I Live To Spite Others; I Live To Spite Myself (Continued Below)
The psychoanalyst handed me a glass of water, a look of concern at last troubling the expressionless mask she wore during each session. Leaning forward, clutching my throbbing head in my hands, I unthreaded the black skinny tie from around my neck, confused as to what had just happened. Involuntarily I shivered; it was as if a shadow had fallen upon my soul, as if some daemonic force had reared up before me, blotting out the morning’s sludgy light as it crept closer, shaking its huge fist, across which a ridge of gnarled knuckles protruded as it defiantly protested against Heaven.
She settled back in her imperiously-oversized armchair, carefully scrutinising my frowning features as she tapped a fountain pen against her polished teeth, the beat sounding like the patter of dirt thrown by a group of black-suited mourners upon an oaken coffin.
I rubbed my cheek; it was cold, coated with lollipop-sticky mucus that had wormed out of my pores, not just on my face, but over my whole body. I could feel it trickling between my shoulder blades, dripping down my legs, and collecting in thick pools within my shoes, as if I had been swallowed by a beast grown to behemoth-like proportions, its green, putrid saliva forming a shell around me as I plummeted into the acidic, skin-stripping pit of its cavernous gut. Choking on the digestive fluids invading my mouth, thrown about its stinking stomach as it was wracked by a gag reflex, I was spat back out, regurgitated, disgorged in a slimy heap on the seat on which I which I now was slumped, downing with a glug the water as I tried to wash the repulsive oily taste from off my tongue.
The therapist jubilantly rose up, her normal icy repose shattering and her routine, frosty demeanour thawing as a smile struggled awkwardly to spread across her lips. The grin looked unnatural, as if she were competing in some beauty pageant, exaggerating every movement in a frantic attempt to capture the judge’s attention. Suddenly becoming conscious of her uncharacteristic joy, she stopped, and leant against the stuffed bookcase, her back pressed against the brown leather spines of the obscure volumes as she studied me, an air of smug satisfaction wafting off her like sickly-sweet perfume.
At last she spoke, her self-congratulatory tone plump with pomposity as she announced that she had always known that one day I would at last lower my defences, and expose my long-concealed weaknesses and vulnerability, as if I were a scrawny Achilles falling before her Paris.
I was astonished to hear that for a whole ten minutes I had sobbed in front of her; I had no recollection, even though it was merely seconds ago, the memory concealed behind the mephitic black smog sweeping through my mind like the car fumes hanging heavily in the London sky outside. She dragged her chair closer to me, renewing her attack as if she were an interrogator sensing her suspect was close to cracking, and nodding her head, prompted me to continue.
Whatever had happened had certainly been cathartic; the lethargy that for so long had infected me, as if it were a Tsetse fly continuously pumping into my bloodstream debilitating doses of sleeping sickness, had at last finally left. My limbs no longer sagged with leaden lifelessness, and instead were now bubble-light, the concrete marrow of my bones replaced with helium. I was almost convinced that if I rose too quickly, I would fly out of the room, beyond the streets into the air, like an astronaut, unhindered by the Earth’s oppressive gravity careening across the lunar surface. Yet despite these positive effects, I silently glowered with anger, directed inwards against my pathetic heart cowering in my chest. I blazed with wrath, ignoring the psychoanalyst rocking in anticipation, and railed against my timid, frightened soul, crying out in pain.
The help for which it was so desperate I would deny; the tender, maternal aid that it so urgently needed I would block, casting my agonised essence to the hatred, rage and violence prowling the arena of my mind like ravenous lions eager to taste the quailing Christian’s flesh.
If I had inadvertently revealed some hidden frailty to the therapist, even momentarily, then I would tower above her like a mystical griffin, my fangs coated in the blood of a massacred conscience, with the pale skin that I had torn from Morality’s famishing frame still hanging from my claws, and with an unending roar, burn from her mind with my fiery breath all trace of such sensitivity.
“When I was six, my uncle used to come into my room at night,” I whispered, watching her record it on my case notes.
Leaving the cubicle door slightly ajar, I lowered my trousers, and threaded my scrotum through the cock-ring, wincing as the tight rubber band caught at my pubes, ripping them out like a butcher plucking a chicken. The walls, smeared with dried lube, were scored with glory holes, and I felt almost as if I were a magician’s assistant, reluctantly climbing into his cabinet embossed with golden stars, and waiting apprehensively for the first sword to slide through the slit. A scuffed trainer peeked out from under the partition, accompanied by a fake bout of coughing, as the queen tried to seize my attention from the next lock-up.
An eye leered at me through the spy hole, watching in delight as I posed, rubbing saliva into my penis, as it rose by degrees like a clock’s hand ticking towards midnight. I heard the sound of a scratching pen, and looked on in amusement as he pushed beneath the metal divide a folded sheet of toilet roll, across which the message’s ink had seeped, and now resembled a bat’s wing lined with veins.
