Beyond Good and Evil - An Erotic Story

Posted by Melissa 20/07/2017 0 Comment(s)

At first she didn't see him as anything more than one of those professors, one of those men, who may snap at any moment, spewing forth years of bile, lust and tears he pockets away in the lining below his surface. One of those professors with long hair and tight Levis who listens to complicated jazz rhythms all night long; a lock of that hair always falling over one eye. She didn't see him as anything more than a brilliant mind as deputy for his desires and as one as pure as the unicorn, so false in his rescue of pretty women.

* * * * *
She never really learned how to escape, that those nights she stepped
into cars, lay down on back seats into the smell of leather, she was
not leaving. She would forever be alone and never be alone. Never could
she sit still, allow people to speak to her, learn who she wasn't. Never. She was an outsider in the world of mediocrity, a pariah in her beauty and talent. With all the envy swirling around her, never could she trust. Except that once. And look at the way he fixed her up, chewed on her like a bone.

She was the saddest of women. Her most beautiful years lapping at her
ankles as she tries to move breathlessly back. Years of unspeakable
agony behind eyes. Eyes beneath swollen lids; moony almond despair.
Years of beauty she wore in sodden gutters, her lovely flesh spread flat
under men who promised a night's shelter.Eyes. Eyes open and eyes closed. Eyes disbelieving, wanting to believe. Eyes rimmed in charcoal lust, claret eyes shot through with what she has seen. And now, only to believe this man. He might help her. Listen to her. Hold her hand.

* * * * *
Jesse came with his voice, provoking her, soothing her like burnished
leaves full with sap. "Lorelei, are you OK, do you need something?"

"Professor, I need to talk. I need to very much."

* * * * *
She was all breath and light footsteps clicking across the streets. And the way the last of the sunlight caught her in that dusk, running, running, desperate, heated, running to meet him. And she turned to see him, and she turned and she turned. There was the gleam of light like sugar, there were shiny mirrors in the cafe, and she dared not look. She dared not see the fever in her eyes. She wavers on her high pointed shoes; her ankles such fine bone they might snap. She looks for him across the café. Yes he's there where he said he would be. "You can talk to me. I won't judge you. I'm here for you. I can be your friend."

He pushes hard into the word, makes it sound like fuck. She looks deeply into his eyes; it's what she does when she needs to see herself. "I want to talk to you. I need to talk to you. It's just that I don't know how. What if you don't understand? I'll be embarrassed."

"No matter what it is, I won't turn away. Everything will be all right."

"I don't know if I can say*dreams* and then I'm confused*and my head
hurts*can't swallow*something* I never wanted to believe*but now I do.
But I still love him. I'll always love him; no matter what he did."

He touches his beard and looks at her like she's a child. "Slow down.
Take your time."

"I had a dream."

"Tell me."

She's all hunched over, her hair in her face, talking into her coffee cup. "I woke up in a man's bedroom. I'm afraid now. There are optical illusion lines crisscrossing everywhere, the walls, the TV, in front of my eyes. A voice is telling me something. It's my own voice. Your father, sex, your father, not love, lines zigzagging in the air, your father, love, and me smoking and lying like a statue on the bed. There is candy all around me, a vertigo of color *I want to be alone, far away, but those lines keep drawing themselves in front of my eyes, the lines - they're intruding, raping me. Then fingers, that pluck over me and my brain, goblin arms that reach into my dreaming. I see an old boyfriend, a beautiful, sun-kissed boy, tall and muscled, with thick brown hair and the way it grows and flips a little past his ears, wide-open eyes like deer.

I can't remember who he is. I remember everything. I surely would remember a beautiful boy who loves me. I'm still in his bedroom and I stole all his change from his change jar. Must have been thirty dollars worth. Then I took all the candy from a tin container on his bureau. Red licorice. Mounds bars, those little violet and yellow candies you lick off paper. An old woman called to me from outside in the grass as she took the wash off the line. It was windy and her hair was blowing wildly and she wiped her eye . She called to me again; she seemed happy I was there. And then I knew*this boy, this man, was someone I could not marry. Someone connected to my soul, a love deeper than life. So, that was the dream I had*"

"I'll help you."

"You're not going to say something Freudian?"

He looks at her again with that "there, there, little girl" look. "I
know you're in pain, I know. I'll help you. You'll see. Everything
will be all right."

"But what do you think?"

