The Need

by Andrew Neiderman

  “Go on, read the diary.”

  “I will,” I said, “but first tell me what sort of an effect seeing all this—what should we call it—degenerative behavior has on you? Do you ever wonder about the deviants? Are you ever curious about their sexual behavior, about what it is that so fascinates them?”

  “It simply disgusts me,” he said. “The diary. Please.”

  I held my smile on him, keeping him uncomfortably in its glow like someone caught naked in a searchlight. He unbuttoned his collar and loosened his tie.

  “Well?” he pleaded.

  I turned back. My back stiffened into Richard’s posture, my shoulders felt thicker, stronger. Despite myself, I couldn’t prevent him from invading me in little ways when I read his words, but it was a sacrifice, a price I was willing to pay, even though I knew there were risks.

  At any point during the reading of the diary, mouthing Richard’s words and thoughts, I could metamorphose. His hold on me could grow so firm that I would fall before him as if he had my wrist in his strong hand and was twisting it, bringing me to my knees.

  “As I drew closer to the young man,” I read, “I could make him out clearly in the illumination cast by the driveway lantern. He looked to be a slim, five-feet-eight or-nine-inch man with dark blond thin hair that lay haphazardly over his forehead and temples like the thatched crown of some monk. He was as pale as one who had kept himself inside copying manuscripts.

  “The same lack of concern for his appearance was evident in his clothing. He wore a faded, formal white shirt, the kind that required cufflinks. He had the sleeves rolled up unevenly, revealing narrow wrists, the left of which had an old watch in a rose gold casing strapped over it. His gray cotton pants were baggy and at least two inches too short. He wore old basketball sneakers with no socks.

  “What attracted me to him were his eyes, magnified somewhat under the thick lenses in clear plastic frames. It seemed as if there was another man trapped within him, gazing out through those eyes, now early morning sky blue. He cracked a smile with his soft, thin lips when he saw me.

  “‘You’re lost, huh?’ he said.

  “I paused before answering, seizing his attention and holding him in my scope of gravity as if he were a moon and I a planet.

  “‘No. I wanted to come here. I wanted to get away from the noise and the glitter.’

  “He laughed, the sound seeming to echo within him as if the person who lived there repeated everything he did and said. His dog stopped growling, but eyed me hatefully.

  “‘You got away from it all right,’ he replied. He looked around, the smile frozen on his lips. Although he was amused I had come to his neighborhood to escape the activity and excitement, he looked proud of what he saw about him. It made me think again that there was someone else within him looking out, for his eyes betrayed a longing for the way things had been.

  “‘You know anyone here?’ he asked quickly, remembering I was there.

  “‘No,’ I said and found myself speaking as softly and as seductively as I would had I been in the presence of a beautiful inferior female.”

  “Oh no,” the detective said. “I feel it coming.”

  “Do you want me to stop?” I asked him. My own heart had begun to pound in anticipation. It was beating with the intensity of Richard’s heart, the thumping reverberating through my arteries and veins and echoing in every chamber in my body. It was as if I were shut up in a room of pipes and Richard himself was hammering on them. The clamor was maddening. I nearly dropped the diary and put my hands over my ears.

  “No, but are you all right? You look … pale.”

  “Yes, yes.” I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and drove the thumping down. Then I opened my eyes and smiled. “I’m all right.” I turned back to the pages.

  “‘I’m just taking Pebbles for his short walk,’ the young man said. ‘He’s nearly seventeen years old and has lived here all his life.’

  “‘I thought he looked like an old dog,’ I said. I smiled at the dog, but as soon as I looked down at him, he growled again.

  “‘He’s not usually this afraid of strangers. Perhaps he smells the scent of your dog. Do you have a pet?’

  “I laughed, a thin, high laugh that surprised even me.

  “‘No. I don’t have time for pets. Actually, most animals don’t like me.’

  “‘Really? Now that’s interesting. Animals are instinctive and very perceptive, yet you don’t look like a bad person to me. What’s your name?’

