by AnonYMous
DIARY OF AN OXYGEN THIEF
ANONYMOUS
Copyright 20II V Publishing
Published by V Publishing at Smashwords
“Artsy, swoon-worthy and kinky.”
New York Magazine
“I loved this book. The writer does a great job.”
Junot Diaz, author of The Brief And Wondrous Life Of Oscar Wao
“F Scott Fitzgerald for the iPod generation.”
Richard Nash, Editor Soft Skull Publishing
“I don't know whether to be flattered or outraged
but as I read these pages I felt gratitude. It's hard
to find work so drenched in honesty and I was glad
for the chance to read it. I think the author is a
decent unafraid writer, and that's rare. And as an
editor I think the writing demonstrates a raw
honesty and humour.”
Molly Stern, Senior Editor at Penguin Books
“Terrific and genuinely spooky.”
Caroline Marshall, Editor of Campaign London
“First he steals the oxygen from you, then he spits
it back in your face. One of the most interesting and
controversial encounters I've made through a book.”
Lorenzo DeRita, Editor of COLORS Rome
“A great. finely tuned, funny, unique, and oftentimes poetic voice.
The sections about St LaCroix are particularly amusing.”
Eric Obenauf, Publisher Two Dollar Radio, Brooklyn
“Women seem to be very fond of this book.
It's a surprise dark-horse Williamsburg bestseller.”
Jonas Kyle, Spoonbill & Sugartown Booksellers
I liked hurting girls.
Mentally not physically, I never hit a girl in my life. Well once. But that was a mistake. I'll tell you about it later. The thing is, I got off on it. I really enjoyed it.
It's like when you hear serial killers say they feel no regret, no remorse for all the people they killed. I was like that. Loved it. I didn't care how long it took either because I was in no hurry. I'd wait until they were totally in love with me. Till the big saucer eyes were looking at me. I loved the shock on their faces. Then the glaze as they tried to hide how much I was hurting them. And it was legal. I think I killed a few of them. Their souls I mean. It was their souls I was after. I know I came close a couple of times. But don't worry, I got my comeuppance. That's why I'm telling you this. Justice was done. Balance has been restored The same thing happened to me, only worse. Worse because it happened to me. I feel purged now, you see. Cleansed. I've been punished, so it's okay to talk about it all. At least, that's how it seems to me.
I carried the guilt of my crimes around with me for years after I stopped drinking. I couldn't even look at a girl, much less believe I deserved to converse with one. Or maybe I was just afraid that they'd see through me. Either way, after getting into Alcoholics Anonymous I didn't even kiss a girl for five years. Seriously. Not so much as holding hands.
I meant business.
I think I always knew deep down I had a drinking problem. I just never got around to admitting it. I drank purely for effect. But then, as far as I was concerned, wasn’t everyone doing the same thing? I started to realize something was wrong when I began to get beaten up. My mouth always got me into trouble, of course. I'd go up to the biggest guy in the place and look up his nostrils and call him a faggot. And then when he'd head-butt me, I'd say, “Call that a head-butt?’ So the guy would do it again harder. The second time I'd have less to say. One of my ‘victims’ stuck my head on an electric cooker-ring. In Limerick. Stab City. I was lucky to get out of that house alive. He'd done it, though, because I'd been taking the pith out of hiths listhp. Maybe that's why I moved on to girls. More sophisticated, doncha know. And girls wouldn't beat me up. They'd just stare at me in disbelief and shock.
Their eyes, you see.
All the pretense and rules dissolved away. There was just the two of us and the pain. All those intimate moments, every little sigh, those gentle touches, the lovemaking, the confidences, the orgasms, the attempted orgasms, all mere fuel. The deeper in they were, the more beautiful they looked when the moment came.
And I lived for the moment.
I was working freelance in advertising all through this period in London. As an art director. A contradiction in terms if ever there was one. It’s what I still do today. Strangely, I was always able to get money. Even in art school, I got a grant because my dad had just retired and I suddenly became eligible. And after that I got job after job without too much trouble.
I never looked like a drunk, I just was one, and anyway in those days advertising was a far more boozy affair than it is today. Because I was freelance I could be my own man, so to speak, and I would keep myself busy by ensuring I had dates lined up. None of the girls were supposed to know this. The idea was to have an impressive queue so that when one girl neared maturity, usually after about three or four dates with some phone calls in between, another would be introduced. Then as one went onto the scrap heap, a new one would take her place. Nothing unusual about my method, everyone did it. But I enjoyed it so much. Not the sex or even the conquest, but the causing of pain.
It was after my crazy night with Pen (more on that in a minute) that I realized I had found my niche in life. Somehow I was able to lure these creatures into my lair. Half the time I was trying to push them away, but it only had the opposite effect. And the fact that they were attracted to a piece of shit like me made me hate them even more than if they’d laughed in my face and walked away. As for looks? I’m nothing special but I’m told I have beautiful eyes. Eyes from which nothing but truth could possibly seep.
They say the sea is actually black and that it merely reflects the blue sky above. So it was with me. I allowed you to admire yourself in my eyes. I provided a service. I listened and listened and listened. You stored yourself in me.
