Soul Mates
“Daddy, why is Mommy crying? Did you make her sad again?”
Little Cammie startled her dad. He pushed his wife from the crux of his arm. Streaks of black mascara stained the sleeves of his polo.
“Cammie, honey, what are you doing out of bed?” His voice straddled the line of annoyance and anger.
Cammie snuck out of bed when Mommy’s sobbing soiled the quiet night. By her accounts, it wasn’t often, but she couldn’t recall the last time she slept a full night through.
Stuffed bear tucked in her mouth; she watched television from the second-floor overlook although she rarely understood the shows her parents watched from the first-floor couch, it made her feel grown up. Part of the family.
The good family.
Tonight was the first time Cammie ventured downstairs from her second floor perch since that night.
The bad family.
Her arm healed. Crooked for weeks, but the hospital said it would straighten in time. Dad said it would straighten faster if she’d mind her own business and stay in bed at night.
Cammie rubbed the jagged scar on her forearm where the bone poked through to the outside. The doctor gave it a name, but Cammie didn’t want to remember. She only wanted one thing.
“I wanna watch TV with you and Mommy.” Cammie bent her knee, twisted her foot on her toes, and batted her big blue eyes at her dad.
“It’s late, Cammie. We have a busy day tomorrow. You need to rest up.” Her dad nudged her with his open palms. “After some early morning fun, your Mom and I have a meeting. Miss Lily is gonna babysit. I know how much fun you two have together.”
Cammie stroked her stuffed pink teddy bear. “I need to make sure Mommy is okay.”
“I'm all right, Sweetie. Please go back to bed like your father asked,” Mom said through her Kleenex mustache.
“But why were you crying?”
“Just something from the movie.” Mom kept one eye on the screen.
Cammie stared at the fifty-inch screen as a boy placed his hand on a train window. She didn’t understand why her parents watched in black and white when the colors worked perfectly well.
“His mommy is going to be mad at him for getting fingerprints on the window.” Cammie remembered all the times her mother yelled at her for doing the same thing, “And now the girl is doing it on the other side of the window! Oh, they are going to be in so much trouble.”
Tears streamed from Mom’s cheek darkening the light brown pillow in her lap.
A moment later both the girl and the boy on television were crying and shouting words to each other through the window.
“Are you sad because they are getting handprints on the window, Mommy?” Cammie asked.
Mom wiped away the tears from her face and then inhaled what Cammie estimated to be about a gallon of snot, “No, Honey. They were best friends who realized they were in love with each other, but they waited too long to tell each other. He’s on a train about to leave to fight some bad guys and is probably going to die. Them putting their hands on the clear window like that is their way of telling each other they are soul mates and will be together forever in each other’s heart. It’s so beautiful.”
Dad gathered Cammie in his arms, “Alright Peanut, that’s enough love lessons for you tonight. Let’s get you back into bed, so your mother can finish her movie and her bottle of wine, and your dad can get some sleep of his own.”
“Does Mommy have a soul mate, Daddy?” Cammie rested her head on her father’s shoulder.
“I think so, Baby Doll.” Her dad squeezed her tight, “Maybe more than one, but she doesn’t realize it. I’ll be happy when she does. We’ll all be happy when she does.”
The second floor wasn’t as lonely now that her dad slept in the bedroom next to Cammie’s instead of with Mom downstairs. At least tonight, Cammie didn’t think there would be slamming doors waking her.
***
"Rise and shine, Peanut!”
Cammie rubbed her eyes as she dragged her tattered bear down the stairs.
“Eat up quick. We need to get you dressed and down to the pond before it gets too crowded.” Dad flew around the kitchen. He banged pots and pans for no reason while Mom sat with her forehead in one hand and a steaming cup of coffee in the other.
“God, you can be such an asshole sometimes, Pete,” Mom muttered between gulps of coffee. “I should thank you for killing any second thoughts I had about our meeting this afternoon.”
“You should really bitch to tea, you know.” Dad spun away from Cammie as he spoke.
“What did you say to me?” Mom slammed her mug on the counter. Waves of black crested the rim, dribbling onto the marbled granite.
“Switch to tea.” Dad frisbeed a coaster across the counter. “And use a coaster.”
Cammie prepared her breakfast these days and headed for the pantry to grab her favorite leprechaun adorned cereal box.
“Ow!” She screamed, hopping in chaotic circles holding her toe.
“What happened?” Dad asked.
“I kicked an empty bottle.” Cammie continued hopping on one foot certain she now held the Guinness record for length of time.
“Looks like someone’s Mom decided to stay up late last night and couldn’t get the empty into the recycling bin.”
“Stow it, Pete.” Mom held the coffee close to her mouth but didn’t drink. She popped two little white pills in her mouth and swallowed hard, “Can we just get going?”
***
Cammie loved ice skating with her parents, although she couldn’t understand why they didn’t all hold hands any longer. A small part of her didn’t mind. She would be eight in a few months and could skate without any help these days. Stopping presented a challenge at times, but in her opinion, that’s why there were other skaters on the pond. Dad called them bumper cars.
Her parents trailed behind her the first time around the pond. The only words spoken came from Dad who warned her to stay away from the thin ice sign.
After two laps, Cammie noticed a little boy in a red jacket holding hands with both his mother and his father.
“Skating alone isn’t any fun,” she muttered.
Cammie dropped back and grabbed Mom’s hand. On the next pass, she grabbed Dad's hand and refused to let go of Mom’s.
“Isn’t this fun?” Cammie smiled.
“Yes, Sweetie,” Mom raised one side of her mouth.
“Although, not as fun as an entire bottle of wine,” Dad smirked. “A good bottle too. I believe I brought that back from Sonoma last year too.”
“Seriously, Pete? You’re going to bring that shit up again.” Mom skidded to a halt while Dad continued. Cammie stretched like Gumby between them but held on tight until everyone tumbled to the ice.
“If it were just one time, then no, I wouldn’t bring it up. But come on Claire, that’s what, the fourth bottle this week? Not to mention the girl’s day out last Sunday. I’m sure you were good for a few drinks then.” Dad released Cammie’s hand.
Mom fired back, “Maybe if you paid as much attention to me as you paid to your new secretary we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
Cammie found her hands dangling alone.
