Love with No Reciprocate
“The first time I uttered the words I love you to her, she laughed. I remember the way her laugh had been garish and hurtful. She had been hoping to attract the attention of her nearby male friends; a posse of twenty-something out of work freelance drug mules. They smoked crack and made peace with the God they didn’t believe in. Her laugh had not distracted them from their slumber and she threw me a spiteful smile. It was from that moment I would feel lonely. She stared me away from her front door, autumn leaves crackling under my freshly burdened footsteps. I walked home; a ramshackle set of huts behind a petrol station. The owner of the petrol station, a Mr Davids, didn’t mind my being there, and I never complained about the poor upholstery of the chairs he supplied for me. It was dark. I wished away the silence and had it met with a helicopter overhead, a single light shining down some hundred metres from my passage. I squinted to make out what was being illuminated but soon it flew away, once again leaving me alone. I decided to walk in the middle of the road, and not move if a car came along. It was my bad luck the driver saw me in time and swerved to avoid me. My heart didn’t even notice.
Indifferent to my lucky escape I arrived home, walking through the empty doorframe to my bed; ten or eleven pillows. They stank. I had painted the bottom pillows brown to make them seem like wood, but upon inspection it looked like I had shit on all of them and it was that that had created the stench. They were uneven. Like a broken marshmallow mattress. I could not get comfortable. I came to realise for the thousandth time that pillows are not as comfortable as they are made out to be. I thought about asking Mr Davids for some new ones, but dismissed it. I could not pay. Within a few hours of shuffling I found the position of Zen and fell asleep, waking hours later with a love-induced headache and a traumatised heart. She had laughed. I loved her but she had laughed. She did know what love was. I was sure of it. How could she not? For an hour I cried into my hands, facing the equally miserable existence the chair opposite me led. When I stopped the lonely gesture of futility I sat blinking away the residue crying leaves and went into town. A lot of polished shiny people floated about between the shops, hands with bags, bags with handbags. I had ten pounds in twenty fifty pence coins I had stolen from a busker who’s music I didn’t readily accept as accomplished. He had chased me but without leaving his guitar, which slowed him down. I gazed down at the sparkling theft and thought about how strange it was these tiny bits of silver were worth so much. I knew I should feel rotten. I didn’t.
I decided there and then to spend it all on junk food. I’d been queuing up in the supermarket when two college aged children joined up behind me. Do you think transsexuals have good banter one asked. The other said it depended. They wove about the intricacies of the issue for a good ten minutes. I had bought some condoms, a can of Coke, custard creams and a Chicken Tikka sandwich. I had decided on flavoured condoms so I could chew them like gum. I also figured if at any point a woman took a liking to me, I’d be prepared. The till worker looked grave and sorrowful. His right eye twitched every time he scanned the barcode and when he scanned the condoms he blushed a little. I bagged up my purchases and left. There I ran into an old friend, Marcus. Marcus was also homeless, only he did it out of choice. I had been made redundant and could no longer afford to live in a house, flat, apartment, barn, shed, outdoor studio or manicured hedgerow. Marcus was from America, and missed it terribly. He had told me he used to punch himself in the mouth and dribble out the red saliva because it looked like the Golden Gate Bridge. When he saw me he smiled broadly, and we talked about various things. He said he’d found an off-licence that sold him Kronenberg at a 75% discount if he came into the tubs of ice cream because the owner hated children. He told me where it was and that they’d extend me the same service if I dropped his name. With that he rushed off. I hitched a ride home on the back of a maintenance workers truck and jumped off when he refused to stop when I asked him too. Mr Davids had left me a porn magazine on my bed with a note saying to avoid page twenty six. Instinctively I turned to it and saw a she-male pouting at the camera in a bright orange room. I stared at the unsettling image for some time before ripping it out and throwing it out my front doorway.
