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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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Archive name: unspeakable.txt (M+/F, caution)
Aythors name: Siskur (siskur@aol.com)
Story title : Unspeakable Love
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-= This work is copyrighted to the author © 1997. =-
Please do not remove the author information or make
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Unspeakable Love (caution)
By Siskur (siskur@aol.com)
"I once slept with thirteen guys in a four hour period."
Bea shrugged a little while she spoke, and didn't look
up from her pasta. I stared at her until I realized I
was staring, then I glanced at the people behind us to
make sure they hadn't overheard. I fumbled with
something, the crushed red pepper or the straw in my Dr.
Pepper.
"That..." I started to talk, but a cough aborted the
sentence.
"That's pretty...I mean, that sounds like an exhausting
evening."
"Morning. I was cutting school."
"You did that in high school? You were a pretty wild kid,
huh?"
She looked up at me, her iridescent blue eye shadow
gleaming.
"Benny, that was last semester. Roman history? The day I
told you I'd meet you for coffee after class, but never
showed up?"
When she said that I felt like my skeleton suddenly turned
to dust, my unsupported guts flopping to the floor; or like
I'd been blindly strolling, then suddenly slipped off the
edge of a dark pit. I was so stunned I couldn't even fidget
intelligently. I sat there motionless, dumb-founded, gazing
at the deeply-carved wooden table, the wild jumble of
initials, cusses, pledges of love-all those generations of
unrelated graffiti seemed to express my fractured emotional
state well. I wanted to look at her, but I felt like I'd
start crying out in jealous rage if I saw her face at that
moment. So we were silent. Pinball machines, pool balls,
other patrons, including a group from a fraternity at the
back of the room-was it them? were they the thirteen? --
took the place of speech for about two minutes.
"I haven't done it since, though."
She was chewing pasta again, and I finally looked up at
her. Our eye contact felt cold, awkward. The thought
flashed into my mind that I must look like a helpless,
pleading puppy to her. She swallowed, then her eyes
shifted like they were beads on an abacus.
"Not with thirteen, anyway."
* * *
"What's the big deal?" My friend Tanya tried to console
me later that evening. "I mean, is she pregnant?"
"I don't think so."
"Well, then, there's no harm."
"Well, that's not exactly true," I said. "I mean, the
problem is, we'd already started dating. We had a date that
morning, in fact. While I waited for her at the cafe, she
was in bed with a dozen guys. Or, who knows, maybe in a
dozen different beds spaced not too far apart."
"Had she promised not to see anyone else yet?"
"Tanya, thirteen fucking guys."
"Had she promised not to see anyone else?"
"No, damn it, but that's not really the point."
"You're puritanical! That's so...oh, wait: I get it:
You're... yes, yes. It's The Male Fear. Look, Benny..."
Tanya squared to face me on the couch, and put her palms on
my shoulders. She was close: her nose almost brushed my
chin.
"One of those guys-at least one-had a penis that was gigantic
compared to yours."
* * *
"Jesus."
"Uh huh."
"Thirteen? In how long?"
"Four hours."
"God almighty."
My friend Pete looked up toward the sky, incredulous, and
laughed.
"So you can see why I'm, I don't know, uneasy about dating
her now."
"Well..." His eyebrows were embedded arches in his forehead,
almost merging into his scalp. He seemed truly amazed. A
couple of female students walked toward us, and he stopped
talking until they were past.
"Yeah, talk about sexual gymnastics. I can sympathize; you
really gotta wonder what motivates stuff like that."
"She's got a different issue for each one of those guys, I
bet. I mean, women who allow themselves to be used like that
have real psychological problems, right?"
"I don't know for sure. In all fairness I'd have to talk to
her before I made a judgment like."
He turned to me intently.
"So can I get her number?"
* * *
"What do you think, Bliss?"
The orange tabby purred on my lap, tranquilized by the
afternoon sunlight.
"Do you think she was lying? I mean, maybe she said that to
test me. If I could overlook something like that and still
want to see her, still be emotionally open to her, then, you
know, my feelings for her must be pretty genuine. Does that
make sense?"
My housemate's cat wanted to sleep on the theory. I wanted
to act on it. Aspen College only had about four thousand
students, and if Bea was telling the truth, her past partners
constituted a substantial percentage of them. I figured it
should be pretty easy to find someone to corroborate her
story, if it was true.
