings in back and caresses, grasps, squeezes. It’s the sensation of his hands upon her thighs that finalizes the flipping of Stuart’s switch, wholly delivers him over to rapture undiluted by thought. Penelope’s hugging him hard enough to strain his joints, twining one of her legs about his—continuing to thrust herself against him, as if endeavoring to slip under his skin—and he’s periodically readjusting his footing to stop them from falling to the floor...

  Not long thereafter Stuart and Penelope, no longer clothed, are on the bed. She, below him with her legs wrapped around his waist, is by turns softly bite-kissing his cheeks and insistently sucking his neck and licking his face while clutching the back of his head—moaning, whispering excitedly, thrusting with her hips as her hair fluffs every which way, crackles with static electricity, seems to be alive. Her breasts swell against his chest as her belly undulates and thighs rhythmically tighten and relax their grip; the scents of her hair and body and perfume and sweat, suggestive of a kaleidoscope of delights the more delightful for being impossible to pin down, are worlds unto themselves; her wide dark eyes, smiling with desire, periodically blaze with silver light and rain fountain-bursts of shimmers up and down his spine. Stuart’s never waited this long to bed a woman and had the anticipation build so high; never been taken by surprise, ambushed, to this degree; never been swept into a current of compulsion strong enough to lead him to believe he’s acquired a fresh set of senses, which allow him to feel things he’s never felt before. When he maneuvers to kiss Penelope, as he frequently does, such dizzying delight overwhelms him it’s as if he’s become impervious to death. Not once does either of them exit the bed during the night, or otherwise cease to embrace one another. It’s not until the light of sunrise splays across the windows that exhaustion overtakes them.

  Shortly past noon, Stuart and Penelope both having seemingly forgotten they’re on call for work that could easily materialize, neither having turned their phone on (A first for each, they being very work-conscientious.), he awakens to find her on her hands and knees, taut in every muscle like a cat poised to pounce, intently gazing at him with eyes alight with an even mix of astonishment and hunger. Her expression and posture, the aura of readiness and desire and shock about her, instantly tingles in his veins, swirls a falling-out-from-under-himself sensation into his belly, and compels him to pull her close. But no sooner does he reach for her shoulders, happily say, “Come here, you!” than alarm engulfs her face and she jerks herself away, rapidly scrambles to the edge of the bed. “No!” she yells, wincing with what he can’t help but perceive as being revulsion, even if he’s mystified as to how it could be so—even if it flatly contradicts what he read in her eyes and body language moments before. “I can’t!” she continues, scooting another yard down the mattress and flailing a hand in the air between them. “You don’t understand—men never understand!”

  “Understand, Penelope?” he says softly, becoming very uneasy. “What’s to understand, besides that I adore you and only want the best for you?”

  Penelope’s seated on the edge of the bed now, quivering from head to toe—clenching her hands into fists, digging her elbows into her ribs, in an obvious effort to steady herself. “You just don’t get it!” she shrieks, slamming her palms against the mattress, whipping her head about and glaring at him. “I tried to tell you—I did tell you—I have no business being with a man! There are things in me that can’t be stirred up! Men stir me up, I can’t be with them! I told you that!”

  “I didn’t hear you say that, Penelope,” he answers in the same soft voice. “I heard you say some men are the wrong ones. If I…”

  “If you what?” Penelope interrupts, hissing the words. “I took you to my closet, showed you some stuff, bad things...” Trailing off with a faraway aspect to her gaze, she appears to be sifting through her thoughts; then, apparently locating what she’s searching for, she slams her palms against the mattress again and shouts, “You shouldn’t have flirted with me, looked at me like you’ve been doing at work! Yeah, that’s right—don’t look so surprised! I know you’ve been entertaining ideas! It’s never been a secret, the stuff going on in your head! I’ve always been onto you, let that be understood! And I’ve always kept you at arm’s length, as you well know! The moment you brought me here you should’ve turned around and gone home! Let me inform you of something: all men are the wrong ones and that includes you! Wake up, why don’t you, and go home and leave me to myself!” She’s frantically gesturing in the direction of the front door while glaring at Stuart obliquely, with glazed eyes: it’s as if her eyes are also turned inward, angrily contemplating something inside herself.