I thought again about her. The woman I’d given my love to. I decided to go to her house again tonight. If she denied me a second time, I’d definitely walk the few hundred miles to Dover and paint the white cliffs with my red body sized paint brush. It was a long walk but I’d already hitched that day and I didn’t like tempting fate. I’d heard about hitchers who get picked up by lunatics in pickup trucks. They took there passenger to their lair, drugged them, raped them, hired a camera crew of seventies porn actors on lithium to film it before beheading the mauled human carcass and burning it over an empty oil drum. The idea frightened me. I saw the lights were on at her house and I felt nervous. I’d hoped she’d be out. I’d also hoped she’d be in. I knocked at her door with my fist, showing my power and forthrightness. She answered, eyes glazed over, a glass of red wine in her hand. She smiled and asked what I wanted. I love you I told her, my eyes pleading and innocent. She said you’re the guy from the other night. I nodded. She pulled me indoors and shoved me into her lounge. I sat down on the plush sofa and fiddled with the golden tassels of a nearby cushion. She asked me why I loved her and I said I didn’t know specifically but I just knew. She twirled her hair in a flirty way. She asked me more questions. I told her I was thirty two years old. Homeless. Never married. No kids. No job. As I talked I remembered I’d brought along the condoms. I clutched them hoping that perhaps I may have use for them. I knew she was drunk, and only allowed me in because her addled mind thought it fun and wacky. I should’ve cared, maybe been offended. She told me she had had sixteen glasses of wine in three hours, and was feeling horny. I thought about a rampant orgy in which the condom would split open like a faulty parachute and the skydiving sperms would drown her egg in a gooey accident. I felt more needed than ever before, even if I was just a temporary fuck job to pass the time to sobriety. When she passed out minutes later I thought about groping her. In the end I picked her up and had her on my lap, pretending she’d fallen asleep due to me comforting her about the tragic death of her dog.
After a few hours of this I became numb and shifted her off of me, standing up to get my blood circulating again. She rolled onto the floor and hit her head hard. I left her there and departed for home again. This time I walked on the paths and when I arrived at my shack, I went straight to sleep. I didn’t dream at all and woke to absolute silence. It was a Sunday I remembered. The station was always dead on Sundays. I gorged myself on the custard creams I’d bought and felt their sludgy residue nauseate my pallet. Soon they tasted of vomit and then nothing. I grabbed the Chicken Tikka sandwich container and licked all the remnants of flavour of the cardboard, before eating the stained bits because the sauce had dried into it. I asked Mr Davids for a lift after he finished work and he said of course. At eight in the evening he finished up and drove me to her house. He asked me if I wanted a return journey. I told him no thank you. The third time of knocking and no one answered. The lights were on. On the tenth time she answered, a nasty bruise on her forehead. She gave me a groggy but knowing hello. I beamed quite stupidly at the fact she remembered me and asked how she was. She said she’d fucked one of her drug mules and gotten Chlamydia. I was taken back by her honesty and said I was there for her. She nodded with tears. She hugged me tight. I felt her sobs and wanted to feel sorry for her. But I only loved her. I didn’t like her at all. When we separated she invited me in and made me a lasagne. She didn’t season it and the meal was a travesty. I ate it reluctantly, and wanted my mother there to pretend each disgraceful mouthful was a steam train like how she did when I was younger. I managed to clear the plate but she’d been drinking red wine again and had had a dozen or so refills. She told me Chlamydia was symptom less and that if I got it, it’d be an achievement. I shook my head and asked her if AIDS was top prize. She laughed and said she’d tried getting AIDS off a sharp piece of rusting metal. I told her that’s tetanus, not AIDS. By glass fifteen her words were slurred and her incessant need to pause for effect was becoming highly annoying. I told her I’d be back tomorrow and that she should go to the doctors to see about her Chlamydia. She giggled and swatted away my suggestion, stating that doctors were on par with Nazis, and that Heinrich Himmler formed the NHS in 1941. On the walk home I spotted Marcus masturbating in a hedge outside a parade of shops. I left him to his home comforts and arrived home, fell upon the bed and lay awake wondering why I had fallen in love with a drunken sex maniac who’s promiscuity was revoltingly adorable. I had no answers and neither did my sleep. In fact I never got an answer to that.”
He Needs Sex
“He had told me the secret to getting women with raised eyebrows and a sinister smile, before pulling out a handgun and a tube of pills. Threaten them. Drug them. Do what you want with them. We were sitting in his car listening to ambient tones from lost radio days when he showed me the gun. I didn’t know what make or model and I didn’t really care, the gun was a danger and he seemed comfortable with it in his hand. Safety off. Loaded. He told me to watch how he did things for one night. Said I’d need balls of brass to do it. I said isn’t it balls of steel and he said no, steel is for pussies. I said my balls were brassy and I failed to mention I’d be turning him in to the police the following morning. He was my best friend but he was also a psycho, which made the friendship tenuous and fraught with danger. He placed the gun by his crotch and pretended it was some sort of sperm cannon, his eyes rolling in his head, mouth wide open. He laughed raucously to himself while grabbing my cheek and blowing me sadistic kisses. I forced a smile but in all honesty that was the most uncomfortable part of the whole night. When we stopped by his girlfriends place I was determined to not speak out. Or stop him. He seemed locked into what was a series of unflinchingly nasty acts and I thought it better to let him go on his way.
