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This
is the future home
of author Robert Scott Leyse.
_______________
In
the meantime, here is an excerpt
from his first Angie & Ella
epistolary novel, due in print in winter 2008.
_______________
In
Quest of a Stable Girl
From:
Justin
To: Angie & Ella & Steven
Sent: Saturday, September 20, 2003 11:49 PM
My
friends, I beg your indulgence: more of my usual complaining's
going to follow – more bitching about my apparent inability
to encounter a single girl in this city who's content with being
safe and predictable! There has to be some of them out there –
I'm pretty certain they actually exist – but do I ever get
involved with them? Such bliss continues to elude me! The only
girls I get mixed up with are strife sowing crazies who can't
stand it unless there's some conflict going on! I mean, what do
I really want? Do I even know? I think I want emotional quietude
in relationships, but the minxes I get mixed up with hardly bear
it out! Maybe I secretly want the friction? But why, then, do
I get authentically upset with myself after "misreading"
a girl again, experience real dread, lacerate my soul with speculations
as to whether I happen to be sane? After all, you know the saying
concerning the company a person keeps: if I'm drawn to lunatical
wildcats, it's certainly an indication that all's not well within
myself and that, God forbid, I might very well have more in common
with them than I care to admit! I mean, what sort of relationship
roller-coaster torture ride am I on? Why am I endlessly putting
on the hair shirt of manic girlfriends? What nasty doings in a
former life are forcing me to atone for them via girls who quickly
get out of control and turn on me, bring on panic and chaos, usurp
all chances of being at peace with myself?
Yeah,
you've heard it all before. So why am I bothering to write of
my girl fiascoes again, resume bewailing my fate? Perhaps in an
effort to comprehend my predicament, decipher what makes me tick?
Perhaps so as to relive the latest misadventure and, in so doing,
better arm myself against future ones? Perhaps merely to laugh
at myself? At any rate, it's Saturday night and, instead of seeing
the girl described below again, I'm here at home. At least in
writing this I have a relatively safe means of passing the time,
as opposed to allowing yet another nutcase to seek to drag me
into her demon populated world.
So
here goes: I'm going to sort of make it into a story – write
it fiction style, with an introductory beginning and, hopefully,
a wrap-it-up ending. Perhaps I'll manage to get some therapy out
of it:
* * *
Well,
I should've known… Why? Because Chrissy's a dancer! A dancer
at Webster’s, where she does the go-go and hula hoop routine
in the blue and pink light show. No matter that Chrissy's also
a law student at Fordham; no matter that she's a diminutive thing
of ninety-eight pounds, five feet four; no matter that she has
the sweetest face and most melodious little girl voice; no matter
that she blushes easily, and chatters on and on with blithe enthusiasm
about anything at all: none of these "nice" things,
aside from suckering me into being attracted to her, count in
the least! All that matters is that Chrissy’s a dancer,
tight little package of nonstop frenzy onstage, and that her physical
stamina's more than matched by a will of steel. Chrissy dances
as if she's seeking to exorcise demons and, obviously, she doesn't
fully succeed in doing so because there are plenty of demons left
over regardless of how much she dances. That frenzy of hers onstage?
Well, unfortunately, it lingers in her afterwards and spills over
into other things. Chrissy really ought to wear a warning sign
around her neck that says "Highly Inflammable!" so that
peace loving guys like myself know to flee, instead of falling
for her sweet girly appearance (even a pink polka dotted ribbon
in her hair, for Christ's sake!) and getting stuck with a wildcat.
So
last night I get home with my prize – with blithe, blue
eyed, curly haired, petite Chrissy. All's well at the beginning
– a lot of hot cuddling on the couch, after she's eaten
the popcorn and cantaloupe and yogurt we stopped at the store
for. Lots of lingering kisses, slow runnings of my fingers up
her arms, caresses of the back of her neck, swishings of her hair
in my face – plenty of laughing banter, admiring gazings
into wide eyes, compliments exchanged. All very non-threatening
and safe, right?