  But wasn’t I invited to stay? Stuart inquires of himself, feeling a need to affirm the truth even though he’s already aware of it, whereupon a rapid-fire sequence of pictures of the manner in which Penelope flung herself at him in front of the closet—clasped him tight, intoned Love me!, and kissed him—flashes into his head. Yes, regardless of what Penelope’s saying now, she didn’t want him to go home last night—he was indeed invited to stay, if not with the specific words then with far more convincing actions. Having confirmed beyond a reasonable doubt he’s on solid ground regarding Penelope’s mistaken view of the matter, he’s instantly searching for the words with which to point it out to her without seeming to contradict her, but he doesn’t find the words: he knows contradicting an angry woman, especially one as willful as she’s revealed herself to be, isn’t wise and fears he’ll lack the requisite amount of tact—fears the very limitation and insufficiency of words. So instead of speaking he, blind and desperate and impulsive with the desire to continue to be with her—re-experience the special urgency of her embraces, far more stirring than those of any other woman he’s known—extends his hand towards her shoulder, intending to calm her with caresses: all transpires in under five seconds.

  “Don’t touch me!” Penelope shrieks, yanking herself further from his reach, flailing a hand in his direction again, appearing incensed enough to slap him; then, her voice switching to a pleading tone as the angles of her expression soften (Her vocal pitch and countenance alter as swiftly as the sun slides about waves crashing ashore.), “Please don’t, Stuart, I’m asking as a friend, I just can’t...can’t be who you want me to be or even try.”; then, in a whispery and distant, as if half lost in daydreams, tone, “No…not such things, not again, I don’t think…things have happened before, I’m not fit for…”; then, her voice rising to a shout again as anger invades her visage anew, “I told you being with a man was bad for me and bad for the man too! Why did you stay after I told you that? For the love of God, why didn’t you get out of here, leave me be? Why did you touch and kiss and arouse me, awaken feelings that need to be left in peace? I’m not making it up when I say these feelings should never be meddled with, left as undisturbed as graves! They should be buried and forgotten! Why on earth…?” Interrupted by sobs, she covers her face with her hands, shaking in every limb.

  Stuart’s never felt more powerless in his life: afraid to speak and afraid to touch, as either will likely only multiply Penelope’s distress, he’s little better than paralyzed—an unwilling witness of her misery. He can’t see beyond the bed, Penelope’s quaking body, and it’s as if her sobs are louder than thunder cracking through the sky. What’s to be done? He might be
afraid of further upsetting her but, still, he can’t remain idle while she cries her eyes out! At last, he says very quietly, “Penelope, as you said and we both know, I’m your friend. I will never do anything you don’t want me to do—leaving out that such a thing would be extremely tacky, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I tried it. I will never presume to decide what’s best for you without your full agreement, I can assure you of that. But, as your friend, I can’t just sit here and do nothing when you’re not feeling well. Sorry, but I can’t. There must be something I can do. What do you want me to do?”

  Slowly lowering her hands from her face and turning to face Stuart with knife-sharp eyes, Penelope hisses “Are you telling me you still don’t understand?” in a manner that causes a picture of a cornered cat, fangs bared and claws spread, to leap into his mind’s eye, along with the idea she might be on the point of springing at him. He’s reflexively bracing himself for an attack and about to speak again when she, perceiving the preliminary movement of his lips, yells, “Shush! Don’t answer, I don’t want to hear it and don’t care anymore! Either stay or go, I don’t care! All men are dead to me so I don’t care what any of them do or say or think, especially you!” and leaps to her feet, her eyes as unfocused and glassy, indiscernibly responsive to perception, as those of a blind person. Instants later she’s erratically stomping about the room—tossing her head hither and thither, flailing her arms, hyperventilating, incoherently muttering, emitting smothered cries—as if half of her truly is warring with the other.