He knocked at her door and she opened hesitantly. She was bruised and he wolf whistled at her, stroking her face delicately before barging past her and I followed. She seemed anxious, with good reason, and he jumped onto the sofa and made rigorous humping motions with his hips, frog tongue darting in and out. He gestured for her to join him. Come here bitch he said. I flinched on the word bitch but let him do his thing. She trudged over to him, steps lacklustre and knowing. He grabbed her cardigan and pulled her on top of himself, pulling down her leggings. She yelled out for him to stop but he carried on, giggling with pleasure at her discomfort, telling her my friend wants to see you fuck me sweetheart. They fucked for a while, most of it brutish and hurtful. I found myself daydreaming about animals screwing like humans and pictured two blue whales exploring the pleasure of missionary when he screamed cum blast from his mouth and settled down. She sobbed quite wretchedly before rushing past me upstairs. His cock was left out of his jeans and he sent me a smooch signal for me to suck him off but I shook my head. He shoved it away in to it’s home town before standing and pulling out his gun, saying the neighbour was a hottie and she needed her fields ploughing. I wanted to laugh at his sexual metaphor but it felt inappropriate having seen what I’d seen. He shouted bye up the stairs and I followed him next door. Knock knock. Who’s there? Open the fucking door you twat. Silence. I have a gun. What? Open up or I’ll shoot you. She peeped through her spyglass and opened up, face freshly cemented with fright. I stared with dread. He walked indoors, spinning the gun in his hand, pointing at a pile of books on a nearby table. He picked up one with his spare hand, reading it’s title aloud. The Descent. He meandered about the hallway, speaking in a posh voice, talking about the characteristics of books. They have words and whatnot, pages and such, emotions and shit, you know, he said softly, leering at her playfully, gauging her response. I doubt it got anywhere near what he wanted.
I’ve seen you fuck before, by the window he smiled, pointing at her breasts. I felt cold. Worried and cold. Take your clothes off Miss he asked, winking at me, all the while pointing his gun at her head, finger twitching dangerously. She took off her top, tears falling to the floor. Bra off. It felt wrong looking upon her naked body but he had already started smacking his lips like dessert had arrived. He edged nearer her, cocking his head like an interested dog after scraps and rubbed the end of his gun about her nipple which made her lips turn inward. Then he took out his pills and said open your mouth darling. She didn’t, not until the gun was pressed against her cheek and her tongue slid out like a conveyor belt. He popped the pill on her tongue, smiling at his handiwork before placing his hand over her mouth, forcing her to swallow it. Swallow it, it’s just candy he told her, eyes pleading, voice psychotically brittle. I willed her not to. She did. For the next hour I sat watching her fellate him quite dementedly. I broke the awful noises by staring into space and wondering why I didn’t feel at all uncomfortable watching a drugged up naked stranger give a psycho a blowjob in her hallway in the late evening. Sometime later, after the woman had spluttered up more than just his juices, she blacked out. He looked at me with a funny glint in his eyes. I asked if we should dress her and lay her down somewhere more comfortable. He snorted derisively. We left her house and got back into his car and drove to the local town centre. All the while he described the sensation of the blowjob in enormous detail, comparing it to a goldfish in a bowl of sunflower oil. I didn’t know what he meant and kept quiet.
At the nightclub he parked up. A sizeable queue streamed from the double doors and towering men in black garb mumbled and cast their bored eyes over I.D after I.D. We joined the queue. He pointed at my shoes and smiled. I gave him an inquiring eye. How did you know to wear shoes he said. I didn’t know how I knew, I’m not even sure I did know. Later on I decided I didn’t know. Later still I became confused by the question. As we neared the doormen he singled out a woman ahead in a leopard print dress and preposterously tall high heels. Jungle woman he said, rubbing his groin and puffing his cheeks. Upon entry two things became startlingly clear. One, I was going to have to drive us home. Two, I’d be driving us home while he screwed the jungle woman in the back. He’d already joined her at the bar and I could see that for all his psychotic behaviour, he was charming. I watched her laugh and slowly pivot her body to face his. She licked her lips frequently. I realised I was standing alone. People wafted by and shot me wary looks. This must be how hitmen stand in clubs I thought, alone with watchful eyes. Jungle woman was necking a glass of clear liquid. Four lay upon the bar. I could see her legs starting to weaken and I knew in a few minutes the two of them would get into his car and start getting torrid. I started to picture the tumescence and began feeling sick. Like I had predicted, jungle woman, now completely intoxicated, stumbled towards me with the help of my friend. He laughed at her directly, stating she was a whore and needed punishing. I frowned at his outright malevolence but she didn’t notice and I wondered what satisfaction someone could get from screwing someone so obviously willing to do anything. She’ll be in the Thames by the morning he joked, propping her up.
