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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
[Justin's
adventures continue in:
Tallulah Tantrum, or Hot Butter]
_______________
In
Quest of a Stable Girl
Copyright © 2007
by Robert Scott Leyse.
All rights reserved.
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