[story] godiva
author: usagi anami (pukingtoreador)
email: pukingtoreador [at] hotmail.com
I saw him for the first time when I lost my virginity. The boy that I lost it to was incidental. No matter how I press my mind to it, I cannot recall any detail of our coupling, or about him, with the exception of his age. He was 17, a year older than me. Yet this anonymous boy with which I consumed my awkward, budding passions unwittingly began the most significant event in my life.
This is because from that moment my maidenhead snapped and bled I sensed the presence of another. Looking up, I saw a boy about my own age standing at the edge of the bed. Although transparent, the image of him was clear and undistorted, like a reflection in a glass door. No fear or even shame struck then. I felt only an overpowering curiosity.
He was very tall and painfully thin, his hands thick and bony. His gray hair reached past his ears, sticking up in clumps and laying flat in others. His lips were curved and sensual despite their thinness. His eyebrows were bushy and crept up his forehead a good half inch more than they should have. His nose was aquiline, his cheeks and chin sharp and angular.
Except for his ridiculous, over-sized clothes, everything about his person was harsh. The effect was such that the first impression was not that of a specter, an intangible spirit, but the image of a scarecrow clothed in flesh. I would have laughed then, perhaps, if I had not then seen his eyes.
His eyes were exceptionally pale. The rim of the iris was dark, intensifying the whole. I did not know the color of his eyes then, for he existed in shades of black and white like a photograph. The pupils were small, perhaps no bigger than an eight of an inch. They were the eyes of a falcon spotting prey.
Immediately, I understood this entity entirely devoid of soft edges. His eyes spoke to me of passions as real and unrelenting as a blade. When I looked in those eyes I forgot the pain of my broken maidenhead. I forgot the boy thrusting inside of me. I forgot my own breath. I
shuddered then and moaned. His gaze was too much to bear.
The boy, misunderstanding, quickened his pace. The boy's sweat dripping on my face was all I felt of him. The only pleasure I felt then was the desire in the watcher's eyes. The watcher's eyes poured into me until I thought I would burst. The boy pulled out and spent on my stomach. The watcher vanished in that same instant.
I realized I would never feel anything for the boy on top of me. Within the hour I made it clear I did not want to see him again. He would never love or even truly want me. The watcher's eyes made me realize that.
I touched myself for hours after the boy left, the stink of his seed still on me. I sprawled out on the bed, holding myself open, feeling my fluid oozing out like blood from a wound. He did not appear. I imagined his falcon eyes ensnaring my eyes, squeezing my throat, and
penetrating me. These thoughts, half a fantasy and half a prayer, brought me to climax countless times over the next several months.
Those who are reading this now must think I am mad. Understand, he is more real to me than the people around me. Understand, he is more real to me than I am myself. The living are wavering and transient. Their flesh corrupts, their feelings change. But his fleshless body is fixed, his passions undiluted and perfect.
I cannot prove to you, patient reader, that a ghost appears in my room when I have sex. The realm of gods and ghosts is one of the heart. All truth and reason will be found there, where I cannot take you. These words speak of desire, but cannot speak desire. They cannot speak of him. The shadow of me and him, the shadow of our shared passions and sins, is all that can be revealed.
Months passed since our meeting. I indeed ate, sleep, and exercised as I did before. But I did so mechanically, and only that my memory of him would stay clear. Chasing the phantom of him in my mind, that ghost of a ghost, at last drove me to take another lover.
I wept at my fortune when he appeared at the edge of the bed once more. Although it is obvious now, at the time, I did not know the act itself would summon him to my side. His appearance, I thought, was one of pure chance - like dice landing in your favor, like a coin found on the sidewalk, like a stranger's smile.
He changed since our last meeting. Color infused him. Even granted the full spectrum of color he was pale. His hair was a dull mousy brown, his lips a wormy pink. Behind his white face, blue veins were visible. His chest rose and fell, his cheeks flushed, and the veins around his throat throbbed.