"I think you need love. I think you may confuse love with sex. You
must be suffering."

She felt the fever rising on her cheeks. Her fingers trembling in her
lap like birds. "During sex, I mean when you have sex, are you keeping death away?"

"Yes, definitely. But only if it's done right. Now, I think we should definitely meet again next week. And if you need me for anything, you call me. O.K.?"

" Are you sure I'm not too much trouble?"

"Look at me, Lorelai. I want to help you. I'll never hurt you."
"You won't?ight like sugar, there were shiny mi"

* * * *

All through the winter, running in snow, under gray skies, with pretty
lacy blouses cut low. Under sweaters. In case. Sweaters she took off
when she sat down, so he could see. They philosphized. He spoke to her of envy, death and evil. "Fear of death leads to evil. I will speak of this in class tonight."

"I think envy leads to evil. I know all about envy. My mother was
envious of me. She did whatever she could to keep me away from my
father."

"Why do you think she did that?"

"Because I loved him."

"Is that all? Maybe she was envious of your beauty."

"You think I'm beautiful?"

"Lorelai, you know that. Remember I told you I was attracted to you?
But I'm your professor. You must remember that."

"Oh, yes, I know."

He told her he was a great philosopher, a great analyzing analyst and
he would be there for her, he'd be the one to help her. If only she
behaved.

* * * * *
She dreams bad ugly dreams and after the dreams, it is dark. He has
come to her; he is somewhere in the room. All the day has gone. Through
the window a silver moon glows with the yellow sodium of street lamps,
and now she sees him standing there, silhouetted by the glass, the devil, the one she must have, delicate as a paper cut-out, hard as a granite structure.
She reaches out to him, but it is only a ghost or a vision.

* * * * *
Helping her, talking to her sweetly in the café became more like stroking, like petting. He began to talk to her of sex, of his own escapades. And she would sit there, blushing, mesmerized. Tell me more.

Their sex talk hot, hotter and he so reserved, so straight faced as he
seduced her, hypnotized her with hard sex stories beneath cold eyes.
She could sense him, torrid beneath those eyes, like breath on her neck,
like the movement of his finger along the side of his coffee cup. She
thought she felt his hands heavy in her hair and rough in her lap. Though he never touched her. Though they sat in a cafe in the city, behind the dark window; inside the falsely lit room, she sighed as she imagined the sigh of the sea, waiting for his hands. Her mind was clouded, swollen with her need of him. "Once there was a woman who lived down the road from me who had sex with all the neighborhood men. She came to me one day. She was begging for it."

"Did you do anything?"

"No. There needs to be a spark, something about the woman that gets
to me."

Lorelai felt a crackle in the air, she felt his eyes slightly graze over her eyes, slightly delve into her body.

"Well, that's amazing. I thought all men would jump at the chance to
do it."

"Maybe if I were younger. Maybe not. I need to really want a woman."

"That's very sexy." And she swirled the cappuccino around in her
mouth.

"Lorelai, that is a very intoxicating blouse you're wearing."

"You like it? I had an audition today."

"I'm sure you got the part on sexiness alone. I know you're a great
actress. You're certainly not afraid of emotion."

"I am a great actress."

"I bet."

"I did Lady Mac Beth for my audition piece. My first time. I was on the floor for part of it, writhing, real sexy, and when I'm conjuring the witches to "unsex me here*", I was still sexy."

"What is that blouse made of - silk?"

"No, it's just that it's see through. See, I have to wear this camisole underneath."

"You don't have to."

And she laughed a hearty laugh. A laugh that finally made him smile.

* * * * *
In class, the leopard draws near, sensual and evil. Lorelei swings her hips in a sinewy dance away from him, to her seat by the wall. A safe place. He was one of those men who ends up clawing, scratching inside of you, deep enough to take all your years to heal. He approaches in a smirk only to glide around her. Her breath is betraying her, she's in danger because he walks right by her, roaring anthropological, philosophical tales of primitive sex, words he hands out like all those mythical drawings of six foot penises.
Now he had truly fixed her up. She wants him all the time, wants to grab onto him in the cafe, run up to him after class and hold him like a deranged girl, in her boots and lace, and the other students know there's something gone wrong with her, something like fever, in her canyoned eyes, her body twitching, her hair falling over those eyes, and here she is in her pretty dress, and he's standing there, legs like trees planted on the floor. His arms crossed. "Yes, my love?"