An
hour or so later, once we've performed sundry delightful explorations
of one another's physique and are plenty excited, Chrissy glances
meaningfully towards the bed. Well, who am I to deny a pretty
girl a reasonable request? I grasp her by her rear (really grab
her ass firmly; a very wise girl – you, Ella – once
explained to me that a man needs to be a man when seizing a girl's
ass, let the girl know he really appreciates her ass and enjoys
grabbing it) and lift her as she wraps her thighs around my waist.
We're deep dish kissing the whole time as I carry her to the bed,
ease her to the mattress; and then… Well, no reason to go
into details. Suffice it to say that it was great sex, as one
would expect from a dancer. An ardent girl, Chrissy, and very
fit: quite strong for her size, solid muscle and conditioning
under her soft silky skin.
Again,
so far so good, right? Yes, a nice stable night of mattress tussle,
healthy and refreshing: I had no cause to complain whatsoever.
A couple hours of sex followed by some cheery post-play –
tickle games, lots of ass slaps and giggles, the exchanging of
amusing childhood anecdotes, some simple quiet cuddling. Chrissy's
sweet demeanor had remained sweet; her blithe voice had remained
blithe; her kind eyes had remained kind. She hadn't, like so many
other girls the second I get them into bed, acted as if I'd flipped
a switch; she hadn't slipped into strident mode and revealed darker
impulses and dragged me into them. In other words, I was blind
and stupid with contentment, a sitting duck.
Because
listen to what happens next. I open my closet so Chrissy can select
a shirt to wear (Typical, right? She wanted to wear one of my
shirts – a sort of post sex trophy – while making
some breakfast.) and she notices I have some ski pants folded
up in there.
"So
you're a skier?" she asks.
"During
the holidays," I answer, not knowing what I'm getting into.
"Do
you have a ski mask?" Such an innocent question…
"Yeah,
a couple – see?" I retrieve them from the upper shelf
to show her (if only I'd said I didn't have any).
"Would
you mind putting one of them on? – I want to see."
So
I put on the ski mask, naïve fool that I am, and what happens?
Chrissy abruptly stomps up to me, seizes my shoulders with both
hands, digs in her nails rather savagely, and heatedly says, with
a hard glint in her eyes: "I want you to tie me up, ski man!
I want to be your hostage on the hard tiling of the kitchen floor!
I want rough treatment, no more of this (she gestures towards
the bed with contempt) tame middle-of-the-road lovemaking
that's a real bore, and that's hardly enough!"
Yes,
that's the innocent thing that turned the night topsy turvy: a
ski mask! It's always some seemingly innocuous thing that sets
these sweethearts off! Once it was yogurt in the refrigerator;
other times it's been 1) my rosary, 2) a bottle of olive oil,
3) a picture book of cats, 4) my black raincoat, 5) the elk antler
I found on the mountain in Idaho, 6) a bag of apples: how am I
to anticipate that such mundane items as these are going to bring
out the wildcat in these kittens? How will I ever know any peace?
The
sudden edge – hint of a snarl – in sweet Chrissy’s
voice, insistence of her eyes? I've seen good girls flip flop
into bad without warning far too often not to realize she’s
absolutely in earnest; but that hardly means I'm going to obey
without efforts to escape. So I laugh, and say, "Yeah, sure,
Chrissy! Very funny! Here, let me take this thing off so we can
have breakfast – I'm starved."
"No!"
she hisses, grabbing ahold of my hands to stop me and again wielding
her nails, scratching and stabbing at my palms to accentuate the
rising volume of her voice: "Don't you dare take that mask
off! You stare at me at the club while I dance like you want to
rape me; you bring me here and tease me with your dick; you joke
and laugh and tell me stupid stuff from when you were a boy: you
do all this to mock me! You don't take me seriously! You treat
me like a teenager when you know I'm a mature woman! You seem
to think I can be pawned off with a routine fuck, childhood stories,
and breakfast! You know very well what I'm really about, but you're
not acknowledging it! You're either toying with me for your amusement
or just plain lazy tonight, and I'm not going to stand for either
one! Not a chance am I going to be made fun of or fobbed off!
