In Quest of a Stable Girl by Robert Scott Leyse

In Quest of a Stable Girl

by Robert Scott Leyse

From: Justin
To: Angie & Ella & Steven
Sent: Saturday, September 20, 2003 11:49 PM

My friends, I beg your indulgence: more of my usual complaining's going to follow – more bitching about my apparent inability to encounter a single girl in this city who's content with being safe and predictable! There has to be some of them out there – I'm pretty certain they actually exist – but do I ever get involved with them? Such bliss continues to elude me! The only girls I get mixed up with are strife sowing crazies who can't stand it unless there's some conflict going on! I mean, what do I really want? Do I even know? I think I want emotional quietude in relationships, but the minxes I get mixed up with hardly bear it out! Maybe I secretly want the friction? But why, then, do I get authentically upset with myself after "misreading" a girl again, experience real dread, lacerate my soul with speculations as to whether I happen to be sane? After all, you know the saying concerning the company a person keeps: if I'm drawn to lunatical wildcats, it's certainly an indication that all's not well within myself and that, God forbid, I might very well have more in common with them than I care to admit! I mean, what sort of relationship roller-coaster torture ride am I on? Why am I endlessly putting on the hair shirt of manic girlfriends? What nasty doings in a former life are forcing me to atone for them via girls who quickly get out of control and turn on me, bring on panic and chaos, usurp all chances of being at peace with myself?

Yeah, you've heard it all before. So why am I bothering to write of my girl fiascoes again, resume bewailing my fate? Perhaps in an effort to comprehend my predicament, decipher what makes me tick? Perhaps so as to relive the latest misadventure and, in so doing, better arm myself against future ones? Perhaps merely to laugh at myself? At any rate, it's Saturday night and, instead of seeing the girl described below again, I'm here at home. At least in writing this I have a relatively safe means of passing the time, as opposed to allowing yet another nutcase to seek to drag me into her demon populated world.

So here goes: I'm going to sort of make it into a story – write it fiction style, with an introductory beginning and, hopefully, a wrap-it-up ending. Perhaps I'll manage to get some therapy out of it:

* * *

Well, I should've known… Why? Because Chrissy's a dancer! A dancer at Webster’s, where she does the go-go and hula hoop routine in the blue and pink light show. No matter that Chrissy's also a law student at Fordham; no matter that she's a diminutive thing of ninety-eight pounds, five feet four; no matter that she has the sweetest face and most melodious little girl voice; no matter that she blushes easily, and chatters on and on with blithe enthusiasm about anything at all: none of these "nice" things, aside from suckering me into being attracted to her, count in the least! All that matters is that Chrissy’s a dancer, tight little package of nonstop frenzy onstage, and that her physical stamina's more than matched by a will of steel. Chrissy dances as if she's seeking to exorcise demons and, obviously, she doesn't fully succeed in doing so because there are plenty of demons left over regardless of how much she dances. That frenzy of hers onstage? Well, unfortunately, it lingers in her afterwards and spills over into other things. Chrissy really ought to wear a warning sign around her neck that says "Highly Inflammable!" so that peace loving guys like myself know to flee, instead of falling for her sweet girly appearance (even a pink polka dotted ribbon in her hair, for Christ's sake!) and getting stuck with a wildcat.

So last night I get home with my prize – with blithe, blue eyed, curly haired, petite Chrissy. All's well at the beginning – a lot of hot cuddling on the couch, after she's eaten the popcorn and cantaloupe and yogurt we stopped at the store for. Lots of lingering kisses, slow runnings of my fingers up her arms, caresses of the back of her neck, swishings of her hair in my face – plenty of laughing banter, admiring gazings into wide eyes, compliments exchanged. All very non-threatening and safe, right?

An hour or so later, once we've performed sundry delightful explorations of one another's physique and are plenty excited, Chrissy glances meaningfully towards the bed. Well, who am I to deny a pretty girl a reasonable request? I grasp her by her rear (really grab her ass firmly; a very wise girl – you, Ella – once explained to me that a man needs to be a man when seizing a girl's ass, let the girl know he really appreciates her ass and enjoys grabbing it) and lift her as she wraps her thighs around my waist. We're deep dish kissing the whole time as I carry her to the bed, ease her to the mattress; and then… Well, no reason to go into details. Suffice it to say that it was great sex, as one would expect from a dancer. An ardent girl, Chrissy, and very fit: quite strong for her size, solid muscle and conditioning under her soft silky skin.