“Well, maybe if you didn’t live in a movie, spending your days pining to your online friends about finding a soul mate, I wouldn’t have to.” Dad crossed his arms and huffed steam from his nose. Cammie imagined him an ancient Chinese dragon defending a massive pile of gold from would-be marauders.
Mom’s defeated shoulders dropped.
Dad pressed on, “Yeah, that’s right. I read your email. All of them! By the way, Y-O-U apostrophe R-E means you are while Y-O-U-R shows possession.”
“Well Y-O-U apostrophe R-E an asshole and you can shove Y-O-U-R wine up Y-O-U-R A-S-S!” Mom shouted.
Cammie couldn’t follow what was happening, but she felt uncomfortable and skated away from the pair along with every other visitor to the pond. The only thing comforting her now was the dark pink Lily Pulitzer jacket her grandmother bought her last year. She missed her teddy bear.
Words and gestured flew between Mom and Dad as Cammie skated off.
A commotion louder than the couple’s insults commanded a temporary truce.
“Pete, where’s Cammie?”
All four eyes searched the worn ice.
Dad stopped an untalented skater as he hurried toward the entrance, “What happened?”
“Someone fell through the ice. A kid maybe.” He tried to pull away, but Dad restrained him.
“Boy or girl? What did they look like?”
“I don’t know man. Young kid. Wearing a red or pink jacket.”
Mom pushed Dad to the ice, “This is all your fault!” She bolted into the crowd.
Dad tried to stand, but his skate pick caught in the ice during the fall and he twisted his knee awkwardly, “Damn ACL!”
“Cammie, hang on honey, I’m coming! Mommy’s coming!”
Dad watched as Mom pushed her way through the crowd. Two skaters fell, and Dad heard the ice groan.
Mom’s shrill faded as the commotion escalated. Dad saw people plunging branches into the water. Folks frantically waved to the shore beckoning for help.
Dad pounded on the ice, sobbing with each hammer fist strike.
The screams became inaudible, and he couldn’t tell where one rescuer began and another ended. Mom escaped his vision in the sea of jackets.
Again and again, he attempted to stand without success. Inch by inch he dragged himself toward the crowd until he caught a glimpse of a little girl out of the corner of his eye. He looked left and saw a girl Cammie’s size kneeling on the ice with mittens removed and a hand pressed against the transparent sheet of ice staring intently into the frigid waters below.
“Cammie?” Dad hesitated, “Cammie, is that you?”
Cammie watched as Dad crawled across the ice in her direction, “Hey, Daddy. I lost my jacket. Please don’t be mad.”
“It’s okay.” Dad sighed and the pain in his leg no longer mattered. “Peanut, are you okay? What are you doing?”
Cammie smiled wide and looked away from the ice for only a second, “Come see, Daddy. You’ll be so happy. Mommy and I are soul mates.”
Dirty Laundry
She always liked how I did her laundry. Truth be told, I liked doing her laundry, too. I would guess at what she was doing by her laundry. I would look at the grass stains, the caked-on mud, and the mysterious bodily fluids and fantasize scenarios about what she did to get such soiling. She was busy. Always creating dirty laundry.
I would always smell her laundry, as much a part of the process as detergent or setting the length of the spin cycle. Ah, the spin cycle.
Even the nefarious stains, each with their own tell-tale olfactory clues, could not mask away her own womanly scent. How would I describe it? Her scent is she. As real as the train approaching when you’ve been tied down to the tracks, yet as elusive as a unicorn. As much to do with the real world as a cloud, yet when I smell she, I smell life on Earth—evolution, foraging, mating, and natural selection. I smell the intangible of joy. Like the tesseract, it cannot be categorized within the limitations of mere human sensorium. It is victory, submission, defiance, conquest, and surrender all rolled into one.
It is she.
I lift one of her very personal items to my face and inhale deeply. I am with her when I do this. I am lifted; I leave, out-of-body, coasting on the pleasure of my forebrain. The second cranial nerve has allowed me to appreciate her beauty. The eighth cranial nerve has allowed me to harmonize to her song. But my first cranial nerve is a gift from God. Pheromones blow me into a singularity, all places and one simultaneously. I am drunk with her scent.
She. Just the word, with its digraphical phoneme…
Pheromones and phonemes. She. With its unvoiced fricative, my vocal chords don’t even vibrate until I get to the long ē. But it is worth the wait. It is when the angels join the chorus of my pleasure.
I sit atop the washer, sorting and smelling, separating and sniffing. When I think I have exhausted all of the odorifics contained thereon, I let it slip through the open door to join the others. The t-shirt with its musky tale of mammalian exertions. The scarf, sure to be ruined by the machine, with the alchemy of its man-made perfume concocting with the fragrance of she a bouquet of marriage between her and the rest of the world and all its wonders, not the least of which is the wonder of herself.
On second thought, I reach back in to retrieve the previous olfaction delight. I have not exhausted it, and I bask one more time in the fragrance of lovely, of feminine, and of implied symbiosis with me.
I appraise her other clothing, piece by piece. The bend of her knee here, the flex of her elbow there. Pivots that separate her sinews and pumping muscles. Rhythmic tightening and relaxations, glistening with the thinnest layer of moisture that sparkles magically on her faint hair. Bodily functions contained within a working model of woman, sculpted from fulfillment. I dream of these sinews and pumping muscles atop myself, and both of us atop this very washing machine. Machinations and machines come together today because it is wash day.
I reach for a towel. It is a heavy towel and it is not even dirty. It will conflict with the delicates; it will upset the balance of the rotation. It is on purpose: I want an uneven load. I place a detergent packet into the machine, to wipe the slate clean, to start over, to deliver to me the next generation of sensory enchantments. I push the right buttons.
I disrobe.
The machine is an old one. It is not level, again, on purpose. I can feel the warmth on my bare buttocks as it begins its cycle of operation. I become aroused. If she were to walk in now, she would see it plainly.
She knows the game. She enters and feigns surprise, then outrage. She approaches me tenuously, testing each step as she does. Her livid expression undergoes devolution into one of lust. The machine is rumbling in its excitement. My arousal becomes stronger, crying for help. She disrobes, letting her things drop methodically and silently to the floor, staring into my eyes the entire time. Sex isn’t with genitals, it is with the brain.
It is with the soul.
