The Syntax of Seduction

by Carlos Malenkov

  Hoggie must have sensed something was wrong because he released me. He turned away from me and began walking down the path back to the cabins. I ran after him crying his name, but he pushed me away. He rejected me. He continued walking away, muttering something that sounded like "frigid bitch."

  He doesn't pick up the phone when I try to call his cabin, and my notes to him remain unanswered. It's a safe bet that he won't have anything further to do with me. Am I really a frigid bitch? Does frigid mean what I think it does? I can't stand it any more. I can't stand it.

  ***

  Morris:

  It had to happen, I suppose. My mom went snooping through my things and found the sex books. How could I do this to her, she said. Screamed. Her son reading the most vile pornography! Infected by it! Polluted!

  She couldn't stand it. She had to talk this over with someone who could understand how a mother felt when her son went bad. She was going to talk to that nice lady running the administrative office. Of all the persons she could talk to, she had to pick Our Lady of Sorrows, the dried up old bitch they call Holy Jo.

  ***

  Jo:

  I just had to calm down a hysterical woman, one of the guests actually. Her son had been corrupted by pornography and rock and roll music, so she claimed. I finally convinced her that opportunities for mayhem and mischief are severely limited at this well-run resort. She left, no longer screaming and raving, but crying and sniffling into one of my best embroidered hankies.

  The two infernal, depraved books are still sitting here on my desk. Maybe I'll sneak a peek at them to find out just what manner of malign depravity they depict. I must find out more about this evil if I am to combat it.

  ***

  Morris:

  My parents are arguing about leaving early. Mom won't talk to me and Dad just give me a wounded look. What have I done, after all, that's so bad? It was only a little sociological research. They were just books. Just books, damn it.

  ***

  Jo:

  I can't stand myself or my life any longer. Am I to remain cut off from the pleasures of the flesh forever more? Am I forever destined to be a maiden aunt, never to participate in the central experience of life? Anything must be better than this. Anything.

  The books gave me some ideas. Ideas. Ideas I can't get out of my mind. Nasty ideas. Devilish ideas.

  I know what I must do. Break out. Break the ties of morality that bind me. Smash the temple. Become a bad girl, if only long enough to find out. To find out what it's really like.

  Courage. What I need is courage. If there's no other way, I'll take liquid courage. Demon rum.

  All I know is I've got to do something. I just don't know what.

  ***

  Morris:

  We're packing to leave, and I'm in complete disgrace. All I know is I've got to do something. I just don't know what.

  ***

  Jo:

  The supply shed had a Dutch door, meaning that the upper panel could open, with the lower one still latched shut, or vice versa. This was convenient for dispensing fresh linen and towels twice weekly.

  It was as if I were in a trance. I didn't seem to be acting of my own volition. Part of me recoiled in horror from what I was about to do, but another, more powerful part laughed gleefully and made my body do its will. It was evil, what I was doing, but I wanted to do it more than I had ever wanted anything in my life.

  There was a low wooden table in back. No one much used it, except to stack boxes of detergent on, and occasionally one of the household staff might precariously perch on it while sneaking a quick smoke. Its scratched and battered coats of lacquer had mostly flaked off and it had jagged splinters. I dragged that old table over just inside the Dutch door and put a couple of folded woolen camp blankets on top for padding. That would make it more comfortable to perch on.

  A part of me was wailing. I pulled the bolt back on the bottom door, swung it inward, and latched it out of the way. Did I really want to do this? No, no, no! I didn't want to, I had to! I pulled down my slip and stepped out of it. Now I unstrapped my girdle, pulled it off. My bare skin was cold and I was breaking out in goosebumps. I was naked from the waist down.

  I could see several men walking by in the distance. Now or never. One knee up, then both. I was kneeling on the table, bent over. I bent over forward, supported on knees and elbows. I faced toward the virginal white linens stacked neatly on the shelves, and my bare behind was sticking out through the open top of the door. Sticking out. My Mary Jane was sticking out, exposed and naked for all the world to see. And feel. And do nasty things to.

  ***

  Morris:

  I happened to be down by the supply shed when I heard loud voices. There was a small group of men standing in a circle. They seemed to be arguing among themselves. I walked nearer.

  The bottom half of the door where they dispensed linen was open. That was unusual. It was always the top part of the door that they opened. And it wasn't even linen day. The men were gesturing toward the shed. I got closer to see.

  There was something there, something white below the horizontal partition of the split door. I couldn't quite make it out in the late-afternoon shadows. Wait. It was, it couldn't be! It was a human posterior, a bare backside to be precise, and from the looks of it, the very round backside of a woman. Below the cheeks, I saw a dark streak of pubic hair, and what might be the crimson of what my books had described as labia.

  "She's bending over 'cause she wants it, that's why," one of the watching men was saying. "She wants the ol' sausage in her oven, that's what she wants. And which of you guys is man enough to give it to her?" The others guffawed.