Again, so far so good, right? Yes, a nice stable night of mattress tussle, healthy and refreshing: I had no cause to complain whatsoever. A couple hours of sex followed by some cheery post-play – tickle games, lots of ass slaps and giggles, the exchanging of amusing childhood anecdotes, some simple quiet cuddling. Chrissy's sweet demeanor had remained sweet; her blithe voice had remained blithe; her kind eyes had remained kind. She hadn't, like so many other girls the second I get them into bed, acted as if I'd flipped a switch; she hadn't slipped into strident mode and revealed darker impulses and dragged me into them. In other words, I was blind and stupid with contentment, a sitting duck.

Because listen to what happens next. I open my closet so Chrissy can select a shirt to wear (Typical, right? She wanted to wear one of my shirts – a sort of post sex trophy – while making some breakfast.) and she notices I have some ski pants folded up in there.

"So you're a skier?" she asks.

"During the holidays," I answer, not knowing what I'm getting into.

"Do you have a ski mask?" Such an innocent question…

"Yeah, a couple – see?" I retrieve them from the upper shelf to show her (if only I'd said I didn't have any).

"Would you mind putting one of them on? – I want to see."

So I put on the ski mask, naïve fool that I am, and what happens? Chrissy abruptly stomps up to me, seizes my shoulders with both hands, digs in her nails rather savagely, and heatedly says, with a hard glint in her eyes: "I want you to tie me up, ski man! I want to be your hostage on the hard tiling of the kitchen floor! I want rough treatment, no more of this (she gestures towards the bed with contempt) tame middle-of-the-road lovemaking that's a real bore, and that's hardly enough!"

Yes, that's the innocent thing that turned the night topsy turvy: a ski mask! It's always some seemingly innocuous thing that sets these sweethearts off! Once it was yogurt in the refrigerator; other times it's been 1) my rosary, 2) a bottle of olive oil, 3) a picture book of cats, 4) my black raincoat, 5) the elk antler I found on the mountain in Idaho, 6) a bag of apples: how am I to anticipate that such mundane items as these are going to bring out the wildcat in these kittens? How will I ever know any peace?

The sudden edge – hint of a snarl – in sweet Chrissy’s voice, insistence of her eyes? I've seen good girls flip flop into bad without warning far too often not to realize she’s absolutely in earnest; but that hardly means I'm going to obey without efforts to escape. So I laugh, and say, "Yeah, sure, Chrissy! Very funny! Here, let me take this thing off so we can have breakfast – I'm starved."

"No!" she hisses, grabbing ahold of my hands to stop me and again wielding her nails, scratching and stabbing at my palms to accentuate the rising volume of her voice: "Don't you dare take that mask off! You stare at me at the club while I dance like you want to rape me; you bring me here and tease me with your dick; you joke and laugh and tell me stupid stuff from when you were a boy: you do all this to mock me! You don't take me seriously! You treat me like a teenager when you know I'm a mature woman! You seem to think I can be pawned off with a routine fuck, childhood stories, and breakfast! You know very well what I'm really about, but you're not acknowledging it! You're either toying with me for your amusement or just plain lazy tonight, and I'm not going to stand for either one! Not a chance am I going to be made fun of or fobbed off! (She stamps a foot and brings her face closer to mine; her whole expression's a snarl; her eyes flare.) Yes, you can plainly see I'm not the sort who stands for boring mundane crap; and yet you treat me like a bimbo and shit on me! Do you have to get up early to take your Mommy to church, little boy? Is that why you're going to feed me breakfast and show me the door and go beddie-bye all by yourself? Or is there another girl coming over? Bastard! Do you really think I'm going to clear out for a successor? Damn it! You are going to keep that mask on; and you are going to abuse me on the kitchen floor!"

"Whaaaat?" I'm thinking. "Whaaaat?" I might as well be in a complete stranger's apartment or out in the wilds somewhere: I'm certainly deriving no comfort from being at home! "Home" no longer exists; the walls of my apartment – barrier they represent against the unpredictability of the outside world – have dissolved! I'm all alone with this manic she cat, being dragged into feelings of unease far better suited to a life on the streets! And, as far as her suspicions go… Well, there's nothing like confusing imagination with actuality, is there? That's something these firebrands all have in common: they only see what they want to see – they always act upon stuff that only exists in their heads! They create a rationale for conflict by dreaming up qualities I don't have and accusing me of things I haven't done!