  The spectacle of Penelope tangling with inner demons, apparently oblivious of his presence—the sounds she’s making, unlike any he’s heard a human being make before—the frenzied swipes of her arms, as if she’s fending off imaginary creatures, living in a hallucinated world: Stuart’s so alarmed it’s as if his chest’s on fire. But such is his attraction to Penelope—such is the extent to which, ever since setting eyes on her, he’s been living in rapt anticipation of being alone with her—living in the pictures of her that his mind’s eye treasures above all else—living in the variations of her facial expressions and body language, inflections of her voice, nuances of her emotions—that he, despite his panic-inflamed nerves, can’t help but be thrilled to the core of his being at the sight of her. There she is, without a stitch of clothing on, repeatedly whipping her long dark tresses away from her face as the noon sunlight glides over and caresses her curves—such unblemished alabaster skin, symmetrical lines of muscle tone—not a part of her body’s out of sync with the perfect whole; and such fiery eyes, inexhaustible energy, heat of feeling! It’s a curious thing: the contrast of the black waves of her hair with the white of her face and shoulders and back, simple in itself, twists surges of buoyant unsettledness into his blood, makes him feel as if he has limitless emotional resources and energy—as if he’s impervious to intrusions of the ordinary, immune to pettiness, non-policeable by the opinions of others—as if he’s being whisked free of the temporal, embraced by nothing short of infinity. The woman he’s longed for, dreamed about, lost ease of mind on account of for what seems like years is here before him, in all her glory—of course he can’t help but relish the sight of her despite his fear and dismay. And, besides, this is Penelope, for God’s sake! Until now, he’s known her as being the most centered person in existence—always serene, always of good cheer, always considerate of others, always going out of her way to be helpful, always conscientious. So certainly he can bring her around to being that person again. And she did say either stay or go, which means she isn’t asking him to leave: it just might be her roundabout way of asking him to stay. It just might be her way of asking for his help without compromising her pride. She just might be expecting him to read between the lines and come to her aid. He will snatch her from the demons’ clutches and reunite her with equilibrium, restore her to herself! He will dispel the clouds in her eyes and ease the stress from her body, make things right between them! He has to make things right between them because his very life, never mind mere happiness, depends upon it! He cannot live without Penelope! He’s in love with her, he sees it crystal clear now—in love with her in full measure, with all the emotional upheaval and psychic realignment and responsibility that love entails! He understands that, memorable and rewarding past relationships notwithstanding, he’s never been in love before—that what he previously thought was love is but a pale reflection of what he’s feeling now! And, again, these thoughts spring upon him in a matter of seconds: it’s as if entire worlds, emotionally speaking, are being birthed in the blink of an eye.

  Penelope, aware of the touch of Stuart’s eyes before too long (She’s not so absorbed in self-conflict that she can’t feel his gaze slip under her skin and tap at her nerves, arrest her attention in the subsurface realms: involuntary such awareness may be, but it’s all the more authentic for being so.), comes to a dead stop, falls silent aside from her out-of-breath breathing, and faces him, her chest heaving; looking at him very seriously, she swallows hard—does her best to silence her breathing—and says in a worried, almost motherly, tone, “Stuart, you don’t know what you’re doing—the things you’re kicking up in me aren’t nice.”; then, exhaling in exasperation and slashing at the air with an arm, she yells, “Stop looking at me! I’m not an amusement park for your eyes! I’m not someone who should be excited! Damn my body! Damn it to hell!” Turning away, she advances to the dresses she threw on the floor the night before and kicks them towards the closet, her face screwed into an expression of contempt. “See—see what my body’s good for!” she resumes. “It’s only good for wearing these atrocious things and exciting men! And the excitement of men’s a poison, a sickness, a fever that tears me away me from everything that’s good and puts me in a dark dreadful place! Let me tell you something: I’m never lonelier than when I’m with a man! I’m never more miserable than when I’m with a man! Men can’t do anything for me, except make me feel caged and crazy! When I’m with a man all I want to do is scream! Why won’t you understand? But then you can’t understand, can you? You’re just like the others! You can’t understand!” Dropping her arms to her sides in a gesture of futility and moving further away from him, she sinks to the floor and rolls onto her back—soon she’s shakingly twisting from side to side, caressing her temples with trembling hands, staring at the ceiling as if it’s about to collapse. She appears to be oblivious of his presence again.