Deep, reddish light drained out of the sun into my bedroom
like blood from a deep wound, staining everything red, making
Bliss's marmalade colored coat seem to swirl. I visualized
Bea's apartment, and recalled numerous bits of evidence that
suggested an extremely active social life: the cast she had
kept from when she broke her leg skiing, which, I had
noticed, had "get well" wishes written all over it-not a
millimeter of it seemed to be free of handwriting; the
enormous phone list on her refrigerator, which seemed to
consist of about eight pages of single-spaced type; the desk
in her small room, which had dozens of snapshots on display,
either in little L-shaped plastic frames or pinned to the
surrounding walls. I remember pointing at one guy, whose
shot seemed prominently displayed; he was posed in bathing
trunks, his stomach muscles distinct and lumpy, as if a
family of pigmy gophers was burrowing under his skin.
"Who's that?" I asked.
"That's my brother."
The guy in the photograph had very light blond hair, brown
eyes. Bea was a brunette, and her blue eyes merged into ice.
I gestured to another photograph, a badly focused shot of a
red-haired guy sleeping with her heart-shaped velvet pillow
under his head.
"Who's that?"
"Oh, that's...my other brother."
* * *
I ran into a guy who was in Roman history with me and Bea,
and who I had seen speaking with her a few times before
class. He was sitting alone at a table next to the cream and
sugar stand.
"Hey," I said, tearing a couple of sweeteners over my coffee.
He looked up at me without recognition.
"What's up."
"You seen Bea?"
He thought for a minute, then said, "No."
I feigned a look of concentration.
"You look familiar. Didn't I meet you with her at a
party?"
He shook his head slowly.
"You sure? You know her, don't you?"
He laughed, then said, "Well, kind of."
"Right, I guess you could say, who doesn't know her."
"The better question is, does anyone?"
"Are you serious? Do you know how many guys she, uh, to use
a euphemism, 'dates'?"
He reached for his coffee.
"Yeah, I know. I was at one of her carnal-census things. I
remember you now; you just look different with your clothes
on."
I grinned a little, nodded. I had certainly never joined one
of her love-feasts, but he was tired of not knowing who I
was, so he assigned an identity to me: I had become one of
those naked strangers to him.
"But just because we were in the same room naked doesn't mean
we know anything about each other. And just 'cause we both
had turns on the girl doesn't mean we know anything about
her. She's into all the sociological aspects of group-love;
all those survey forms we had to fill out and all that? The
screening process? The ironic thing is, maybe she gets to
know us really well-I can't say-but none of us get to know
her really well."
"Is that why she does it, do you think? She wants physical
intimacy but without the dangers of other people knowing her
too well?"
"Man, look," he tilted his head back, gulping the rest of his
coffee, "I'm not into the psycho-babble angle. To tell you
the truth, I just wanted to get laid. It'd been, like, eight
months. I wanted to be wrapped in pussy, I wanted my rest my
head on tits. Maybe you should just interview her."
He rose.
"I've tried," I lied to him, "but she said she doesn't want
to violate the integrity of her research by discussing it
before the results are thoroughly assessed."
"See, I think that's weird. For me the results were
simple: I blew my load. But you know what? I don't think
it was worth it. I think I really degraded myself. Imagine
if she had a conscience she could honestly reflect on her-
self with? Can you imagine how she'd feel? It's not
healthy behavior; it's fueled by neuroses, and acting them
out just grinds them in deeper. Group sex is a sick thing.
I admit I was just desperate. I wish I hadn't been."
He began walking away. I stepped over to take his table, and
noticed what appeared to be a fashion magazine under the
table.
"Hey," I called after him, grasping the magazine from the
ground. "Did you leave this behind?"
"Oh," he stepped forward quickly, "Thanks, man," and snatched
it away from me. In the fractional second that the magazine
passed from my hands to his, the image on the cover burned
itself into my mind at multiple levels: it was only after I
sat down, opened a book, and held my mug to my lips that my
brain sorted it out. The magazines name was written in dark
Gothic print, La Mort Elegante, and it showed an attractively
made-up woman, extremely pale and lean, lying in a lacy sheer
slip on a bare surface. Despite the girl's alluring self-
presentation, there was something dissonant about the image,
some sort of tension. Not only were her eyes closed, the
girl's body seemed extremely stiff; her limbs seemed heavily
planted on the plain surface under her.
Then it hit me: She was lying on a mortician's table. She
was a corpse. It was a necrophiliac porn magazine.
* * *
I realized I was avoiding talking to Bea about her extreme
sexual gregariousness.
"Yeah," Tanya said, "You're afraid that she'll ask you to
join her with other guys. Then you might find out that
they're sexually better than you. You're afraid that when
it comes right down to it you're sexually third-rate."