She wants to join me during the machine’s excitation phase. Nude, a word that only portrays beauty, is not correct; she is naked, the better word, because it is the name that promises action. She steps up on a footstool and then throws one leg over my lap. Next she is sitting on top of me, insertion completed in one fell swoop. Deftly. I am surprised at her moisture. Again, the wrong word. She is wet, the name for love.
In the next phase of the machine’s cycle, there is a plateau during which it maintains a continued churning agitation. My anticipation builds, as we await the next phase. The thin layer of moisture on each of us is now the only thing between us. Alternating movements and alternating current both conspire to initiate in each of us the next phase of the cycle. The machine pauses. It is a spinal pause in us, as well, like that one moment on the roller coaster where the chain that drags the cars up the first and highest hill disengages in preparation for the headlong rush into the lake of adrenaline below. Chink, chink, chink, chink…then… the moment for which I have waited.
The spin cycle.
My friend, the heavy towel, creates the uneven load. The bespoke footpads, upon which the machine sits unevenly, partner with the towel. If the water-filling of the machine was the excitement and the agitation the plateau, the spin cycle is our climax. Woman and man and machine are one, as centripetal battles centrifugal and undulation and reciprocal pumping become cohorts. And that smell, she, wafts up to engulf us. Not just she, however, but us.
The spin reaches its peak as do we, and once again I am submerged within muscles and sinews and soul.The machine is frantic, the woman is ravenous, and the man is desperate. The sum greater than the addition of the parts.
There is a physiological reckoning in us when the machine now experiences its final phase, its spin down. It is a resolution, as we collapse in our own spindown. When all of the torque is spent, so are we. All is quiet—woman and man and machine.
I look down to regard the clothing she had removed before. I look back up toward her and she smiles.
“Very dirty clothes,” I say to her. They promise another laundry day.
Love Goddess
She screwed up her face and quickly swiped left. What were these men thinking? Did they not, at some point, take a look at the photo they were offering up and reconsider their choice? Most of these badly-taken photos would not be out of place as mugshots on America's Most Wanted.
She went to switch off the app and suddenly stopped, a small smile playing across her face. Now, this was more like it. Ares, 27, Mount Olympus. Hobbies: spear throwing, chariot racing, and boar hunting. Without hesitation, she swiped right. She sighed with relief. It was a match.
Moments later, he messaged her. "Hey, Aphrodite, nice pic. Love to show you my skills as a swordsman. Wanna hook up?"
Aphrodite smiled again. Arrogant, beautiful man. She put the phone down. She wouldn't answer for a moment or two. She didn't want to appear too keen. She lay back on the chaise lounge, lifting her silky blonde hair in her hands and allowing it to fall and spread across the luxurious fabric of the headrest. She stretched her long, lithe legs out in front of her and arched her back sensuously, imagining the rendezvous which was sure to come.
"Aphrodite."
She turned her head at the sound of her husband's voice. Hephaestus stood hunched over in the doorway, his plain face etched with pain. Slowly, carefully, he made his way across the room, his walking stick tap-tapping on the polished wooden floors. Aphrodite made no move to help him. Curse Zeus for trapping her in this marriage to a man she could never love.
"Aphrodite." Hephaestus stopped in front of her, his eyes bright with adoration despite the pain of his crippled leg. "I thought we could....," he hesitated, summoning his courage, ".... I thought we could order in pizza and have a quiet night together. Just the two of us."
The hope in his voice pricked at Aphrodite's heart for just a moment. She looked at the man from under her thick, dark lashes, her wide blue eyes holding his just long enough to give him a surge of confidence. Then she turned away and picked up her phone. "I'm sorry. I've made other plans."
Psychopaths in Love
I hadn’t seen my ex in two months. We didn’t break up because we didn’t love each other enough. In fact, we loved one another too much to a point where it was ruining our lives. Our independent mental issues could not coexist: my narcissism and his sociopathic personality. Our lack of attention to ourselves was devoured by our constant desire to please one another, and that doesn’t work for a narcissist or a sociopath. I needed constant attention, and he needed to worry about what made him happy. Without the ability to feed our psychosis, we were miserably in love.
Stewart e-mailed me on December 21st. “In Case the World Ends.” I had been out getting drunk with my best friend, Krista and being lavished with endless drinks and shots that were bought for me by admirer after admirer. I had gotten my fix; my ego had been fed. Then my phone buzzed, and I saw that I had a new e-mail. Assuming it was one of the many casting directors looking for me to star in their films, I eagerly opened it. And my heart stopped. After two months of no communication, he still had the ability to stop my heart, causing it to defy gravity and float into my throat.
I looked at Krista, and she saw the panic in my eyes. Prone to anxiety, she asked if I was having an attack. I couldn’t speak, so I handed her my phone. The wideness of her eyes quickly matched mine, but the fear and excitement and anger and elation were not there. Just like that, with the sight of a familiar e-mail address, I was already hopelessly his again. I didn’t even need to read what it said.
He opened up with a lightly humorous, yet I-know-you-way-too-well segment:
I have been trying to think of what I wanted to say for a while. I also have been thinking about what you'll say back…I've come up with:
a. I don't care.
b. Fuck you
c. fuck yourself
d. all of the above
I instantly thought of my response. D. All of the above.
He knew that I’d be defensive, but he’s also smart enough to know that A, B, C, or D were not how I was really going to feel. He ended his letter with the following:
Fuck it. I thought I was supposed to marry you and be with you and I don't know if I wrote this for you but I needed to write it. I told you I'm never going to not love you and that’s true. But we made each other miserable. I know I'll see you again so rather than just get into some huge fight where I say all this, I'd rather say it now. And if you're with a guy if I ever see you I am going to kill him…so make sure you don't like him.
He was supposed to marry me? Neither of us believed in the idea of marriage, yet somehow him saying this made me believe it was what I had wanted all along. He had always had this ability to incept me—to make me believe I wanted something that I never even thought about. He made me think I was wrong, made me feel like our faults were my faults. He had this way of keeping me just loosely attached to a string, so fragile that I was afraid to stray. I would be completely done with him, and he’d tell me I was beautiful, tell me he loved me, compliment me, and my narcissistic ass would be cuddled right back into the crevice between his curled legs and stomach.
