by Robert Scott Leyse

July 22, 2003

My life's been taken from me again – I thought I'd laid this propensity to become possessed to rest, but I was being naïve. A cheerful summer day, and I'd intended to go to Central Park and savor the singing of the birds and the greenery; but then she stepped into the light from a building on Madison and all went dark. The swooning sensation again, and dizziness and nausea, as if the sidewalk was suddenly tilting and spinning and the gutter was a chasm into which I was about to fall.

What's this one's name? Clarissa! Already I know her name – the doorman uttered it quite audibly: "It's a nice day, Clarissa!" It was a nice day, Clarissa, until you crossed my path and, like a black cat, told of stress to come. Clarissa's graceful and poised and mysterious like a black cat, as were the others. And beautiful, like the others: beauty is a stab in the nerves and vertigo in the stomach and gaspings for air. Such beguiling waves of raven black hair Clarissa has; and such velvet eyes, achurn with restless flecks of silver; and such an unblemished complexion, like milk – a curtain of milk. What's behind the curtain? What lurks below the smooth contours of Clarissa's visage? Hunger and need and daring lurk there. And that's the problem: Clarissa's need leapt from her eyes and whirled in my chest and reawakened my own needs – needs best left to slumber.

And now I've tossed and turned and yearned, as if the mattress of my bed was electrified. I've been forced to return to this journal, as I always am when a new beauty seizes me inside. No peace until I come to terms with Clarissa, that's my sentence and my curse; and who knows whether the coming to terms with her will remain within acceptable boundaries? I shudder at the possibility of overstepping the line of the lawful; I quail before the chasm within me – the dark places that Clarissa, by simply existing, has put me back in touch with.

July 23, 2003

I was waiting for Clarissa this morning, and followed her. She owns a hair salon, not far from her apartment: another instance of fate being against me. Twice in the past the obstacles were such that I was unable to follow through when a preoccupation of this nature seized me: attraction simply dissipated. Escaping this preoccupation's impossible because no obstacles exist: I know where Clarissa lives and where she works and, as bad luck would have it, where she works is a place – fronting the street – where she's alone every night doing the accounts.

And how bewitching Clarissa's eyes are! How account for the effect of their light upon me? Silvery darkness is their light, and their light originates from God only knows what suppressed urges within her. Her eyes communicate a familiarity with sensations that would make a lesser mortal scream – she lives on the other side of the curtain that shields most of us from having to stare straight into the overwhelming indifference of the universe to our existence, and the ultimate turning to dust. Clarissa's the distance and silence of the stars on a cold night, the sensations of transience and mortality that come sweeping down; she's the consciousness of death.

And so alive Clarissa is! She's a swift river of life, tantalizing to see; and one I'm in need of swimming in! Clarissa's displacing the blood in my veins with stringent heat, fever, and dizziness. I'll not rest until she blazes in my embrace.

July 24, 2003

This morning I was waiting close to Clarissa's salon, before her arrival. When she appeared at the corner I strolled towards her so as to catch her eyes and swim in them again, as I did yesterday when she darted me that side glance and made me reel with sensory inundation – enough to nearly rob me of my footing, and make me stumble. I was resolved to get the better of her, meet her eyes with a compelling glance of my own – make the depths of my regard apparent – and entice her into becoming curious concerning me. Our eyes, indeed, met; Clarissa smiled, even flushed; I smiled in return. I'm very happy – I handled the situation perfectly: I flooded my eyes with feeling and made as if to speak; a greeting was fluttering on my lips; at the last moment, I glanced away as if suddenly shy. Oh, make no mistake: I'm fully under Clarissa's spell and vulnerable and readily admit it, but that hardly means I won't be alert to every opportunity to bring the matter between us to fruition. I'm never more calculating, adept at conquest, than when bewitched.