"You – you come with me!" Chrissy stammers, yanking at my arms with real fury. Is this the same girl who entered my apartment earlier, all giggles and hair flicks and flutterings of eyes? No! This is an outraged fury with a glance like a glare – a glare that grinds hard in the pit of my stomach, brings tightness to the surface of my skin, envelops me in a chill! My apartment – my home! The walls are slamming in on me, and spinning! It's as if I'm walking through a narrow collapsing corridor as I cross the spacious living room to the kitchen, pulled by her. No sooner are we in the kitchen, than the white tiling blazes bright enough to nearly blind me.

Chrissy's shortly on her back on the tiles, still yanking at my hands. "Do it, you bastard! Tie me up with something! No, tape me up! That duct tape over there, do my ankles and wrists! I'll scream if you don't! I'll go in the hall and scream, and bring the neighbors out!" Another everyday object turned against me – the tape I use to wrap up my ancient suitcase that would otherwise fall apart! A ski mask, duct tape? Again, I despair of ever ridding my apartment of unforeseen stimuli – hidden lightning rods – such as these!

"I… I have no idea what you want from me, what I'm supposed to do…" I venture, still vainly hoping to escape. "This is stupid!" I very stupidly, given Chrissy's frame of mind, declare.

Cute little delicate flower Chrissy’s response? She sits upright in a second and punches me squarely in the stomach (Good thing she's as diminutive as she is; if she had physical strength to match her rage, I'd be on the floor gasping for breath.), then starts flailing at my chest. "I could kill you!" she yells. "If I was a guy, I would kill you!" Then she jerks herself away, sits silently glaring at me with her arms wrapped around her knees, is literally vibrating with hate. She seems to be gathering herself for a spring at my face.

"Aaaahhh!" she shrieks, grabbing at her cheeks with both hands and violently shaking her head. "You – you – you're sick! You fire me up in bed – you fuck me doggie style and then from the front while sucking my neck and caress me all over and tell me how beautiful I am, and now you deny me a simple request! I've gotten naked for you: do you think I do that for every guy? Yes, I've gotten naked for you, and it gives me some rights! I want you to tape me up and scream at me and keep me prisoner here; and you'd better do it! I swear I'll bite if you don't!"

So saying, Chrissy lunges at my wrist with her teeth while attacking my shins with a flurry of kicks, although still seated on the floor. I yank my wrist away, seize her shoulders, and wrestle her onto her back on the tiling: annoyance, I don't mind admitting, rises within me. Yes, she's backed me into a corner and is going to get her way! Damn it to hell, here I go again, giving into the twisted desires of a cutie I thought was sweet and balanced! I seize her hair and wind it about her throat, as much in fear as in anger.

"You want me to be a big bad man, you messed up mixed up little girl?" I ask, pinning her to the floor with my knees while tightening her hair around her throat (not too tightly, mind you; just enough to show her I'm physically in control). "You stay flat on the floor like this or else, I swear to almighty God, I'll wring your lovely neck with your hair!" I hear myself shouting. "That’s right, you don't move a muscle – you allow me to get the tape from the counter without so much as a twitch – or your hair becomes a murder weapon!" I don't believe I'm saying and doing this stuff – I don't at all like saying and doing this stuff; but what choice do I have, given that hellcat Chrissy's demanding it and will become tantrum city if I fail to comply?

And guess what? Chrissy lies perfectly still when I let go of her to get the roll of duct tape, regarding me with something that looks like admiration, even joy. Yes, I'm being obedient and roughing her up and threatening her, so she's happy! And, of course, I'm in hell! Because the last thing I want to be doing is playing this domination and abuse game! Sure, Chrissy's the one being subjected to rough treatment, but she’s forcing me to do it! Sure, I'm playing the dominant part, but I'm actually the submissive one! I've been conscripted into slavery, pure and simple! A petite thing's pushing me around in my apartment against my will, making me do a lot of things I don't want to do!

"Cross your ankles, bitch!" I hear myself yell. I kneel, rapidly wind some tape around her ankles. "Now, your wrists! Cross them!" Likewise, I tape them together. I most assuredly don't enjoy taping Chrissy up – I'd far rather be quietly cuddled next to her in bed or kissing her goodbye at the door – but I sure like the idea that she's no longer able to scratch and kick. Only one thing else: her mouth! Her venomous – peace-of-mind slaying, delusion spouting, threat spewing – mouth! I confess to deriving something approaching satisfaction when I tape it shut! But, now what? What now?