  Stuart’s head may be informing him he’ll only intensify Penelope’s distress if he ventures to speak to her, touch her, comfort her; but his heart’s brushing that information aside: she’s hurting and he needs to bring an end to it. He must show her he’s her friend first and foremost—it’s his responsibility to prove to her he’s not like the men who make her feel lonely and miserable—he will get through to her and obtain her trust, ease her into being at peace with herself. But no sooner is he at the edge of the bed, lowering his feet to the floor, than Penelope’s eyes ignite, scatter and flail, with absolute terror and she, with the swift agility of a cat, flips onto her belly, raises herself to her knees, and presses her palms against the air between them. “Please don’t, Stuart!” she implores. “Please, leave me be, I’m begging you! You still don’t understand, I...I’m so sorry, Stuart, but... A man’s affection, desire, touch! It all blazes under my skin and disorders me beyond endurance and makes me want to die! Just die!”

  Stuart, freezing on the edge of the bed, feels as if he’s being pinned against the air: before him is beautiful Penelope, there’s nothing he wants more than to assure her of his unquestioning devotion, do whatever he can to put the pain and dread in her eyes to flight and make her happy, but she won’t allow it—it’s anathema to her. She’s right: he isn’t close to comprehending why.

  Seeing that Stuart’s ceased to approach, Penelope flings her gaze at the floor and takes several deep breaths; then, lifting her eyes to him again, says in a tremulous voice, in which tenderness isn’t lacking, “I know you’ve fallen for me, Stuart, you
poor dear—the worse for you and, believe it, hell for me. I wish it were otherwise, I wish I could be with a man. At the very least I wish you had a more worthy woman to fall for, as you deserve.”; then, raising her voice a notch while unseeingly staring into the air above his head, “Don’t you see I shouldn’t be—can’t be—stirred up? Don’t you see I can’t answer for myself in a man’s arms? A man’s touch opens up whole canyons of discontent inside me and makes me feel like I’m being slammed against a wall and I turn into a bad person! I get crazy and mean and hate myself for it! I’m not a good woman, Stuart, you need to realize that! Not a good woman at all!”; then, declaring as she brings her hands to her throat, “Sometimes I want to strangle myself!”

  Stuart starts in Penelope’s direction again, but just as quickly checks himself: his wish to soothe her comes up against her aversion and fear, as she frenetically flails her hands in his direction to ward him off. It’s agony to be straining to help her and be prevented from doing so; especially, it’s agony to hear her state all too credibly that she’s considered doing violence to herself: it’s as if the room’s on fire and Penelope’s fainted and he’s tied to the bedframe and unable to carry her to safety. All the same, though, now that she’s mentioned self-harm, he starts paying particular attention to her hands—where they’re located, what they’re preoccupied with: she must not be allowed to use them against herself. Noting the direction of Stuart’s gaze and recoiling with disgust, literally hissing like a cat, Penelope rapidly crawls to, hurls herself at, the dresses on the floor. “Stop looking at me!” she screams, heaping the dresses in her lap, draping them over her shoulders, wrapping them around her waist. “I don’t want to be looked at! I hate the looking! I told you that!”