He uses words to keep her longing for him fresh. And she waits for the words of comfort he used to give. "You can say anything to me."

Now the words were lewd. Dirty things he likes to do, but not with her.
"Lorelei, there must be boundaries."

"Touch me."

Words like thrusts. With words, like one long finger, he traces in a line for a cut, down her cheek, presses into the quivering space between her lips to stop her own words. He had truly fixed her up.

* * * *
She can never be sure if he wants her. All of his giving of words and comfort, giving, then taking away. And she with no one, half-slipped
through the seam in the universe, a girl half-eternal, a girl no one would grieve for.

All through those drab winter afternoons he took her to cafes and gorged her on heavy foods, made her hips soft with all the donuts and cremes, cheesecakes and melting chocolates. And her favorite, vanilla cappuccino. He likes the way the foam bubbles on her lips.She offered him a piece of chocolate.

"No, thank you. I'm watching my weight. And I like chocolate on top
of something."

"On top of what?"

His hard eyes smiled a little. "On top of a woman's body." He brings her to the edge, her panties damp, only to dangle words. Leaving her. And just as the spring air flutters through the cold, just as she was soft and pliant, he took the cakes, the sweets, the cremes, away. He waited for all the hollows to form in her face and body, for her hips to turn boyish.

* * * *
She asks him to come see her in a play. "Oh, you know, it's not that good, the actors have no imagination, they don't even react to each other and it's one of those original plays and the director blocks every move, but, I'm good, Jesse. You'll see what a great actress I am."

He lets her get so excited, let's her think he'll go and then he changes his mind."I think it's best if I don't go."

And now her fever, already closing in, makes her mind all dust and lost words. With her finger, she presses into her forehead, she closes her eyes and his words spill over like bullets. And then she looks up at him, at his mouth explaining. Words. Her hand wanted to touch his face. Her head wanted to nestle in his chest. Her fist wanted to knock him dead.
"What can I do to make it up to you? Is there another night we can
go? Talk to me."

"I think you're doing this on purpose to hurt me. I'm mad at you."

"Why would I do that? Don't I want to meet you every Tuesday? You're
special to me. You know you're my best student."

"So what?"

"You know I'm attracted to you. You know that I have to be careful.
This politically correct school, God, this politically correct world, I can't do anything. I could get fired."

"Why can't they let people do what they want? It's not like I'm 18 or
something. I'm a grown woman. I should be able to do what I want.
And you too. I mean, come on, you wouldn't exactly be corrupting me."

"I don't know about that. Come on, Lorelai, don't be mad at me." Oh, Jessie.

Her mind was disintegrating. Her thighs were soft and limpid. "You've set it up so you have all the power. You've set all the boundaries, so I can't say how I really feel."

"You can say anything you want to me. You know that. You have more
power than you think."

She was nervous, she felt her heart shivering, always when she was
with him. Hypnotized, bothered, she twirled a coffee stirrer over and
under her fingers.

He would speak to her gently and she would surrender, her body melting
into his promises. He gave her sweet words that worshipped her beauty,
words that made her feel her beauty, as if sugar had been dusted
between her breasts. And then the sweet words became rough words, words hard and thrusting as if he were making love to her. Roughly. And these words held her enraptured and bothered. "We can talk more if you want. But, I must set boundaries. I am your professor, not your therapist. Boundaries, so there will be no transference, so there will be no love. Transference can lead to love."

"Yes, I understand."

And just like a therapist, with a face void of any expression, he
said, "So, I'll see you next Tuesday."

* * * * *
That night, worn down, empty of her rancor, lethargic after losing her self, as in an epileptic fit, she sleeps heavily, alone. Now she is fragile, a marble statue, a petrified doll. She sleeps in childish limbo. When she awakens, the bile of yesterday will not arouse her. She's just swollen eyes, stretched out legs tingling under blankets, lungs filled with phlegm, her stomach bloated with indigestible lumps.

One day as they sat in the café, he said oh so matter of factly, "I am your nipple. I am the mother you yearn for, the love you never had."

"No, no. You are my father."

And she thought, where are the boundaries. But she said nothing. It
was thrilling. "I have to leave a little early today. I have to correct these
papers. You would laugh if you read these. You, Lorelei, are so much more
intelligent than all the others."

"Is that why you meet me every week, because of my intelligence?"

"Lorelai, you know I like you. I want you to stop being so insecure.
Stop it. You're acting like Jake.