(She stamps a foot and brings her face closer to mine; her
whole expression's a snarl; her eyes flare.) Yes, you can
plainly see I'm not the sort who stands for boring mundane crap;
and yet you treat me like a bimbo and shit on me! Do you have
to get up early to take your Mommy to church, little boy? Is that
why you're going to feed me breakfast and show me the door and
go beddie-bye all by yourself? Or is there another girl coming
over? Bastard! Do you really think I'm going to clear out for
a successor? Damn it! You are going to keep that mask
on; and you are going to abuse me on the kitchen floor!"
"Whaaaat?"
I'm thinking. "Whaaaat?" I might as well be in a complete
stranger's apartment or out in the wilds somewhere: I'm certainly
deriving no comfort from being at home! "Home" no longer
exists; the walls of my apartment – barrier they represent
against the unpredictability of the outside world – have
dissolved! I'm all alone with this manic she cat, being dragged
into feelings of unease far better suited to a life on the streets!
And, as far as her suspicions go… Well, there's nothing
like confusing imagination with actuality, is there? That's something
these firebrands all have in common: they only see what they want
to see – they always act upon stuff that only exists in
their heads! They create a rationale for conflict by dreaming
up qualities I don't have and accusing me of things I haven't
done!
"You
– you come with me!" Chrissy stammers, yanking at my
arms with real fury. Is this the same girl who entered my apartment
earlier, all giggles and hair flicks and flutterings of eyes?
No! This is an outraged fury with a glance like a glare –
a glare that grinds hard in the pit of my stomach, brings tightness
to the surface of my skin, envelops me in a chill! My apartment
– my home! The walls are slamming in on me, and spinning!
It's as if I'm walking through a narrow collapsing corridor as
I cross the spacious living room to the kitchen, pulled by her.
No sooner are we in the kitchen, than the white tiling blazes
bright enough to nearly blind me.
Chrissy's
shortly on her back on the tiles, still yanking at my hands. "Do
it, you bastard! Tie me up with something! No, tape me up! That
duct tape over there, do my ankles and wrists! I'll scream if
you don't! I'll go in the hall and scream, and bring the neighbors
out!" Another everyday object turned against me – the
tape I use to wrap up my ancient suitcase that would otherwise
fall apart! A ski mask, duct tape? Again, I despair of ever ridding
my apartment of unforeseen stimuli – hidden lightning rods
– such as these!
"I…
I have no idea what you want from me, what I'm supposed to do…"
I venture, still vainly hoping to escape. "This is stupid!"
I very stupidly, given Chrissy's frame of mind, declare.
Cute
little delicate flower Chrissy’s response? She sits upright
in a second and punches me squarely in the stomach (Good thing
she's as diminutive as she is; if she had physical strength to
match her rage, I'd be on the floor gasping for breath.), then
starts flailing at my chest. "I could kill you!" she
yells. "If I was a guy, I would kill you!"
Then she jerks herself away, sits silently glaring at me with
her arms wrapped around her knees, is literally vibrating with
hate. She seems to be gathering herself for a spring at my face.
"Aaaahhh!"
she shrieks, grabbing at her cheeks with both hands and violently
shaking her head. "You – you – you're sick! You
fire me up in bed – you fuck me doggie style and then from
the front while sucking my neck and caress me all over and tell
me how beautiful I am, and now you deny me a simple request! I've
gotten naked for you: do you think I do that for every guy? Yes,
I've gotten naked for you, and it gives me some rights! I want
you to tape me up and scream at me and keep me prisoner here;
and you'd better do it! I swear I'll bite if you don't!"
So
saying, Chrissy lunges at my wrist with her teeth while attacking
my shins with a flurry of kicks, although still seated on the
floor. I yank my wrist away, seize her shoulders, and wrestle
her onto her back on the tiling: annoyance, I don't mind admitting,
rises within me. Yes, she's backed me into a corner and is going
to get her way! Damn it to hell, here I go again, giving into
the twisted desires of a cutie I thought was sweet and balanced!
I seize her hair and wind it about her throat, as much in fear
as in anger.
"You
want me to be a big bad man, you messed up mixed up little girl?"
