The Mammoth Book of International Erotica

by Maxim Jakubowski

  I said Isabelle, I’m sorry . . .

  What, dear?

  Sorry, I’m . . .

  What? making love to me?

  You’re just a kid.

  She said I am not.

  I said no, not now.

  I said oh God Isabelle . . .

  She said don’t hurt me! You can’t hurt me!

  No . . .

  She said (her blood on us both) I don’t wanna be sad! Remember what I told you? We have to be happy at all times. What else is there?

  Isabelle . . .

  And she said make love to me again, if you want.

  (CUT TO:)

  She said I will crown you my prince.

  I said prince?

  King?

  I like king.

  You are King and I am Queen.

  Of what country?

  What country do you want?

  This country.

  She said you can’t be King of America; you’d have to be President, and there’s no nobility in that; it’s not a life-long occupation. And I don’t wanna be First Lady. Our country – it’ll be far away. In Europe, y’know. It can be in any time we want – now or in the past or the future. It can be a small country, but we’ll be powerful. We are powerful. We are respected.

  I said you decide then. We can make up our own nation.

  Okay.

  She said a magical kingdom! WITH beasts&knights&elves&maidens.

  Maidens.

  I was once a maiden; a damsel in distress.

  Were you now?

  She said you saved me. This is when you were fightin’ for your family’s God-given right to rule this land. Our country was in turmoil: evil was all around. Bad wizards and conspiring witches with trolls&vampyres. I was being led in a dungeon by this wicked overlord. They beat me and did bad things to me. They were not nice at all. You loved me, you did. And you and your – your merry men – came and saved me. Then you established your rule, your right to the throne recognized. I became your wife.

  I said and you became queen.

  (CUT TO:)

  She said who can take this from us?

  Hm?

  She said who can deny us?

  I said no one; we’re alone.

  Yes, we’re alone; no one can lay a dirty finger on us.

  No.

  These people on the outside – they all have unclean hands.

  They’re all bastards.

  They hate us.

  They do – but why?

  She said they don’t understand that’s why.

  No, they don’t.

  They don’t understand dreams.

  They hate us.

  They bite us.

  They file complaints.

  They snicker.

  They pass judgments.

  She said no one will ever comprehend our life.

  No.

  And do you love me?

  God, yes.

  We’ll fly away.

  Away.

  To a never-never . . .

  I fell asleep with her there, Cynthia, asleep on Isabelle’s Momma’s bed and the sheets stained with her new womanhood. I had this dream, too. The dream had two parts. In the first, Margo came home with some man, and seeing us in her bed, she freaked out. The man was worse. He had plans. He had a gun and he shot all of us. We were on the floor, bleeding with bullet wounds. Margo dead, Isabelle crawling to me, crying. In the other part of the dream, Margo came home, and she was alone, and Isabelle and I had to run, run away together, with my car, the law after me, and we drove through Amerika: fugitives.

  Driving in a car:

  She said don’t drive so fast.

  I said we have to.

  It scares me.

  Are you afraid of cars?

  No. Yes.

  I know cars. Don’t worry.

  But do we need to drive so fast?

  Yes.

  I’m scared, honey.

  Don’t be.

  She said we’re out in the world.

  I won’t let them take you.

  What we left behind . . .

  We’re starting over.

  Will we be happy?

  We will.

  In a motel room:

  She said this room makes me nervous.

  Hush.

  I just feel . . .

  I said what?

  Michael?

  Come here, hug me.

  She asked are you happy?

  I said you’re with me; how could I not be happy?

  We have this: us.

  It is ours.

  No one can touch it or hurt it.

  We should go – go all over Amerika.

  She said we need to go where dreams are made; where the sun is always out and there is no rain.

  Driving in a car:

  She said all this driving is gettin’ to me.

  I said we’ve seen a lot of Amerika.

  She said we could have driven all over Europe.

  We’re almost there.

  To our life?

  Just like we dreamed.

  In another motel room:

  She said I hate all this runnin’.

  I said we have to run. What do you think they’ll do if they found us?

  She said I don’t want to think about that.

  No.