He sealed the deal with violence. Aggression and assertion are sexy. He said he would kill a man simply for being the object of my affection. His jealousy turned me on. Stewart’s hatred for a potential suitor other than himself made me want to find a handsome man and introduce them to watch his reaction—to get off on it. His need for me made me want him. I knew, from the first e-mail, no matter how much I denied it, that I would be seeing him. I would do whatever it took to see him, regardless of time, space, or legality. I would chop down anything in my way, like a prince trying to find the tower where his princess awaits. Stewart was my princess; I’m the destructive one.
It took Stewart two days to convince me to drive to Connecticut to see him. He was relentless, as usual. When he wanted something—needed something—he would do anything in his power to get it. He needed to see me. He needed to look at me and touch me and know that I was still real. That I was still his. That we still belonged to each other, even if we weren’t together. He promised me a typewriter, a book by Bukowski, a bottle of whiskey, and money for gas, and I was sufficiently bribed.
When I pulled up in my black Honda Civic—an impulse buy when men were giving me their money to flirt with them and serve food—he met me at the door. I felt awkward and stupid, and I told him I didn’t want to be there anymore. And in usual Stewart fashion, he told me to shut up, and I followed him up to his room.
We talked about books and stories, a safe place for us. We’re both writers. Books are easy; we read a lot of them. He told me about what he’d been reading. He showed me his new tattoo: a Bukowski quote. And I called him a copy cat because I already had one from Bukowski. Secretly, I liked the idea that he was forever imprinted with a quote from my favorite author, a constant reminder of me. We were tied together through permanent ink, permanent love. Feelings that, albeit annoying, still refused to go away.
It took a second of silence. He looked at me, just for that one, solitary second, and he was kissing me. I pushed him away, rather feebly. He ignored my protests because he knew I didn’t mean them. It’s not fair how well he knows me, inside and out, physically-mentally-emotionally. I cried, tears of fear and rage and an accepting sadness. He held onto me, painfully tight, tears in his eyes, feeling his stupidity and weakness.
Then we gave in. We gave into desire and lust and love. If we weren’t inside of one another within seconds, our worlds were going to spontaneously combust. We would stop breathing, stop living, and die right there, half clothed on a broken beige couch.
I didn’t notice that he pulled my pants off inside out, that he had stretched out my sixty dollar Victoria’s Secret bra. I ripped at his belt with one hand, while I ripped at the skin on his back with the other. I bit him, clawed him. I was angry with him. He reciprocated by pulling my hair, grabbing me by the throat. He choked me inches from consciousness. And I liked it. We liked it. We liked this pain that was easing the stabbing of our hearts. The more he hurt me, the more I knew he needed me.
He was inside of me. He was pushing into me, and if he stopped, a bomb would be triggered. We would blow up. The little box would be activated, red numbers would begin a count down, and it would be the end of us. Once the sex ended, it would be the end for us too. We couldn’t let it end.
He spotted the belt on the floor, and without stopping, he tied my wrists tightly, cutting into my thin, pale skin. My eyes widened with excitement. I smiled a smile that only the insane can express. We looked into each other’s eyes, crazed, glazed over with tears and desire and a hypnotizing power that we held over the respective person. He needed to break the spell. He released.
I panicked. I needed him back inside of me. Where are you going, where are you going?! But he returned. He always returned. This time, with a straight razor in his hand. I wasn’t scared. I thought he might kill me, and I didn’t care. If I were to die at any moment, by the hand of any man, I wanted it there, and I wanted it to be him.
I was still tied up, and he remounted me. He stabbed into me as he stabbed the sharp end of the razor to my neck. I lifted my thin neck, urging him to push harder, to continue on, to cut me. Hurt me, I dare you.
I love you and I hate you, he said to me.
I think you may actually want to kill me.
He smiled, and I knew he was contemplating it. He’s agreeing with my statement. Still, I wasn’t scared.
As the razor kept slicing at my throat, he kissed me. It was a hard kiss, a kiss that said I need to be closer to you. I need to be deeper. I need you to open your flesh and let mine in. I tried to do this for him, to tear myself open for him, to help him tear at me. I pushed harder into him, I wrapped my tied arms around his back, and I fucked him. I let him fuck me. I fucked with a hungry need for something lost. If he dug deeper into me, maybe we’d find it.
I wanted to come at the same time. If we did it together, we were in sync. We didn’t need to ask the question. There was no oral communication. Our bodies spoke. And when he came, my body accepted his semen as a part of me. I wanted to keep it locked up in my little box forever. I clenched my thighs around his hips. I seized and moaned, and my eyes rolled back. He yelped like a man getting into a pool of water that’s too hot. His hips pumped awkwardly and without control. He dropped the razor. I tore out of the leather belt. I held him inside of me as we both reached ecstasy. Then we lay there, statuesque, in our wet sin.
The moment was frozen, and the night was not allowed to end. He took my small, naked body into his arms, and I felt empty. I felt like he had taken all of me, and there was nothing left for myself. I cried for my loss. I accepted that I was his, regardless of my displayed independence. And he just held me. He held onto what was his, refusing to ever let it go again, even though he knew that it didn’t matter. Even if he let me go, I’d come back. And even if he disappeared forever, I’d still be the urging voice inside of his head, the love that he couldn’t escape. The woman who took the soul he never thought he had.
There’s no escape for two psychopaths in love.
Initiation
Sororities were overrated, Diana learned, a near-growl building in the back of her throat. Arms crossed over her chest (which was branded with an Alpha Sigma Omega v-neck shirt in a particular shade of purple that made the girl feel too docile for her liking), she stood before the booming frat house of Delta Sigma Kappa. She could feel the bass of the stereos inside the party boom under her shoes. “Great,” she muttered when she caught a frat stumbling outside whom she recognized as a loser from her photography elective named Sanguine. He was giggling to himself, red Solo cup sloshing with a foreign content whose scent stuck to his clothes. His face was contorting between throwing up whatever he ate for the day on the filthy, tee-peed, streamer infested lawn or passing out.
“Oi! Aren’t chu that chick from, uh, pho-toe-graf-ee? Chiane, right?”
“Sure,” Diana responded back, not wanting to be associated with Sanguine at all. It was already bad enough that the more sober frat guys and their dates were shooting her glares-- and she wasn’t even inside the house yet.
Sanguine, clueless to Diana’s desire to end the conversation, went bug-eyed at the royal purple and gold t-shirt she desperately tried to hide under her crossed arms. “Woah, y-you’re one of those Alpha-Hoes?!” To make matters worse, he presented her and the atrocity of a t-shirt to the party-goers on the lawn and porch that weren’t paying her any attention before by pointing directly at her, some of the contents in his Solo cup spilling off the edge.