  Then they noticed me watching them.

  "Hey, it's the boy wonder. The know-it-all whiz kid. The perfessor. Did yer books tell you what to do with that stuff, huh?" More laughter.

  They had me by the arms and were dragging me toward the doorway. "C'mon egghead, are you a man or a mouse? Pull out your pecker and stick it in."

  They let go of me and left me standing in front of that nakedness. I guess I could have just walked away, having to brave nothing worse than some good-natured laughter and maybe a few jeers. But those alabaster curves and that dark mystery in front of me. Beckoning me. I remembered what the books had hinted at, and it all became clear in that moment. My member stood rock-hard in my pants, and there was a fire raging within me.

  There was resistance. It felt like thrusting into my closed fist when I tried to masturbate without using lubrication. After a couple of pushes and pulls, it got a little looser, began to feel better, and I was throbbing, then exploding, and it felt like the top of my head was lifting off. There were a couple of smears of blood on my penis when I pulled out.

  "Hey, she's a virgin," the guy behind me said. "Was a virgin," someone else laughed.

  Someone clapped me on the back, then they lined up to take turns.

  ***

  Jo:

  It felt like fire the first time, and I must have fallen back into a trance state, and all I knew was fluid thrusting within me, wetness, and intervals of quiet. My insides pulled back and forth in the rhythm of the tides and I became a part of something greater and lesser than myself. It went on and on. I wanted it to stop. I wanted to scream, but I was afraid.

  ***

  Morris:

  I was most of the way to our cabin when I knew I had to go back. She needed me. She needed rescuing. I ran toward the shed.

  There was a long line of men waiting, and someone was pumping into her. I thought I heard gasping and faint cries. Someone was yelling, "Fuck her in the ass!" I had a strong premonition that Something Very Bad was going to happen unless I Did Something.

  I tried the side entrance to the building, and of course there was a padlock on it. It took me about ten minutes of struggling and gouging with my pen knife to pry loose the hasp.

  There she was, the woman kneeling bent over on a table, softly crying, her body trembling. It was none other th
an old Josie. Josie, the resort's paperwork queen. Josie, the woman I had been one flesh with scant moments before. I pulled her toward me and away from that exposed doorway. Sobbing, she fell into my arms and crushed me to her.

  I could hear enraged yells outside. "Come on back! Bring the bitch back!" There were loud thumps, and the wall shook. Time to act.

  A bath towel off a shelf wrapped around her body, another covered her head. Together, hand in hand, we ran out the side entrance to freedom.

  ***

  Morris:

  For about a year we stayed in contact by mail. Jo had gotten pregnant, it turned out. Pregnant. Whatever could have possessed her to bend over and stick her bare behind out that door? Whatever could have possessed me to insert myself into that tormented bent-over flesh? It was a sinister bend, indeed.

  "Satan made me do it!" So said her letter just after the baby was born. Her parents, a folksy backwoods preacher and his beaten-down little wifey, adopted the little boy. She was going away somewhere to try to start a new life. Her last letter included some pages torn from her diary. She told me to read them and repent, then burn them. That was the last I heard from her.

  His followers call him the Final Prophet, the Forerunner of the Second Coming.

  He intends to transform the country into a Christianic Republic under strict religious law. This means "purifying" the Constitution, purging the media of heathen and secular humanist influences, requiring the Lord's Prayer in all public assemblies, imprisoning blasphemers, hanging pornographers, stoning adulterers, and so forth unto bloody infinitum.

  He was just one more fundie evangelist who had managed to gather a following. But this guy broke into the big time. The big big time. It seems that he has this strange force within him, a supercharged form of charisma. No one can withstand his hypnotic stare or the sonorous rolling cadences of his voice. It's almost as if he had some kind of uncanny power over people. Five minutes in his presence converts even the staunchest skeptic to a rabid follower of his cause.

  Both major political parties are clamoring for his support, but he could eat either of them for breakfast. With an 87% approval rating in the polls, he stands head and shoulders above Jack Shabazz and Mariella Goldberg, those piss-poor excuses for presidential nominees we ended up with.

  Last week, he made his entrance into the American Jerusalem, Washington, D.C., riding an ass. Rather blatant, but it worked. There were cheering crowds lining the streets. He only has to say the word, and mobs would march down Pennsylvania Avenue to storm the White House and install him as dictator.

  So, now I'm risking my life (and quite possibly my immortal soul) to go on national television to debunk his claims of divinity. He can thunder from the pulpit about his miraculous birth, but he has my eyes and cheekbones. Damn it, he's my son, my own son. Born to Josephine and Morry, and there wasn't a damn thing immaculate about his conception!

  * * *

  PERSONAL

  "You're what? How old? Eighteen? And you've never had a date?"

  Beth knew she was hopeless. Grossly overweight and ugly. Totally inept when it came to dealing with people one-on-one. Maybe she should resign herself to living the rest of her life without companionship. Finally dying as a dried up old maid. Alone. Forever.