  She said how much time do we have left in this play?

  Not much.

  We were standing in a stagelight and she was pregnant:

  She said we’re here.

  I said yes.

  She said this is it.

  I said yes.

  She said we are married.

  I said yes.

  She said we are safe.

  I said yes.

  She said we’re gonna have a baby.

  I said a child; my child; I always wanted a child; your child; ours.

  Feel her, here. Feel her.

  Her?

  Her.

  How do you know it’s a girl?

  She said I just know. And she’ll be happy. We’ll all be happy: together. Never have to worry about a thing in the world – food or money or rapists or killers. My baby will know her daddy. All my babies will know their daddy. We’ll have a house. The house will be clean. We’ll have cars. Credit cards. VCRs. We’ll go to operas and art galleries. We’ll fly to Europe.

  –Isabelle? Isabelle, where are you? Oh Jesus . . . I had this dream, you see. I want to tell you about this dream. We were in this gulag – this prison – somewhere, and they were torturing us. They called us names we didn’t like. There seemed to be no way of getting out of there. One night, the watchmen left their stations. They just bailed. The path was clear. We could have left, escaped, ran away. We could have been safe. We were weak but we still could move. We didn’t. We stayed. We maintained to the familiar. We didn’t take advantage of the situation.

  –and then I was on the floor of the trailer, the killer was leaving. Margo was dead, I was dying. Isabelle crawled to me, to hug me, to bleed on me, to die with me.

  I said it was all a fantasy, it was all a dream.

  Isabelle said it’s all we have that matters.

  And she died.

  I woke up then, not certain if I was awake or in the dream, or dying from gun shots, and maybe I was dying or dead, or in a motel, running with Isabelle through Amerikan landscapes of the haunted, the chimeric crux of the matrix, but I saw that I was in the trailer, in the bed, and Isabelle, peaceful, was asleep next to me. My head was clear, I saw what I had done, and knew my dreams had told me what my life may be like. I did not want any of this, I did not want this at all, this terrible mistake, this error in judgment, this second of silly lust and reverie; maybe one day I would pay for it, but I had to go! I had to run like I ran in the dreams but I had to do this one solo so I carefully, quickly, quietly got out of the bed, put on my clothes, took one last look at Isabelle and the blood that was dry, and I left, I left her, I never looked back.

  We sit there, looking
at one another, and Cynthia says maybe we should put her to bed. I tell her I think that’s a good idea. She says will you help me? and I say I will and we both lift Kathy – she stirs but does not wake – and take her to her room, place her in bed, the bed we had been making love in not but a few hours ago, and we cover her with a blanket, and we look at each other, Cynthia&I, and we look at Kathy, and we leave the room. In the hall, we stop, immediately kiss. She says we have to go to her room. She takes my hand, she leads me there, we undress and lie on the bed. She says I am not like Isabelle, I am not a young virgin. I say I’m not like Daniel, I won’t need instructions.

  She says you mentioned an engagement once.

  I say in the Isabelle story.

  True?

  What?

  Were you engaged?

  Yes.

  Beth was her name?

  I don’t look at Cynthia when I say yes, her name was Beth.

  What happened?

  Don’t remember.

  She smiles, kisses me, reaches down and grabs my cock. I’m not quite hard yet. I lay back. Cynthia goes down and sucks and I think about the four times Daniel came in her mouth. I want to do a lot of things to Cynthia. I pull her PJ bottoms, I reach into them, running my finger along her asshole, thinking of Beth. She says she likes that. It could be Beth’s voice. She looks at me, my cock against her cheek.

  She says I want you to fuck me the way you fucked Kathy.

  I say do you?

  She says you can do anything to me tonight, do anything to me you did to her. Do anything to me you didn’t do to her.

  I tell her that I had wanted to fuck Kathy in the ass but Kathy doesn’t like that, wouldn’t let me.

  She says I know.

  Do you?

  She says that’s why you’re playing with my asshole now.

  I say you like it that way?

  She says I like getting fucked any way.