For cottage queens, this is the foreplay, the build-up, with the gentle caressing and intimate petting of two devoted lovers replaced by furtive signalling, from the rapping of knuckles against the cistern, to the repeated rattling of the chain.
Unwilling to waste any more time deferring the pleasure that I so greedily coveted, I ignored the note, and instead poked my finger through the gap, coaxing him to abandon the predictable and elaborate warm-up.
Seconds went by as he hesitated, his breath becoming hoarse until at last the glistening tip of his long, thin cock jutted proudly through the glory hole; drunkenly I fell to my knees like Jesus’ disciple overcome with awe at the sight of his master’s miracle.
“My parents were always out. Business lunches, meetings, appointments with clients - they were just getting the company started - they were obsessed with it. They had no time for me; I was a hindrance, a burden; their only interest was in establishing the firm. So my uncle would babysit.”
As I locked eyes with the therapist, forcing out the tears as if I were wringing a sodden cloth, grey clouds of sadness and sympathy drifted across her corneas. She edged a box of Kleenex towards me, the white tissues bursting from it like lilies in spring; I clutched one in my hand, repeatedly turning it over as if I were examining its blank sides for some blemish or impurity. Deliberately prolonging the silence, dragging it out like an actor milking a pause between his overwrought lines, at last, in a cracking voice, I spoke.
“I didn’t know what was happening - I was so young. All I can remember are his kisses, battering my body like halestones, moving down from my lips, across my chest, along my stomach to -.”
Breaking off, I held the tissue against my mouth, like a grieving widow frantically trying to stall the endless wails from spilling out of her throat; behind it, a poisonous smile spread.
Crouching down, my hands spread out across the cubicle’s mottled wall for support, I licked the delicate, quivering glans of the penis, sprouting from the glory hole like encroaching ivy digging its tendrils through a crack. The queen groaned, still unseen, his satisfied grunts of approval as I dragged my tongue across the purple scars left by a circumcision sounding like the somnolent chords of a fugue, played by a demented church organist. And this, I thought, this squalid, shit-stinking lavatory was our church, where we gathered to worship the primal force driving all man, all animal, all life, the words to our hymns we’d sing in devotion written in felt-tip across the doors.
These cramped lock-ups were our confessionals, in which we’d admit to the corruption ravaging our souls.
The lime-scaled hand basins doubled as our fonts, in which we would baptise each new addition to our fallen flock, the stale, green-coloured water dripping from the broken taps washing them of the sins of virtue and decency.
We’d take communion on our knees, and listen to the sermons bent over the toilet; there was no distinction between clergy and laity here, for we were all equal, united in a base brotherhood dedicated to lawless, limitless love.
As I gripped the cock, roughly tugging it towards orgasm, my mind was fixed on tasting its sour seed, each drop anointing me, blessing my skin with its holy power.
But then a discordant note, high-pitched and sustained droned out the fugue, and disturbed, unsettled, the man pulled away from the hole. Someone was screaming, the screech giving way to slurred, aggressive cursing, and as I lifted myself up, hissing in annoyance whilst opening the door, I caught sight of the queens, fearing that some queer-basher was responsible for the din, pushing past each other as they rushed for the exit. Whoever it was making the noise had smashed their way into the cleaner’s store room, their shadow falling across the closed blinds that hung across the narrow window.
I stepped closer.
Listening attentively to my harrowing story, each word calculatedly picked for the emotional weight it carried, the shrink, I could see, was struggling to maintain her clinical, aloof detachment, her hand involuntarily reaching out towards mine in comfort, only then, as she suddenly remembered her role, not as my friend, but as my counsellor, to immediately snatch it back. My vivid description of childhood abuse I spiced with florid adjectives and lurid similes, as I were a poet tripping on acid, vainly trying to capture in rhyme the psychedelic fractals and shapes scraping the sides of his mind as they twisted wildly about. With spit-soaked stuttering replacing each coma, and the full stops that fell as brutally as an executioner’s axe between each sentence swapped for sobs, I was almost proud of my overly histrionic performance; I felt like the small, petulant boy of my youth, concocting an elaborate story to deflect the blame for some piddling misdemeanour, convinced that the truth would result in slapped legs or stern admonishment.
My appointment had already over-run by ten minutes and I could hear the practice’s officious secretary pacing outside the door, despairing as her regimented schedule was thrown out of order; yet still the psychotherapist, convinced she had at last discovered the innermost source of all my turmoil continued reeling out question after question, to which I was only too pleased to answer. Like a guest on a late night chat-show, paid to reveal every sordid detail of their private life to the voyeuristic audience, the picture my words painted was then coloured by my body language, with my shoulders hunched, and my legs drawn up under my chin. She shook her head in mixture of shock and disbelief as I told her how my uncle would strip me off and then climb on top of my prepubescent body, using his heavy weight to prevent me from escaping. She smothered her mouth with an outspread palm to muffle a gasp as I told her how afterwards, locked in my bedroom, I would double over in pain, feeling the blood pour from my torn anus.
