The Art of Self-Destruction Read Free

top of hers. She
can feel the hardness in his trousers pressing into her leg, smell
his breath, and see the sparks erupting in his eyes. He presses his
face close to hers, the tips of their noses touching. She arches
her neck, trying to touch his lips, to claim him finally. Her head
is yanked sharply onto a pillow, his free hand wrapped tightly in
her hair.
    "Is this what you want baby? You want it this
way?" she thrusts her hips up to meet him, moaning.
    He tries to push her body down with his other
hand, the gold from the broken knob rubbing off on her skin. A
patch of light erupts from her hip bone, reflecting, casting a
ghost onto the ripped and yellowing wallpaper of the room.
     
    He lowers his head, his hair brushing against
her face and her breasts. She attempts to thrust her body into his,
but he continues to hold her down. "Please? Please? Just once, just
once I'd like to...just this once, please? I'm sick of everything
else of one thing all the time of being me of the thing I am and
what is to become and..." she gibbers in his ear, her hips
thrusting upwards with each syllable, stuck in an infinite
loop.
    The fan above them begins to creak louder,
the blades shuttering in the stagnant air. His eyes turn to the fan
and its manic gyrations. She sees him as a frightened boy, his eyes
wide and hair tussled. "This is not what I paid for," he
mumbles.
    Her head jerks to the right and pauses for a
moment, her eyes open wide, her body stiff. She becomes a
mannequin, a harlequin, painted whore/Madonna frozen in time; wax
or porphyry. Then the blood returns, her body softening, head
moving naturally to position her eyes upwards at him. A crooked
smile breaks her perfectly smooth face as she lifts her hands and
runs them slowly through his hair, "Yes it is baby. It's exactly
what you paid for," she says. "You paid for me, for this, this is
what you want right?"
    His head snaps down, his eyes meeting hers.
The connection between neuron and serotonin reestablished, she no
longer reads him. He is empty. "This is perverted. I don't do this
shit. I said no sex." His voice grows in intensity, the adolescent
squeak banished.
    She laughs-a guttural laugh, deep inside, her
body becoming an acoustical resonator, a sound board. Wrapping her
arms around him and bringing his body closer to hers, stroking his
back with her hands, she whispers in his ear "What do you mean
perverted? Sex isn't perverted."
    To prove her point she slowly reaches a hand
up to caress his neck hairs. She can see him shudder as the nerves
send impulses to his brain. She starts to slowly pull her
fingernails across his skin, saturating his brain with pleasure.
Then she slightly scratches the skin, just a little, to add pain to
the pleasure.
    He shakes his head, trying to remove her
hand. In the process, a fingernail is dragged roughly across his
neck, breaking the skin. Blood starts to slowly trickle from the
wound. She can see him flinch in pain. His eyes are angry. "This
kind is." Matthew continues to struggle.
    "Since when have there been multiple types of
sex?" she asks, smiling warmly, "I thought there was just sex."
    He tries to push away from her, but she
tightens her hold on him, pulling her body closer to his, her
breasts pushing against his chest. She can feel his erection on her
thigh. She tries to maneuver her hips so that they are aligned with
his. His struggling only causes him to get harder.
    "I don't need to pay for this. I didn't come
here for sex."
    She raises an eyebrow, "Are you suggesting
that I'm a prostitute?"
    "Yes. Yes, you're a whore. I got the wrong
story. This isn't the one I wanted. I didn't want you, I wanted
someone else. This is wrong. Let me go!" His muscles tense as he
tries to push off of her. She won't let him. She laughs in his ear
as he grunts with exertion, lifting her legs and wrapping them
around his waist, locking him in place.
    "Oh God, just this once?" she pleads. He
begins to thrash, trying to loosen her grip. Her legs