psychosis, sexual exploitation. In Chrissie I saw someone who'd felt bad about herself and the world and had tried to shoot and fuck herself into better times without realising that she was only compounding the problem. I was no stranger to at least some of the places Chrissie had been. She looked as if she was very ill-equipped for these visits, however, and that she tended to stick around a bit too long.
At the moment her problems seemed to be drink and Richard. My first thought was that she was welcome to both. I found Chrissie pretty repulsive. Her body was layered with hard fat around her gut, thighs and hips. I saw a beaten woman whose only resistance to the attentions of middle-age was to wear clothes too youthful, tight and revealing for her meaty figure.
Her doughy face twisted flirtatiously at me. I was vaguely nauseated at this woman; gone to seed, yet unselfconsciously attempting to display a sexual magnetism she no longer possessed, and seemingly unaware of the grotesque vaudevillian caricature which had supplanted it.
It was then, paradoxically, that a horrible impulse struck me, which appeared to have its origins in an unspecific area behind my genitals: this person who repulsed me, this woman, would become my lover.
Why should this be? Perhaps it was my natural perversity; perhaps Chrissie was that strange arena where repulsion and attraction meet. Maybe I admired her stubborn refusal to acknowledge the remorseless shrinking of her possibilities. She acted as if new, exciting, enriching experiences were just around the corner, in spite of all the evidence to the contrary. I felt a gratuitous urge, as I often do with such people, to shake her and scream the truth in her face: You're a useless, ugly piece of meat. Your life has been desperate and abominable so far, and it's only going to get worse. Stop fucking kidding yourself.
A conflicting mass of emotions, I was actively despising someone while simultaneously planning their seduction. It was only later that I acknowledged, with some horror and shame, that these feelings didn't really conflict at all. At that stage, though, I was unsure as to whether Chrissie was flirting with me or merely trying to tease the seedy Richard. Perhaps she wasn't sure herself.
— We're going to the beach tomorrow. You must come, she said.
— That would be great, I smiled lavishly, as the colour drained from Richard's face.
— I may have to work ... he stammered nervously.
— Well, if you won't drive us, we'll just go alone! she simpered in a little-girl manner, a tactic commonly used by whores, which she almost certainly once was, when she still had the looks to make it pay.
I was definitely pushing at an open door.
We drank and talked until the increasingly nervous Richard shut the bar and then we went to a cafe for some blow. The date was formalised; tomorrow I was forsaking my nocturnal life for a day of seaside frolics with Chrissie and Richard.
Richard was very uptight the following day when he drove us down to the beach. I derived pleasure from watching his knuckles go white on the steering wheel as Chrissie, arched around from the front passenger sat, indulged in some frivolous and mildly flirtatious banter with me. Every bad joke or dull anecdote which spilled lazily from my lips was greeted with frenetic peals of laughter from Chrissie, as Richard suffered in tense silence. I could feel his hatred for me growing in increments, constricting him, impairing his breathing, muddying his thought processes. I felt like a nasty child jacking up the volume on the handset of the television control for the purpose of annoying an adult.
He inadvertently gained some measure of revenge, sticking on a Carpenters tape. I writhed in discomfort as he and Chrissie sung along. — Such a terrible loss, Karen Carpenter, she said solemnly. Richard nodded in sombre agreement. — Sad, isn't it, Euan? Chrissie asked, wanting to include me in their strange little festival of
At the moment her problems seemed to be drink and Richard. My first thought was that she was welcome to both. I found Chrissie pretty repulsive. Her body was layered with hard fat around her gut, thighs and hips. I saw a beaten woman whose only resistance to the attentions of middle-age was to wear clothes too youthful, tight and revealing for her meaty figure.
Her doughy face twisted flirtatiously at me. I was vaguely nauseated at this woman; gone to seed, yet unselfconsciously attempting to display a sexual magnetism she no longer possessed, and seemingly unaware of the grotesque vaudevillian caricature which had supplanted it.
It was then, paradoxically, that a horrible impulse struck me, which appeared to have its origins in an unspecific area behind my genitals: this person who repulsed me, this woman, would become my lover.
Why should this be? Perhaps it was my natural perversity; perhaps Chrissie was that strange arena where repulsion and attraction meet. Maybe I admired her stubborn refusal to acknowledge the remorseless shrinking of her possibilities. She acted as if new, exciting, enriching experiences were just around the corner, in spite of all the evidence to the contrary. I felt a gratuitous urge, as I often do with such people, to shake her and scream the truth in her face: You're a useless, ugly piece of meat. Your life has been desperate and abominable so far, and it's only going to get worse. Stop fucking kidding yourself.
A conflicting mass of emotions, I was actively despising someone while simultaneously planning their seduction. It was only later that I acknowledged, with some horror and shame, that these feelings didn't really conflict at all. At that stage, though, I was unsure as to whether Chrissie was flirting with me or merely trying to tease the seedy Richard. Perhaps she wasn't sure herself.
— We're going to the beach tomorrow. You must come, she said.
— That would be great, I smiled lavishly, as the colour drained from Richard's face.
— I may have to work ... he stammered nervously.
— Well, if you won't drive us, we'll just go alone! she simpered in a little-girl manner, a tactic commonly used by whores, which she almost certainly once was, when she still had the looks to make it pay.
I was definitely pushing at an open door.
We drank and talked until the increasingly nervous Richard shut the bar and then we went to a cafe for some blow. The date was formalised; tomorrow I was forsaking my nocturnal life for a day of seaside frolics with Chrissie and Richard.
Richard was very uptight the following day when he drove us down to the beach. I derived pleasure from watching his knuckles go white on the steering wheel as Chrissie, arched around from the front passenger sat, indulged in some frivolous and mildly flirtatious banter with me. Every bad joke or dull anecdote which spilled lazily from my lips was greeted with frenetic peals of laughter from Chrissie, as Richard suffered in tense silence. I could feel his hatred for me growing in increments, constricting him, impairing his breathing, muddying his thought processes. I felt like a nasty child jacking up the volume on the handset of the television control for the purpose of annoying an adult.
He inadvertently gained some measure of revenge, sticking on a Carpenters tape. I writhed in discomfort as he and Chrissie sung along. — Such a terrible loss, Karen Carpenter, she said solemnly. Richard nodded in sombre agreement. — Sad, isn't it, Euan? Chrissie asked, wanting to include me in their strange little festival of
Similar Books
Bird Watching
Larry Bird, Jackie Macmullan
Dreams for Stones
Ann Warner
Mysterium
Robert Charles Wilson
Cracking Up
Harry Crooks
The Angel
Uri Bar-Joseph
Forever Black
Sandi Lynn
Before the Rain
JoAnne Kenrick
