For a second, I was frozen in place, awestruck at the sight of her in that position.
“Nhanh lên!” she shouted.
I didn’t know what she said, but I figured she was telling me to hurry up. After all, in her line of work, time was money and I was standing there wasting both.
Following my erection across the room, I got up on the bed and took my position above her. She had set the clothing standard by keeping her clothes on, so I followed her lead, unfastening my pants and pulling my underwear out of the way. Propping myself up off the bed with my left hand, I guided myself into her with my right. As I did, my fingers touched her moist crotch. The slickness reminded me of the horrible night with Susan, the night she laughed at me for not knowing what I was doing. It was almost as if she was there, sitting in the corner of that tiny room, once again laughing at my ineptness. I tried to push the memory aside and focus on the present, on what I was doing now, not what I had done then. But her laughter was loud, echoing in my mind.
I went into her easily enough. This new sensation shocked me and took my breath away in a sudden gasp. Briefly I squeezed my eyes shut, determined to both remember the feeling and control myself. The last thing I wanted to do was finish too early like I’d done with Susan. But it was right there, ready to burst forth at any second. I dared not move. If I did, I’d surely lose it. I wanted it to last as long as possible so I remained there, hovering over her with my pelvis pressed tightly against hers, waiting for the courage to go on.
When I opened my eyes, I looked down at her and saw she was staring up at me, expressionless.
“Nào!” she said.
I squeezed my eyes shut, ignoring her. I didn’t speak her language and didn’t care to hear anything she had to say anyway. This wasn’t for her. This was for me. I’d paid to use her body. Not for conversation.
When the urge to orgasm passed enough that I thought I could move, I slowly pulled back and then pushed forward. The urge returned, stronger this time. Again, I locked myself in a position and waited for it to pass.
When I opened my eyes enough to steal a glance at her face, I saw the confusion. She wasn’t sure what was wrong, which surely meant that I was the only guy that had ever done this with her. She was used to something else, something different and undoubtedly better. The men that normally used her were familiar with sex. They got in, got the job done, and got the hell out. Not like me with my jerky and awkward starts and stops. So here I was again, still doing it wrong after all these years.
My face flushed with embarrassment and frustration.
She was probably just trying to help me out when she raised her tank top and exposed her bare breasts. They were small and though I’d had virtually no experience with women, I knew I preferred bigger breasts. But tits were tits and the mere sight of them brought me closer to climax. When she grabbed my right hand and placed it on her left breast, I immediately tried to pull away. I knew that if I left it there, I wouldn’t be able to keep from emptying myself into her.
For a little woman, she was strong. She pushed my hand harder onto her breast and I could feel it beginning to happen.
Left with no other choice, I pulled my hips back, intending to pull out of her and wait for the urge to pass once more. I was hoping I could cut it off and make the experience last a little while longer. And I might’ve been able to if she hadn’t wrapped her legs around my waist and pulled me back into her.
Wearing her like a belt, I could fight it no longer. Deciding to just go with it, I closed my eyes and thrust back and forth, in and out, until I exploded, releasing twenty-five years of built-up sexual frustration into her. As my body shuddered, I gasped and panted.
When the shuddering stopped and I’d emptied myself, I opened my eyes and looked down at her. She was covering her mouth with her hand.
“What?” I asked, figuring I’d done something else wrong.
She removed her hand from her mouth and laughed. I had no idea what she was laughing about, but I knew what I thought she was laughing at. It enraged me to think she was laughing at me, at the way I’d fucked her. She was making fun of me for doing it wrong, for being a clumsy doofus who didn’t know how to have sex.
Furious that a cheap and dirty prostitute actually had the nerve to laugh at me, a United States soldier, I shouted down at her. “Shut up, you whore!”
More giggles.
“Shut the fuck up!”
She continued to laugh, her little breasts jiggling as her body shook with guffaws.
