Chapter 4
Maybe everybody's warped in a certain way, Bob tells himself.
This could be all too true.
So that what we accept as normal behavior is actually a kind of average, a sort of center of the spectrum of acting and thinking in connection with a given activity.
That, or else there's a time and a place for everything, so that people in general act a certain way at a certain time and thereby pass as normal, a sort of milder form of his own lifestyle, with the two (or more) aspects of a given individual not as different from one another as they are in himself.
In which case, true normality consists, not in having no quirks, but rather in cleverly (or reflexively) concealing them from public scrutiny and, therefore, from public reaction.
And by public is intended anyone and everyone whom we do not know intimately well.
So that a guy could be some kind of disgusting pervert in reality, and yet be the perfect date-and the perfect lover-the first time out with a given girl.
Or the second or the third as well, for that matter; in other words, whatever it takes to convince her that she has made a right, a wise choice when she picked him for the evening, for going steady, for whatever.
Ah, but then, you see, therein lies Gracie's defect!
Which is rendered unacceptable by the fact that she made no attempt to conceal that bizarre habit of hers from him, not even on the first date.
And he, thinking he was somehow overwhelming her, impressing the shit out of her, as it were, was deceived into thinking that what he was hearing and seeing was merely the reaction of this beautiful, sexy woman to the greatest lover she had ever experienced.
Hah!
Little did he know that that automatic chatter, that motor of a mouth, would become his Achilles heel, the bane of his existence.
But it did, no question about it.
And now that it has-what?
Okay, Cathexis on a substitute doesn't work.
He knows that now.
Turning her around, limiting himself to only certain positions?
A partial solution, not really that much of an improvement over his shutting out the noise through an act of sheer willpower.
Granted, it involves less of a mental effort and certainly the contact is there.
There, and yet not there.
They used to call that the "hot night position", when he was younger and air conditioning was not so prevalent.
The minimal physical contact.
The fat guy's shot at happiness.
He has heard it called that, too.
Same principle applies.
But she could be anybody, from that position, that angle.
So that a part of his imagination is taken up in realizing the fact that it is in fact her that he is fucking and not someone, anyone else.
Where is the ultimate, face-to-face intimacy?
Easy-it's nowhere.
So that their distance is like a barrier between them.
It's like fucking with a rubber.
Perhaps the disadvantage is not so much physical as mental, the knowledge that it's there.
So that there would be nothing wrong with occasionally hammering her from the rear, in cunt or ass hole, if he were not constantly aware of why he has to-yes has to-do it that way.
And she will not let him forget why, not for a moment.
Oh, no.
There is no help for it but that she continue to run off at the mouth, on and on, forever and ever, world without end.
He gave it a fair shot.
The whole weekend, he took her that way.
And so much, so thoroughly did she enjoy it that it never occurred to her to ask him why he was doing it like that, to the exclusion of all other positions, varying only in the orifice of choice each time, picking sometimes cunt, sometimes ass hole, sometimes a combination of the two, but always, always achieving the desired effect-at least so far as she is concerned.
"I have to go out of town next week," he tells her.
The truth, but not the whole truth.
There is indeed a meeting next week, a whole new line of computer peripherals to be evaluated; in and of itself and as it relates to the needs of the market Bob's firm serves.
But, beyond that, there is also a conclave.
Quite a spectacular one at that, it will be.
It takes place in a series of natural limestone caves, which the Scribe has arranged to be for the exclusive use of the membership, in the guise, on paper, of an explorers' club.
So that he has been provided, along with the notice, with an ersatz identification card, identifying him as a member of the equally ersatz club, for use as an admission pass.
So that they will be using state park rangers at the entrance, as site security.
Authority in the service of sicko weirdness, if one can believe it.
And it is this that he is looking forward to.
"Call me from there," she says.
Yeah, right.
He will call her, all right; just before he leaves to attend the conclave.
And he has to admit that it is with a sense of relief that he finally completes the weekend with her.
Because he is looking forward to the conclave, so that he can relax, can unwind, can let himself go, can be free to be himself.