"Jake! That pompous guy who sits next to me?"

"He may act pompous in class, but he follows me around like a puppy
dog. At least you have pride. You have class, baby."

"Yeah, I do just what I'm told. I meet you every week for coffee and
cake and sex talk."

"I was telling you that you are better than the others, that you have
more class than Jake. I'm not giving you a hard time. Now, listen. I
have to go. But you know if you need me, you can call."

"You're leaving now?"

"Yes. Lorelei, look at me. I can't be with you twenty-four hours a
day. You know you are special. Don't feel rejected."

"I don't want to be with you twenty-four hours a day. It would drive
me crazy."

"Maybe. But you still want it."

* * * * *

She dreams of him every night.

And now their tryst in the moonlight was such a whir of flailing arms and thighs that no mere detail could push through, it was only a fast forward melee. After awhile an eye or swollen mouth would poke through as the motion slowed, lit and marked in indigo light. And in the last moments, the shadow of the man, all razored cheekbones and black coat, pushed through the miasma and exploded in thrusting whispers. She looked into his eyes, as if she sees monsoons tripping by lunar light. Mucou-wet, she sees her self, an embryo in his eyes.

* * * * *
"Yesterday, in class, why were you talking about women students opening their blouses to you, the ones who want a better grade?"

"Some girls*women think because I talk about sex in my lectures, that
I'm the kind of guy who'll fall for all that. They think if they show me their breasts that I'll give them a better grade. You don't do that. You're so intelligent, so beautiful, and such a hard worker; you don't need to do that."

"If I'm so intelligent why do you think I don't know you're playing with my mind? And why are you playing with my mind? You're supposed to have ethics, Mr. Philosophy, Psychology, Religion, Ph.D. man. You talk to me so sexy and then you say, "I'm the Professor and you're the student", like it's a mantra that will hold your desires, your feelings away."

"I don't show you my breasts because you're so uptight you'd probably
run out of the room screaming. Not because I don't need a better grade. And I don't need a better grade. I could show you my breasts right now; I could lean over and there they'd be, in satin and lace just for you."

She looked at him with doe eyes, all the while licking the coffee stirrer and moving it around her lips, and he was raising his eyebrows, a chink above the ice-floe of his eyes."Lorelai. Stop it. Stop. If you can't behave we won't be able to see each other like this anymore. You know you're my student."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm your student. And I have breasts and you want
them."

"Lorelai!"

A slight smile opened around those eyes. She knew he was angry. "You bastard, you tell me you're attracted to me, you comfort me with whispers and psychological rhetoric, you talk to me about sex and then you act like I'm a viper; a seething sexual predator. I hate you. Funny. In class you talk about men and how they're so afraid of women and their sexuality and their ability to give life and their fear of menstruation and childbirth. You say how this all leads to the evil of men and how they are evil to women. Funny. You are evil to me. You are mean to me. I hate you."

"Lorelai, you really have to understand that I'm your professor. If you weren't my student, we'd be doing all kinds of things."

"What would we be doing? Tell me." Creamy froth from the swirling
coffee stirrer drizzled down her lips onto her chin. With her tongue she licked it up.

"We'd be wild animals."

Lorelai laughed a hearty girly laugh and a few of those serious intellectual types looked up from their Freud and their Kierkegaard texts. "That's enough, Lorelai. This isn't funny."

"I know, I know*I'm your student. But behind the ice in your eyes and
that mantra of yours, don't you find me irresistible?"

"I find you very irresistible, but I must resist. And there's something else. The reason I asked to meet with you in the first place, the sad things you told me, well we can't discuss that anymore. I'm not equipped to help you. It's not my area of expertise. Do you understand?"

"No. I can't understand. I thought you would help me. And you never
talk about it anymore anyway. You always talk about sex. You talk so
sexy and then if I flirt a little, if I look at you; you get so mad. I don't understand. You said you'd help me. Please*."

"This is exactly what I mean. You are like a little girl, no, a wounded sparrow. I could hurt you, make things worse*"

"I'm not*."

"You are. A wounded bird and I could say something that could hurt
you more, break you in two. You have to understand*Loreleai."

"Yes."

"I understand all right, you prick. You're hurting me, playing with me. You talk to me, comfort me, then you take it away. You were the one who asked me, "Are you all right? Do you need anything? Call me. You're the one. You are. It's you. You meet me every week, stare at me in class*you want me. I need you. I want to claw your eyes right off your face. I want you to hold me. I hate you. Now I'm really alone."