My jaw clenched shut and before I even realized I’d moved, my hands were wrapped around her throat. With every ounce of strength I possessed, I choked her, cutting off her air supply and laughter while squeezing the life out of her.
Her eyes went wide and she tried to pull my hands away from her throat. When that didn’t work, she pushed on my chest, trying to shove me away. When that failed, she took to hitting and clawing at my arms and face. By that time, she was weak and her blows had virtually no affect on me.
She was dead long before I let go of her neck. I held on, squeezing tightly until my anger passed.
When I finally let go, I sat back on my knees and stared down at her lifeless body. Her eyes were open, staring up at the ceiling but seeing nothing.
As my ragged breathing slowly returned to normal, I became disturbed by the sight of her. It was more than just her legs, spread open wide like the wings of a dead butterfly. It was more than her pale little breasts that no longer jiggled with her laughter. More than anything it was her eyes, dead yet judgmental.
After pulling the blanket from the edge of the bed and throwing it over her face so I couldn’t see her eyes anymore, I got off the bed, fastened my pants, and headed out of the tiny house. At the door, I paused, turning to look back one last time to make sure I hadn’t left anything behind. I saw nothing to suggest that I’d been there other than the dead whore on the bed and the stream of semen that slowly leaked from between her legs.
I closed the door behind me as I left.
5
Things were different after that. I was different. Something had changed in me, I could feel it. I still kept to myself, still didn’t actively participate in conversations pertaining to sex with the other soldiers, but sex now dominated my thoughts. No matter what I was doing, whether it was construction, deconstruction, or merely fighting to stay alive, all I could think about was sex.
When my tour of duty was over, I came back to the United States feeling as though I’d left a piece of myself in Hong Kong. I would’ve thought the piece of myself I left would have been in Vietnam, but it wasn’t. It remained in the ramshackle home of a cheap prostitute who had lain dead for no telling how long before she was found.
I wondered how long it had taken. How many days had she waited alone in that house before someone finally discovered her? What had they thought when they walked in and saw her that way, with dried semen crusted between her legs, bruises covering her body, larynx crushed beyond repair, her skirt and shirt raised high to expose her sexuality?
Thinking of her in that way aroused me, which was disturbing. But after giving it a lot of thought, I realized that it wasn’t the dead hooker that aroused me. It was what I’d done to her just before I killed her that turned me on so much. It was the act of sex, of simply being with a woman in that way.
There was no denying that I wanted it again. Again and again and again. Jacking off had lost its charm. It would never be as good as actually being with a woman.
The wheels of the plane had barely touched down on the tarmac and I was already trying to figure out how I could have more sex. I didn’t have a girlfriend, so that was out of the question. I supposed I could try to get a girlfriend and see about maybe having some sex with her, but then I remembered the laughter. There were only two times in my life that I had tried my hand at having sex, and both times I’d been laughed at. I wasn’t prepared to deal with that again. Especially not from a girl I had feelings for.
&
nbsp; After thumbing a ride, I returned to my mother’s house with my duffel bag slung over my shoulder. As I walked up the sidewalk, I was surprised to see a well-manicured lawn. I’d expected to find overgrown grass, weeds, and fallen leaves overtaking the place, but instead I found it well taken care of. I couldn’t imagine my mother doing all the yard work, especially in her depressed state. She must’ve hired a gardener or perhaps a neighbor felt bad for her and took it upon himself to help out.
As I ascended the steps and grew closer to the front door, I heard laughter from within the house. It was a shock to hear happy sounds on the premises. It had been so long since anyone at this address had been happy. I assumed no one here would ever laugh again. Yet someone was. And that someone sounded an awful lot like my mother.
I briefly considered knocking as I reached for the door knob, but I opted instead for just opening the door and going in. I still felt as though it was my house too. I’d been paying part of the bills even while I was away. I shouldn’t have to knock.