Flustered, Diana muttered, “Sanguine, can we not talk about his right here?” She was damn lucky that Sanguine was sober enough to stop and rub the back of his neck sheepishly, complemented with an obnoxiously loud laugh that made Diana’s irritation further.
“Sorry, babe,” he giggled, taking a swig from his cup. Then, “You wanna come inside? The party is fucked up! Like, the best I’ve ever planned. Totally. 110%. Completely--” Sanguine yelped painfully when he was clocked in the back of the head by an uninviting looking guy with red hair. “Fuck, Dagon, what was that for?!”
“You’re annoying the hell out of this chick, you dumbass cuntmuch,” the guy (who Diana presumed was Dagon) growled. Sanguine pouted and mumbled complaints under his breath, rubbing the back of his head. Dagon then directed his glare towards Diana, and that was when she became incredibly aware of his Delta Sig Kap varsity hoodie. “Why the fuck is one of those Alpha-Bitches at our event?”
The calamity Diana found herself in began all because she and London have tried to one-up each other since childhood and the campus of Daedra University outlawed sorority and fraternity hazing. Both freshmen despised the idea of sororities because they were pretentious and a waste of money spent in pledging. However, London challenged Diana to see how far they could go with one of the former most haze-heavy sororities in the country. Naturally, Diana wasn’t one to back down from a challenge.
The rules were simple. Each had to complete as many initiations as possible, one-upping the other in the process. At first, it was basic “non-hazing” tasks like London being forced to take Hircine shopping as if she was some kind of maid (paying for all of the bitch’s clothes, too) and Diana having to cook a full course meal for Namira to the senior’s tastes. The challenge only intensified once the sorority’s rival, Delta Sigma Kappa, became involved.
It was very uncommon for a sorority to be rivaled with a fraternity. Wren, a girl initiating with Diana and London, explained to them that the rivalry began in the 1930’s when women began attending more colleges with men and a battle of the sexes erupted. However, the feud faded once gender roles were no longer a factor in the 1980’s; after that, it turned into the Alphas purposely going out of their way to be bitchy and the Deltas responding accordingly with extra doses of testosterone.
London’s last initiation task was to seduce and make out with Delta front runner DJ Tompson. Diana actually felt bad for London; the girl had her eye on Tompson since day one of college at the club fair. Then it only worsened once they started interacting more in-and-out of class since London was on cheer squad and DJ was the starting running back on the football team. Diana already knew that the Alphas had someone record it happening with the intent to post it on Instagram and slut-shame London. If it wasn’t for Diana’s harsh threat to beat the everlasting shit out of the girl who recorded it, London’s reputation would have been in shambles.
Diana, on the other hand, was not so lucky. She bet the girl she threatened snitched to the higher ups and this was her punishment. Her task was to crash a Delta Sig Kappa party in an Alpha t-shirt, locate front-runner Molag Bal, and give him a lap dance. Easy, right?
“I genuinely feel horrible for you.” London told her at lunch earlier that day after Diana was given her assignment.
“Why?” Diana asked in between bites of the chicken burrito she bought at the campus food truck. “It’s not like I’m completely humiliating myself.” London gave her a look of disbelief. “Okay, I am. Totally.”
“You are,” London agreed with a sigh, closing up her textbook on microeconomics, one of the classes dumped on her because she was too lazy to take it in high school. She looked like she was struggling to read it, most likely due to her awful dyslexia. That was one of the few things she and Diana could bond over because they both had dyslexia with a sprinkle of ADHD on top of it. “But that’s not why I feel bad. You’ve heard the stories about Bal, right? My sister, Lucy, was the one who told me cuz she has pretty much all of her classes with him.”
“They showed me pics of him,” Diana shrugged, unlocking her phone to go to her text messages and flash the “subtle” pictures taken of Molag while in class, walking the campus with friends, at sporting events, and other things. He wasn’t a bad looking guy; the only turn-offs for Diana initially were the goat-eyes and razor sharp teeth, but she could tolerate the tattoos. Diana figured that he was one of those types of people who liked to “transform” or “augment” their bodies as experiments to see how far they could take the art of plastic surgery. She actually felt like the additions completed Molag. Of course, she wouldn’t say it out loud. “If you’re talking about the horizontal pupils and teeth, I think I can manage.”
“No. Not that. It’s just…” London looked around to make sure they weren’t being listened to. Believing they were safe, she leaned in and whispered, “they call him the ‘Lord of Domination’ here.”
“Lord of wha-- what the fuck kind of nickname is that?” Diana rolled her eyes and laughed. “What? Is he some kind of sexual freak? Does he like BDSM? Is he a rapist? God complex? Sadistic asshole?”
Instead of answering to one, London said completely serious, “Yes.” Diana’s smile fell and so did her hands which held her burrito.
“...Oh.”
And so now Diana was back here, trying to get into the party and knock out her initiation whilst bypassing an angry Dagon rumbling before her and the drunken idiot behind him, Sanguine. Without thinking much of it, Diana blurted out, “Vile invited me.”
Both Dagon and Sanguine blinked.
“Clavicus Vile?” Sanguine slurred. “You two know each other?”
“He’s in my Calc class,” she answered quickly, and it was true. “Him and Sheogorath. They suggested I come.” Both assholes were in calculus 101 with her and she always knew they were Deltas because they wore their varsity jackets, caps, and tees with dignity. Clavicus was a lil’ bitch that sat to her left, always showing her pictures of his ugly ass dog (Diana was an acute cat person), snoring in class, or trying to go through her phone when she wasn’t looking. Sheogorath sat on her right, laughing at dumbass Cow Chop or Filthy Frank videos that made absolutely no sense to her. It was the perfect half-truth because she figured neither would remember if they asked her to come or not.
“Clavicus and Sheogorath are stupid ass cocklickers,” Dagon hissed. “They would invite someone like you, huh?”
“Yes,” Diana answered, trying to keep her rising anger in check. “Are they here?” She wanted to speed up the conversation because now the bystanders watching them were muttering things about Diana sleeping with the idiots mentioned.
“They are,” Sanguine answered. “Or at least Clavicus is. Sheo’s probably fucking around cuz I haven’t seen him all day. I’ll take you to Clav though.”