* * * * *

She let herself be wrapped in his words. Believing it was a gift, because now she could only believe in gifts, only wishes*.she had her own story, monstrous story. She told it to him, waiting for him to end it. His gift to her, his listening, his words of comfort, would turn. Like all sacrifices that are presented as gifts, they start turning into death as soon as they are accepted.
And she, always still believing. Her open eyes. Her expectant, famished eyes. And then she was getting up, spilling the cappuccino, saying she had to go. Goodbye. No, no, I'm not mad, I'm not a bird, Yes, I'll see you in class, Yes, I'll meet you next week, I understand, I do. I'll see you. Yes.

* * * * *

Alone in her gray walls, around and around she danced, a lone woman in
a pale pink dress, the prettiest lace at the bustier, around and around on the tile floor, in and over the candy colored roses she bought for herself, around and around in an imaginary waltz, splayed and shackled in the arms of her imaginary lover. Melody swarming in roses, sinking into tiles, around and around she twirled. A moment later she lay in a heap, a wrought fetus, unformed, undone, flesh and tendons and fluid on the gray tile floor.

* * *
She fell into the chair by the wall, the lace of her slipdress askew, revealing the top of her breasts. She used to sit upright, a woman on guard, leaning slightly into him, straight and rigid. Today she leaned right over the table, flopping around like a rag doll, sloppily, her legs spread, her breasts peeking out.He was staring. He didn't say a word. But she knew he was evaluating
her, searching her for some thing."This is the real me. I'm all over the place. Look at me. I'm a mess."

"You look as lovely as ever."

"No I don't. Look at my eyes. They're all red and swollen. Look."

With no expression in his eyes at all, he said, "No, you look lovely. I would say that your eyes look even more like bedroom eyes than they usually do."

"You and your stupid boundaries, but when you want to cross the line,
you sure do. Not that I mind. Do you really think I have bedroom eyes?"

"Very sexy, drooping eyelids, very come-hither."

She laughs her luscious laugh and he still just stares. "I look like shit and I don't care."

"You're acting very strange today. What's wrong with you?"
"You know."
He throws his hands up in the air. "I told you, you can tell me anything."

"OK. Fine. You know, once a month. This is me; a mess."

"Well, no one would know."

She throws her tote-bag on the table, pulling out lipsticks, brush, notebooks in a frantic search. "What are you looking for, Lorelai?"

"I wrote a poem about you. Don't worry, it's not romantic or anything
like that. I'm writing lots of things. You know I got some stuff
published, right?"

"Yes, I know. I love your work.. It's so raw."

"This poem really reveals a lot about you. I hope you won't be mad."

"Just show it to me. I'm sure I'll love it. I'm sure I won't be mad, Lorelai. She dumps more stuff onto the table, and plucks a rumpled piece of
paper out of the mess.

She looks it over, pouts and looks him in the eye. "You know what? I don't think I'll let you see it."

"Lorelai, you are trying my patience."

She feels tears behind her eyes and she won't let him see. She sticks
her tongue out at him. "Lorelai, you are really getting out of hand. As a matter of fact, you are flirting with me way too much?"

"Me? What about you*"

"And I'm going to tell you something else. Jake, the guy who sits next
to you, he said you weren't wearing any panties in class."

She narrows her eyes, leans over purposely to allow the lacy edge of
her dress slip away, and hisses at him. "Why would you tell me something
like this? Why, Mr. Uptight man with repressed passion beneath the
surface? Huh? Why?"

"Don't pull this on me. I'm not falling for it. I'm not being mean. I'm drawing the line for the final time."

"That's how you do it? By telling me I wasn't wearing panties? You
don't think that's suggestive; that it's lewd? If you're so professional
and you don't want me around, why would you talk about my panties?"

"To show you that I can't be seduced."

"But I was wearing them. You're sick. And I bet it was you that was
looking up my dress, not Jake."

He didn't answer. "I will have no more of your tantrums, Lorelai. Any other professor would have told you to leave, just go, it's too much."

"Please don't be mean to me."

"You just refuse to listen. I am not going to sleep with you, no matter how much I want to, no matter how you look at me with those eyes and twirl that straw in your lips. I am your professor; you are my student. Stop thinking with your slave morality."

"I thought we were going beyond morality."

"You are sexually aggressive. I don't like it."