We left the club and we piled her into the back seat. He looked at me with a serious face. She’s passed out he said, disappointed. I checked and she had passed out. She also didn’t wear underwear. He pondered for some minutes, staring in an abstract way at the road. Right he said, jumping into life, we go to your place, strip her and have a threesome. I agreed half heartedly, in fact I agreed without any heart, I did it to save her. It was either a grotesque threesome or something much much worse. I drove home and he sat next to me humming a made up tune, glancing every so often at jungle woman who was now drooling onto his upholstery. Halfway through the journey he opened up the glove box and produced a small bottle of whiskey. He drank all of it. It reminded me of my dad but at the same time I recalled I had never met my dad. With every gulp his state worsened. The threesome was horrible. She was ragged about like a dog toy, unconscious and willing in the worst way. He came after a couple of hours. I had turned the lights off so I didn’t have to violate her. I groaned a false orgasm close to his and poured a pre-prepared glass of water on her back to fool him. I needn’t have worried. After climaxing he collapsed onto the floor and fell silent. By 2am I had moved them both to my bed before realising she would wake up in a frenzy. Or she might not. I queried her for a while, my half-whispers getting no reply. I settled on dragging him to a separate room and leaving a note on my bedside table. In the end I left him on the floor where he had collapsed. It seemed fitting. Crime scene investigators would line him with chalk and ask me probing questions if he were to die I thought. Did they still use chalk?
At 4am I heard a soft lamentation from my bedroom and found him circling on his hands and knees. Upon seeing me he said right Hasslehoff, we’re going back out. He got onto his haunches in a precarious fashion and stood. I was impressed he managed it. We drove to a house he knew in the country. It was a detached one, big and homely. He said the daughter was a vixen and would open her window to a ’kum-bay-ar’ sex cry. An hour later and we were camping by a tree stump in the half-light of the early morning. The house had been a different one to the one he had thought it was, which became evident when the police turned up after the elderly woman who lived alone there had called them complaining of ’indecent assault’. I’d heard her from the back garden after he had smashed a window while proclaiming the ’vixen a slut’. When the sirens arrived and two men with authoritative voices turned up we had to scarper. We had run into the woodlands nearby with great enthusiasm. Not only had he threatened, drugged and orally raped a neighbour, had intercourse with an unconscious stranger and vandalised and verbally abused an old woman, he had no guilt about the whole ordeal. In fact after we’d escaped into the forest far enough he suggested home invading a nearby cottage who’s softly puffing chimney did look inviting. He had begun to sober up and crossed the threshold between drunk indecency and calculated venom. As the Sun rose we crossed the field of weeds and heather to the cottage. No lights were on and he crept up to the back door, trying the handle.
Then he noticed a pair of shears resting up against the outdoor shed and grabbed them. He snipped the air with them. Then he went back to the door and snipped an invisible ribbon before declaring ’I hereby open the centre of Hell’. Holding the shears by their blades he smashed in the window of the back door. It broke alarmingly easily and he clambered inside, running to find the stairs. Shouts from upstairs made my gut stiffen. Then it lifted to my throat. Female cries for help brought me new terror and I followed his path to the stairs. Somehow in the intervening period between our two separate journeys indoors he’d gagged and tied a young woman to a radiator and had what I assumed to be the mother in a position I’d seen in a Kama Sutra book. The young woman cried desperately and I stared at her, now completely devoid of any courage. The mother was sobbing quietly as he thrust his hips and amidst the scene I gazed at the curtains and knew the fabric because my aunts house had the exact same curtains only these had a different pattern. During my mental sojourn I decided to smash my friends head in with an ornament lying by my left foot. The mother screamed and the blood sprayed over her. He hit the ground very hard. I watched the crimson pool from the wound and felt nothing. When the police came I was still staring at the blood. Apparently I didn’t say a single word for three days. When I stare at the ceiling in my cell the blood blossoms on its grainy surface and the guards have to maul me because I don’t move when I’m told. When I stare at the ceiling in the infirmary I ask the empty space next to me why my head hurts. Then the end of my arm goes cold. I’m cold all over now. Sometimes I don’t feel it at all. The doctor calls it frostbite but I don’t trust him. He hangs from the ceiling and doesn’t wear white. His eyes are red too.”