“That would be good,” Diana agreed, following Sanguine who twirled around and began skipping up the porch steps and going through the door that led into the frat house. She could feel Dagon’s eyes on them as he followed closely behind her, mostly to make sure she didn’t do anything stupid. She couldn’t blame him. She had heard that some Alphas, Boethiah and Meridia, were fucking with the Delta house not too long ago. Maybe a couple days before. She remembered that Molag came outside and dealt with them himself from what London and Wren told her. Then they were walking with limps like cripples then excommunicated from the sorority for “submitting” to Molag Bal, whatever that meant. Diana hoped she wouldn’t find out that night.
She was a bit nervous that she would find more backlash against her inside the frat house once more people spotted her shirt (which she found clashed greatly with the overwhelming crimson and black.) Instead, she found herself greeted with mostly stares and a couple glares. The stares, she gathered, were of frats checking her out and Diana realized that she chose the wrong day to wear shorts that only stopped at her mid-thigh.
She nearly lost Sanguine in the thick crowds of drinking, dancing college students if it wasn’t for Dagon taking her wrist tightly and dragging her through. Even though it hurt more than it needed to, Diana quietly muttered, “thanks,” which she thought would have been swallowed by the music, but Dagon’s grip on her wrist loosened somewhat.
The party itself was jumping, too much for Diana. Her best friend from home, Quinn (bless her) used to drag her to local frat parties in their senior year of high school. Diana only enjoyed herself when Quinn put a Solo cup in her hands, but they stopped going when Diana’s mom, Bella, caught them sneaking home past curfew smelling like cheap booze and then she beat the whites from their eyes. Diana never expected herself to come back to another frat party. She wished that Quinn was with her, but she went to a different college across county in the Unnamed City. From what Diana heard, she made friends with a strange group consisting of a half-blind, half-deaf Latina girl, an alcoholic, a jewish kid with PTSD, and a standoffish bookworm. Diana wished she was there with them.
Dagon and Sanguine wove her through the dance floor until they walked through the closed doors into the kitchen. Diana almost hissed at the bright lights, contrast to the lights in the rest of the frat house. In there, people were talking and drinking normally, despite the booming of the bass in the other room and the loud thumps that shook the ceiling upstairs which Diana assumed was the bedrooms. To her luck, she spotted Molag sitting on the couch that was obviously pushed into the kitchen for the comfort of its patrons. He and Clavicus were talking to each other, Clavicus with that triggering, shit-eating smirk on his face while leaning over the head of the couch. Both wore Delta varsity jackets, however Molag’s fell down his shoulders a bit, opening up his chest and revealing his tatted shoulders. He was more muscular than the pictures portrayed, but it wasn’t an overwhelming amount of flesh. Still, Diana felt as if Moag could snap her in half like a twig if he were in the mood.
Clavicus caught her staring at them before Sanguine or Dagon could alert them of her presence. “DiDi!” Clavicus beamed, waving at her with a wild arm. “I didn’t know you were into these kinds of events! Why the Alpha tee though?” Suddenly all eyes in the kitchen were on her and the talking hushed. Diana really wished she could curl up and hide. Molag’s horizontal stare made the tension in the room grow all the more thick.
“You were looking at me like you wanted something.” Molag spoke. Diana nearly double-took at the tremor in his voice. He sounded like the Devil incarnate. “So? What do you want, DiDi?” There was a purr in his voice that brought a hint of a blush to her cheeks which she corrected with a pokerface. The frats and girls, on the other hand began laughing at her, some muttering things about her being Molag’s next conquest. She still didn’t understand what that was supposed to mean.
“Firstly,” Sanguine interrupted with a cracking voice on account of his case of the hiccups, “her name is Chiane. Fuckin’ get it right fuckers!”
“Actually,” Diana countered, her irritation beginning to show, “Diana Yilmaz. Not Chiane and especially not DiDi.” She didn’t care that her name was now out in the open right before she would humiliate herself. Her mother taught her that recovery from bullshit was key if she wanted to survive in this world.
“Well then,” Clavicus muttered.
“Rude,” Sanguine pouted. Ignoring the both of them, Diana swallowed heavily.
“And on behalf of Alpha Sigma Omega, I’ve come to apologize for the earlier incident with our women along with the other issues we have started in the past.”
Molag raised an eyebrow, clearly in disbelief that the sorority would send a messenger to make so-called peace between themselves and Delta Sigma Kappa.
“Oh?” Molag smirked, leaning forward in his seat causing Diana to subconsciously want to take a step back or two.
Lessening the strain in her throat, Diana forced out in between grit teeth, “I have come to service you with a dance, courtesy of the Alpha Sigma Omega sisterhood.”
Molag snorted, uncrossing his legs and leaning back in the couch cushions. It didn’t help Diana’s growing anxiety that the room quieted so much either. “And how exactly is some inexperienced virgin supposed to satisfy me?”
Diana scowled, almost snarling at the level of offense that swarmed her. Did he honestly think she was some kind of joke? Yes, this was her irritation talking and she wasn’t supposed to take the job so seriously, but shit. At least make her feel less like a slut than this challenge was doing already. In response, Diana hissed back, “I’ll gladly take feedback once I’m done.”
“Well then,” Molag almost looked impressed. “Not a common way women throw themselves at me, but okay, I’ll take it.”
“Come on, Molag. Don’t pick on Diana. She seems so docile.” That fucking t-shirt.
“Don’t worry about her, Clavicus. She wouldn’t have come here in that stupid ass shirt if she didn’t feel like she could handle me.” Molag turned back to Diana, arms draping themselves over the head of the couch and legs spreading apart a bit more. “Let’s see it then.”
All around them, the unwanted audience cheered, sounding way too excited about this.
Diana gulped nervously and looked around, searching for some kind of moral support. But all she got was Clavicus and Sanguine looking like they were preparing themselves for a long session of masturbation and Dagon looking on with an uncaring gaze. Molag was no help. He was smirking, but there was a captivating look in his eyes that drew Diana in.
She was damn lucky for three things. One, her aunts Chelsea, Ehsan, and Ashley. Two, her friends Quinn and Alessandra. Three, she’s a dance minor and freestyling hip-hop choreography is her strong suit. The skills she took up from them were needed now more than ever to keep from making an absolute fool of herself once one of the audience members plugged their phone in the speaker sitting under one of the cabinets. Me & My Bitch by The Neighbourhood started to boom from the device. Diana was also fortunate that Quinn had an obsession with Jesse Rutherford’s voice.
