Darling

by AnonYMous

  "Don't worry, Paul," she giggled contemptuously. "You won't get in me again. You don't even get near my bug. You don't even flutter its wings."

  "What are you talking about?" he said, embarrassed that she had seen his fear. "You talk like there's a mosquito eating at your..."

  "Cunt? Pussy? Snatch?" she laughed again.

  "Gloria!"

  "That's all it is," she screamed. "Stop reading your fancy psychology books. Stop turning women into goddamn monuments or the Virgin Mary. There's only one Virgin Mary, and she had a mighty rough time. I don't want God in my cunt. I just want a man. Are there any? Do you know any?" The white eyes floated before her and laughed into her blood-clotted face.

  "I think," said Paul, "that you should see an analyst."

  "Great, " she answered. "Do you know of one with white eyes?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "I want an analyst with white eyes. I want him to fuck me back to sanity."

  He leaned to look closely at her and his chest brushed the protruding breasts. Again his penis urgently pressed against his pants. Then his tongue was searching her closed, cool lips.

  "Let me, " he cried. "What difference can it make to you?"

  Gloria pulled her head back and said, "Try, just try to be a man for me."

  "Yes, yes," he said, not hearing the accusation in her voice. "Let me try."

  He pulled the sweater over her head. His fumbling fingers caught the snap on her brassiere and pulled the restraining cloth away from her mounds. He ran his hands eagerly over her soft, warm tits, pinching the nipples between his thumb and forefinger. He didn't dare look at her face. With a grunt, he pressed his mouth against the stiff pink knobs at the tip of her tits. He sucked at the pinpoint hole in her nipples, trying to drain milk from the breasts that had never suckled.

  "You darling; you darling," he murmured against her softness, each sound and breath giving the warm breasts new sensations.

  Then he levered himself up and stuck his cock eagerly between the valley of her tits. The channel was dry and he crushed the mounds of flesh tight against his shaft, feeling the pulsation, the separate heartbeat. His penis expanded, fatter and stiffer, pressed against her woman's body. And still she didn't move.

  Blind with the heavy, throbbing need of his prick, he reached his hand under her skirt, pulling at the garters and fragile stockings. He lifted her body half into the air, and clumsily hauled the panties and stockings off in one long silky piece. He slid her skirt off last. Gloria lay flat on the bed, completely, ravishingly naked. He got on his knees beside her and ran his fingers up her delicate ankles, her thighs, her hips, her fragile waist. His tongue followed his fingers, tasting her cunt, her breasts, her belly, the fleshy inside of her thighs. He crushed himself against her smooth stomach to relieve the tormented steel rod growing out of him. He rubbed helplessly against her cool skin. Up and down, up and down, until he heard her even breath grow rapid and gasping. Only then did he look into her eyes, seeing them glitter at him from a terrible depth. Her mouth was closed, and she looked nearly unconscious with her beautiful head crushed into the pillow.

  "I love you. I love you. I love you," he groaned, tenderness mixing ecstatically with his fierce love-hungry prick. Her eyes looked back at him with pure hate, turning his stomach cold. With rage and frustration, he pulled her passive legs apart, and rushed his blood-heavy prick into her pink and sensitive flesh.

  Her pussy was almost dry, and its unconscious resistance to his penis made him grow harder and more enraged. He tore into her, forgetting the woman or thing beneath him. He knew only that he was dying in his tortured cock, and that the hot elastic channel of inner flesh was giving him back his life. He ground up and down, in and out of this hot path, hypnotized by the rhythm of his desire.

  He clutched at her shoulder and whispered into her ear to the cascading of her body, "I love you. I am helpless in you. Love me."

  Then he felt the passion imprisoned in his prick rush forward for freedom. From his muscled thighs, his knotted stomach, his prick grew rigid and leaden, and when it had to break from its own weight, it shot sperm deep inside her in convulsive spurts.

  He fell exhausted against the pillow, his face mixing with her perfumed black hair.

  "Darling. My darling," he gasped, catching his breath, his body buzzing into normalcy. But when he looked down at her face, he saw her eyes were cold.

  "Leave now," she whispered, her voice dead.

  "Gloria, my darling," he almost wept.