  “‘Richard,’ I said. ‘Richard Cave.’

  “‘Cave? I knew a Caver, but not a Cave.’

  “‘What’s your name?’

  “‘Gordon Lathrop Cardwell. The name makes me sound a lot richer than I am. Presently,’ he added. He followed that with a short laugh and cleared his throat. ‘Well … Pebbles and I will be on our way. Have a good escape, Richard Cave.’ He nodded and started away.

  “Now this was a challenge, I thought. I had found men attracted to me before. Some men admired me, or should I say, envied me and were in love with me the way they would be in love with an idol, a fantasy for themselves; but there were men who found me sexually interesting to them and who were confused themselves as to why that should be.

  “Gordon Lathrop Cardwell didn’t seem at all attracted to me. His sexual impulses were a normal male’s or apparently subdued, stored away so long they were still in hibernation, despite his youth.

  “Less than ten minutes later, when he returned, I was waiting for him. Just inside the stone wall and hedges in front of his colonial-style home, there was a gray marble bench. I was sitting on it when he turned in and Pebbles began barking again, this time his bark more shrill.

  “‘Well, how do you do?’ he said, but there was something in his eyes that told me he wasn’t completely surprised, and in fact, was pleased.

  “‘I hope you don’t mind.’

  “‘No, of course not. You know, you do look lost. Well, can I offer you something to drink … something soft, of course. Maybe call you a cab?’

  “‘I was just sitting here admiring your home. I’d like to take a look at it,’ I said, but when I looked at him, he could surely see that was subterfuge. He smiled and then sighed. It was as if I had just confirmed a suspicion he had been harboring for a long time, as if he had been expecting me. I must say, that threw me off a bit, and for a moment, I lost my androgynous confidence, my superior demeanor.

  “‘Sadly, it’s not what it seems to be anymore, but you’re welcome.’

  “The dog barked faster as if it understood what its owner had just proposed.

  “‘Now, Pebbles, if you don’t behave you’re going into the garage. Okay, Richard,’ he said, and I got up and followed him into his house. And what a strange house it was.

  “There was only one piece of furniture in the long entryway, a dark mahogany table with a glass surface. It was set against a dull blue wall spotted here and there with family portraits in silver oval frames.

  “‘Parents, grandparents, uncles and aunts, nieces and nephews,’ he declared, gesturing briefly at the wall without turning to it and continuing on through the entryway until we came to the enormous living room, a room which still contained most of its original furniture: a dark blue velvet settee and couch, a pair of matching high back French provincial chairs, marble tables, a hand-carved hutch filled with knickknacks, and a worn Persian rug. The room was lit by a single chandelier, some of its bulbs blown. At the center of the far wall was a white marble fireplace, obviously not used for ages. Now, a potted plant was set inside it.

  “‘Living room,’ he announced. I went in and sat back on the couch. He stood in the doorway, an expression of curiosity on his face now. ‘Don’t you want to see the rest of the house?’ he asked, smiling as though he knew the answer.

  “‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘This is fine.’

  “‘Oh? Something to drink?’

  “‘Nothing.’

  “‘Oh?’ He looked abo
ut as if he had come into the house for the first time himself. Then he turned to me and nodded knowingly, his expression growing very serious. ‘So … you’ve finally come.’ I tilted my head.

  “‘Pardon me?’

  “‘I’ve been expecting you, of course.’ He laughed. ‘I must confess, I expected you would look different … look older, but to be like the times, look like the times, I suppose. Well … I’ll just put Pebbles in his room. He has his own room now. It used to be a den, but I don’t use it and…” His voice trailed off. ‘Be right back,’ he said.

  “The sound system still functioned. He put on some music.

  “‘Movie soundtracks written by Percy Faith. I’m afraid I don’t have anything more up-to-date, more to the taste of you young people,’ he said apologetically.

  “‘This is fine,’ I told him. ‘I’m a lot older than I look.’

  “‘Of course you are. You‘re as old as … as death itself.’