I ask, pinning her to the floor with my knees while tightening
her hair around her throat (not too tightly, mind you; just enough
to show her I'm physically in control). "You stay flat on
the floor like this or else, I swear to almighty God, I'll wring
your lovely neck with your hair!" I hear myself shouting.
"That’s right, you don't move a muscle – you
allow me to get the tape from the counter without so much as a
twitch – or your hair becomes a murder weapon!" I don't
believe I'm saying and doing this stuff – I don't at all
like saying and doing this stuff; but what choice do I have, given
that hellcat Chrissy's demanding it and will become tantrum city
if I fail to comply?
And guess what? Chrissy lies perfectly still when I let go of
her to get the roll of duct tape, regarding me with something
that looks like admiration, even joy. Yes, I'm being obedient
and roughing her up and threatening her, so she's happy! And,
of course, I'm in hell! Because the last thing I want to be doing
is playing this domination and abuse game! Sure, Chrissy's the
one being subjected to rough treatment, but she’s forcing
me to do it! Sure, I'm playing the dominant part, but I'm actually
the submissive one! I've been conscripted into slavery, pure and
simple! A petite thing's pushing me around in my apartment against
my will, making me do a lot of things I don't want to do!
"Cross
your ankles, bitch!" I hear myself yell. I kneel, rapidly
wind some tape around her ankles. "Now, your wrists! Cross
them!" Likewise, I tape them together. I most assuredly don't
enjoy taping Chrissy up – I'd far rather be quietly cuddled
next to her in bed or kissing her goodbye at the door –
but I sure like the idea that she's no longer able to scratch
and kick. Only one thing else: her mouth! Her venomous –
peace-of-mind slaying, delusion spouting, threat spewing –
mouth! I confess to deriving something approaching satisfaction
when I tape it shut! But, now what? What now?
I'm
standing there recalling that Chrissy wished to be screamed at,
insulted and threatened, while taped up; I'm glancing at her eyes
and they're definitely emphatic about something – she's
knitting her brow and jerkingly nodding what's probably a "Do
it!" command. And, sure, I'm still fearful of the consequences
of failing to heed this lunatic’s wishes – and sure,
I still feel plenty cornered – but, for now, the lunatic's
helpless, so I say "Aw, the hell with this!" and walk
out of the kitchen, shutting the door behind me.
I
recline on the living room couch, grab the remote, start the CD
player, and turn it up loud enough to mask any squirming on the
floor noises that might be emanating from the kitchen. I unseeingly
stare at the ceiling, feeling none too secure concerning the remainder
of the night. Chrissy might be bound and gagged in the kitchen,
but at some point I'll have to release her, and what then? Will
she spring at me with tooth and claw, force me to tape her again?
Will I be standing guard the whole night through, enduring her
demon fits until dawn and beyond? How much more conflict will
she compel me to participate in? When will she tire of holding
me hostage in my own home?
A
couple hours pass – maybe as many as three. At any rate,
the rising sun's just beginning to set the edges of the window
shades aglow when I hear myself say to myself: "You've got
to face the hellcat sometime! Might as well get it done!"
So I'm soon at the kitchen door, pulling it open and stepping
inside. Chrissy, wide awake, seems to be content, even happy;
but I don't trust her. When I kneel beside her and remove the
tape from her lips, I'm already flinching in expectation of a
flurry of reproaches; but she only murmurs "Thank you, honey."
in a pleased sounding, dreamy manner. Naturally, I'm no closer
to trusting her - she could easily be faking niceness so as to
dupe me into setting her free; but, again, I still need to let
her go sometime. So with one eye on the tape dispenser at my feet
– in the event she'll compel me to restrain her again –
I complete her liberation by removing the tape from her ankles
and wrists.
But
my apprehension's unnecessary. I mean, would you believe it? Chrissy
says: "I adore your insubordination! It was cute the way
you cursed me and just walked out and left me here on the floor!
It was even more of a punishment to be left here alone! It was
ballsy of you, and I thank you! And you’re such a handsome
head, yes you are!" With that, she frames my face with her
hands, gently strokes my cheeks with her fingers, and plants a
long soft kiss on my lips.