  Freshman English Comp was one of the few classes she enjoyed. The instructor, Professor Wilmington ("Just call me Prof."), calmly took for granted the adulation of his female students. Young -- in his early thirties -- dynamic, and conventionally handsome. A hell of a good teacher, too. He made the act of writing come alive. His praise for an effectively written story or poem, or even just for a well-turned phrase, brightened Beth's afternoons.

  "I'm giving all of you a rather unusual assignment this week. Let us suppose you are seeking a person of the opposite sex -- or even of the same sex if you are so inclined -- for romantic purposes. One method of doing so is through the personal ads in various publications and venues. Well then, write a personal ad. Pour your entire soul into a paragraph or two. Push your imagination and creativity to the limit. Craft the ad as if the rest of your life, or your love life anyhow, depended on it.

  "I will, of course, award a top grade for the best-written ads. Additionally, as a special incentive, I have arranged with the editor of the well-known Voice of the Millennium Monthly to have the three best ads published in their personal ads section. So, you might get national exposure, and a pipeline to thousands of potential boy or girlfriends at no cost to you. Good luck and good writing." Awaken the sleeping princess. A shy and sweetly virginal maid awaits the knight whose kiss will set her free from the cold, cold dungeon of loneliness. . . .

  It was corny and old-fashioned, but it expressed her deepest longings.

  Prof awarded her an A-, and what mattered more, third place in the competition. She had won the opportunity to present her case before a national audience.

  Responses began to trickle in. The trickle became a flood. Beth had a stack of over 200 letters in front of her. All were from men who claimed to be dying to meet her . . . or, more accurately, dying to meet the woman she had represented herself as.

  Prof encouraged her to write back to a few of them.

  "But I'm nothing like what these men expect me to be. I'm fat. And ugly. And afraid."

  "Precisely, Beth. You're terrified. That's what lies at the core of your being -- fear. And that's the challenge you have to face up to. As for the rest . . . certainly you are unconventional in appearance. But you'll discover that some men won't mind, and will, in fact, appreciate your special charms. However, if you don't look, you won't find."

  Beth began writing letters. And she found Arnold.

  Arnold Zartblum was frighteningly intelligent. His darkly luminous sense of humor and fierce joy in living burned through the dry, sterile words on paper. He was a sensitive soul who felt compassion for human suffering, and understood and respected Beth's loneliness. This was all the more remarkable in light of his physical handicaps. He stood all of 4'-8" tall and had a twisted spine.

  My Dear Beth,

  It grieves me that the other men you have thus far met through your personal ad have proven disappointing. Certainly a woman of your quality deserves a worthy companion. Continue to search and you will find him. Were it not for my malformed body, I myself would be honored to find favor in your eyes, and perhaps even . . . seek your favors.

  Meanwhile, if you're amenable to the notion, we'll remain friends.

  L.

  "Disappointing" was something of an understatement. The men were complete jerks. Most lost interest immediately when they found out her looks didn't measure up to pop culture standards. The rest didn't care what she looked like, but then they didn't care about much of anything else except getting her into bed.

  "Arnold, what am I to do with myself? Here I stand, a newly-minted adult, eager to go out and make my way in the world, to experience what it has to offer, sensual pleasures and all. But, it seems that one of life's main avenues is permanently closed off to me. I'm fat! I'm ugly! I'm condemned to remain the perpetual virgin. Doomed!"

  "Feeling sorry for yourself, Beth? Look at me. Look at me. Birth defects doomed me not only to be a perpetual virgin, but a perpetual outsider. I'm a mascot, a circus freak, someone not to be taken seriously.

  "Poor, poor fat Beth. A couple of centuries back you might have been considered voluptuous. Fashionably plump. Poor, ugly Beth. You have a face more interesting by far than most of the vapid Barbie doll clones walking the streets. Spare me your self-pity. It ill becomes you."

  "Whatever other physical problems you might have, Arnold, there's nothing at all wrong with your tongue. I see you spending your evenings stropping its cutting edge."

  "We're two of a kind, you delicious dumpling of a maiden. My soul just happens to be too large for the body it inhabits, and yours is too refined. Let us then console each other with the delights of witty intercourse, since the other kind seems denied us."

  "Witty? What knowest
thou of such matters, churl? Varlet! Ah, well, half a wit is better than none."

  Beth dreamed of Arnold that night. He was a powerful mage imprisoned by a witch's curse within the body of a misshapen dwarf. Only the kiss of his true beloved could release him from the enchantment . . . but he fled her embrace. "Tempted as I am by your charms, dumpling, I shall remain within my protective armor of deformity." There was a wistful smile on his face and a tear in his eye. Beth awoke, and she was wet between her legs.

  "Arnold." She hesitated. "How would you like to take me out to dinner?"

  Even over the phone his voice betrayed amusement.