His eyes were such a pale shade of blue they appeared grey, surrounded by a band of ocean blue. The color only served to sharpen the animal hunger in his gaze. It was as if a portrait of a wolf suddenly stepped out of the frame. When those eyes hooked into mine, I shivered like a harp string plucked. It did not take long for my body to seize up under his gaze. The boy inside me, like the previous one, supposed that he had a talent for pleasing women.
When I seduced this boy he was even less to me than the last one, for now I knew I could never love mortal men. But when my watcher appeared again, when I realized how to summon him, the boy became a thing of value. He was a catalyst, the key to my desire. I treasured him as such. Afterwards, I whispered praise of his prowess, if only to assure he would return and bring my watcher back to me.
The boy and I remained lovers for a month. I quickly confirmed the second condition for summoning him, which I already suspected. The act must happen within the confines of my room. The boy collapsed at school at month's end. He died that day, we were told, of heart failure. Within a few days I found another boy to share my bed with.
Two weeks passed. That boy passed away. Our relationship was so impersonal that no one even knew of it. No connections were drawn between us. Within the day another boy lie on top of me, while my watcher appeared so vibrant it hurt to look upon him.
I tried so hard to save them. I truly, truly tried. Do not think I was indifferent to their suffering. They were precious to me in a way they would never understand. I found different boys each time. But even those that did not die seemed only half-alive, their eyes blank and their stamina gone. Many of those died, weakened to point where that ghostly strain of life destroyed them.
Twenty lives - twenty lives gone. Twenty lives have gone to feed the appetites of a girl and a dead boy.
I do not fear death. I do not fear the judgment that may await me past the veil. I know ghosts for as much fact a gravity, yet still I doubt if there is a god to condemn me for my crimes. My only fear is that my desire for his gaze burning into me, which beats stronger than my own
heart inside me, will drive me to waste another life.
I do not ask for forgiveness. Nor am I seeking atonement in ending my life. I ask only my motives and the depth of my sins to be understood as best they can. Perhaps he and I will be reunited. Perhaps only hell or a void will meet me. Whatever fate awaits me, it is better than a life without him looking upon me, his hunger piercing into me and tearing me apart.
the end
email: pukingtoreador [at] hotmail.com
I saw him for the first time when I lost my virginity. The boy that I lost it to was incidental. No matter how I press my mind to it, I cannot recall any detail of our coupling, or about him, with the exception of his age. He was 17, a year older than me. Yet this anonymous boy with which I consumed my awkward, budding passions unwittingly began the most significant event in my life.
This is because from that moment my maidenhead snapped and bled I sensed the presence of another. Looking up, I saw a boy about my own age standing at the edge of the bed. Although transparent, the image of him was clear and undistorted, like a reflection in a glass door. No fear or even shame struck then. I felt only an overpowering curiosity.
He was very tall and painfully thin, his hands thick and bony. His gray hair reached past his ears, sticking up in clumps and laying flat in others. His lips were curved and sensual despite their thinness. His eyebrows were bushy and crept up his forehead a good half inch more than they should have. His nose was aquiline, his cheeks and chin sharp and angular.
Except for his ridiculous, over-sized clothes, everything about his person was harsh. The effect was such that the first impression was not that of a specter, an intangible spirit, but the image of a scarecrow clothed in flesh. I would have laughed then, perhaps, if I had not then seen his eyes.
His eyes were exceptionally pale. The rim of the iris was dark, intensifying the whole. I did not know the color of his eyes then, for he existed in shades of black and white like a photograph. The pupils were small, perhaps no bigger than an eight of an inch. They were the eyes of a falcon spotting prey.
Immediately, I understood this entity entirely devoid of soft edges. His eyes spoke to me of passions as real and unrelenting as a blade. When I looked in those eyes I forgot the pain of my broken maidenhead. I forgot the boy thrusting inside of me. I forgot my own breath. I
shuddered then and moaned. His gaze was too much to bear.
The boy, misunderstanding, quickened his pace. The boy's sweat dripping on my face was all I felt of him. The only pleasure I felt then was the desire in the watcher's eyes. The watcher's eyes poured into me until I thought I would burst. The boy pulled out and spent on my stomach. The watcher vanished in that same instant.