Quietly I eased into the house, closing the door gently behind me. The laughter was louder now, and I followed the sound of it into the dining room where my mother and five other women sat around the oak dining table eating cake.
My mother, seated at the head of the table, was the first to notice me. As her eyes locked on me, she froze mid-laugh. Her joy dissipated as she processed what she was seeing.
The other women noticed the sudden stop in my mother’s guffaws and followed her gaze to find me standing in the doorway with a military duffel bag hanging off my shoulder.
For a moment, no one spoke.
I didn’t recognize any of the women, and I wasn’t sure they even knew who I was. If they were friends of my mother, she must’ve mentioned me at some point, but I saw no sign of recognition on their faces.
It was my mother who finally broke the silence. In a timid voice, unsure of what to say, she muttered, “It’s Grace’s birthday.”
Several seconds passed with no one saying anything. Then one of the women asked, “Would you like a piece of cake?” She flashed me an awkward smile.
I didn’t want any cake, but I enjoyed the feeling of having a room full of women feel uncomfortable because of me and I was reluctant to have it come to an end.
I glanced at my mother and couldn’t help but notice the look on her face. It was obvious that she was hoping I’d refuse the cake and just disappear, preferably back to Vietnam. While maintaining eye contact with her, I answered with a smile, “Sure. I’d love some.”
After dropping my duffel bag in the corner, I sat at the end of the table opposite my mother, staring at her while the women scrambled to get another plate and plop a big slice of carrot cake on it for me.
With the fork in my hand, I glanced around the table, making eye contact with each of the women.
“So,” I said with a smile. “Which one of you lovely ladies is Grace?”
Giggles and blushing cheeks spread around the table as I took the first bite. I wasn’t sure where my false arrogance came from. Perhaps it was just the excitement of being back home, where I could finally relax and not have to worry about being ambushed. Or maybe it was the power I had over the women in the room. My mere presence had affected them profoundly, especially my mother. I’d be lying if I said that didn’t boost my ego and give me a sense of importance and power. Having control over women felt good. Damn good. It reminded me of the hooker, and as I ate the cake and listened to the women around me gush about this and that, my dick got hard.
I wasn’t so preoccupied with the other women that I failed to notice that my mother’s demeanor had changed entirely after my arrival. Only when the spotlight was on her did she force a quick smile. The rest of the time, she stared at her plate, picking apart the crumbled piece of cake with the fork she held in her trembling hand.
When I was finished eating, I considered remaining in the dining room with the women just to make my mother even more uncomfortable than she already was. I wasn’t sure why my presence bothered her but since it did, I wanted to take it to the limit and make her as uncomfortable as I possibly could. Fortunately for her, I was tired. So instead of staying in the dining room, I gave thanks for the cake and said goodbye to the ladies, tossing the duffel bag over my shoulder and leaving them with another smile.
There were changes that caught my attention as I walked through the house and headed to my bedroom. Besides the cheery and colorful rooms with the curtains pulled back to allow the sunlight to enter, a far cry from the way things had been when I’d left more than a year earlier, there were many more pictures hanging on the wall than there used to be. Oddly enough, all of them were of either Cathy Ann or my parents. I didn’t find a single photograph of me on display anywhere. It was as if I’d never existed, as if once I left the house, my mother had erased me from her life. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hurt.
My bedroom was dusty and dark. It didn’t look as if my mother had entered the room at all in my absence. I dropped the duffel bag to the floor, which kicked up dust bunnies that fluttered around until they found a new place to land. Then I pulled back the blankets and sneezed as the disturbed dust found its way into my nose where it tickled my sinuses. I stretched out on the bed, arms clamped behind my head, feet crossed at the ankles, and I stared up at the ceiling.