"Love
me gently," she continues. "Here, come to bed."
Chrissy takes me by the hand, regards me with eyes brimming with
affection, and pulls me towards the bed. Once we’re in bed,
you'd never know she's the same girl who was hissing curses and
demanding rough treatment a few hours earlier: such gentleness
is in her touch as she wraps her arms around my shoulders, nestles
her head against my chest, and sighs. But that's how it always
is with these metamorphosis girls – they seem to have next
to no memory with regard to their behavior; their past actions,
even if they be two hours old, don't exist for them: when they
want something, they want it now.
"Handsome
head," she repeats, regarding me with the crystalline blue
of her half-lidded eyes, so awash with kindness. With her head
pressed into the pillow she's a perfect picture of little girl
naivete and vulnerability. And I don't doubt that this aspect
of Chrissy is authentic – I know it is. But I also know
that the desperate, taunting, violent side of her is equally as
authentic. And I don't care how sweet and loving she is now: I
won’t be at ease again until she decides to go home and
walks out the door.
Oh,
and that's another thing that's always fun: waiting for these
wildcats to decide it's time to go home! Make no mistake: cutiepie
Chrissy isnt leaving a second before she wishes to do so; I'm
stuck with her until then and had better not reveal I'd like for
her to leave sooner; the greatest crime I could possibly commit
would be to indicate I've had enough of her company, and wish
to be alone; there's absolutely no forgiveness for such things
from a hellcat's point of view and no retaliation's too tame;
I've learned this lesson the hard way, and have no wish to be
schooled in it again! "Hell hath no fury," indeed! How
many hours total have I spent waiting in my own apartment (Where
I ought to be laying down the law! Ha ha, what a joke!) for Miss
Trauma-Dramas to clear out? Weeks? Months?
As
for what's going on in Chrissy's cute capricious demon-hatching
head: I'll bet she's convinced that she'll be coming over again
to throw more tantrums, insult and bait and anger me until she's
once more bound and gagged and abandoned on the kitchen floor.
In fact, I know she's convinced of it – the sweetness in
her eyes tells me so. Yes, she firmly believes I'm game; that
I enjoy being attacked, forced to rein her in! She thinks this
is the first night of a beautiful, passionate, tumultuous, storm
tossed relationship! But I'm telling you this: the second changeable
Chrissy's out the door, I'll be informing the doormen not to let
her in again. (And I well know I'm a constant source of amusement
to the building staff - that I'm "the guy who's always getting
in over his head"; "the guy who relies on us to clean
up his messes"; "the guy who thinks he likes the wild
ones, then gets scared" - but that's OK: I make their jobs
less boring, and they appreciate that.) Yes, I'll be informing
the doormen that Chrissy never gets in again; that, if she comes
over (and she undoubtedly will), I don't want to be buzzed or
even told of it; that I want to live in blissful ignorance of
the extent to which she seeks to cajole them into allowing her
to press my buzzer herself!
OK,
Angie, Ella, Steven: this is the end of my tell-last-night-like-a-short-story
attempt! As you know, variations of the above happen to me again
and again! I'm cursed with reverse radar! I'm always bringing
home the opposite of what I want! I'm locked into some sort of
vicious self-punishment cycle! I'm a magnet for maniacs in cutie's
clothing without wanting to be!
And
how come there are legions of girls thirsting to play abuse-me
games, anyway? What is it about being screamed at, flung on the
floor, tied up, slapped and spanked that gets their eyes to brim
with affection? How come gentlemanly behavior – treating
them right – only elicits mockery, scorn, contempt? How
come they want to be confined in dark closets (Oh yeah, I've had
them request that!), or bound and gagged in the bathtub and covered
in yogurt, or lashed to the top of the dining table with an apple
crammed in mouth (Yes, that too: I'm not making a thing up!)?