  "Leave now, or I will kill you," she repeated.

  Her white face wanted him dead.

  He got up from the bed, zipping his trousers.

  He bent to speak to her ... to plead for communication, for time. And he heard her say, in a trancelike voice, "Leave quickly, Paul, or I promise I'll kill you."

  CHAPTER IV

  What was the point of going outside, when everything you wanted was inside? Gloria lay on the bed for hours after Paul left, waiting. Waiting for the sounds in the hallway. Waiting for her rapist's footsteps. For a tap on the window, a scrape on the door. Waiting and not waiting. For there was no longer a reason to move.

  I wouldn't want him to speak to me

  , she thought. I never want to hear his voice. I wouldn't even open my eyes. If only I could just stay here in the bed, stretched out naked and eager, and he would come in with his prick already stiff, and thrust it into me without touching my body, or even wanting me. If we could only have that between us, his fat cock in me, and not a word. And I wouldn't want to know his name, or where he comes from, or the women he goes to after me. I'd give him money, I'd feed him. He could sleep here, even not with me. If he could just get in me, rub me into life when it gets dark and hot in this room. Maybe he's literary and I can sneak an ad into the Saturday Review – Girl on West 10th Street hunting for rare edition of obscure Scandinavian poem called, "Under the Stairway." Or Girl on West 10th Street lost first volume, looking for second volume of "The Quiet Party." Oh God, I'll never find him and my cunt will rot in me. I'd like to kill him. I will. I'll find him and I'll kill him.

  Maybe an ad in the Villager. Girl on West l0th Street wants furnace stoked. Probably he can't read. Can't do anything but fuck, that's why he's so good at it. It doesn't hurt me so much inside if I think of him. Maybe it'll relieve my pain if I think of him and keep my fingers here against my clitoris. That's a little better. I can't stop doing it to myself. I'll have to sit in art class with one hand stuck between my legs, and go to the movies and pinch this pit in me. It's so small, so small ... why should I feel it in my whole body? Why can I feel it in my toes and belly? Why do my nipples harden and my breasts swell when I touch it like this? I wish I could reach my cunt with my mouth. I could lie in bed like a cat with my tongue stuck in me. Probably I can buy something that feels like a mouth, or train a dog or a cat, a cat's tongue is rough, or a horse or an elephant to suck me. Oh God, I'm coming. I'm coming. All alone. I don't need him. I don't need anyone. Coming in a flood. God help me, it's worse. It's hotter than before. Where is he? I've got a hot river inside me. Was there poison in his sperm, or some chemical that drives me crazy. He's the devil ... that's why they warn us about the devil. He's got a tail with a hook on the end of it. He's scraped out all my sanity ... I must take my fingers away. I must get dressed, and live. I'm caught. Trapped in my own cunt, and I can't let myself out. Somehow the sun set. It did so with the same rhythm it had all the other days of her life, suggesting that some people had gone to sleep the night before, and awakened for breakfast, and walked until lunch, and sat in the movies until dinner, and had two drinks at eight, and gone to bed at eleven. She wondered if she would ever sleep again, create again, or laugh, or sit in the theatre, or play the Mozart records that she had jealously collected.

  Gloria turned on the bed and felt her hot face against the pillows. No, she was all right now ... it was just one day of delirium. Some girls lost their virginity hard, and she was glad to be done wit
h hers. If you ever did truly lose your virginity. If you ever did stop being a virgin for the first man who fucked you. He had fucked her. Not made love to her, or caressed her into womanliness. Paul had made love to her. She could not remember him very clearly. He was a prick without personality. And she thought of looking for faces in a penis, the way one looks for the face of the man in the moon. In subways, you tried to picture the faces hidden in men's pants. Vaginas had no faces.

  The phone rang abusively. That was the second time that day. The only two moments of sound she remembered. Was it him? That it might be was her only reason for moving from the bed, and her hips rolled to reach the receiver.

  "Hello."

  "Hi Gloria. It's Janet."

  "How are you?"

  "A little bored. Would you like to go to the Art? They have a new Italian film about some beauty who doesn't wear any makeup or underwear."

  "No thanks, Janet, I have some work to do tonight."

  "Work!"