I said, a little annoyed by my friend's taunts, "No, I'm just
trying to digest it. I'm not sure if I can date her if she
has these behaviors."
"Look, Benny, I'll let you in on a little secret. Women are
not naturally monogamous. That's because individual men are
never, ever sexually adequate. Women's sexual needs are
enormous; insatiable by single men. That's why women are
often so reluctant to know their own sexuality, why they're
often sexually repressive; they don't want to realize that
whatever monogamous relationship they're in, it'll never
fulfill their libido. In fact, they'll never satisfy their
sexual drive unless they rebel against our society's basic
rule that monogamy is good, polygamy bad. That takes a lot
of strength and courage. All females are, at their basic
nature, like queen ants. And our hearts are big enough to
love many, many males. But you men are puny, limited. It's
sad, it really is. The dictate of nature is totally un-
egalitarian; men are inadequate and replaceable. No wonder
they're so stupidly aggressive; they have to compensate for
their sexual nothingness."
"Come on. Sexual nothingness? That's absurd."
Tanya chain-lit another cigarette, smoke enshrouding her face
as she puffed.
"Nope. I'm serious. Men have a completely different
attitude about sex than women. For women sex is largely
about pleasure, but also it's about giving life. Women are
able to give life. This threatens men, since they know that
the life the women create, the child, will replace them in
the woman's heart. Men want to dissociate the life-impulse
from sex because that deprives women of their power. That's
why all men-I know you're going to have problems with this,
but try to keep an open mind-all men are, at their core,
necrophiliacs. What they really want is a woman who is
dead."
I couldn't believe what she was saying.
"Necrophiliacs?"
"When men dominate women, cut off their freedom, stifle them
emotionally, imprison them in housewife roles-it's all sym-
bolic killing. Men want dead women; since they have to
provide for women, since they're natural hunters, they're
comfortable with death. Being alive for a woman has a whole
different edge than being alive for a man: for women life is
eternal, because they create it. For men, it's a threat,
something they oppose as hunters, but can never master.
Women are about giving life. Men are about destroying it.
Women are life. Men are death."
* * *
The guy at the coffee shop, the guy with the necrophilia
magazine, had mentioned that Bea seemed to approach her orgy
as a sociological experiment. He had mentioned a survey,
forms she had him fill out. I decided that on our next date
I'd broach the subject to Bea with reference to all that, as
if I was curious about what she learned from the experience
in terms of sociology, or whatever field she considered her
group sex to be in.
We went to a show at the Galley, our local rock club. The
crowd was dense and energetic, boisterous and dressed up like
erotic banners. The tortured feedback of the band and the
intoxicated, garbled cheers of the crowd limited our com-
munication to exclaiming things into each other's ears.
"Want a drink?"
"What?"
"A drink?"
"Yeah!"
When I returned from getting her a third drink, she had
abandoned our table. I scanned the crowd in front of the
stage-on their feet, but too packed together to really dance
normally-and since she was shorter than most of the other
patrons it took a moment to find her.
When I saw her, I had to combat an urge to leave immediately.
As I downed my drink, and then hers, I watched her frolicking
lasciviously among a crowd of strangers: rubbing against
bodies at random with her shoulders as well as her large,
braless breasts; allowing her arms to brush people at every
angle, not turning to glare at strangers who thrust against
her from behind, but instead leaning back into their motion.
A muscular guy with a crew cut and a tank top stepped over to
me.
"Are you okay?"
I guess I must have appeared pale and intensely
uncomfortable. Maybe even nauseous.
"Fine," I shouted back, not making eye contact with him. He
paused, then smiled and held out his hand.
"I'm Gary."
I stared at him for a second, then returned my focus to Bea's
lewd antics. A couple of times I lost sight of her in the
tide of bodies, but in general she seemed most drawn to the
hardcore punk-rockers who were doing a mild slam-dance in the
center of the throng. After a while she appeared at my side
with a very broad smile: lipstick smeared, hair disheveled,
the two top buttons of her shirt missing.
"Hi!" She called out, now quite hoarse.
"I'm going to go," I said. She hesitated. I didn't know
if I'd spoken loud enough for her to hear me, but then she
grabbed my hand and started heading toward the exit.
"You were awfully friendly with about thirty of those
people." I spoke bitterly, after repressing my jealous
fuming for the first two minutes of the walk home. She
looked at me with an appalled expression then stopped
walking. I continued for about four paces, then sighed,
threw up my arms, and turned back to her.
"Are you accusing me of something, Benny?"