Gracie, Gracie, Gracie, he thinks. If only, if only.
But there is no sense his wishing.
Any more than he can bring himself to mention it to her.
In his own mind, he has rehearsed it a dozen different ways.
How to say it, how to let her know, how to ask her to stop.
Nothing works.
It all sounds so weak, so self-serving, so downright petty and nit-picking.
And dangerous.
Because it could well prove to be the opening of a floodgate of information about himself.
Because she could well ask him what else he likes and dislikes.
And he would have the choice of lying or of baring his soul.
And his soul is not of the sort that can withstand the light of day.
Surely, he would lose her if he did that.
No, that is a gate which must remain forever shut to her.
And this, this ... thing of hers must therefore be taken in stride.
Ah, if only I could! he tells himself.
Yes, how beautiful it would be, if he could simply ignore her voice and get on with the business at hand as though they were operating in blessed silence.
But that he cannot do, instead having to resort to this mental blocking of his, for all its diminution of his pleasure.
So oppressive is the problem that he actually looks forward to getting away next week.
He will work out in the gym early Monday to make sure that he is in peak condition for the conclave, and then catch the plane that afternoon.
The conclave is all set for Monday night, before the convention actually starts on Tuesday.
So that he can give it all night, if conditions justify it.
And they probably will.
He loves to do his thing in natural surroundings - caves and woods and such.
Because it seems to him as though he incorporates all nature into himself.
So that it is the most natural thing in the world for him to be as he is, to do what he does.
The beast in his natural habitat.
None of this being confined to a zoo of a house.
Although there is something to be said for the correct man-made structures, affording as they do places of cover and concealment, opportunities for ambushes and traps, sometimes to the point that it seems to him almost as though a given building were constructed especially for the purpose of providing him with the environment for his fun and games.
He knows that it isn't right; has known it for some time now.
He knows that he should fight the feeling.
He knows that, if that is his natural world, then he should change, should transform himself by an effort of the will into one who does what is expected of him by a society which, after all, has become ever increasingly more tolerant of open sexuality in. human behavior, from nude beaches to open displays of sexually oriented affection.
Yes, society has come a long way towards accommodating him, towards making such tastes in adventure as his own obsolete, unnecessary.
He is free to display himself and to disport himself in public.
And in fact has done so with Gracie on occasion at the nude beach, going as far as he dares before her mouth turns on and the heads start turning.
Because not even the nude beach is ready for all the way.
But still, it was nice, there in broad daylight with his broad daylight broad.
But it did not last, the good feeling.
Something was missing, something lacking.
Or perhaps it was the absence of a whole context, a whole dimension, a mode of being, thinking, acting which only the conclaves can provide.
Because the fascination is there, and as powerful as ever.
And probably here to stay, so far as he is concerned.
And it does serve such a useful purpose, especially now, when he is having this problem with his genuine attempt at transition from aberrant and bizarre to normal, which he recognizes his relationship with Gracie to be, at least in part.
So that now, he actually finds himself becoming quite excited at the prospect of this conclave in the caves.
And cannot wait to take his leave of Gracie, to put this weekend behind him, even though it is only early Sunday evening.
"Got things to do, babe. Gotta get home and pack. Got things to clean up at the office."
"Wanna hit the gym early tomorrow."
"Thanks for a really great weekend and all."
They kiss.
And he is out of there.
This is more like it, he thinks.
The caves.
Dark, natural vaults, fantastic rock formations.
And over all, a foreboding sense of uncompromising evil.
The abode of those below.
Where all is gloom and darkness, where the sunshine never reaches.
The bowels of the earth or else somewhere completely different.
His home planet, his natural environment, his lair.
An occasional glimpse of one or more others, like himself, seen at a distance, still getting their bearings, finding out where the running water is, being ever sanitation-minded, some of them.
Running water seems here in abundance.
Bob can even hear it, wherever he goes, flashlight in hand, not yet changed into his costume, which he carries with him in a soft-sided, barrel-shaped gym bag.