Exhaling deeply and reminding herself that London’s face once Diana completed the initiation was the ultimate reward, Diana strut forward to Molag (thank her shorts) then spun around in front of him. With both hands bracing the couch, she lowered her hips before him until her ass ghosted over his crotch. Due to their close proximity only, Diana could hear Molag’s breath hitch with want-- just barely. Gyrating her hips to the lyrics “Pussy stay wet like she was mixed with Mexican,” Diana dipped down and languidly rolled her hips directly against Molag, the Delta giving her a breathy chuckle in return.
Diana could hear the faint cheers and cat calls in the background, but her focus was totally drawn on the tightening of Molag’s jeans and how she could feel him. To keep herself as composed as possible, she lifted herself off of him, Molag’s face dropping into an almost pissed off frown and a groan releasing from his lips that had a deep, rough sound that made a pool of arousal drip between her legs.
Diana liked feeling in control of a man that she never imagined dominating. Or maybe she really wasn’t doing that, but thinking that she was commanding him somewhat. She knew that he was only letting her be in control for the sake of the challenge; to see if she was worth his time.
Turning around, Diana crawled in between Molag’s legs, wrapping her arms around his neck so that she wouldn’t fall and then sensually rolling her hips some more with the beat, her right knee teasing friction at the boner. Molag’s hands gripped her ass and slapped it, resulting in Diana throwing her head back with a short mewl in pleasure. The crowd went wild in reaction and Diana could particularly hear Clavicus groan, “Holy fuck!” The idea of having Molag lose his senses and just take her on the couch was controlling Diana’s mind. Yes, she was a virgin and was never savvy to sex or dating, but with the way he firmly gripped her ass and the wetness down below, she certainly wouldn’t have minded trying.
“How do you like it so far?” Diana asked with a shaky voice, leaning in to whisper in Molag’s ear.
“Like you said, I’m only giving you feedback after this, Diana.” Molag wanted to regain control and watch her fall apart because his hands travelled up her shirt, fingers sliding under the straps of her bra. Diana bit her lip when imagining Molag ripping her shirt off her body, unhooking the damn flimsy thing, then taking one of her breasts (that were pressed against his neck, just below his chin) in his mouth, but caught herself and pushed off him to compose herself yet again. She needed to calm her nerves, fast, before she did something else she’d regret in front of this crowd.
Her eyes ran through the whooping audience of frats and girls until they fell on the iconic red Solo cup in Sanguine’s hands. Bingo.
Smirking at the bug-eyed, half-mast Delta, she made her way to him, shaking her hips and running her hands through her hair to the music. Those around Sanguine “ooo”-ed like middle schoolers when she approached him. Pulling the hair tie out from her long, dark brown hair, she let her mane fly freely as she placed a hand on Sanguine’s chest, pushing him against the counter and snaking her leg around his waist. Sanguine’s unoccupied hand immediately shot to Diana’s waist, but she merely shook her head and slapped it away. While he was distracted in his flushed, horny daze, Diana took the Solo cup from his hands then swallowed a long swig of the cheap beer he intoxicated himself with before slamming it back down on the counter, making Sanguine yelp. Chuckling at him, Diana leaned into his ear and whispered, “I owe you those landscapes in photography later,” before backing away and doing a reverse cartwheel backward to Molag, purposely showing off her flexibility. Obviously the crowd went crazy and Sanguine looked like he came messily in his shorts.
The song was halfway over. Now tipsy enough to be more daring since she was a lightweight at heart, Diana peeled her slightly sweaty, hideous Alpha t-shirt off from over her head, throwing it somewhere in the crowd, said crowd scrambling into a brawl against it. Diana’s Qu’ran tattoos, scars from years of childhood martial arts and athletics, and lacey black bra were all on display for the audience (who she presumed grew even larger due to the now wide-open kitchen door) and Molag.
Molag’s eyes ran all up and down her body and Diana was definitely pleased that the Delta liked what he saw. Her skin erupted in goosebumps from his gaze as well, but it only drove her to climb on top of Molag, forcing him to lay back on the couch so that she could turn, both now in the 69 position and grinding her ass in his face.
She could hear her counterpart growl in both lust and anger at that. Pride swelled in her chest. Laughing, Diana lifted her hips carefully and rolled off of Molag without stepping on his head in the process. She couldn’t help herself. She danced and rolled around on the ground like some kind of sexual freak (or her aunt Chelsea.) Frats clapped and hollered loudly and Diana heard Molag sit up from the leather creaking under him. Turning her head a bit to him, she smirked and sat on her knees at the edge of the couch, teasing her finger against his boner.
There was probably a minute left of the song. She didn’t expect Molag to lift her so roughly off the ground and plop her in his lap with her legs on either side of him, dangling off the head of the couch to the point that she had to hold herself up with her hands barely on the seat. Wide-eyed, Diana hurried and sat up, wrapping her arms around Molag’s neck to stay balanced.
The college student threw her head back with a moan when Molag thrust his hips upwards into her clothed pussy, hands firmly grasping her ass and spanking every now and then in between bucks. Deltas shouted in delight at the sight of Molag finally corrupting Diana’s body each thrust at a time. Molag laughed at her yelps and gasps sadistically, eyes locked on her bra straps falling ever so slowly down her shoulders and then flicking back to the flushed, ecstasy-wrought face.
“Look at you,” Molag grunted with a smirk similar to the one Diana flashed at him, “weren’t you the one in ‘control’ earlier? You should see yourself. Falling apart and submitting to me so gracefully. I was just making a wild guess when I said you were an inexperienced virgin. It’ll be so entertaining burying myself inside of you for real and listen to you scream my name and mine only.”
“Y-You’re,” a gasp, “c-crazy.” She cried out even louder. She felt like she was going to combust and, judging from the size and the rock hardness of Molag’s erection, so was he.
“That I won’t deny.” Now with his hands on her hips, he rocked her body into his thrusts, staying in sync with the chill conclusion of Me & My Bitch in the process. Diana dug her nails into Molag’s neck, eventually matching his rhythm on her own, bouncing her ass up and down in his lap almost desperately.