Nothing had ever felt so right to me. If I'm honest, even today I miss hurting. I’m not cured of it but I don’t set out to systematically dismantle like I used to. I don't miss the booze half as much. Oh to hurt again. Since those heady days I heard an adage, which seems to apply here, "Hurt people hurt people."
I see now that I was in pain and wanted others to feel it, too. This was my way of communicating. I'd meet the women the first night and get the obligatory phone number and then after another couple of days, making them sweat a little, I’d call and be all nervous. They loved that. I'd ask them out and pretend I hardly ever did "this kind of thing" and say that I hadn't been out a lot in London because I didn't really know the scene. This was true though, because all I used to do was get out of my head in local bars around Camberwell.
We'd agree to meet somewhere. I liked Greenwich, with the river and the boats and, of course the pubs. And it had a great boyfriend-girlfriend feel. Nice and respectable. I'd be half out of it before we even met but I'd be witty and charming and boyish and shaking. Trying to put me at ease, they'd smile and comment on my trembling, thinking I was nervous to create a good impression. Because I wasn't getting in enough booze my very being would shudder. I'd have to order two large Jamesons at the counter for her every half-lager. I'd down the Jimmys without her seeing and then on with the show.
Lovely.
I didn't really care if I got them into bed or not. I just wanted some company while I got pissed, while I waited for the courage to hurt to well up in me. And they seemed pleased because I wasn't trying to grope them. Sometimes I would. But mostly I'd be fairly well behaved. This would go on for a few dates. In the meantime I would encourage
them to tell me about themselves.
This is very important for the successful moment later. The more they confided and invested in you, the deeper the shock and the more satisfying the moment at the end. So, I'd be told of their dog's habits, their teddy bear’s names, their father's moods, their mother's fears. Did I like kids? How many brothers and sisters did I have? A sit-com I had to sit through. But it was okay, because I knew I’d be writing her out of the series.
She’d talk, and talk, and talk and I'd nod. Raise a strategic eyebrow. Grimace when necessary. Guffaw or feign shock, whatever was required. I’d watch people in conversation and record their facial expressions. Interest: Raise one eyebrow and raise or lower the other depending on the conversation.
Attraction: Try to blush. Not easy this (thoughts of what I was going to do to her later helped). And a blush usually begot a blush. That is if I could muster a blush, she was more than likely to blush back. Sympathy: Crinkle the forehead and nod gently. Charmed: Cock your head to one side and smile apologetically. I'd supply these pre-fab masks on cue. It was easy. It was enjoyable. Guys did it all the time to get laid. I did it to get even. Unkind to Womankind. That was my mission. Around this time I discovered the meaning of the word “misogynist.” I remember thinking it hilarious that it had “Miss” as a prefix.
All I know is, I felt better when I saw someone else in pain. But of course, they would often hide how much I had hurt them. Yes, it was a challenge in itself to help her externalize her feelings, but also bloody frustrating to have gone to all that trouble and then not be able to enjoy a dramatic playback. That's why it became necessary to condense everything into the one demonstrative moment.
Sophie was from South London. She used to do the make-up for Angus Brady on the comedy show, Aren’t You Glad To See Me? I met her at a Camberwell Art School party that I had crashed. After her, there was that designer girl — whose name I honestly can’t remember – who I’m sure I hurt very deeply because she never called me back. Funny that because even though I never met her again or even heard her say another word I knew she had it bad.
How do I know?
I know.
There was Jenny. She was the one who threw the beer in my face. I was thrilled to have had a hand in causing so much rage.
Then came Emily. But she doesn’t really count because she was as good if not better at whatever this is than I was. I kind of fell for her. Laura was somewhere in there. An ex-band-manager with a superb arse that had survived a young son. I woke up one morning and there was an eight-year-old boy watching as I tried to extricate myself from the freckled tentacles of his comatose mother. And then after he guilted me into walking him to school, I got the feeling that mother and son made full use of the men that passed through their lives. Like the Native American and the Buffalo, The Eskimo and the Seal, The Welfare Mother and Me.
And the one who started it all.
Penelope Arlington. I’d been going out with her for four and a half years. Long time. She’d been nice to me. Nicer to me than any other girl had ever been. When I spoke she turned her head towards me and seemed to abandon herself to the meaning of my words. I liked that. It was only much later that I found out she was terrible in bed. At the time I thought she was wanton. She wasn’t. But she’s the one I regret hurting the most. Why? Because she didn’t deserve it. Not that the others did but she wouldn’t have left me if I hadn’t ripped her apart. And I needed her to leave me because she was getting in the way of my drinking.
And one night I just cracked up. It’d been bubbling for ages. Simmer simmer, bubble, stew…gurgle. I got completely fizzingly-drunk and this whole chain of events began to rattle. Why would anyone set out to break the heart of someone they loved? Why would anyone intentionally cause that kind of pain?
Why did people kill each other?
Because they enjoyed it. Was it really that simple? To achieve a soul-shattering, it is better if the perpetrator has been through the same experience. Hurt people hurt people more skillfully. An expert heartbreaker knows the effect of each incision. The blade slips in barely noticed, the pain and the apology delivered at the same time.
