Chapter 3
"I called you last night, but there was no answer," Gracie says.
"I wasn't home until very late."
"I know."
"I tried up until midnight and nothing."
And the question hangs in the air between them.
Where were you?
So-
"I had something I had to take care of."
Which is no answer at all, as they are both well aware.
"And you did, I take it."
"Oh yes."
"So I suppose tonight you're all out of pep and ammunition."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
She shrugs.
"Hey, I wasn't born yesterday, all right, Bob? You were with another woman."
"Oh yeah?"
"Well what else am I supposed to think, Bob? On the one hand you were out until all hours. On the other, you're being ... evasive."
"I'm not being evasive at all, Gracie. I merely didn't think that what I was doing last night concerned you."
"I still don't."
"It had nothing to do with being with another woman."
Which, he thinks, is absolutely true, in a manner of speaking.
It has to do with his being with Gracie, with his being able to live with being with Gracie, with his being able to tolerate, to accept Gracie's weird quirk.
And maybe it worked and maybe it didn't; he won't know until he is in the sack with Gracie once again.
Cathexis, it's called.
Working out your frustrations on or with someone or something else.
Maybe now he'll be able to put up with her bullshit in the saddle.
Really put up with it, that is, as opposed to not even really tolerating it, but rather doing the best he can under the circumstances, difficult and trying for him as they are, and made doubly so by the unrevealed (to Gracie) aspects of his true nature, which he must also hold in check, for the sake of their relationship.
In other words, he would like to see himself really making out, as opposed to merely making do.
Did he handle the situation or not?
It remains to be seen.
And he wants to see what's to be seen, as soon as possible.
And right now would do admirably.
So -
"Look, Gracie, how would you like a little proof of the pudding?"
"Let's get with it and I'll show you so much that you'll know for certain that there's no room for anyone else in my life."
Making the careful, if hairline, distinction between her, as person, and his other life, taken into to, as thing.
Because what he does with those freaks doesn't count.
They are, collectively, a thing.
Whereas she, individually, is a person.
He had a problem and he went and did his "thing" to get it straightened out.
And no way in hell is he about to give Gracie so much as a hint of what he has done, of what he does regularly.
Any more than he would tell her what he is really all about.
Besides, what he did last night, he did for her, for them.
Not that she ever could or would understand, even if he explained it.
Question: Did it or did it not work?
Answer?
Let's work on it, shall we?
"Well, okay," she replies slowly. "But I still wish I knew what went on last night."
No you don't, Bob thinks. Not really.
Because knowing and understanding are two different things.
And he himself could not have said why he does what he does, what is the fascination of that strange, that bizarre other world, with all its mystery, its pain, its posturing.
And yes, he knows it is that also.
Has to be.
Because, face it, there is no way that menagerie of sexual psychos is from some nether world or another planet; no, they are from here, they are of and in here.
And their outings?
Mere sham, when all is said and done.
Executives or grocery clerks or dentists, they belong in the so-called real world, sustaining their flights of fantasy as best they can with pretense, some of it skilled and convincing, most of it requiring tolerance on the part of the others, for whom they in turn make allowances.
Which is another way in which he is different from the others.
With him, it is the computer thing which is artificial, which is put on.
Not that he isn't good at it, understand; but he is good in the manner in which, say, a foreign spy is good at his cover job which is totally unrelated to his real purpose.
So that there is, at all times within Bob, this monster craving release, only its cunning keeping it in check, its realization that to reveal any part, any hint of itself in the real, the civilized world is to risk annihilation. Because he is clever enough, realistic enough to know that the real world, for all its namby-pamby, prissy sissy ways, has power.
Which is economic power.
Which is a very real power indeed, a power so strong, so vital that it overshadows almost every other kind in today's world, in which the most important issues are indeed economic, as opposed to other times, in which they were military, for example.
So that he has to play the game and play it well, the game of so-called reality, so-called because, because beneath the masks they all must wear in the real world there lurk monsters which would make Bob seem mild by comparison.
But they are monsters lurking within the deepest soul of mankind, monsters whose manifestations are weak or, at best, unclear.