“I-I’m gonna explode…!” She howled, eyes clenching shut. Molag merely snickered, voice husky and laced with silenced moans at the way her ass felt against him and how hot she looked.
“Submit to me, Diana,” he commanded, rutting up into her heat faster and harder than ever. Diana gasped and her back arched with a loud, unsullied cry in pleasure when she came. She caught Molag’s expression shift for a split second from composed to the opposite when he bit his lip with a low groan, Diana feeling him shoot his load through their sets of clothing.
Diana breathlessly panted and she only realized that the song hand ended when a round of applause that could probably be heard throughout the campus quaked.
“Hell yeah!”
“Yes, bitch!”
“Not to bad, babe.”
“My turn next!”
Diana slowly came back to herself, suddenly feeling exposed and bare and high on adrenaline. People walked up to her and patted her on the back, telling her that she did a great job and it was the sexiest lap dance they had ever seen. And she was only some inexperienced virgin.
“Everybody to the dancefloor!” Clavicus shouted, everyone cheering in agreeance. Clavicus turned to Diana and winked. “You, too, DiDi. Calculus is gonna be way more fun now.” Clavicus laughed when Diana blushed all the way to her ears, then he turned and left out with Sanguine and Dagon (apparently Sanguine was the one who caught her shirt. He could keep it.)
Diana hesitantly turned back to Molag, trying her hardest not to look as nervous as she felt. She had been in fights with weapons against guys twice Molag’s size. There was nothing for her to be afraid of--
“Now.” Diana jumped. Son of a bitch. She blamed Molag’s Satan-sounding voice.
“Yes?” She responded with her usual deadpan. Molag grinned at her and yanked her down by the shoulders until they were face to face, their breaths intermingling. Diana’s blush came back with a vengeance.
“That’s cute. I like how you try not to show how weak you are. Your flaws couldn’t have been more obvious.” She scowled at the shit-eating grin on his face.
“Do you have a point or should I get off of your steadily hardening dick so I can get to my dorm and study Shakespeare?” Diana still hated the school for the fact that they stuck her dyslexic ass in a Shakespeare 101 class.
“Trust me, Alpha, believe it when I say that you don’t run your life anymore.” She blinked. So that was what it meant.
“...I did not submit to you.”
“Not your decision. You came. Quite gloriously might I add. Therefore you’re mine now.” He twirled his fingers in a long strand of her hair, smiling at the way it felt. “And I think you’ve also ranked up to my favorite toy. Do you know why?”
“I. Am. Not. Your’s.” Diana hissed with narrowed eyes, trying her hardest not to kick the shit out of him.
“And that’s exactly why.” Leaning in and whispering in her ear, he said, “because the more you fight, the more turned on I get.” Without another word, Molag lifted Diana up under her thighs, the girl squeaking and tightening her hold around his neck so that she wouldn’t lose her balance. “Now, let’s go give you that feedback, as promised.”
Needless to say, Diana had the best initiation task ever.
©SelfTitled, 2017
Later, Chris.
Rome. 2016, March. Hadn't seen him since the '90s. Drunk on being away from the States, drunk on red and white wine, and a stomach gorged with in-house pasta, bread, and anything else I could get my hands on. Alley, restaurant. Trevi fountain checked off. Young Italian girls waving Americans in to their restaurants. A brothel feel. I want to go into the story about the two Italians fighting over the check. The owner and a drunk patron. I want to go into the gelato after, the air of Rome, the bricks of the alleys. But I can't. Rare to see this profile written in first person, but this is different. Like Rome is different. Lost there. Must gaze upon the Pantheon during the first rays of moonlight.
Lost there. Around a blind corner I nearly walked into Cornell. The man was tall. I'm 6'1 and he loomed over me. We glanced at each other, I registered the situation, and kept moving. GPS called me a moron in code, so I followed Cornell and his wife, and their little girl. I wasn't listening but I was. He was telling his girl about how life is in Italy. I heard, "In Italy..." then the crowd around us absorbed the rest. A few people took fast second looks, and then went back to their tables, their drinks, their own trips and lives.
In Rome no one cares who you are.
Quite a beautiful feeling.
Rome is different.
Crossing back toward where I had to go. Losing light. The Sun becoming the Moon, and I'm standing there then, staring at the street that I would cross to my hotel, to give up, but I'm feeling too fine, and I'm in Rome. I'm in fucking ROME. Not to sound incredulous. I put my phone to my ear to hear the directions, looked down the street. Cornell. Giving me a skeptical but not-so-sure stare, a sideways check. It would appear I was following them, but I wasn't. It didn't bother me. I laughed ahead. Rome is different. He disappeared down the street with his family, and I realized I'd been going the right way the whole time. Turned back, walked and thought about it. I could have had a conversation with him, I could have dropped one name. His parents lived next door to my friend's parents here in West Seattle. He'd skated with Cornell, and once told me he and his parents would watch Cornell mowing his parents' lawn from upstairs, even after Soundgarden took off. We could have had a conversation away from the music, the words, just two dudes from here laughing about the suddenness of meeting in Rome with such far-reaching connections to the past. What stopped me from shaking his hand? I would like to fall back on ego, but it was only ego in the sense that I didn't want to be a fan, a number, even with a rare connection.
But the truth is I am a fan. And though I don't believe in regretting something you've already done, I should have shaken his hand. I didn't have to tell him that his lyrics were brilliant, his voice one of the most distinctive in all remembered time, or any of that bullshit people like him, the few of them, hear and have to deflect or appropriate when they're out in the world. I also simply didn't want to interrupt him or his family while they walked in peace as the Moon rose over Rome.
I found the Pantheon, young moonlight. Breath stolen.
This morning I awoke to a text from my buddy, Dave. Four words and an abbreviation: Dude, Chris Cornell died. WTF?
Tap google. 52. Suspected suicide. No matter, he's gone. They all go, they don't live long enough to see themselves shine like the rest see them. And they don't care. Sitting here now, blasting Louder Than Love, and sending my best thoughts to his family.
Bukowski once said in a letter, "Death isn't a problem for the deceased, it's a problem for the living." Or something like that. Looking back on the dead artists of the last few years, Cornell hits pretty hard. 52 years old.
Much love to his people. Hands All Over just started. I need more coffee, and to kiss my dogs.
Outside it's grey and bright and warm.