  "Maybe we can go tomorrow if it's still playing."

  "Gloria, you sound funny. Far away."

  "I'm right here. I just feel a little introverted today."

  "I told you to see my analyst. He's wonderful. He says that if you feel introverted, be introverted. Just enjoy it."

  "I am enjoying it."

  "Oh, you don't sound it."

  "I am. I've been playing with myself all day. What does he say about masturbation after the age of consent?"

  "Gloria!"

  "That's the way to beat introversion. Just climb inside yourself with your thumb and index finger."

  "Don't be disgusting."

  "I agree. It would be better if you could reach yourself with your tongue. Cleaner too."

  "Gloria, are you drunk?"

  "No!" She wanted to scream at the girl's cool, empty, analytical voice. "I'm just hot. Can you understand that? Have you ever been hot? Do you ever want your darling analyst to come over to the couch and say, 'Move over?'"

  "I should say not," Janet sniffed. "You don't understand anything about analysis. He's like a father to me."

  "Well then, didn't you ever want your father to say 'move over?' To stick his big, thick cock in your tight pink pussy? I thought that was what the whole fuss was about."

  "That's perverted!"

  "Look, Janet. Go see this Italian actress. Let her be hot for you."

  "Well Gloria Hofstra! All I can say is that you're a very sick girl!"

  "I know. That's all you ever say."

  "Goodbye!"

  "Janet, wait, wait a second. Janet, were you ever raped?"

  "Certainly not. Rape is a masochistic fantasy. Only women who want to be raped get raped."

  "Oh for God's sake," Gloria said with exasperation. "Goodbye."

  She moved out of the bed and saw the sloppy pile of clothes heaped on the floor. I should take a shower before I get dressed. I don't want to feel all wet and then get dry and be clean, she thought incoherently. Entirely too much fuss about being clean. As if living is a sin and we wash off the traces of it every day.

  She reached into the pile of clothes for her pants, and released the silk stockings from the garters. She pulled the silk panties up around her hips and felt the wetness of Paul's sperm against her crotch and a little down her thighs. If only the wetness were from the rapist. His eyes had been like white milky sperm. Probably his whole body was filled with sperm up to the top of his head, and his prick was its only exit. So his whole body worked to explode in a woman.

  Gloria fastened her bra blindly behind her back and slipped the coffee-colored sweater over her head. She stepped into striped gray and brown pants, tight around her belly and hips, and clinging to her rounded calves.

  At least if I get out of the house, I'll stop thinking about him. Maybe he'll be in one of the bars. He might be along McDougal Street or Third Street. I'll look in the coffee houses for him and the bookstores.

  She walked down the four flights of stairs, stopping behind the stairway when she reached the bottom. There were a few spots of blood dried on the tiled floor. So it had happened. She pushed the hall door open and felt the evening air against her face. She walked down 10th Street, heading towards Washington Square. Maybe he'll be sitting in the circle, listening to the guitar players.

  The park was alive with people. Young beautiful boys walked in pairs, their tightly blue jeaned legs outlining the curved space between their thighs and their bulging sex. Size was the absolute standard for gay boys. Size queens. And they so arrogantly pushed their ten inches of male-devoted pricks before them.

  Walking at the side of the lovers, like precious children, muscled boxers and sleek Dalmatians sniffed at neighboring dogs. Even the dogs in Washington Square were faggots, sniffing with equal interest at male and female. One of the boys turned and looked at her and recognized her. His eyes were soft and pained like a poodle's.

  "Gloria, the most beautiful woman in New York."

  "Hello, Jack."

  "Honestly, honey, you make me want to go straight."

  "Maybe we should try."

  "Babycakes, set a date."

  "Now, right here in the middle of the Circle in the Square."

  "I don't think Harry would forgive me."

  "Bring Harry along. We'll make a threesome."

  "Gloria, I almost feel like forgiving you for being a woman. If you were a man, I could love you."

  "You're afraid once you get inside me I'd never let you out."

  "My balls are too precious to share with a woman."

  "Just think of yourself as a machine, a fucking machine that we use."

  "Lovely."

  "You know, nothing personal or involving about it."

  "Jesus, baby. My jeans aren't big enough for this kind of talk."