  She stands, opens a drawer in her dresser. First, she steps out of her PJ bottoms, leaving the top on. She takes from the drawer a small jar of Vaseline. She scoops some on her fingers, squats, applies it between her buttocks. She takes another scoop, comes to me, rubs the jelly on my cock.

  I say you’re not kidding.

  She says I’m burning; all this tension; all this talk; all that we have done tonight. I need to be taken in a terrible way; the worst way.

  I feel deviant; I feel perverse; I feel as though I am in the celluloid of one of those triple-X movies I watch now&then. I have often thought that no one truly leads such nice pornographic lives, doing all those kinky things, thinking these thoughts in solitude when I have rented&watched pornos, but recalling that, yes, in fact, I have, now&then in my life – as I am in this moment of my life – acting out, in flesh, my most vile fantasies. And when I have rescinded such, as I am now, when I have thought back, looking into my head for those nasty bedroom spectacles, I conjure the image of Beth, Elizabeth, crazy sweet Beth and her vampyre-look and anal sex carnalities; that is, to say, my former fiancée, Beth, could only get off if she was getting it up the ass; there was just no other way, she had to have it in that forbidden girth, and she would rub her clit going to town! she’d say going to town! as I fucked her in the ass, and she’d come, come hard, come unlike any other woman I have ever known, and I would just look at her, in stupefaction, asking myself where did I find such an odd femme? In fact, I could ask myself the same thing, as I hover over Cynthia, Cynthia on her stomach, with her rear hoisted in the semi-light of her bedroom, Kathy dreaming her angel dreams in the other room. Cynthia whom I am about to penetrate in the same manner as I had wanted to enter Kathy, as I had entered Beth numerous times in our past life together. I could ask myself how did I get into this situation tonight and I should feel lucky, for indeed, many men would feel fortunate, many men would have envy, some would call me a sick pig, some might raise their brows and some may deem me an anti-feminist, a user of women, a taker, as it were; but all in all, here I am: in this apartment with two women and I have, in the course of the night, had them both in the most intimate way possible, as I have fucked my memories as well. Cynthia lets out a deep sigh as I enter her, but not with the same ease I used to have when going into Beth. Cynthia is tight, resists, but finally succumbs. I push Cynthia’s rear down, wanting her to be flat on the bed, and she does this, turning her head to look at me, blonde hair in eyes, asking how does it feel? I tell her it feels good and she says the same. She bunches the pillow, places her head on it like a delicate object of renown, looking to the wall, as I begin to fuck her. She emits small noises from mouth, closing eyes.

