by Aaron French
I brought the cigarette to my lips, as she watched approvingly, and inhaled from the filter, drawing smoke into my lungs. The tar-thick goop burned my throat, and I vomited.
“Good,” she said, reclaiming the cigarette. She waited until I’d recovered then hopped off the stool, helping me to stand. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been sick. I was embarrassed, but she didn’t seem to mind. No one seemed to mind, not even the bartender.
“Ashley,” she said, shaking my limp hand.
I choked on a dry throat, but managed: “Mark.”
“Wanna fuck, Mark?”
I froze, contracting with fear and excitement. I thought I must’ve misheard what she said, but instead of inquiring about it, I merely nodded and replied, “You know it.”
“Nice.” She smiled. “Follow me.”
***
She led me out the back entrance into the alleyway, which we crossed swiftly like a dream of moonlight, then through another doorway, which led into some abandoned-looking warehouse.
I clutched her hand as we crossed uttermost blackness and a rubble-strewn floor. I could smell oil and auto-parts—a garage? But then we were going through yet another door, which she shut behind her and locked, before flaring a match and candle and revealing her lair. Florid linens of lace and bead strings hung everywhere, around many paintings on the walls, mirrors and strange pieces of iron artwork. There was a dresser with makeup and other feminine products, and a shiny green chair next to an unmade mattress. Clothes lay in piles, with plenty of other dresses and things on hangers in the small, doorless closet.
I’d grown up an only child—enfant unique—nothing but a lonely, fastidious mother in the house. But I imagined if I did have a sister, her room might look something like the one in which I presently stood.
“It’s not my real house,” she said, as if picking up on my thoughts. “Just a crash pad.” Yet something about this made me think she was lying.
She lit additional candles, and then, stepping over a pile of shoes and fabric, plopped down on the bed. On her back, with her legs slightly spread, auburn hair fanning out, her breasts melting in their black halter top. Her orange skirt rode up her creamy white thighs. She kicked off her heels and wiggled her toes at me. “Come on in, the water’s fine.”
I stayed where I was. I wanted to move toward the bed, and certainly my cock did as well, but I was overcome with fear and God knew what else. My heartbeat rang in my ears; tumultuous butterflies darted through my stomach; my skin felt like it was on fire.
Ashley frowned. “Is there a problem?”
I couldn’t make the words come out, and this made me angry. Wasn’t this what I wanted, the reason I had come? Yes it was, but now I was chickening out. I hate you! I screamed at myself. Come on, move it!
Ashley grinned and rose from the mattress, as if through water. “I see you are afraid,” she said, striding toward me. As she came she somehow managed to drop her skirt, stepping out of it. Underneath, she wore red satin panties.
We embraced and she seemed to draw me inward, into an ocean of warm sensations which smothered my fears and insecurities. Her caresses covered them like bandages. I could again move my arms and legs, and at last I was able to wrap myself around her, drinking her in.
She breathed into my ear, “How long has it been since you fucked someone?”
My hands slowed across her body. “Why?” I asked. “Is it obvious?”
She chortled. “Hey, don’t be so uptight. I was only curious. I’ll answer first. The last time I had sex was almost a year ago.”
I held her away. “You’re kidding me. I’ll bet you do this every night. Hell, I never even met you before and you propositioned me. Is this some kind of joke?”
I could feel my erection dwindling, but at least the fear had been replaced by something a bit more powerful—something I knew was hateful.
Ashley looked hurt. “It’s no game,” she said. Then she brightened. “Christ, you are uptight. I’ll have you know that I was raped last year by some muscle-bound asshole and I’m still working to feel okay with my sexuality. When I saw you tonight something happened; it clicked. You don’t look like the other fleabags at the Nipple. You’re different.”
“Jesus, I’m sorry. I had no idea. I thought—”
She silenced me with her fingertip. “Don’t sweat it. I get stereotyped as a slut all the time. I’ve gotten used to it. You answer now.”
I hesitated a moment, her sudden confession awakening my guilt. Finally, I said, “About a year.”
She smiled, clasped my hands, and led me to the mattress. “It appears we’re twins, then,” she said. “That would explain your fear. But I have fear too. Fucking can be scary sometimes.”
You have no idea, I felt like saying. And there was no goddamned way I would tell her the truth—that I hadn’t had pussy since pussy had me. A grotesque, schoolyard expression, but it was going on eight years.
I moved with her, my heart rate accelerating again. I went to my knees as she pulled off my shirt; within a second she was after my pants. Armies of excited gremlins jumped about within me, and my whole body sung like a struck tuning fork.
She tasted of the sweetest honey. Piece by piece we removed the last of our clothing. Then we performed oral sex on each other. Her immaculate pussy was the prettiest thing I had ever seen, formed by God with the utmost precision and care, using the finest hair, the finest tissues. I dove into her with everything I had, and it felt divine.
She eased me onto my back, relaxing me, and spent the better part of ten minutes coaxing me to full erection. I saw her exquisite naked form hovering over me, leg to either side, and then she descended as if out of heaven, guiding me into her and grinding her hips.