Only Bob, to his personal knowledge, carries his true being so close to the surface.
And only Bob releases it in the only place he can.
Which happens to be a crazy kind of playground, a parody of the kind of world in which Bob was designed to thrive.
At least he thinks that this is the case.
And now, they are undressing.
And he is thrilled, as always, at the sight of Gracie's voluptuous nudity.
And the thrill is that of the savage beast within himself, which he must restrain, hold in check, a pit bull on a leash.
So that she cannot know that, through the eyes of her handsome, rugged lover there peer; as through a the eye slits of a black leather hood, the eyes of the monster, the monster within, the monster barely within.
Which longs to attack her savagely, to jam its cock right into her cunt all the way, to gnaw on those luscious tits of hers, even as he humps away, not as a man would fuck, but as an animal would, without restraint of any kind.
And if her chattering disorder, for that is how Bob regards it, if it serves any useful purpose, it is to assist him in tempering his true, his basic nature with the veneer of civilization.
So that he is indeed kind, considerate, technically skilled in the ways of sensual love.
Oh, yes, the beast knows these talents well enough, but, left to its own devices, would never think to use them, would rather concentrate on his own gratification, on the shortest distance between where he is at a given moment and his (as opposed to his partner's, as oblivious to his partner's) climax.
So that there is, there can be no question in her mind but that, when she is with him, she is with the best, by any standard.
Because the beast is not entirely suppressed.
Bob retains the beast's energy, its vitality and enthusiasm.
And its hideous strength as well.
So that what he shows her is drawn from a plethora, a surplus of sexual energy, which not even her maddening patter and chatter can succeed in putting below the level of arousal.
Because there is ever present that within himself which guarantees that Bob will be potent, that he will be able to raise a hard-on, even in the face of this maelstrom, this torrent of verbal garbage that pours from Gracie's mouth.
And now, they hit the sheets together.
"Come to mama, bay-bee!"
"Come on, suck on these tits, these great big, beautiful breasts of mine, just waiting here for you, baby!"
"Tha-at's right! Here we go now!"
And, to Bob's faint amazement, the beast is restrained, as usual, is once again tolerant of this woman's incredible nerviness in daring to behave thus with the likes of himself!
And a part of him is even amused at the ridiculous daring of her action, like a member of an audience watching some comedienne performing her antics in the face of immanent peril of which she hasn't a clue.
Because there have been hot flashes, moments in which she has not been safe with him, in fact, in which he has had to grit his teeth-hard-lest the beast erupt and tear her apart.
And he has had visions of that very thing happening.
In his mind's eye, he can see himself suddenly standing up on his knees in the bed, cock bobbling huge and dangerous and wet with her pussy juices, but now temporarily ignored, as he strikes her in the face, forehand and back, again and again, while screaming, "Shut up! Shut up! Shut the fuck up, you garbage-mouthed piece of shit!"
And he can actually see himself batting her head back and forth.
Just as he can see her continuing her sexual babble the whole time.
Even after he has turned her face into a bloody pulp.
Which drives him to a frenzy, to new heights of violence, to strike her harder and harder until, finally, there is nothing left of her above the shoulders.
But he will not.
There is a part of him firmly in charge, which will prevent that from happening at all costs, which will even go so far as to break off the relationship, accepting its demise over this exact issue.
Which is the other reason that last night was so important.
Hey, if it's necessary to save what they have, then it was worth it, would have been well worth it, even had he killed that costumed, perverted birch.
But now, he sees it was all for naught.
She is as grating on him as ever.
He must shut her out, the same old way, as though last night had never happened.
Which he could have predicted.
Because he is too much the realist.
That other woman was not Gracie, was not a substitute for her, not even a reasonable facsimile thereof.
And now, he must once more, once again content himself with his beast's hard-on and his man's restraint.
Yes, once again the beast has come through.
So that he can and will.
Come through, that is.
Perform in the saddle, that is.
And perform outstandingly well, so far as Gracie can tell.
Because that is what it has become-a performance.
He wishes he could feel the passion for her that he evinces.
