Authors: Les Edgerton
Her breasts shone with perspiration in the moonlight. I forced a moan back from my own lips and felt my member become turgid and painful against the prison of my trousers.
One of the men approached her and knelt in front of her. He reached up and put his hands on each side of her shorts and tugged them down. She helped him by shimmying her hips, stepped out of them when they hit the ground and lifted them with her foot, flinging them in the face of one of the other men. The men laughed raucously, and she shrieked again and giggled as the man who’d taken her shorts off rose and bent over, kissing and sucking on one of her breasts.
And then they had their carnal pleasure with her. I saw each of the three insert, in turn, his penis into the girl and fuck her, twice each. It was interesting to observe the various lovemaking styles of each, and I was amazed at the difference in the size of each man’s organ. One was so small as to be laughable, as indeed the girl did, her hooting causing him to redden and tremble, observable even in the darkness, but her scorn didn’t appear to deter him as he thrust into her with short, violent strokes. The time he gave her was as thrifty as his weapon, and the girl only looked mildly disappointed when he withdrew, but not much so, as I’m sure she realized there were better moments to come from the others.
She moaned from time to time, from deep inside her belly, a low, almost savage and bestial sound that, I confess, aroused me to the precipice, again and again.
At the end, with the last man, she must have been exhausted. She turned over on her belly and, with great effort it seemed, lifted her buttocks, glistening with her moisture, into the air and allowed the last man to enter her from behind.
This seemed to renew her energy and her libido as she began to growl, a sound mindful of a bear or other feral creature, and thrust back at the man. I could plainly see the expression on his face—a mixture of terror and passion—as he desperately tried to keep up with her, but it was plain that she was in control of both him and the situation, and I realized she had been in control all along. Of her. Of the men.
Of me.
To complete this story, after a bit, one of the men produced a bottle of wine or whiskey—it was difficult to tell which at my distance—and they all sat on the grass and talked among themselves in loud voices. The slattern, who I recognized now as Greta Carlisle, at last jumped to her feet, seemingly none the worse for the experience, and began walking back toward Joe’s. The others sat there a moment until she disappeared, then stood up, voices lower now than when she’d been there, and two of them went in the direction Greta had gone and the other turned and went though the wood to his left. I could hear him crashing through the underbrush as he made his way to who knows where.
Later, at home as I lay abed and recalled the event, I relieved my sexual pressure yet again.
That was the night before I raped her. You can decide if my action on that day was warranted or justified. Or, if it was even a rape.
…a digression. Some background…
My earlier history is unimportant. I was born without the use of forceps, in the same bed used to conceive me—what mixed images my mother must have had whenever she changed the sheets!—coming from safe darkness and the gently rocking sea of the womb into a hard, brilliant light and white noise, my birth being natural and containing nothing more than mundane trauma. Reared by a loving mother, whose features, quite frankly, escape me even now, as they have for some time. I seem to associate sticky things with her, like clear Karo syrup and the kind of white paste we used to be given in grammar school and would sometimes nibble on, its flavor being a jejune one akin to that of processed bread
. I know she lavished mindless physical affection upon me, as I recall in Technicolor and Panavision endless hours of being forced to sit upon her lap as she churned me back and forth in a scratched up brown rocker, a tint mindful of cowpies. I can recall one time in particular when I was being rocked to the point of nausea and thinking I would like to reverse the situation and subject her to endure twenty-four hours nonstop of this cretinous torture, but, being only six at the time of the thought and not physically able to carry out this wish, could only hold it against her for the rest of my life. I am too harsh in my memory, as I am sure she was what those not privy to her rocking fetish would classify as a “good” mother, but she wasn’t what I would have shopped for had God placed me in a more rational world, one in which we could chose those who are to tend to us until we are able to manage our own affairs.