"Accusing you. Okay, no. I'm just saying that I don't like
your behavior. I object to it very strongly."
"I don't believe this." It sounded like it, too; she sounded
genuinely surprised and dismayed.
"Look," I lowered my voice a little, embarrassed to be
arguing with a lover out in public. "I just want to know:
was that, all that stuff you did back there, was that
somehow...acceptable in your mind?"
Not to answer my question but to express some blend of pity
and disappointment, she shook her head, sadly, and folded her
arms.
"You know, you sound like a cross between Ann Landers and a
central American dictator. Benny, I have no problem sharing
my love with multiple life forms. My heart is not limited by
numbers."
"What do you mean, 'life forms'?"
As if giving up on the conversation, quite possibly giving up
on me, she began walking. I followed.
"All life is one. Living organisms are physically distinct,
but spiritually identical. Part of exactly the same force
that orders the universe."
"I don't know what the hell you're getting at."
"I'm perfectly comfortable with the idea of sharing my
affection with non-humans."
"Oh, my god."
"You know, you could at least try to broaden your horizons a
little. Anthropocentrism has had a profoundly destructive
impact on our planet."
"So...when you say you like the idea of sharing your love
with other species, what do you actually mean?"
"Well, for example, I'm planning on driving to the plains of
northern Wyoming this summer and dating a herd of antelope."
She studied my face for a moment.
"Oh, come on. You're threatened by that, too?"
* * *
As usual, Tanya seemed to have no trouble grasping this.
"She's experimenting; learning how the love-stereotypes in
our society don't do justice to the complexity of her inner
experience.
That's amazingly wonderful, isn't it? The willingness to
learn the truth about oneself, to learn what our economically
driven society finds inconvenient and so struggles to conceal
and repress? Benny, you could do it, too. It'd make you a
more evolved person. Why don't you get in touch with your
innate male love of dead things? Why don't you go to a
morgue, or-"
"Oh, for chrissake," I cut her off angrily, and turned toward
the door. "That's fucking insane, Tanya."
She paused, then said with utmost compassion, "Benny, please.
You shouldn't be threatened by the idea of knowing yourself
more deeply. Whoever you are-whatever your nature is-it's
all good."
* * *
Martha Beaulieu's was no ordinary tombstone. It was elegant,
and really distinguished itself from the others. It was six
inches thick-good, solid granite-and stood just about to the
level of my waist. The stone was rose-colored, perfectly
smooth and polished. The face of the tombstone was decorated
around the edges with floral curves and splashes of extra-
ordinary detail and artistry. Most of the other tombstones
had lettering that was so ornate that it required scrutiny to
read it, but hers was simple, so precise it almost seemed to
speak to me. I was really dazzled by her-well, by it-and as
I kneeled close to the stone to read the epitaph, it was as
if I could feel a gentle presence in the ground beneath me.
Disappointingly, her epitaph was in French, which I couldn't
read. I gazed at it for a while anyway, absorbing the beauty
of the headstone, the absolute quietude of the cemetery.
Wind swept autumn leaves past me. The air was clean, richly
scented. I put my palms on the cool grass around my knees,
then lay on my back.
To tell you the truth, I felt more comfortable there than I
did in most groups of people. The stillness captivated me,
and the sight of all the tombstones seemed oddly magical:
even rows of marble slabs extending out in every direction,
each with its own unique character, each cushioning the eye
with a compact shadow. I thought of each one as a doorway
to another place, somewhere peaceful, warmly tranquil.
I'm lying in a cemetery, I thought to myself. I closed my
eyes and felt the surroundings flow into me. This is
wonderful; I'm lying in a cemetery. I touched my chest with
my fingertips, felt my heart beat. Somehow the fact that I
was alive there was thrilling; it was as if in the midst of
all these symbols of death, my own living energy seemed
augmented. And I adored it. Soon my caressing fingers moved
down, and tilting my head back, gazing at Martha's tombstone
above me, I unzipped my pants. My penis was already erect,
and I held its warmth gratefully.
After I ejaculated, I lay on my side with a blade of grass in
my teeth. My feeling of intimacy with myself was profound,
yet I did not feel at all alone; I was sharing an experience
with the mysteries that lay inhumed all around me. Society's
fear of death is all misplaced, I thought to myself. Love is
just as much a reality in death as it is in life.
And with the experience of those days, I finally began
learning about love.
The End
http://members.aol.com/Siskur/rhet.htm
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to READ stories about unprotected sex with others
outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't okay to
HAVE unprotected sex with people other than a trusted
partner. You only have one body per lifetime, so take good
care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 11