"Jesse, I'm not. You talk to me about sex, you do. You comfort me,
you tell me I'm sexy. I thought you liked me."

"I think all those things."

"I'm not sexually aggressive. I never made any advances toward you.
Never."

"If I wasn't your professor, we'd be in bed right now. But I am."

"I only wanted to have fun. I wanted to talk to you. That's all. You brought up all the sex stuff. You just did it again. Why would I walk around with no panties, especially after everything that's happened to me?

She looked up and through the window she saw Jake. She started to cry
and the Professor grew angry. "Lorelai, stop it. I will not stand for this tantrum."

"No, it's*it's* Jake. HE's out there. I need to talk to you, still. He's staring. What's going on?"

"Lorelai, stop it. I'll go get rid of him. Then I want you to go home and think about what a baby you are. You are not my girlfriend. Think about what you're doing. How you're acting."

"You don't understand. I don't want your life. I only thought you could give me back a part of mine. A scrap of love. OR just sex. But I never asked you for sex. I only responded to you. You. And your sexy talk, your passion. my passion. I never did anything wrong*."

"Lorelai, we will meet next week. Go think about what you're doing.
You are aggressive, sexually aggressive. I never gave you any reason to
think anything would happen. I talked to you. I helped you. I talked
about sex to you. So what?"

"I hate you."

"I know."

And then she was running out of the café, her dress askew, her eyes
filling with tears. He sat there, a very angry man.

* * * *

Naked boughs of light in her room that is always winter. Yellowed
peelings of wall have become her fortress and she holds herself there in
place, in stillness, holds herself back from the purpleredwhite hot
insanity that is always minutes away from engulfing her.

Shadows hover; lower, lower in the gray room, leaving her sallow,
leaving her all hollowed bones and face and thighs and fidgeting hands.
Shadows that mirror the weather of her still life. A life that refuses
to flow. A still current of energy that stagnates, wet and humid around
her.

She climbs onto the bed, a single squishy mattress that mostly had no
sheets. Papers and more papers, everywhere on that bed; her poetry,
her homework, her half-written memoir, her letters to the professor that
would never be sent, piles and piles of Help Wanted ads. Papers that
she didn't have the strength to look through. She hurled herself around
in fits.. A pale pink nightgown slipped to the floor, the lace burnt by a forgotten cigarette; falling, falling to the piles below of cast off lavender and teal and cream bras and panties she once wore in her dreaming days. She rolled off the bed into all the silky material back and forth, an animal lost in gurgling moans. She cried for her life, for all that never came. For all the stillness, for all the stagnation.

She only wanted him. That professor. She stuck her finger through
the holes in a pair of fishnet stockings and ripped hard. She fell
asleep with lace and satin around her, under her, in her.

She woke with her throat and her brain dry as old bones and she
slurped tap water out of a paper cup. Water. One of her only possessions.
Water. Her head turning, like a girlchild, turning in the mirror, seeing him,
an intellectual man, a man just like the one she already knew. Water
to guzzle, water to splash on her swollen eyes, water to bathe in, to
cleanse her body.

Water to wash away the cuts she found on her arms and breasts when she woke. Bluesilvewhite water. Water to restore her beauty. The one thing no one had yet taken from her. Beauty. With water she could hold on to beauty for many more years. If she lived. Then there would be stolen coffee. Maybe cappuccino. Coffee bought with money stolen out of the rent money. Coffee to caress the mouth and the taste buds. And buttered rolls and maybe omelettes. And butter. Gobs of dripping butter to keep her body curvy and womanly. She'd show him.

She saw a swollen old face on top of her beautiful face; she saw deceased eyes and a mouth that looked injected with collagen, but it wasn't *this was her mouth. Her beauty. A mouth that felt no kiss. She sighed her daily sigh as she surveyed the lipsticks and creams and liners and blushers strewn across the old-fashioned dresser.

They were her implements of a mask. Water to negate her face. She washed her face, scrubbing herself in the scalding water. Now what had been so lovely became so ghostly, her still life forming her into a painting. First she passed a sponge over all the places that had become dead; worn out with rubbing and blending and smearing. She saw life and death playing themselves out over her face. She was afraid to finish, because then she'd have to go out, to feel quickening heartbeats. And she muttered to herself, "It's enough, it's enough. No more."