I'm standing there recalling that Chrissy wished to be screamed at, insulted and threatened, while taped up; I'm glancing at her eyes and they're definitely emphatic about something – she's knitting her brow and jerkingly nodding what's probably a "Do it!" command. And, sure, I'm still fearful of the consequences of failing to heed this lunatic’s wishes – and sure, I still feel plenty cornered – but, for now, the lunatic's helpless, so I say "Aw, the hell with this!" and walk out of the kitchen, shutting the door behind me.

I recline on the living room couch, grab the remote, start the CD player, and turn it up loud enough to mask any squirming on the floor noises that might be emanating from the kitchen. I unseeingly stare at the ceiling, feeling none too secure concerning the remainder of the night. Chrissy might be bound and gagged in the kitchen, but at some point I'll have to release her, and what then? Will she spring at me with tooth and claw, force me to tape her again? Will I be standing guard the whole night through, enduring her demon fits until dawn and beyond? How much more conflict will she compel me to participate in? When will she tire of holding me hostage in my own home?

A couple hours pass – maybe as many as three. At any rate, the rising sun's just beginning to set the edges of the window shades aglow when I hear myself say to myself: "You've got to face the hellcat sometime! Might as well get it done!" So I'm soon at the kitchen door, pulling it open and stepping inside. Chrissy, wide awake, seems to be content, even happy; but I don't trust her. When I kneel beside her and remove the tape from her lips, I'm already flinching in expectation of a flurry of reproaches; but she only murmurs "Thank you, honey." in a pleased sounding, dreamy manner. Naturally, I'm no closer to trusting her - she could easily be faking niceness so as to dupe me into setting her free; but, again, I still need to let her go sometime. So with one eye on the tape dispenser at my feet – in the event she'll compel me to restrain her again – I complete her liberation by removing the tape from her ankles and wrists.

But my apprehension's unnecessary. I mean, would you believe it? Chrissy says: "I adore your insubordination! It was cute the way you cursed me and just walked out and left me here on the floor! It was even more of a punishment to be left here alone! It was ballsy of you, and I thank you! And you’re such a handsome head, yes you are!" With that, she frames my face with her hands, gently strokes my cheeks with her fingers, and plants a long soft kiss on my lips.

"Love me gently," she continues. "Here, come to bed." Chrissy takes me by the hand, regards me with eyes brimming with affection, and pulls me towards the bed. Once we’re in bed, you'd never know she's the same girl who was hissing curses and demanding rough treatment a few hours earlier: such gentleness is in her touch as she wraps her arms around my shoulders, nestles her head against my chest, and sighs. But that's how it always is with these metamorphosis girls – they seem to have next to no memory with regard to their behavior; their past actions, even if they be two hours old, don't exist for them: when they want something, they want it now.

"Handsome head," she repeats, regarding me with the crystalline blue of her half-lidded eyes, so awash with kindness. With her head pressed into the pillow she's a perfect picture of little girl naivete and vulnerability. And I don't doubt that this aspect of Chrissy is authentic – I know it is. But I also know that the desperate, taunting, violent side of her is equally as authentic. And I don't care how sweet and loving she is now: I won’t be at ease again until she decides to go home and walks out the door.

Oh, and that's another thing that's always fun: waiting for these wildcats to decide it's time to go home! Make no mistake: cutiepie Chrissy isnt leaving a second before she wishes to do so; I'm stuck with her until then and had better not reveal I'd like for her to leave sooner; the greatest crime I could possibly commit would be to indicate I've had enough of her company, and wish to be alone; there's absolutely no forgiveness for such things from a hellcat's point of view and no retaliation's too tame; I've learned this lesson the hard way, and have no wish to be schooled in it again! "Hell hath no fury," indeed! How many hours total have I spent waiting in my own apartment (Where I ought to be laying down the law! Ha ha, what a joke!) for Miss Trauma-Dramas to clear out? Weeks? Months?