I realized I would never feel anything for the boy on top of me. Within the hour I made it clear I did not want to see him again. He would never love or even truly want me. The watcher's eyes made me realize that.
I touched myself for hours after the boy left, the stink of his seed still on me. I sprawled out on the bed, holding myself open, feeling my fluid oozing out like blood from a wound. He did not appear. I imagined his falcon eyes ensnaring my eyes, squeezing my throat, and
penetrating me. These thoughts, half a fantasy and half a prayer, brought me to climax countless times over the next several months.
Those who are reading this now must think I am mad. Understand, he is more real to me than the people around me. Understand, he is more real to me than I am myself. The living are wavering and transient. Their flesh corrupts, their feelings change. But his fleshless body is fixed, his passions undiluted and perfect.
I cannot prove to you, patient reader, that a ghost appears in my room when I have sex. The realm of gods and ghosts is one of the heart. All truth and reason will be found there, where I cannot take you. These words speak of desire, but cannot speak desire. They cannot speak of him. The shadow of me and him, the shadow of our shared passions and sins, is all that can be revealed.
Months passed since our meeting. I indeed ate, sleep, and exercised as I did before. But I did so mechanically, and only that my memory of him would stay clear. Chasing the phantom of him in my mind, that ghost of a ghost, at last drove me to take another lover.
I wept at my fortune when he appeared at the edge of the bed once more. Although it is obvious now, at the time, I did not know the act itself would summon him to my side. His appearance, I thought, was one of pure chance - like dice landing in your favor, like a coin found on the sidewalk, like a stranger's smile.
He changed since our last meeting. Color infused him. Even granted the full spectrum of color he was pale. His hair was a dull mousy brown, his lips a wormy pink. Behind his white face, blue veins were visible. His chest rose and fell, his cheeks flushed, and the veins around his throat throbbed.
His eyes were such a pale shade of blue they appeared grey, surrounded by a band of ocean blue. The color only served to sharpen the animal hunger in his gaze. It was as if a portrait of a wolf suddenly stepped out of the frame. When those eyes hooked into mine, I shivered like a harp string plucked. It did not take long for my body to seize up under his gaze. The boy inside me, like the previous one, supposed that he had a talent for pleasing women.
When I seduced this boy he was even less to me than the last one, for now I knew I could never love mortal men. But when my watcher appeared again, when I realized how to summon him, the boy became a thing of value. He was a catalyst, the key to my desire. I treasured him as such. Afterwards, I whispered praise of his prowess, if only to assure he would return and bring my watcher back to me.
The boy and I remained lovers for a month. I quickly confirmed the second condition for summoning him, which I already suspected. The act must happen within the confines of my room. The boy collapsed at school at month's end. He died that day, we were told, of heart failure. Within a few days I found another boy to share my bed with.
Two weeks passed. That boy passed away. Our relationship was so impersonal that no one even knew of it. No connections were drawn between us. Within the day another boy lie on top of me, while my watcher appeared so vibrant it hurt to look upon him.
I tried so hard to save them. I truly, truly tried. Do not think I was indifferent to their suffering. They were precious to me in a way they would never understand. I found different boys each time. But even those that did not die seemed only half-alive, their eyes blank and their stamina gone. Many of those died, weakened to point where that ghostly strain of life destroyed them.
Twenty lives - twenty lives gone. Twenty lives have gone to feed the appetites of a girl and a dead boy.
I do not fear death. I do not fear the judgment that may await me past the veil. I know ghosts for as much fact a gravity, yet still I doubt if there is a god to condemn me for my crimes. My only fear is that my desire for his gaze burning into me, which beats stronger than my own
heart inside me, will drive me to waste another life.
I do not ask for forgiveness. Nor am I seeking atonement in ending my life. I ask only my motives and the depth of my sins to be understood as best they can. Perhaps he and I will be reunited. Perhaps only hell or a void will meet me. Whatever fate awaits me, it is better than a life without him looking upon me, his hunger piercing into me and tearing me apart.
the end