  “How did he know that? I wondered. Who was this strange young man? Was he an Androgyne, too? Janice had told me that there were some Androgyne who were undiscernible, even to other Androgyne, because the androgynous part of them had, for some unknown reason, dimmed. It was the only disease we knew, our AIDS virus, our cancer—the thinning out and weakening of our androgynous being.

  “Of course, no one but us would recognize it as an illness because the effect of the sickness was to make us more like the inferiors.

  “Gordon stood back, reminding me of someone who stands outside a store-front window gazing in at the beautiful but expensive things, afraid to go in for fear he or she will lose control and spend much more than he or she can afford.

  “‘You live all by yourself in this big house?’ I asked. I couldn’t believe that I was nervous.

  “‘Yes. My mother was the last to go.’

  “‘Was she from California?’

  “‘No, Chicago.’

  “‘And your father?’

  “‘He was from New York by way of Chicago. That’s where they met and got married,’ he said, and I thought unless he is fabricating a family history, he is not androgynous.

  “‘How did your father die?’

  “‘Automobile accident. I was only twelve years old at the time. My mother suffered from congenital heart disease and died in her sleep. I came in to bring her some juice and she was gone. They say it’s the best way to go.’

  “My confidence returned. He was just another inferior, albeit a strange one, but just another prey.

  “‘They’re wrong. There are better ways to go,’ I said provocatively.

  “His laugh was thinner. The instinctive warnings had begun, I thought and then I thought, here’s a man who might listen to them. Surely not all inferiors fall to our advances.

  “But he didn’t step back; he stepped toward me.

  “‘What sort of work do you do?’ I asked. What I really meant was ‘Would anyone miss you?’ I think he understood the question.

  “‘I don’t do anything of any consequence, I’m afraid,’ he confessed. ‘I clip coupons, live off some small family investments, just enough to exist, actually. I have no ambitions, no talents, no skills to speak of. I read, listen, to music, occasionally take in a movie. In short, I take from others and give little or nothing in return. Every morning,’ he continued coming closer to me, ‘I feel guilty I’m alive.

  “‘I’ve got this theory, you see, that there is a fixed number of living things in the world and something new can’t be born until something else gives up. So you see, I’m holding back something new, something that might have talent or skill and ambition.’

  “He was standing right before me now.

  “‘That’s why I’m glad you’ve come tonight. I’ve been waiting for you. I’m tired and the echoes in the house are getting so loud I can’t sleep at night. I don’t even dream anymore. I just … relive the day … in reverse.’

  “How strange and wonderful his words made me feel. It was as if I had stumbled upon another holy purpose for our existence, as if I had been selected to do something significant, something few Androgyne were chosen to do.

  “I lifted my arms toward him and he fell to his knees before me. Then he raised his soft blue eyes to me. I took his glasses off and carefully placed them on the floor. His naked eyes were smaller and wet with suffering. When I looked at his thin lips, I felt myself aroused. My pants grew tighter in the crotch. He understood with a perception that made me wonder again if he had some extra sense.

  “He unzipped my fly. I caressed his face, stroked his hair and leaned forward to kiss him on the forehead. When he lifted his face, I saw his tears.

  “‘I’m afraid I’m not very good at this sort of thing,’ he whispered. He was already fondling me. ‘Am I doing it right?’

  “‘Absolutely.’

  “‘I’ve never had any real lovers, male or female,’ he explained. How he could carry on a conversation in the throes of passion amused me. ‘In fact,’ he confessed, ‘I’ve never really been with a woman, other than my mother.’

  “‘You’ve been with your mother?’ I recoiled. Nothing was more distasteful to an Androgyne than an incestuous relationship with one’s mother.”

  “Well, I’m glad there is something that is distasteful to an Androgyne,” the detective said. I barely heard him. My own breathing had quickened; the nipples of my breasts had hardened and a warmth trickled over the small of my stomach. I couldn’t pull my eyes from Richard’s words.

  “‘Why with your mother?’ I asked.