My mind buzzed, flitting from thought to thought with no order, no pattern. First, I thought of Cathy Ann. I could almost hear her annoying, whiny voice telling me that if I didn’t play with her, she’d tell Mom. From there I thought of my father, wasting away to nothing before my eyes. Then there was the war and all that was associated with it. The sounds, the smells, the guys I liked, those I hated, and of course the hooker. I wanted to dwell on the prostitute, to relive every second I’d spent with her, go over every single detail in my mind until I could actually smell her in my bedroom. But my mind had other plans. All thoughts led back to Cathy Ann and my mother.
I’d sensed as a child that my mother cared more for the blond girl than she did me. I saw it in her eyes when she looked at my sister, I heard it in her voice when she spoke to her, and it was obvious in the way she touched the girl, gently brushing her hair or smoothing the wrinkles from her dress. She loved Cathy Ann more than she loved me. And though I’d always known it, it was upsetting to see the undeniable proof plastered all over the walls of my house.
I dozed off thinking that I was truly a loner, a man without a family or a home, and those thoughts carried over into my dreams. I dreamed I was isolated, living in complete solitude in the jungles of Vietnam. I stalked my prey through the dense wilds of the forest, using my know-how and my wiles to outwit that which I hunted. My heart raced as I closed in, preparing to strike the fatal blow, a blow that sent adrenaline coursing through my veins as it was delivered. As the blood of my prey splattered my face—prey that turned out to be a naked prostitute—I woke drenched in sweat with ragged breaths and semen-filled underwear.
As my heart rate and breathing returned to normal, I stared up at the ceiling and smiled. Though I’d spent myself into the cotton confines of my briefs, I was in no way satiated. My sexual appetite was strong and demanding. I had needs and desires that must be met. And soon.
It didn’t take me long to find a job working on an assembly line in a local factory. While the job paid me enough to buy a car, a 1965 Ford Galaxie that hadn’t been wrecked in a ditch over a cheating girlfriend, it did little else for me. I punched in at the time clock every morning, did my time standing alongside many others who would rather be anywhere else but there, and I clocked out in the evenings, tired and restless.
With no social life to speak of I usually drove straight home after work. Sometimes I stopped at a burger joint and grabbed a bite to eat so I could just hole up in my room all night and not have to speak to my mother, who seemed as though she was trying to avoid me.
When I first returned from Vietnam, I’d found my mother laughing with her friends. After a couple of
months, she stopped having friends over and rarely laughed at all. Sometimes I would hear her on the phone with one of her friends and she’d laugh, but the rest of the time she wore a solemn expression. As more time passed I never heard her laugh, never even heard her talk to anyone on the phone. I didn’t hear her so much as utter a chuckle. It was as though Cathy Ann had just died and she was once again withdrawn and distant.
The well-maintained yard I’d come home to soon became overgrown. A fine layer of dust settled over the inside of the house. Just as it was before I joined the Army, my mother fell into a depressed funk. No conversations, no interactions of any kind were exchanged between us. She was a turtle who had gone back into her shell.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out that I was the cause of her depression. She had lifted herself out of it while I was away and she didn’t have to look at me or think about me. As long as she was able to pretend I didn’t exist, she was happy. But now, with me living in her house again, she couldn’t pretend I wasn’t there. She was forced to look at me every day and for whatever reason, that made her sad.
Most children would realize that they were the cause of their mother’s depression and would leave the house. They would move out so their mother could be happy again. After all, most children took delight in their mother’s happiness.
I wasn’t most children.
The feelings of anger and resentment I’d had toward my mother when I was a child boiled to the surface, where they remained. She had made me miserable by forcing the Blond Bother on me. I hadn’t wanted a sister. I hadn’t wanted to play with her all the time, to include her in the things I did with my friends. But my mother was always there, making me do things with her. I hated it then and I hated it now.
I had no plans of moving out of my mother’s house. If my presence made her depressed, that was some tough shit. It was her punishment for pushing Cathy Ann off on me all the time and for always favoring the little brat. I didn’t care if the mere sight of me caused her pain. In fact I hoped it did. I hoped it troubled her wretched old soul in ways she’d never thought possible.
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