And she ran the water again, for the sound. A sound as soothing as
Valiums and Marlboros. And then there was nothing to do but paint on the
Cherry Brown lipstick and a stain of blush that looked like childhood,
and outline her eyes in still life.

* * * * *
One raw evening during Spring Break he calls her. He told her he was
sick. And there she was, again, running; her ankles almost snapping, running
in high heels to meet him. He didn't force her inside, he didn't frighten her as he turned the lock. "Are you allright?"

"Just a cold. I've wanted to see you for so long. I'm now thinking I
should leave all this false morality behind. Decide for myself, go beyond. I teach all this, why not live it?"

"Yes*"

And she was so filled with fever, and so crazy-mad for him and he was
so huge with his power, that when she said she only wanted to be his
slave, he smiled one of his rare smiles and reached for her hand.

* * * * *

All light has faded. the window is dark, but she doesn't know how late
it is. She sees his belt hanging, ominous, a long heavy black strip
lengthening from the hook, touching. like his tongue on the floor. She
caresses the blade, the buckle, she feels the manliness of it in her fingers and she doesn't hear him coming. She looks up. He's standing there.

"Lorelai, you will learn that what is done out of love is beyond good
and evil."

"Yes, I know."

"Now you will see the real Superman. The Ubermensch emerging. You
know, my love, as I always say, we must leave the herd morality behind.
And out of the ashes, out of the chaos, the Superman will arise."

* * *
There was only them in the room and she's doing sweet things for him.
She ran a bath for him, tangled her fingers in his forest of chest hair, and she undressed him, smoothing out the clothes and laying them on the bed so he never doubted her love. She spoon-fed him chicken soup. She mixed drinks.

The dense smell of cigarettes filled the air, her cigarettes were burning in different ashtrays where she'd put them down, them forgotten them. She cleaned the room, put fresh daisies and lilacs in coca cola bottles and chipped vases. Each corner of the room a garden. Their delicious scent filled their room, more than the cigarette smoke, more than coffee and vodka and more than the bile in her heart.

Outside it was a steamy, amethyst afternoon, the sweetest time of day,
when the last of the light glows over everything. Soon the yellow
streetlights would click on. The drizzle had stopped and looking out the
window she thought it over for a moment.

He moved his hand to her and her lacy dress fell; a moment of it
slipping in a pool on the floor, deep at her ankles like cream. And his
fingers dragging through it; using it later to wipe her clean. He traces
her face. Drags one finger over her cheekbone. "God, you're beautiful."

And his mouth is hard on her neck, biting her, pulling her face to his
lips. Lorelai closes her eyes, her knees beginning to fold* "Look at me, Lorelai*see who wants you*Kneel down."

Still, she kneels for him. She feels pretty, kneeling for him, her skin naked for him, but for the ice-pink bustier and tap pants. And the outline of her bones. So pretty.

Pretty, but her eyes are flat and dead. Still, she continues to kneel
and he stands somewhere in the room, in the dark. If she could see
him, just see him, she would breathe.

Touch me*.

He walks away for a moment, leaving her there on her knees.
"Don't move."

She does what she's told. He reminds her of someone she used to know.
"You love me, don't you, Lorelai?"

"I can't help it."

"If you choose to behave like a slave, I'll treat you like one."

"Feelings. They're only there to move the power of man forward." Her drawing in of air is the only movement. If a person looked up at the milky window and the dusty curtains they would see no light, hear no sound. They would think the room was empty, a vacant place. A person looking would not think a woman was begging for love.

"I know you*.Don't you want me?"

A person looking wouldn't see him spanking her, commanding her to love
him. They wouldn't see her slave morality. He was changed, then. The spell was broken, but another had him. He became gestured, swanlike, a macho bird mimicking love in a dance that erased only the roughest of edges. Even the dark was light; it was all transformed.

She stood, arms stretched and wiggled like a serpent into his chest. Her belly ground into his, her teeth biting his mouth. Bra and panties, one at a time, fell through the last piece of sunlight. His legs climbing into her legs, his fingers now rough again, spread like a blemish on her face. She allowed it all. She allowed him between her thighs, in sweat, all of her gut to climb into, so he'd know that all things false and empty would dissolve only in her.

She opened to his fingers, his eyes and ignored his words, because she
had no need of them. And he, consuming her in waves, not knowing how
to speak to her and she, knowing this, luring him on, holding him on the
sweet place between his shoulders, that boy piece of him, all jutting out and birdlike. And they rubbed and wound their bodies, she raising one of her legs, lazily, deliberately, and smacked it around him as he grabbed her for the last time.