Not since childhood—not since I was a boy and the world appeared devoid of suffering and heartache—had I experienced such pleasure. My hands clutched her buttocks, helping to guide her as she rocked back and forth. I saw her pitching above, eyes closed in wanton abandon, thrusting with all her might. I knew then that I loved her, that I would do anything for her, even rip out my own heart at her request.
It felt good to have a reason to live again.
***
Afterward she lay in my arms, head on my chest, dozing. But I was awake, staring up at the ceiling. That’s when I saw it moving along the wood and plaster. At first I thought I was seeing things. It looked like a face, a goat head actually, complete with hooking nose, beady eyes, and two curving horns. It drew down almost to the mattress, bringing the white plaster with it like stretchy gauze. It stared into my face, paralyzing me. My heart raced and I started to get very hot, even though the air in the room was cool.
The face was studying me, tilting its head from side to side in careful inspection. It turned its attention to sleeping Ashley and mouthed four words that sent a shiver down my spine. Her soul is mine…
All at once the face turned black, along with the ceiling, and then, like a creeping vine, it spread across the walls and floor, blackening everything in its wake. Soon the furniture and even the candles grew dark.
In my terror I tried waking Ashley, shaking her shoulders and calling her name, but it was no use. She seemed in a trance, as if she’d fucked herself into a coma.
The room became a black abyss, and out of that emptiness a sound like clopping hooves emerged. The Black Goat appeared right where the door had once stood, his dark obsidian body rippling with muscles and covered in coarse hair. He approached where we lay and glared down at us, his hard, hating eyes regarding me with a fiery intensity; yet when he looked at Ashley his gaze softened and turned almost melancholic. He raised a hand and traced a strange symbol in the air, which hovered in the dark like tracer flames.
The symbol became my name.
She is linked to me by fate, he whispered. Her soul was written into the Book of Names. It forever goes with me, through all its incarnations.
“I didn’t mean to…” I stammered, unable to find the words.<
br />
***
Now that you have linked yourself to her through this material ritual, your soul is thereby placed into my book as well. She has acted as a medium in order to reckon this change. You too will travel with me until the end of the age.
As rapidly as the darkness had descended, it lifted. The Black Goat vanished along with it. The room restored itself to its original condition. Candles flickered, and I heard faint sounds of the old building settling in the night. I took a deep, quivering breath. It was a while before I fell asleep.
***
We began meeting every weekend. Our routine was the same: meet at the Pierced Nipple and have a few drinks, maybe a spastic dance or two, and then retire to her warehouse abode for a night of ecstasy.
Always, post coitus, my mind would wander, refusing me sleep. Ashley, on the other hand, couldn’t keep her eyes open another minute after we’d finished. Without fail the strange goat being would make his appearance. Sometimes he’d be standing off in shadows, half visible, watching us. Other times various pieces of him materialized in the walls and woodwork, even in the mirror, in rows of books and table legs.
I never completely overcame my fear of him, but eventually I got used to the phenomenon. It never once tried to harm Ashley or myself. It seemed to be keeping an eye on us like a concerned father.
When I finally decided to broach the subject with Ashley, I was afraid she’d call me crazy. But I was surprised to find her very open. She listened to what I had to say, my various accounts of seeing the fragmentary demonic being in her room at night. She remained quiet and allowed me to finish.
Then, licking her lips as she smoked, she said, “Well, what you’re describing is not all that uncommon. Ever heard of night terrors?”
I had, so I nodded. But: “I don’t think you’re understanding me. I’ve never seen this Black Goat before. Not until after I met you and we started sleeping together.”
“You’re blaming me?”
“It’s not that, either. It’s just… well… I do think it has something to do with you. Fuck it… maybe I am crazy.”
“Here’s a thought. What if it’s got something to do with fucking?”
“What?”
We were in her room in the old warehouse, the door closed, candles flickering. A Sisters of Mercy CD played quietly in the background, and we were drinking a cheap Cabernet.
***
“I’ve lived here off and on for almost five years,” she said. “And I was raped in this room, you know. Before that I did have sex with other guys, lots of times. And we’ve had sex lots of times in here.”
“I don’t see your point.” There was an edge to my voice because I was fighting jealousy.
She stamped out her cigarette. “Sex has a great many symbols and meanings attached to it, wouldn’t you say? People feel invested in it, so whether they realize it or not, they pour as much of themselves and their emotions into the act as they can, hoping it will reward them. With an orgasm, a lover, a husband or wife, love—whatever. These expectations cycle above their bed like an auric cloud.”
“That’s intense. But what’s it got to do with seeing a hallucinatory goat?”
“Imagine if all that stuff—which no one is aware of, but which nonetheless is there—had a breath of life blown into it. Imagine if it took form and coalesced into a creature of the spirit world, the world of archetypal forms. What would it look like? A satyr, perhaps?”
I shook my head, still not sure what she was getting at.
“What if that creature chose to haunt the particular area in which it had been brought to life, the room where all this fucking and feeling had taken place? The expression, in an artistic sense, of the thoughts, fears, and expectations surrounding sex, carved out in the physical world and granted form… perhaps that’s what you’re seeing?”
Her words left me speechless. For the first time, sad as it seemed, I had actually listened to what Ashley said, instead of just ogling her body parts. And I was blown away. “You speak like a writer,” I said.