As for what's going on in Chrissy's cute capricious demon-hatching head: I'll bet she's convinced that she'll be coming over again to throw more tantrums, insult and bait and anger me until she's once more bound and gagged and abandoned on the kitchen floor. In fact, I know she's convinced of it – the sweetness in her eyes tells me so. Yes, she firmly believes I'm game; that I enjoy being attacked, forced to rein her in! She thinks this is the first night of a beautiful, passionate, tumultuous, storm tossed relationship! But I'm telling you this: the second changeable Chrissy's out the door, I'll be informing the doormen not to let her in again. (And I well know I'm a constant source of amusement to the building staff - that I'm "the guy who's always getting in over his head"; "the guy who relies on us to clean up his messes"; "the guy who thinks he likes the wild ones, then gets scared" - but that's OK: I make their jobs less boring, and they appreciate that.) Yes, I'll be informing the doormen that Chrissy never gets in again; that, if she comes over (and she undoubtedly will), I don't want to be buzzed or even told of it; that I want to live in blissful ignorance of the extent to which she seeks to cajole them into allowing her to press my buzzer herself!

OK, Angie, Ella, Steven: this is the end of my tell-last-night-like-a-short-story attempt! As you know, variations of the above happen to me again and again! I'm cursed with reverse radar! I'm always bringing home the opposite of what I want! I'm locked into some sort of vicious self-punishment cycle! I'm a magnet for maniacs in cutie's clothing without wanting to be!

And how come there are legions of girls thirsting to play abuse-me games, anyway? What is it about being screamed at, flung on the floor, tied up, slapped and spanked that gets their eyes to brim with affection? How come gentlemanly behavior – treating them right – only elicits mockery, scorn, contempt? How come they want to be confined in dark closets (Oh yeah, I've had them request that!), or bound and gagged in the bathtub and covered in yogurt, or lashed to the top of the dining table with an apple crammed in mouth (Yes, that too: I'm not making a thing up!)? These girls are well-educated, have money, dress in good taste; they're even level-headed, socially adept, and lead balanced lives; and, of course, they've got cuteness and poise and cleverness to burn!; and all of them are into taunting and insulting me until I do their bidding and subject them to humiliation theater; and they'll stop at nothing to get their way: they'll try to bite me, bend my fingers backwards, dig in their nails, throw stuff, kick! – they'll threaten to run screaming down the hall and draw the neighbors out, as delightful Chrissy did; they'll say they’re going to phone their fathers, their big brothers, anything!

So what's the deal? I'll tell you what the deal is: these girls are going on the Internet and reading BDSM erotic shit and firing up their imaginations! No sooner do they read that stuff, than they want to do it! Ha, not to mention the old standards, de Sade, Liaisons Dangereuses, and the Story of O! Yes, they allow stupid fiction to persuade them they're bored with comfort and in need of being slapped around! They end by being convinced that they're sick and tired of being admired for their beauty and complimented and treated right! They end by thirsting for degradation, and despising guys who want to be nice to them!

OK, I'll admit I'm being silly! I seriously doubt if reading is to blame! Human nature, pure and simple, is to blame: too much of a good thing turns it sour, and the opposite is craved! We're a leisure society – our standard of living's far too high – we have far too much time on our hands; and so some good old fashioned turmoil, uncertainty, and fear is hungered after! Hmmmm… Is that true?

OK, enough: I could babble all night in this email, but what for? Why worry about ascertaining the cause when the only thing that concerns me is the cure? As for the cure… Have I come any closer to solving my riddle? Am I going to suddenly cease becoming entangled with strife-hungry girls simply because I wrote this? Is my next conquest going to be a sweet stable girl who'll only wish to be showered with kindness, and who won't get lunatical on me? Will I, from this point onwards, stop spending the night with darling angels who soon change into fallen angels that insist I fall with them into dark places where I don't want to be? Yeah, right! Convenient – tailor made – emotional and psychic solutions only occur in fiction and are inherently false. People don't change. Once locked into a propensity one, like it or not, really has little choice but to be swept along by it: that's how real human beings behave! I don't care how many nicely structured and slickly edited fictional works say otherwise!

So my patient friends (hopefully I haven't succeed in exhausting your indulgence by now), although I really wish I could assert that I've helped myself by jotting the above, I know I haven't done so at all and refuse to lie! After all, what would you have me do? Would you want me to act like some laughably unrealistic character in a novel and assert the above has assisted me in solving my problem, and that I'm well on my way to finding a mate to live happily ever after with in domestic bliss? Ha ha! I have a little more self-respect than that!

So Angie, Ella, Steven: thanks very much for reading my latest exercise in futility! I'll spare you any furthers, and see you at the Boathouse tomorrow afternoon!

Justin

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