  “‘It’s another theory of mine … men struggle to return to the womb … to the safety. Never were we any more secure and comfortable. So,’ he said sitting beside me on the couch, ‘do you mind if I call you Mother?’ He closed his eyes and brought his head back on the couch. Then he took my hand and brought it to his now opened pants.

  “Strangely, he had no erection. I felt as if I were caressing grapes and a small piece of rubber hose. But when he turned on his stomach and lowered his pants, I saw a most exquisite pair of buttocks, soft, enticing, very feminine.

  “‘I feel as if I am falling back through time anyway. I’ll soon be an infant again, wanting to be fondled,’ he said.

  “I took off all his clothes, and he lay there like some young obedient child.

  “‘Oh Mother,’ he said and brought my hands to his penis again. It had hardened and I finally felt my androgynous hunger. It came roaring in over me, inflaming my skin. My lips became fuller, my tongue expanded and pressed against my teeth, the bottoms of which had become so sharp, they drew a thin incision along my own lower lip. The taste of blood sent a rush into my brain. I felt like roaring, like tearing through his chest and sucking on his very heart.

  “He moaned like a baby and puckered his lips. I drew his life out of him with soft kisses first. He was so eager to surrender. I could actually feel his body dying from the bottom up. It was one of the most thrilling kills I had made during my short androgynous life. As his life left him and traveled into me, I grew larger, stronger and more demanding. I turned and twisted his body to fit it against me. I poked, drew, lunged into him and out of him and felt him shriveling in my arms, his body deflating like a balloon and suddenly becoming limp, empty, a shell of itself.

  “In the end, I embraced him to me and did feel as if I were holding an infant in my arms. He died with a baby’s smile on his lips. I left him naked on the couch, his knees up, his arms bent, his small hands cupping imaginary breasts.

  “I ran out of his house, his dog still barking behind me. I don’t remember how I got home. Perhaps I ran all the way. Suddenly, I was there.

  “Janice was waiting for me, of course, and knew immediately what sort of experience I had had, for his essence still lingered in my eyes.

  “‘Sex can be a torment for them, can’t it?’ I asked her. The taste of his turmoil remained on my lips.

  “‘Yes,’ she said, ‘but it will never be for you.’

  “We sipp
ed some wine and sat in the darkness and talked until she had unraveled all the confusion. How wise and wonderful she was.

  “I fell asleep that night, thankful I had been born an Androgyne.”

  I took a deep breath and closed his diary. The detective was very quiet, his eyes fixed on me, his body frozen.

  “Are you all right?” he finally asked.

  Was I? I wondered. My heart was pounding with a new intensity. Richard was climbing up out of me, clawing his way to the surface. If I closed my eyes, I could see his eyes on the backs of my lids staring into mine. My arms tingled because hair was pressing up and out of my skin. My breasts were diminishing and there was a terrific throbbing in my genitals.

  “He’s coming,” I whispered. “I’ve got to stop him … please.”

  “What can I do?” the detective asked.

  I opened my eyes and gazed frantically at him.

  “Make love to me,” I said. “Quickly!”

  SIX

  “WELL,” THE DETECTIVE said, a smile spreading slowly across his face, “I have been asked to do many things in the line of duty, but…”

  He stopped smiling when he saw the desperation in my eyes.

  “You’re not kidding, are you?”

  I felt a tightening at the corners of my mouth. Richard’s sardonic grin was coming. Quickly, I reached out and took the detective’s hand. He stood up with me and without saying a word, followed obediently as I led him out of the living room to my bedroom. Even though he would not be the first man I had brought there, I felt a certain danger. It was as though I were exposing more than myself by permitting him to see my intimate things.

  I had a king-size bed with an eggshell white cast-iron head- and footboard. It was an authentic antique, weighing nearly eight hundred pounds. There were hand-carved casings of mermaids and nymphs set along the head- and footboard. The bed was set against the far wall, but I could lay there and look out at the ocean when the red silk curtains were drawn open and the blinds were up. Because these windows had a western exposure, the bedroom was particularly bright in the late afternoon. At the moment the curtains were drawn closed.