Of course it was all a complete fabrication, nothing more, but as I folded my hands in my lap, feeling the swelling within my jeans, I realised it was a lie that was making me aroused.
The bulb’s brilliant light was as bright as the sun’s rays reflecting off the Sahara’s vacant sea of sand; so dazzling was it that everything in the cleaner’s store room was bleached almost white, from the stack of buckets across which a gang of bluebottles crept, to the boxes of bleach, the cardboard chewed by the silverfish that scurried for cover as I inched closer to the figure crouching in the corner. His back was turned to me, a trail of long greasy hair hanging limply down his ripped leather jacket. He was shivering, despite the heat pouring from the portable heater, its three tubes flaring an angry red.
The stagnant atmosphere was humid and heavy as if I was trekking through an African jungle, and carried with it the rancid stench of excrement.
Alerted to my presence as I tripped over a broom, the man whirled round, snarling aggressively at me as his body was blitzed by a barrage of convulsions, as if he were Jekyll gripped by the unmitigated force of his transformation. As I recoiled in shock, holding my hands out in placation, I realised from his round fleshy face, prominent chin and huge, blazing eyes that he was a Down Syndrome, still young, with the unfathomable world leaving him forever its terrified victim.
He stood up, thrashing his arms wildly about, with his trousers in a heap by his feet. His thin legs were fouled with faeces, brown stains spread across his thighs, and his pubic hair matted in clumps. He cried out to me, clutching a rag with which he frantically tried to clean himself as tears of bewilderment and frustration coursed down his cheeks.
As if I were parent wearily trying to potty-train his toddler, I gently took the cloth, and, soothing him with words of reassurance, I began to clean his soiled skin. Grimacing as the revolting reek caused my stomach to churn, I turned him round, ready to wipe his buttocks.
The shit hung in strands, as if he’d been bathing in pond coated in algae; it was still warm, and soft like mashed potato. He had at last fallen silent, and as I stopped, looking at his loose scrotum swinging between his legs like a ticking metronome, I knew there was no point any longer in fighting the persistent thought courting my corruption and seducing my mind as if it were a demon whispering in my ear.
I crossed to the door, and locked it.
As I sat before the shrink, furtively rubbing my erection through the denim of my jeans, I could feel myself carried along with the deception; what to her was heart-breaking, a tragic recounting of broken innocence, was to me instead a squalid yet erotic fantasy. Whilst telling her how my uncle delighted in inflicting a series of increasingly sadistic acts upon my juvenile body, I pictured the scene in my head, no longer amused by the psychotherapist’s horrified reaction, but absorbed and captivated by the illusion, my heart rate rocketing with every word I spoke, and fresh drops of pre-cum frothing from out my penis with each new and explicit revelation of my fictitious rape.
As the story neared its brutal climax, I could feel the pressure that had been building in my balls like a saucepan spewing out steam inch towards its bursting point, and as I prepared myself for the seismic force of my impending orgasm, I gripped the arms of the chair, digging my nails into the leather.
But then, gathering her clutch of notes, she stood up, announcing in a reluctant voice that she could not keep her next client waiting any longer. She looked apologetically at me; my face had gone white, and I had slumped forward, as if my chest had been pillaged of all its organs. Perhaps she would have simply assumed that I was overcome by despair, that the strain of carrying so many repressed feelings and memories had finally become too much to bear; in truth however, the intensity with which I’d described my incestuous abuse had been so powerful, so potent, as intoxicating as any aphrodisiac that, without even touching my hyper-sensitized penis, I had been close to ejaculating, drunk on the sensation.
Now that the seemingly-limitless supply of lies that had blazed from my mouth as if I were talking in tongues had at last been drained, I was exhausted, and almost in a daze, the blood that had been diverted to my cock finally returning to my brain with its cargo of oxygen.
My erection had subsided; as I headed towards the door, unwilling to look her in the eye, she held me by the shoulder; in a maternal tone she asked how I felt towards my uncle.
“I wish he was still around to fuck me, I’ve got much better at taking cock,” I said, pulling a cigarette from out the packet.
The Down Syndrome, still naively trusting in my good intentions as I turned the key in the lock, shook his head about as if to thank me for helping him. Even as I threw the shit-stained rag at his face, he had no idea what terrible desire had possessed me, with its urgent need to debase and humiliate, to forever taint his child-like purity with my bile; it was only as I unzipped my trousers, pulling them down to my knees, tha
t he finally understood.
And then -
Then he whimpered like a dying mongrel.
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