  I reach under her, to find her cunt, her button, hoping, at first, she might do this herself, but knowing it is a job I will have to take on myself, for she isn’t Beth, she could never be Beth, no one could be Beth; when I used to reach for Beth’s cunt, she’d tell me she wanted to do it herself. She’d say there was a special way she did it that no one else in the world could so she’d do it and she just wanted me concentrating on fucking ass. Beth, oh, Beth, what happened? I remember the first night I met her, in that underground club, where they were playing dark gothic music from England (how I wound up in that club I don’t know, I had dropped acid that night); Beth was dressed like a ghoul: with a torn black lace dress, knee-high leather boots, very pale skin, purple-dyed hair that fell past her waist, and black lipstick. In my state of mind, I thought she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen; I had to talk to her, so I did, and we seemed to get along well. She had a soft, low, sweltering voice, almost like a child’s at times, and sometimes like a grown woman’s who has seen too much of the ugly orb. She said she wrote poetry; I asked what kind. She said the kind about the nightfall of life. I laughed. She said what’s funny? I asked her age. Twenty. I asked what do you know about life’s darkness&twilight? She said she did. I told her I was frying on acid. She asked if I had any more. I said I did. She held out her hand, the devil child expecting a treat. I fished from my jacket pocket a tab of LSD and she took it and said let’s go someplace. This is what I really liked: at the time I was heavily into fry and didn’t know that many girls who cared for the drug as much as I, with the pious fervor of an impassioned Baptist. Where we wound up was at her small apartment. She had a room covered in purple, draped, mantled, assuaged with that goth-favored color; on the walls were posters of The Velvet Underground, Jim Morrison, Ian Curtis, Siouxsie and the Banshees, Bauhaus and The Cure. She wouldn’t stop giggling; the acid was very strong. We were drinking red wine, which she dribbled down my chest, told me was blood, the nosferatu’s nectar. She had some coke on her person. We were quite fucked-up. She looked splendid without her clothes: oh-so-very-pale skin, not ravished by the sun. She said she hated the sun. Her skin was so smooth, couldn’t fathom it was real. She had dyed her pubic hair purple as well. I went down on her; she had an odd taste I could not place – not bad, just peculiar. She said come on baby fuck me. Bauhaus was on the stereo, “Bela Lugosi’s Dead” – how quaint, how perfect. She reached to take my hands in hers as we fucked, her legs spread out, breasts flat on her chest, nipples pinkish-brown. I kneeled by the side of the bed, taking her; she sat up some, nipples now erect, lips smeared in black, eyes Egyptian, purple hair tangled everywhere across her face&shoulders. I wanted to change positions. I turned her over. She asked if I was going to sodomize her. I said I didn’t have any plans but I would if she wanted me to. She said that’s the only way I can really get off. I spread her cheeks, looked, saw this was no virgin flower bud here, it opened so easily, the width of it, so I slipped in, using the lubricants from her cunt, and she cried OH YES and reached down to whack-off her clit, coming instantly. After fifteen minutes of this, she must have read my mind, she knew I was going to shoot soon, she said don’t come in me baby I want to suck you off. I lay on the purple bed and she took me in her mouth, cock dirty, and I thought this girl is really kinky. After I burst in her mouth, she told me she liked all the tastes mixed together: her pussy&ass, my sperm. S
he put her head on my chest, said she liked me a lot. She was stroking my dick and it got hard again. She got on top, slipping me back into her ass this way. I looked up, grabbing her tits, saw the joy on her face, sex&acid, finding this all so strange. I knew I’d have to keep seeing her. When I went to the bathroom to take a piss, she followed me, knelt before the toilet, looked up with her make-up-smeared eyes. She wanted me to piss in her mouth. She opened her mouth wide to prove it, tongue pink and long. She held it open as my urine splashed off that tongue, some going down her throat, some dribbling off her chin, down her chest, onto the linoleum floor. She wiped her mouth, made an ummmmn sound, smiling at me. She stood, tried to kiss me. I turned away. She smiled&said they were all like that – stick all sorts of shit into her mouth to eat but they didn’t want to taste it themselves. I grabbed her then, pushed her against the wall, and kissed her, tasting what she had to offer. This excited me. I threw her on the bathroom floor, hard. She told me yes, told me to be rough. I lifted her legs, found her asshole, and went in for the third time that night. I slapped her. I pulled at her hair. She scratched my body in many places. I shoved my cock, coated with her ass, down her gullet, so deep she nearly gagged and I told her to take it take it take it coming coming coming.

  We went to sleep after that.

  She made breakfast. She looked different, but still pretty: like a doll. Like something that could shatter with ease. We went to the park later. She wore all white: white skirt, white blouse, white sweater, white wide-brimmed hat&shoes. She said do I look like a sacrifice? We held hands like new lovers do, kissed a lot. She told me she didn’t want this to be a one-night stand. I didn’t either. She let me read her poetry: images of cemeteries&dead horses. Weeks became more weeks.

  She said she loved me. She called me baby and dear a lot. She worked at a bookstore, selling volumes she said one day she might write herself. Somewhere along there, we got engaged. We were dropping plenty of acid, three times a week, and doing a copiousness of coke. She also liked to drink Southern Comfort. Our sex got more and more violent. Once I banged her head against the wall so hard, blood seeped from her nose. I licked it away. We would spend hours, in a drugged haze, connected by cock&ass. I would fuck her that way all night, into the morning, coming seven, eight, nine times until I had nothing left in my balls to give. But her ass wanted more. She had a thick dildo, and I’d assfuck her with that as she sat on my face, allowing that stranger, her pussy, to juice itself into my mouth. We would go for drives, we would stop at certain points because she wanted to give me head. Then she wanted my piss.