* * * * *
"Lorelai, I feel sick; really sick. Help me."

And then his whole body jerked; his hands opening, then closing and
opening again and his eyes snapping open and shut and then searching her
eyes for hope, for love, just like she had searched his eyes. And the
wetness on his chin.

And the horror of sounds in his throat. And his breath coming in giant rasping holes and water drooling out of his eyes and mouth* She cradled him and rocked him. She felt him in the air, and it was her self she felt.

Now everything is over. Everything is still. The closed air, the bed and all she can smell is him; the sweet vanilla smell he leaves behind. This is the scent on her face now. The smell of him is like dying. There will be no new summer or autumn now, no chocolate covered strawberries dripping between lips. Only stillness of body, of mouth. And this stale vanilla smell. This is what dying is like*a man's face, a menacing moon turned pale, the scent of vanilla, and off his cheek, off his unyielding mouth*this is what dying is like, a lonely thing, a swoon of velvet, sleep at her back, his aroma ever in her face.

This is what dying is like**

Jesse*.


She killed him tonight. She ground up enough Valium to kill two of him, two of the man who humiliated her, who pretended to love her, who hurt her like the one she used to know. All those grams of poison; they were right for him and his stone heart.Slowly she lifts herself off the bed. She emerges from spaces she won't see again. She sees him. Her eyes are seams, tears trickling, hardening into dried salt.

She sees him.

She walks away from him. She walks to the window.

He is dead.

Gone like her mother, her father, her only escape is gone. The make-believe world, a world safe in its fever, the world she stayed in for a time, the dark shadowy world*.Already her open eyes and waiting flesh are shriveled. The musk of her perfume, pretty lipstick tubes, her little gloves and matchbooks, scraps of paper - half formed poems, all these things have gone already, into dust, drawing patterns in cobwebs, in boxes, in empty halls, dust, instead of fever, dust that once really did exist.The dry taste of dust is in her mouth, it is dripping out of her hair, all out of her.

And it is so late, or so early, there is darkness, silence, in the room and the world is closed up, only a street light flickers. Still, she goes to the window, with ache still in her, tears falling, and she is all bent over, walking to him, through him, through his shadow, walking through cold blackness and she falls beside him, lets his cold flesh warm her, but the weight of him, the skin of him* Her insides are crumbling down.She is somewhere long ago.
Daddy, come back, don't die, Daddy**..


And she waits for the sirens, coming for her and they don't come, and
her eyes like seams, milky tears falling, and the sirens don't come.
And the mess of death is everywhere.

And she dreams of all she used to be. A girl. Of her breath coming
quickly as she ran in light footsteps across the lawn and the way the
last of the sun caught her hair, her ballerina arms caught in the willows, then later, standing with a young man, who is fumbling with a lavender corsage, then his hand on the pale organza of her skirt. She used to catch the light.
That long-ago girl.

* * * * *

She walks out the door, dust falling. She steps outside, her lover, only a man she once knew. She walks along the city streets in rain so soft it hurts her skin, she knows this ache, this spring, this clean scent in the air, the grimy
sidewalks, the dense wads of forsythia growing wild by the chain fence
at the corner, the gutters running with white cigarette butts and fallen cherry blossoms.

She walks past the main building of the university, where he taught of
the insatiable evil of men, of man's need to overcome his slave morality, about a new free sexuality. The building looks alone, out of time. She walks further up the street and into their café and the smell of butter and sugar warms her.

Here was the café she loved with the milky windows and the mahogany
walls. With the little chairs adorned with curlicued backs. The café
where he watched her eat the gooey cakes. The professor was called Jesse
and he looked after her there, he may have loved her there.

She sits in the pretty colors created by the light, remembering how
pretty she felt once. She sees the wooden trays laid out with a hundred
icy pink and chocolate sugar cookies, cut in flowers and stars, some
crushed to crumbs.

She sits by the glass window sipping vanilla cappuccino. She loves
how clean the glass is, and how shiny it is in the spring light. She wants to break the glass, see it shatter like crushed pearls all through the newly scented air and she wants to feel the warmth of the sun on her bare arms. She wants to break the glass and open her hands to receive sustenance from the blue air, she wants the world to wash her clean.

And she thinks.

You are right, darling. Everything done out of love is beyond good and evil.

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