  "They're perfect," cooed Gloria." I like to know what effect I'm having."

  "Look, darling, I'm game if you'd like to try. Threesomes really are a ball."

  "Jack," she said, feeling the gnawing inside her that made the talking not a game, "I have to look for someone now. If I find him, he has preference. But stop by at 11 o'clock if my eyes aren't good."

  "Harry, too?"

  "You know I wouldn't leave Harry out of anything."

  "Darling, he'll be thrilled. You know, he used to make it with women, and every now and then, he thinks of them. It drives me mad. This might solve all my problems."

  "Solve some of mine, Jack."

  "What's the matter, baby? You look as though your best friend fucked your other best friend."

  "Just come at eleven. I wouldn't be able to get through this night alone."

  "Darling, I never knew you were so civilized."

  She smiled grimly at him. "Do you know a man with white eyes?"

  "White eyes? He sounds adorable. Can he come too?"

  "If he comes, it's a party for two."

  "Oh, you mean he has characteristics other than white eyes."

  "Yes. He has a beautiful huge cock."

  "Gloria, please! I'm only gay ... not perverted like other people."

  "See you at eleven, Jack."

  "With bells on."

  "That's original."

  "Darling, you'll clang."

  "Eleven."

  She watched his slim hips saunter away, so eager to deliver the surprising news to Harry. She thought of Harry's sleek body. Oh God, if only they could help her. Harry had been a football star at Wisconsin. He had thick muscled thighs. That she had seen at Fire Island the summer before. The boys looked at him with hot awe, and this was Jack's season. She hoped he had a big prick.

  Gloria turned her head and looked at the couples – old ladies and turtle-necked aesthetes sitting on benches. Their voices droned on ... "Nothing's been written since Harry James..." ... "Joyce was the end of the novel" ... "So I said to him, I'm no easy lay" ... "I mean he's a bore, and compulsively clean. Always picking things up after me." But no white eyes and no thick, cruel voice saying, "Just a quiet party."

/>   She crossed the lane, stopping over the cement steps of the Circle in the Square. Some unshaven intellects were playing the guitar and singing Harry Chapin songs. They seemed contented and complete.

  She sat and listened to them, feeling the empty space between her legs. She remembered the moment when he had pulled her paralyzed legs around his hips and his cock had been rigid before him. At least I excited him. He had wanted her desperately at that moment. He would have killed her had she resisted, and taken her dead. I would have felt it even if I were dead. Her tight cunt had tried to keep him out, but he had ripped into her, not feeling the impotent resistance of her flesh. Maybe I'm the first virgin he's ever had. Maybe he'll remember me. Maybe I'm a special lay, and my cunt throbs in a way no man has ever experienced. But he had left. With cold disdain. He had left with what he'd come for. Why hadn't he wanted more? Why could men be satisfied and be left whole and separate? Why couldn't they leave a part of their prick in you, and screw you viciously every night and morning to get it back? Why couldn't one woman's cunt be a maddening mystery to them? To keep them kneeling forever before you. They got on their knees like slaves, but got up like masters. As if they resented their need to fuck, and walked away free, till the sperm collected in them once again. What a lousy joke. What a miserable riddle, that they resented their need. And most resented having it satisfied. Yes, they called professional virgins cockteasers ... but a tease was the best part of their game. And a woman didn't feel like that. Once a cock got in her – a big comfortable maddening one – she never wanted to let it out. It was like getting back a missing piece. Maybe women can do something to each other, since they all share the same defeat. I'll try women if I don't find him. I'll try anything. There's only one thing I want more than him in me – I want him dead. I must have my victory to live again. I'll find him. I'll kill him in me. So he can have his last gasping orgasm in me. An orgasm to last him for eternity. And he'll lie in his grave with all the sperm shot out of him, finished.

  Gloria stepped across the cement barrier and walked toward McDougal Street. He might be in El Remo, sitting with the junkies and asking if anyone knew where to get some pot. Conrad or Maurice may recognize him if I describe him. They know everybody who steps below Fourteenth Street. He's as good as dead. I'll buy a knife and keep it in my bag. I'll exchange knives with him. See which cuts deeper.