I approached the window of Clarissa's salon in the afternoon and stood looking in, fully intent on catching her eye, with no show of shyness this time. She felt me there before she glanced up: I plainly saw the shadows under her skin twitch in knowing; plainly felt her nerves – through the glass – swirl to attention. And then her gaze. Meeting Clarissa's eyes is like spiraling down a whirlpool towards life's mysteries, apprehending the wellsprings of creation. But even though giddy, I was still aware that she was bestowing an appreciative and kindly look upon me. And then there was that flirtatious – heavenly – downturn of her eyes and inner smile, indicating that she was pleased I found her so pleasing. She was busy with a customer – a good thing. I was able to send a message with a look alone – a preparatory message.

When I returned at closing time Clarissa wasn't surprised, and was obviously glad. I'm very charming and tactful when a beauty displaces my blood with the wild world within her and I'm gasping for release: it's a simple necessity.

Dinner in that dim sushi place, by candlelight – the metallic tabletop blurrily reflected Clarissa's beauty as she sat before me. Soon I was clasping her hands, intertwining our fingers – such soul-stirring energy crackles in her touch! I only require a first date for a wave to gather between myself and the beauty I desire: the electricity that surges between held hands rapidly spreads to engulf us both.

Clarissa, like the others before her, is a lonely beauty. The lonely beauties are my specialty: they're the flowers on isolated cliffs with deep blossoms that only a few species of moth or bat can pollinate – only those with highly developed flying skills and long tongues are able to taste of their nectar. Lonely beauties are not lonely because no man wants to bed them; they're lonely because only a few men know how to reach deep inside and stir their interest and inspire desire. Aloof and cold to the overtures of the majority, they cannot help but warm to the manner in which I dive deep inside their eyes and turn inside out to reveal the tumult within me. Uninterested in the common sort of safe emotions, their yearning can only be roused by the perception of danger; and when danger's accompanied by tactful regard, good manners, and clever conversation… Well, I've said I become highly appealing: out of necessity.

A first date – an only date: such is how it's always been between myself and a beauty who's infiltrated my bloodstream – such is how it was with Clarissa.

It wasn't until we exited the restaurant with interlocked arms that the true agony of bliss seized me: that's when my blood surged so strongly it was as if it was going to dissolve my skin. Then we stepped in front of that window as a streetlamp's bright amber light was striking and seeming to shatter it. Clarissa's reflection was upon the window, the soft symmetry of her body and grace of her gestures rudely splintered by the light. I gasped at the sight; tight coilings seized my stomach; the pictures in my head were of Clarissa and I making love on shattered glass.

I took her, as I did the others, to the basement apartment. The day I first glimpsed Clarissa I'd gone there to open the windows and flush the mustiness with fresh air. After all, I hadn't been there for nearly a year, the last time a beauty took possession of my will. I'd also plugged in the refrigerator and placed food within; plus dusted and swept. All to lend the place a lived in appearance: no use risking putting Clarissa on alert by taking her somewhere that obviously hadn't been used for awhile. Always, I'm very cautious; I never take fruition of my desire for granted; I've never had a beauty bolt on me.

Oysters, champagne, and strawberries at the low table by the couch, on the Persian rug: what a delight to cuddle close to Clarissa by candlelight and watch the reflections of the flames writhe inside her eyes as her hair spilled down the sides of her face and teased the air with its softness. What a breathy voice she had, and how it's sultry music fluttered up and down my spine! There was nothing of caution in Clarissa's manner; she was completely at ease.

Clarissa's lips were moist and sweet with the champagne and strawberries and the instant I tasted them I knew I'd soon be springing my surprise on her: the pictures in my head flickered with shards of glass as I eased my tongue inside her warm mouth and felt my hands slide her dress up her legs.

Such sleek thighs, warm with life, Clarissa had – the sensation of my hands upon them merged with the silky twistings of her tongue as I spun into the silvery dizziness of her eyes. Clarissa's sighs slid into my ears as I thrilled to the tautness of her stomach shivering at fingers' touch. The entire room whirled as I pulled her dress over her head and saw her unclasp her brassiere. My clothes fell from my body almost of their own accord.

"Over here, Clarissa – that's it, near this mirror." The mirror was aglow with the reflected candlelight's liquid amber. It was four feet high by three wide, leaning against the wall, and frameless. I watched our reflections rush at us as I seized the mirror at the top and pulled it forwards – watched our reflections scatter into splinters as the mirror crashed to the hardwood that began where the rug ended. Clarissa leapt back in alarm.