These girls are well-educated, have money, dress in good taste;
they're even level-headed, socially adept, and lead balanced lives;
and, of course, they've got cuteness and poise and cleverness
to burn!; and all of them are into taunting and insulting me until
I do their bidding and subject them to humiliation theater; and
they'll stop at nothing to get their way: they'll try to bite
me, bend my fingers backwards, dig in their nails, throw stuff,
kick! – they'll threaten to run screaming down the hall
and draw the neighbors out, as delightful Chrissy did; they'll
say they’re going to phone their fathers, their big brothers,
anything!
So
what's the deal? I'll tell you what the deal is: these girls are
going on the Internet and reading BDSM erotic shit and firing
up their imaginations! No sooner do they read that stuff, than
they want to do it! Ha, not to mention the old standards,
de Sade, Liaisons Dangereuses, and the Story of O!
Yes, they allow stupid fiction to persuade them they're bored
with comfort and in need of being slapped around! They end by
being convinced that they're sick and tired of being admired for
their beauty and complimented and treated right! They end by thirsting
for degradation, and despising guys who want to be nice to them!
OK,
I'll admit I'm being silly! I seriously doubt if reading is to
blame! Human nature, pure and simple, is to blame: too much of
a good thing turns it sour, and the opposite is craved! We're
a leisure society – our standard of living's far too high
– we have far too much time on our hands; and so some good
old fashioned turmoil, uncertainty, and fear is hungered after!
Hmmmm… Is that true?
OK,
enough: I could babble all night in this email, but what for?
Why worry about ascertaining the cause when the only thing that
concerns me is the cure? As for the cure… Have I come any
closer to solving my riddle? Am I going to suddenly cease becoming
entangled with strife-hungry girls simply because I wrote this?
Is my next conquest going to be a sweet stable girl who'll only
wish to be showered with kindness, and who won't get lunatical
on me? Will I, from this point onwards, stop spending the night
with darling angels who soon change into fallen angels that insist
I fall with them into dark places where I don't want to be? Yeah,
right! Convenient – tailor made – emotional and psychic
solutions only occur in fiction and are inherently false. People
don't change. Once locked into a propensity one, like it or not,
really has little choice but to be swept along by it: that's how
real human beings behave! I don't care how many nicely structured
and slickly edited fictional works say otherwise!
So
my patient friends (hopefully I haven't succeed in exhausting
your indulgence by now), although I really wish I could assert
that I've helped myself by jotting the above, I know I haven't
done so at all and refuse to lie! After all, what would you have
me do? Would you want me to act like some laughably unrealistic
character in a novel and assert the above has assisted me in solving
my problem, and that I'm well on my way to finding a mate to live
happily ever after with in domestic bliss? Ha ha! I have a little
more self-respect than that!
So
Angie, Ella, Steven: thanks very much for reading my latest exercise
in futility! I'll spare you any furthers, and see you at the Boathouse
tomorrow afternoon!
Justin
email
Robert Scott Leyse:
rsleyse
"at" shattercolors.com
(use the @ symbol)
In
Quest of a Stable Girl
Copyright © 2006
by Robert Scott Leyse.
All rights reserved.
_______________
Angie
& Ella will be starring in their first novel, entirely epistolary,
which is due in print in winter 2008. It takes place in Manhattan
between the first and last days of summer, 2003,
and will contain the following chapters:
I.
Summer's Delirium
II.
Trailer Trollop Romp & Martin's Comeuppance
III.
Office Rescue & The Nightie Shred
and Tie-Up Game
IV.
Harlot Impersonation, a Cab Ride,
& Pink Grapefruit Tarts
V.
Circumstances of Spying
VI. Miss Whippie
VII.
Territorial Rights Regained Escapade
& Fantasy Recollection Dress-Up
VIII. Friday's Fiasco (Angie Beds
a Bore)
IX.
Isabel's Capture
X.
Rant Fest, the Slings and Stings
of Frustrated Frolic, & Declarations of Love
XI. Ella's Goblin
XII.
A Princess on the Pavement,
the Displaced Damsels Escapade,
& an Aside Concerning Bewitchment
XIII. Romance Novel Hell
XIV.
Missy Mayhem & Autumn's Chill
XV.
Angie & Ella Address the Author
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