Luckily, she is either not bright enough or not experienced enough to know, to see the difference between what he is showing her and the real thing.
Rather, she operates on the premise that all male erections and all male climaxes are created equal.
It comes up or it doesn't.
It goes off or it doesn't.
He gets her off or he doesn't.
Like a checklist, sex is with her.
And Bob wonders if she herself listens to herself, if she can hear herself, if she knows how utterly ridiculous, how inane, how downright stupid she sounds.
Not that he cares if she is ridiculous, inane, or stupid.
What he does care about is the fact that she is so fucking annoying!
She grates on him until he does quite literally want to kill her.
And that is indeed a dangerous feeling, a dangerous urge in the likes of Bob.
But once again, he hears her stream of constant chatter as a dull, vaguely annoying hum.
And it throws off the pleasure, the enjoyment of his lovemaking.
As though he has run across some chance target of opportunity.
A sailor aboard a ship running across some horny female member of the crew by chance, forced to fuck her in the engine room, atop some steel encased piece of machinery, which gives off heat and noise and smell while he throws a fast, surreptitious fuck.
When he could have gone to bed with this same aroused female and had a marvelous time instead of something quick and furtive.
That is the difference between his actual and potential pleasure with Gracie.
All because of that fucking mouth of hers!
"Oh yes! Yes, my darling! Make love to my ass hole, by all means!"
"Rim me! Eat me where I shit!"
"Ooh, that is delicious!"
"Run that tongue of yours up my ass!"
"Do it, do it, do it!"
Yes, not even his suddenly turning her over and wallowing in the crack of her ass, mouth open, has turned her off.
He has merely succeeded in changing the subject.
Because he let himself listen, let himself hear her actual words once more, just to see what would happen.
And her fevered commentary has merely shifted in content to remain topical, concerning itself with what is happening at the moment, coaching him where he needs no coaching, advising him in matters in which he is already fully skilled.
But no matter.
The important thing, as far as she is concerned, is apparently to fill the air with the sound of her own voice.
And he must admit that she is certainly doing a bang-up job of it.
So he turns her off again, tuning her out, concentrating on the pounding of his own blood in his ears.
And it works. Again. As usual.
So that he can concentrate his main effort, his focus, on her ass hole.
He loves the female ass hole.
It is, generally speaking, mute.
It is incapable, at least, of human speech.
Talking through one's ass hole is merely an expression; it cannot really happen.
Although in her case-nah!
Still, he can almost picture it in his mind's eye.
So that he takes no chances, moving quickly from his probing, delving tongue, which has felt the heat of her interior, has contacted the moist, yielding tissues of her rectal wall, to his fingers.
Two of them.
Which he lubricates with saliva before shafting them slowly, smoothly, evenly into her ass hole.
And moving them around, concentrating on the pressure of his knuckles at the entrance.
"Mmmm! Delicious! Give me the big finger wave, lover!"
"Delve those digits into me!"
"Clean me out like a chicken ready for stuffing!"
"Come on baby, stuff me!"
She seems to be getting worse, he notices. She has broken through his defenses.
She is loud and articulate, if meaningless.
Yeah, bitch, I'd like to stuff you all right.
I'd like to take a sock that some soldier has worn in the field for about a week and stuff it right in your fucking mouth!
But he stops himself, saying nothing.
He checks himself.
He cannot, he must not let her get through to him.
He dare not let her disrupt him, break down his action.
Because he knows, as surely as he can be said to know anything at all, just what kind of a rage that would put him into.
And what he would do about it.
You are playing with fucking fire, bitch, and you don't even know it! he thinks.
And redoubles his efforts at concentrating on her body, suspending his preparation of her ass before he has her readied to his satisfaction.
But he feels that he has no choice.
It's now or never.
Because the beast within is not all that deep within, is very close to the surface, and can only take so much shit off of even her.
So yes, he jams it into her ass hole.
"Unnh!"
And yes, that did hurt a little, didn't it, bitch?
Even shut you up there for a full-what? Five seconds, maybe?
Bad thing to show somebody, especially me, bitch.