I had grown tired of the girl I was going out with for four and a half years. I loved her. That was the awful thing about what I’m going to tell you.The possibility exists that she’s out there somewhere reading this right now. The rest of you turn your heads away, the next bit is for her only.
Pen, I’m so sorry. I needed to hurt you. I knew we were coming to an end. I knew you had started to despise me. You tried to hide how you felt, but it rippled across your face. Disgust. I began to hate you for not having the courage to tell me what you really thought of me. So I had to make up your mind for you.
The rest of you can look now.
It was a Friday night in a pub in Victoria Park. I was out of work early. Yet another ad agency where yet another clutch of concepts had been mass-murdered by yet another ham-fisted creative director. I was sure of one thing. I needed to get soaringly drunk, so I downed pints of beer at an alarming rate.
The wizened barman seemed concerned. Then whiskey. By 7:30pm I was stumbling. I was to meet Penelope at 8pm I had to walk my bicycle around to where we were meeting. Another pub naturally.
Anger. Boredom. Drunkeness. A bad combination. I began with something like this.
“How can I dismantle four years?”
Her quizzical look was followed by an evasion in the form of…“Like my new blouse?”
“Looks. Like. A. Table. Cloth.”
Hurt look followed by…
“Another?”
More booze. That would usually work.
“Girlfriend? Yes please.”
Not so much hurt now, as bored. Looking around the pub. Silence.
Then she said,
“Let’s go somewhere else.”
That would usually work, too. But I’d decided that tonight it wasn’t going to. Not tonight. Tonight we were going all the way. This was just the perimeter, the initial sandbags of defense. My svelte band of emotional terrorists skipped mischievously over these insults to their training.
“Sure. Let’s go somewhere else.”
I resolved to say nothing between this pub and the next. I succeeded. She was trembling now. Unsure. I was trembling, too. From excitement. She ordered some drinks from the bar. Fucked if I was paying for them, and I grabbed a seat at a circular table, over-ogling other girls. She saw me. She was supposed to. Still no reaction. There were four and a half years at stake here. Mostly good. Why wouldn’t she allow me one off night? But that’s what was so exciting. I’d decided. And she couldn’t see what was in my head. The picture of me having sex with that white-skinned blue-veined prostitute with only one breast. I knew I could cripple Pen. She could probably cripple me, too, but she wouldn’t because I was going to do it to her first.
Why, though? I knew it didn’t make sense. I did love her in my own way. Very much. She was beautiful and fun and caring but I was bored…so bored. I had to think of other girls to get a hard-on. I didn’t want to start the long arduous road to her orgasm, let alone mine. Afraid to touch her in case it was mistaken for an application for sex. So, in order to feel something through the numbness, I decided to perpetrate on my soul and hers the equivalent of quenching cigarettes on my paralyzed limbs. My hope was that if I registered pain, it would be welcomed as a sign of life.
Or maybe I was just drunk.
Either way, my resolve had hardened and I said this, “This is what I look like when I’m pretending to listen to your boring conversation.”
I froze my sweetest expression with my innocent blues eyes widening in pseudo-interest, the same expression I’d used on teachers. Pen eyed me with suspicion. Here was something new. I turned my face away, like an impressionist readying himself for his next character.
“This is what I look like when I’m pretending to be in love with you.”
I gazed at her lovingly, but respectfully, the way I had done so many
times and meant it. I even meant it then but only because I wanted it to be convincing.
“Hang on. What else? Oh yeah. Here’s what I look like when I’m pretending you are even slightly witty just so I can get laid later on.” And I threw my head back in a guffaw with a head-tilt and a sneaky look out of the corner of my eye. Sorry girls. Guys know all this stuff, too. She was starting to catch on. Her eyes dulled. I could help her with that.
“And this is me.”
This I particularly enjoyed. It had been the catch phrase of Ted Carwood, a very popular British impressionist who’d end each of his shows with that revelation before he bid us good night. It was the one time he appeared as himself. I added a variation. The accompanying expression in my case was one of pure provocation. A mixture of Hit Me and Fuck You that I normally reserved for bar-room fights with men much bigger than me. It always worked. I was saying she was a coward if she didn’t hit me. She didn’t, of course. She just looked at me. Innocently. This was more fun than I’d expected. Shouldn’t she at least be crying? I was impressed, if you want to know the truth. But up to this point I was merely doing stretching exercises.
“You think I’m joking. Don’t you?”
No response.
“I’m going to dismantle us tonight. And there’s nothing you can do about it. You’ll have to sit there and listen while I wrench the U from the S. You’ll question your own judgment. Maybe you’ll never really trust yourself again. I hope so. Because if I don’t want you, and believe me I don’t, then I don’t want you being happy with someone else when there’s any doubt that I might get another girl.”
I was not yet aware, you understand, that I was to become the Soulfurnace you see before you. But I was losing the bolt-uprightness I felt I deserved so I added,
“Your cunt is loose.”
She heard it but wasn’t quite sure how to react. I could help her with that, too.