“I did work for the school newspaper at my community college before I dropped out. Nice to know I haven’t lost my touch. What do you think of my hypothesis?”
I shrugged, hesitating. I felt nervous about answering her, fearing I might sound stupid, like I didn’t understand what she’d told me—which was half true.
“I’m not quite sure,” was my final, soaring response. “The Black Goat seems so real when it’s happening.”
“A projection of your own fear,” she said calmly. Then, rolling over nakedly on the bed to display the bottoms of her buttocks escaping from the miniskirt, she added, “If you’re not careful the Black Goat will draw more and more force from the depths of your subconscious, until it then reaches an independent existence, and ultimately the ability to destroy you…”
But I had already stopped listening. My hands were crawling up the backs of her thighs.
***
The first night she didn’t show up at the Pierced Nipple, I thought I was going to have a heart attack.
The second night I felt faintly on the verge of passing out. Sitting on my barstool, I scanned the sea of dancing, leather-clad bodies, feeling sick to my stomach. None of the painted-up faces matched Ashley’s.
On the third night, I got extra drunk and stumbled across the dance floor, shouldering into people. One of the megalithic bouncers quickly spotted me and threw me out on my ass. I offered him my middle finger as I landed in a puddle of water.
I built up the courage and crept around the alley to Ashley’s derelict abode. Three nights of no Ashley was enough to drive me crazy. I told myself I didn’t care if I found her with some other guy. I just wanted to know if she was avoiding me.
Illuminating the darkness with my cell phone light, I opened the door to her room. It was empty. All the furniture had been removed, and the room smelled faintly of mildew and old dust.
I stood looking into the doorway for several minutes, confused and afraid, hand quivering as it clutched the cell phone. It didn’t make sense. Where would she have gone? What about her things?
I curled into a ball on the vacant floor and passed out. My sleep was dreamless. In the morning I found two beetles locked in passionate coitus, struggling together on the bare wood.
Stumbling out into the bleary light of day, the Pierced Nipple looked much less exotic: more trashy and rundown. The outside air reeked of burnt motor oil and fast food.
Ashley was gone.
As I shrank to my knees in the alleyway, tears starting to come, I saw the familiar figure of the Black Goat swirling into form in the back walls of the Pierced Nipple. The goat, with its long snout and horns, grinning at me. You are mine now, it seemed to say. Your soul belongs to me.
I didn’t know if I’d ever stop screaming.
***
What dirt and darkness the world was… especially like this, without her. When I was alone. When she had left me.
Was I not good enough? Didn’t she love me, as I loved her? Would she ever be in touch?
Good enough for the goddess Ashley? No such thing. My treasured promiscuous Gothic idol, my tiny black queen. She lived for the night, for the clubs, the drugs, and the boys. She never loved me, for there was no love in her. Passion and rage alone. And besides I was unworthy. I was a worm.
Sure, I’d been dumped before, plenty of times. But Ashley cleaved a greater wound. She had been the best: best lover, best nurturer, best friend. All I desired, she had provided. She had shown me untold pleasures, from which my body still reeled with shock.
But of course like any vengeful goddess she had taken it away, and I was left in the dark, in the confused storm of my thoughts. I felt so pathetic.
I could hardly get out of bed. The room smelled of my defeat. The apartment too smelled of tears and booze, grime and smoke. Would I ever emerge from this cloistered hell? Hard to know. Especially when the only thing that could save me was Ashley, Ashley, Ashley…
&nbs
p; ***
I’d been left with my inner anguish and the face staring at me as I lay in bed, constructed in the walls, the curtains, the glass, the ceiling. The angry hooked nose in the folds of my bed sheets. The blackened horns and beady eyes. The demonic Black Goat was my tormenter. My sentence for lying with Ashley and imbibing her intoxicant pleasures. And now he would never let me be. He would haunt me for the rest of time.
***
Days, weeks, (months?), passed in a wave of melancholy submission, as I confined myself to my home, refusing even to go to work. I was certain this decision would see me unemployed but I didn’t give a shit anymore. Without Ashley in my life, nothing mattered, and every minute that passed without her was an excruciating eternity.
On a Friday afternoon I left my house unshowered and unkempt, reeking of alcohol, and purchased a length of heavy rope from a Walmart around the corner. The clerk looked at me with suspicion, but seeing as how we were at Walmart, he passed me off as just another freak.
***
I returned home and tied the rope to the highest beam in the building, fashioning a noose to the frayed end. It took several tries, but with the help of a Google search I was able to manage. I lay back in bed, staring at the dangling noose through the open bedroom door.
It was only matter of time.
***
I slept and drank so much that my reality began to blur until it blossomed into a full-blown fantasy. I spent so much time in bed nursing an alcohol bottle—slipping in and out of dreams—that I forgot what was real. I wondered if Ashley had been real.
Sometimes I stared out the window, observing with disinterest the dim gray world passing along. I couldn’t access my fears or emotions. I felt numb. I felt done in. I felt myself moving in and out of strange mental pictures bound up with memories of Ashley. Suicide was sounding more and more appealing.