About my father; I barely knew him. He was some sort of drummer or something and always away, for which I adored him in his good sense. He died in some sort of accident when I was nine years of age, and the funeral was very lovely. I remember a sense of great enjoyment during the whole affair. I have but fond memories of him and hope that someday we may meet again under circumstances more pleasurable than I find myself in at present. Perhaps on the morrow we shall shake hands, man to man, if we are to believe our zealous Christians and their mawkish folklore as to what transpires after earthly death. As for me, I pretend not to know what lies ahead. I certainly don’t have the headstrong surety God’s lambs possess.
Perhaps we are all returned to life in the form of mosquitoes, which would certainly explain why there are so many of them. If so, I would hope for a sex change in the next life as I am itching to sting someone.
During my childhood, I kept no journal or diary, nor am I into statistics in any meaningful way, but a quick and rough calculation puts the number of times that I masturbated at some nine thousand times, give or take a few hundred drops of spermatae, between the ages of eight and eighteen, and since that age, although I had slowed down until these past few months, there have been probably at least that many instances again where, alone in my room, I have fondled myself to the point of release.
I can imagine your smile. You think, “If only he had abused himself just the one more time he would not be here today,” but you must not think like that. I didn’t, and I’m here, and the why or how is not important, only the facts are important, and the fact is I didn’t masturbate that day, and as a result I sit here preparing to die. Think of it in this light. If I had spilled my seed upon the ground instead of performing an act against society, to wit, committed a rape, then neither of us would be here and what would you have done with this time? Watched another television show? Read a cheap fiction? Hardly what one would consider uplifting now, is it? So be thankful that there are doers in the world (both yours and mine) and that everyone is not a simpering, passive creature such as you.
The next morning after my witness of the goings-on in the wood, I had all but forgotten the incident except briefly while drinking my first
cafe au lait
, but I dismissed it out of hand at once. Last night was last night and today was today. To suffer the vicissitudes of memory is the desperate and shallow act of lesser men: those unfortunate enough to be burdened with a mind empty of weightier thought. When exercising the function of memory, I had more profitably recalled a sonnet of Andrew Marvell or a scene from Aeschylus, both examples far loftier than grubby, nefarious depravations of some inconsequential peasants as they mucked pathetically about on the primeval floor of the forest dark.
It was at that moment that I made one of those decisions that, as they are endlessly saying, changes the course of your life forever. I was scheduled to receive a haircut that morning but elected to forego the appointment and go fishing instead at the river whose banks wind in lazy esses a quarter of a mile from my abode. I, of course, did the proper thing and phoned Harry the barber (I’ve always chuckled at his name) and canceled my appointment in sufficient time for him to refill it. It’s best to treat others as you would like to be treated, and even though Harry is, of course, merely a tradesman, I give him the benefit of the doubt and count his time valuable, at least to him.
I remember being in a jejune mood that morning as I prepared my fishing tackle. I had decided against live bait, selecting surface plugs to take instead. Angling inevitably puts me into a sanguine mood. I suffer the company of others, but enjoy solitude more, and fishing is the definitive form of that joyous state. I highly recommend it and prescribe it as a palliative for that most intelligent of all conditions, misanthropy, or the specialized subset, misogyny. A fish is an excellent substitute for, say, a wife. The piscatorial species accept instruction with good humor and practice stoicism, two fine qualities never discovered in any but the rarest of the female species. I know that it (fishing) has aided and abetted me in my approach to life on many occasions. The hours I have spent thus employed have been both enjoyable and utile, the activity allowing me to contemplate in peace and achieve a state of utter relaxation at the same time. That is a side of my nature that you doubtless find difficult to comprehend, considering the short time we have been acquainted, but it exists, I assure you.
Angling is the one arena in which I allow myself to become a competitor. It’s just you and your wits against the unknown skulking below you in the murky brown depths. There’s a mysteriousness there that compels with it a hint of danger and, at the same time, drops a peace over you like a blissful cocoon.
As I say, my mood was elevated as I left the house, my South Bend spinning rod and reel carried like a rifle over my shoulder, tackle box in my fist, a spring in my step, shoulders thrust back to fill clean, pink lungs with fresh, cool oxygen, eyes clear of troubles.
