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{first encounters with a woman i almost married} darren thomas On the first evening, she became a receptacle. She became a candidate for contagious diseases. She pried open her mouth. I pried open my mouth. She planted a cancerous seed in an abscessed tooth that I had been neglecting for years. We were watching a movie, months later, when the pain became unbearable, a movie about teenagers. I was chewing bubble gum. The theme was that cruelty breeds cruelty, that you can only be called a faggot so many times before someone is brought to account, the innocent spill their blood without fail. I believe a hole has opened in my mouth, I said, when the movie was over. She suggested sexual acts, a release of endorphins through practices that are exciting in theory, but they are repulsive in nature. I made a diagram, when I plotted the movements, when I put pencil to paper, I saw that it was grotesque. There was a great risk of infection. On the first evening, she held my hand. Do you want children? she asked. I was aware that she intentionally left personal belongings in cars, excuses to reappear. Good fathers cannot be at odds with the world, I replied. I had little sense of self and the women I had known had dull parts, parts that I sharpened tediously. My fickle reputation was an apathetic whetstone. A woman needs sharp parts; that is a maxim I no longer believe to be true. I was also led to believe that masturbation was an ugly, horrific act. For seventeen years I didn’t think anyone I knew had ever done it! A woman taught me the mechanics. Girls mother boys, boys fuck their teachers, a boy fucks himself. Just imagine that kind of satisfaction, what a blindingly wonderous defiance, to be the first, to boldly, bulgingly create a new mutiny against the almighty lord. On the first evening, she assured me that there was nothing to be concerned about; she had taken precautions. I want to have your premature babies, she whispered into my ear. I saw that her belly was protruding, prematurely. Her breasts began to deflate. I plan to become an objectivist, once I have read the required material. I will take copious notes, I will be an asshole. I will cleave a distance between myself and others. I tried to warn her. Our child will die, I said, he will be born without eyes, without lungs, with translucent skin and a fine mane of down. I cannot love a machine, the fragility, the surgical steel, it will validate my solipsism. Everything in my life I am prepared to lose, I have mourned the death of the living. All funerals will be celebrations. If I had to make a prediction, I would guess that you will die. On the first evening, she let me talk about myself. I will resent you, she said. I explained my philosophy: god is tyrannical. After the creation of man, god could not get the blood off his hands. I am prepared to die in order to bring purpose to my life. Do not look to God or to the universe for meaning; they are infinite. You will drive me into the arms of other women, I told her. Some I will fuck, some I will threaten to fuck. I will let them hold me, while you are at home trying to give a hand job to the guy who buys me dinner in exchange, and I will think of these women as my spiritual mothers. You learned how to fuck from your mother, I told her, who is full of hatred that nobody sees. Your father will feed me beer and make you drive me home; he knows how badly I need a beer. You will find another man to raise my child. My father will raise his voice; my mother will burn alive in her own house. You will liken me to Bukowski. I will liken you to god. |