"But Clarissa, I'll rescue you from fear." Upon the sharp shards of silver I eased her – lovely wild wide-eyed Clarissa! The lily white of her body was milk poured on the floor, a warm living river of milk. Mirror dust floated near, caught the candlelight, and became gold. I alchemized into vapor, became an electric ghost, as I embraced her – as I pressed Clarissa hard on the shards and fell into the flares of her eyes.

It was then that my love welled from within me to soothe her. "Harm you? Never. Have you any idea how much tenderness swells within me? I could suffocate for love of you, so strong it is. Trust me, Clarissa: discomfort and cuts are nothing when set against the peace I'll bequeath to you. I know what I'm doing, and I know you."

I knew my Clarissa, all right. I knew my lonely beauty, understood her isolation from easy means of satiation. I knew she had no idea what lurked within her because no one before me had perceived it and conjured it towards the surface, for her to recognize and revel in. I sympathized with and admired and needed her. I needed her to assist me in approaching, and then cheating, the portal of death.

I reached to the side and the hard heat of clasped glass soon tore through my hand: was it pain? I was far too awhirl in desire to care that I was being gashed by the glass I was clenching – far too caught up in the flowings of life in the curves of Clarissa to mind when blood spilled from my fingers onto the milk of her chest.

Red and white flickered before me in candlelight as I caressed Clarissa and myself with my handful of glass – oh, but softly, so softly! I'm never more careful than when dizzy with approaching consummation: I merely scraped the surface of, took care not to gouge deeply, our shimmering skin. Bloodletting's an art – only so much, and no more. And yet, what a heady swirl in the nerve stream it is when I have life and death at my fingertips: the knowledge that I could cut deeper and bring an end to a beauty's bloodbeat – as well as my own – causes me to, so to speak, black out inside and leave all emotional detritus behind. Through the apprehension of death, comes rebirth. Yes, I love life, and respect it. I loved the life in Clarissa, and wouldn't have done wrong by it for all the gold in Eldorado.

I tied a tearing of cloth about Clarissa 's mouth to spare her the effort of protesting, and hindering, our journey towards death's door. I continued to cut her – shallow cuts, just enough for blood to appear, not flow. Clarissa's eyes were aglow more with wonder than alarm, and her alarm was departing. I tasted the bitterness of blood on my lips as I kissed the shards in my hand and then flung them clattering across the floor.

Yes, lovemaking's a death-ritual for those who surge with more life than they know what to do with, and ceaselessly live with troubling echoes in their deepest chasms; it's communion with the dark places that give birth to the forces that cause life to flow. And instinctive knowing was strong in Clarissa, when she lapped the blood from my lips as I kissed her – when she shuddered as I took her and the blood of our wounds ran together and became one river of swooning to awaken in unity with creation's forge.

The scattered glintings of the mirror about us blurred in my vision, ran together and combined, to become a single shimmer of silver spreading over the floor: my shattered reflection pieced itself together again as Clarissa and I shared the transports of procreation, and I fell out from under myself. I disappeared from my sight and thoughts and touch as Clarissa's gasps mingled with and became indistinguishable from my breath...

But I'll not see Clarissa again, same as with the others. My first encounter with a beauty who's seized me from the inside out, I can manage: I know I'll be self-possessed enough to assure that she and I remain safe within the boundaries of life in this world. But a second encounter? I don't trust myself: I always fear the urge to remain on earth will pale beside the temptation to consider death a window on an amount of rebirth I've never known – always fear my senses will accelerate enough to warp my thoughts into believing a fatal bloodbath is the means of attaining everlasting inner peace. This conflict chills as much as it thrills me – I dare not test it: I've no wish to be fooled into making those cuts, both on her and myself, deeper than they ought to be – no wish to be fooled into playing God and forgoing life prematurely, ending up stranded in some nether zone, cursed as litter in the breeze.

As I said, a first date – an only date.

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Love On Glass © 2003 by Sliptongue, Inc.