The jaunt to the river bank and my pet fishing spot was uneventful. It was eleven a.m. by the time I reached my destination, and the July sun was already baking the underbrush to a dry crackle beneath my feet. Where I angled was shaded with thick oak and elm trees with their armfuls of dark waxy leaves, and I was quite comfortable. Nestled in my tackle box was a thermos of icy lemonade and ready next to it a full pint bottle of amber Irish whiskey.
I fished without incident for at least two hours. Not even a hesitant nibble, which is the way I prefer my fishing. If you don’t catch anything, there is no work to do and the whole activity is play and you can’t name another human enterprise that fits that playbill!
Along about one in the afternoon, I had tossed my plug out into the current for only the second or third time (I have my own unique method of fishing with plugs—it doesn’t involve retrieving them as is popularly done—this excites fish and makes them angry enough to strike, which means—you guessed it—work) when I made a mistake and a large carp struck. I should have known then that unpleasant things were about to happen; they had already begun with that imbecile carp. In disgust, I reeled the loathsome creature to shore, jerking my rod tip as I did so, but even that ploy failed to dislodge my catch, and I was forced to take hold of his smelly, vile carcass and unhook him, tossing the wriggling, ugly mutant up onto the bank. If he was so stupid as to impale himself on my hook, I wasn’t going to be equally absurd and throw him back and give him the opportunity to ruin a future day of fishing. Directly after, my solitude and good humor destroyed, another alien entered my environment as evidenced by the sound of twigs breaking by some clumsy creature approaching from the same path I had traveled earlier, crashing through the milkweeds and jodhpur like some blind mastodon, shattering the pristine solitude that had been mine up until this instant. The resentment that welled up in me was tempered in a trice by the sight of the creature herself as she bounded into view, and the stern reprimand that was on the edge of my lips transmuted to a harmless, “Hello there,” as, I’m sure you’ve guessed it, one Greta Carlisle (curious blend of Teutonic and Celt in a name) emerged, the girl of the amatory adventures of the previous evening, seemingly fully recovered from the dalliance, no muscle aches in the way she moved or visible bruise marks, and smiling like a starving pig in a vat of sour cream.
Piano keys flashed as she opened her mouth, snapping out a chipper, “Hey, pal,” between chomps on her chewing gum, and she proceeded to flop down inches from me without so much as a by your leave or may I, please, working her gum as if she were talking to some pimply youth at a roller-skating rink instead of to a gentleman of substance and property, as she should have, properly.
Everything that makes me who I am, if nothing else, makes me a democrat, with a small d, and I therefore refrained from delivering the lecture she deserved on manners, presenting my own by way of instruction.
“Good day, again,” I said. “My name is Truman. I’m very pleased to meet you, miss.”
On her body were articles of clothing disallowed at most religious gatherings. Covering her breasts (barely) was a tank-top, and it was arranged in such a fashion as to expose fully half of her considerable cleavage; the only way to differentiate it from her own skin was that it was a slightly deeper pink. A breeze ruffled up just then to stiffen her nipples to the size, shape, and color of tater tots, those tasteless morsels they sell in shiny plastic bags and, of course, I noticed, which I assume is the point of donning such apparel in the first place. Seeing that I had witnessed this bodily metamorphosis, she coyly arched her back and smiled.
“They call you ‘Old Fuckface’, is that it?”
That was cruel. Once or twice, I had overheard the appellation and suspected myself to be the object, but not before now had I proof positive. Many in our village didn’t like me; they were all jealous of my wealth and superior intellect. One thing was odd about this exchange. Even as she was insulting me, I was becoming sexually aroused. I answered the slut.
“No, that isn’t my name. I have already given you my name. Let me ask you a question. Are you always this rude or am I being given special treatment?”
I continued.
“Furthermore, I did not invite you here and quite frankly much prefer the company of that fish to such as you. You are obviously a nitwit with the morals and brains of a common alley cat.”