Pain will turn you off, will stop that motor mouth of yours temporarily.
A moment of pain, a moment of silence.
How much dead air can I buy for a lot of pain?
Will serious injury get me a full half hour, say?
And a whole project with her takes shape in his beastly mind.
Which he fights off, concentrating instead on fucking her in the ass.
At least, from this position, he can't see her jaws and lips moving.
So that it is as if someone is playing their TV set too loudly, say, next door.
Annoying, yes, but somehow external to his concerns and to those of his partner.
So that it's good this way.
And if nothing else, last night has served as excellent practice for this very act.
So that now, he releases the bell-like flare of one of her hips to reach forward and down, weighing a heavy breast-gently, very gently, almost tenderly - in one hand, steadying himself and her with the other.
And he feels the weight, the solidity of it.
Much better quality, even though there is slightly less quantity than last night.
And her incessant yak-yak continues to seem far away, totally external to their situation.
So that he is free to fuck her in the ass, untrammeled and undistracted.
And he feels the deep, the bestial thrill within himself, even as the rational part of him exalts, There! You see? Here's a way, a solution. Feel, just feel! how good it is!
And now, he slides his hand down the center line of her body-exactly as he did last night with that other, that stranger, that, that ... thing.
Only this time, when he gets to her joy buzzer, he twiddles it between two fingers, feeling its heat, feeling it engorge still further, feeling her hot pussy juices flowing over fingers and knuckles.
"Ooh! That's it! That's right! That's ... "
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
And he shuts her out again.
And wonders that she doesn't ever get bored with repeating the same inanities, over and over.
But at least they are coming from where he doesn't have to listen to them now.
And sure enough, he doesn't. Rather, he concentrates on stimulating her clit from within and without humping her steadily in the ass as he continues to play with her bulging joy buzzer.
Now this, this! is what it's all about, where it's at! he practically sings to himself.
He feels a great sense of positive accomplishment.
He is actually bringing himself successfully into the real world.
For the first time, he feels he has a shot at belonging here.
Because the fierce joy rises within him, swelling every fiber of his being.
Terrific, it is.
Fantastic even, and yet oh so very real for all that.
I can make it! he tells himself.
He doesn't have to return to that other world, to his home planet or rather the contrived model thereof, as it were.
No, this will do quite nicely, thank you very much.
And now he lets himself go.
So that he is free to rise with her, up, up, up the rainbow of their shared pleasure.
And now, they are soaring together.
Is she still talking?
He doesn't know, doesn't care.
Even that doesn't matter, taking place, if at all, somewhere else, somewhere far, far below them.
Because they are together, body and body, in the realm, the paradise of pure sexual sensation.
As the pleasure inundates and permeates them.
As the body sings the truths which it alone comprehends, leaving the mind far behind in its vain arrogance, knowing only the half truths which it is capable of grasping or inventing.
And now, they are coming together, matching one another, spasm for spasm, as he injects his sperm deep into her innermost bowels.
Even as the contractions of her cunt in multiple orgasms milks his fingers of the pleasure beyond pleasure.
Together they began, together they finish.
And they collapse together.
In blessed silence, he notes.
Naturally, since she has finished coming.
And he lies there on top of her, still fully inserted.
And he does not move, nor does she, beneath him.
And they lie thus as his cock slowly detumesces.
And the peristakic action of her bowels shits him forth like a great turd.
And still he lies there, not moving, realizing - making real - that which has just happened.
Success!
And yet, even here he recognizes that it is, at least in part, self deception by him.
Because is he to limit himself, to limit their love making to positions from the rear?
In order to experience the fullest sexual pleasure, is he then to be forced to distance himself from her in this fashion?
Yes, yes, oh yes, it worked!
But it was only a trick, a cheap trick, a sleazy device to accommodate, to get around that which should not be happening in the first place.
What crap, what utter garbage!
And he, of all people, is expected to behave thus, to center his whole sexual game plan about avoiding that talking head?
Not me, damnit, not me! he tells himself, grinding his teeth.
And forgetting to offer her a hand up as he heads for the shower.