He has to give the Scribe credit on that one; wherever the conclaves are arranged, there's always running water.
Still, the Scribe-and hence the others, himself included, are taking one hell of a chance, coming to a place like this.
What if there's an accident?
And in this place, it wouldn't take much.
Sure, Bob has fresh batteries in his flashlight, and is packing spares to boot.
And he has brought rope and grapples with him, so that, should he have to climb up or down, in or out of some irregularity in the caves configuration, he will be all right.
But what of the others?
Have them been similarly circumspect?
Or will one of them suddenly find him or her self in pitch darkness and, instead of maintaining position, panic and plunge off a ledge or run terrified through the darkness, breaking a leg, if fortunate, a neck if not?
And Bob cannot help it; he grins at the thought of this last.
Real danger, whether or not these flabby, shallow pretenders bargained for it.
First the physical, then the political or legal or however one cares to think of the sudden exposure, should something go wrong and their escapades be exposed to the outside world.
Sure, those park rangers at the gate are all smiles and cooperation now; after all, they think this is a club of experienced spelunkers.
But let them have to come in here and pull some bizarrely caped and hooded figure with genitals exposed out of some sink hole and you'll see how fast the attitude changes!
Then it'll be nothing but kicking ass and taking names time. And questions, questions, questions.
Except, of course, from the employers of anybody who gets caught.
Because they will not want to know anything, except how fast the exposed wretch can clear out.
But then, Bob supposes that that's all a part of this scene as well-the constant threat of a sudden revelation, the clear light of day illuminating him, all of them, exposing them for the sick slugs hiding under rocks that they are.
Indeed, a part of him is actually hoping for this, hoping that there will be an end to all this.
Because, sooner or later, it will have to end.
And, call it a premonition, but Bob has this feeling that the longer it continues, the worse the ending will be, at least for himself.
Which is just another good reason why he is hoping to be able to give it up.
But not yet; not just yet.
He isn't quite ready.
The thrill is still a bit too poignant in this, his natural world, the adjustment still a bit too rough in the real world.
Odd, how this nightmare realm which draws him so is a refuge for him, at the same time an excitement and a comfort.
Warped. Sick. Perverted, he is.
And knows it.
But is not ready or willing to make the necessary change.
He is not willing to admit, however, that he may also be unable, that, try as he might, the conclaves will draw him back to themselves.
And the harder the struggle, the greater the draw.
So that, ultimately, he has only two choices.
Either he can do as he is now, being the most adept performer at this game of fiendishness, or he can become a puppet in the hands of his own blind urge, jerking and lurching through this underworld like some kind of mindless monster, abandoning himself to the vicissitudes of chance.
In other words, he can play the game or let himself be played along by it.
And this last, he knows, would never do.
That is a woman's stunt in this scene.
They're the ones looking for adventure in the classical sense, that is, having something happen to them, something that is a complete surprise and in no way under their control.
Speaking of which-there she is.
That same blonde.
Pseudo-Oracle, the heavier, he suspects older, version of Gracie he had tried to substitute and punish the other night.
The punishment worked; the substitution didn't.
She doesn't see him.
She is busy changing, the lantern-like flashlight she carries sitting on a rock ledge, illuminating a rather cozy little nook in the rock formations, the reflections of the light against the rock lending a kind of artistic charm to the scene, the lambent, gentle rays lighting up the naked contours of her body as she transforms herself into her bizarre persona, donning first her hood, a second too rapidly for him to see what she actually looks like.
And now, she fastens her garter belt around her waist, reaching down and hitching up her mesh stockings.
And now, the corset, pulled tight at the waist to emphasize, or in her case give her an hourglass figure.
Forget the cape, he thinks.
Because she is going to have enough trouble hobbling around the irregular cave floors on spike heeled boots, without getting caught on every protruding rock formation in the place.
Apparently, she agrees.
Because she holds up the cape and then rejects it, stuffing it into her duffel bag with the rest of her clothes, then stashing the bag behind a rock, looking around so that she will remember where she left her stuff.
And now, she's ready.
Except-
"Shit!"
Her exclamation echoes in the recesses of the caverns.
Yes, she has fallen victim to Murphy's law.
She broke a heel.
And there is no help for it but that she sit herself right back down and remove the other boot.
And she can hardly run around in stockinged feet, which she realizes at once, unhitching her garter belt and rolling the stockings down off her legs.
Gingerly, she stands up, taking a few tentative steps on her bare feet.
Kootchy, kootchy-coo, Bob, his own flashlight turned off, watching her from the darkness, thinks.
And then, he thinks, Cheer up, kiddo. Things are never so bad but that they can't get worse.
Quickly, he changes clothes in the dark, no great feat, in his case.
He has but to slip his trousers off over his boots, put on his hood and strip out of the rest of his clothes.
And he is ready.
Ready to pounce, that is, from the darkness, taking advantage of the light of her lantern as she stands there, debating as to whether or not to continue, in view of her barefoot state.
Fortunately or unfortunately, Bob is about to remove that decision from her hands. He is on her.
She is grabbed before she can move.
She is so surprised that she can only gasp, becoming suddenly rigid in his enfolding arms.
And she will be Gracie, whether she wants to or not!
This he decides, on the spot.
And he cannot say afterward what inspiration possessed him.
One minute, he is wrestling her to the ground, pinning her there; the next, one hand, or rather forearm holding her down, with his other he is reaching behind the rock, withdrawing her stockings there from.
And now, straddling her trembling body, he uses both hands-and both stockings.
One he balls up and sticks into her mouth; the other, he ties around her head, passing it between her parted jaws and knotting it behind her head.
And pausing, himself amazed at the powerful surge of sexual electricity that shoots through him, giving him an instant erection.
Because, here, here! is perfect freedom, the freedom to do to his victim absolutely as he pleases.
And there is nothing, nothing, nothing stopping him.
She cannot make a sound.
And he realizes, for the first time, that it is her silence which renders her absolutely helpless.
Because, in the other situation, she was free to cry out even though nobody would have come to her aid.
Still, she had that option, and that was a compromise to his freedom.
Because he would have heard her, and a part of him-a small part, an ineffectual, a repressed part, perhaps, but still he himself-would have wanted to come to her assistance against, against ... himself, of all the ridiculous things.
Ah, but here, now, it cannot happen!
He is immune, invulnerable-and unconditionally, absolutely free.
And suddenly, he understands about Gracie's chatter-understands and is enraged, offended by his understanding.
A defense mechanism, damnit!
And against him, of all people!
Against her own lover, for heaven's sake!
That's what all that chatter is-her encouraging herself, in the literal sense.
She is giving herself the courage she needs to go through with having sex-with him!
She is defending herself from crying out in terror by crying out in ecstasy.
And why?
Granted, if she knew the real him, he could understand it.
But he is her fucking lover, the stupid fucking bitch!
They two, destined to become as one, perhaps, and he gets this shit?
He knew, deep down, that there were underlying, deeply disturbing reasons for him to be as annoyed as he was by what she was doing, by this sudden shift in personality, this erratic, irrational behavior.
And now he knows.
A freaking defense mechanism directed against him!
Because, even now, he can see the terror in the big blonde's eyes.
She recognizes him.
She has survived her first encounter with him unscathed.
And yet, here and now, she too knows the difference.
Yes, if and when push came to shove back then, she could have screamed mightily.
Not effectively, in the end, perhaps, but nevertheless, it was the one weapon she had. And, having one weapon, she was by definition not totally defenseless.
And now, she is.
They are in silence, isolated, in almost total darkness.
And she has not even the potential of crying out for help.
And despair reinforces her terror.
This maniac did not kill, maim or disfigure her the first time.
But that was perhaps because the worse he hurt her, the louder she could scream.
And now, she cannot.
He can dismantle her, literally tear her limb from limb, and there is nothing, nothing, nothing she can do about it.
And he looks very, very angry to her, his square jaw clenched to the point of quivering with the tension of, of-what?
Some blind, all-consuming hatred, obviously.