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Excerpt
from the novel, Self-Murder
by
Robert Scott Leyse
[Note:
This is one of the erotic vignettes that appear in Part Two of
Self-Murder. As the novel progresses the narrator becomes
too unhinged to be capable of communicating with others—much
less sleeping with them—and is
propelled into a world of insomina, waking hallucinations, and
insanity, where temptations to commit murder continually haunt
him.]
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Was
I speaking aloud when I heard my voice intone, “I want to
drink your death!”? In other words, did I whisper it into
the ear of she with whom I was spending the night or silently
recite it to myself? I wouldn’t bother to ask had I not
suddenly become aware that her hands were pressing against—slapping
at—my chest in a manner which seemed more strident than
playful; aware it was almost as if she was insisting I raise myself
off of her, bring the proceedings to a halt. But, then again,
perhaps I only imagined anxiety temporarily contracted the smooth
oval of her face; only imagined agitated shadows briefly scattered
the glow of her eyes. After all, she neither cried out nor persisted
in exhibiting indications of disquietude; and so, assuming such
indications had actually manifested themselves instead of being
a creation of my fancy, they hadn’t managed to take root
within her, accelerate to the point of influencing her actions.
All the same, regardless of the quick passing of her attack of
doubt (and an unconfirmed attack of doubt at that), I was instantly
recollecting the crowded club in which we’d met, informing
myself it’s not always possible to appraise with a critical
eye, make a well-considered decision, on the dance floor; that,
as soon as one’s carried away by dancing—swept into
the collective surge of vanquished frustration, giddy release—it’s
possible for a woman to strike one as being unabashed, daring,
and fearless when she’s nothing of the kind; possible for
one to select the wrong partner with whom to spend the night and
not discover one’s mistake until well after the music’s
ceased to echo in one’s ears. Oh, had I made such a mistake?
Had the throb of the music, flicker of the lights, abandon of
the crowd distorted my judgment, caused me to bring the wrong
woman to the hotel? Was there a chance she’d succumb to
distrust and worry, gather her belongings, flee before the night
was over? a chance I’d be sentenced to a night alone on
account of the fact I was already far too excited to be capable
of returning to the streets, searching for another woman, repeating
the getting-acquainted ritual—proceeding from glances to
words to caresses again? a chance I’d end up pacing about
the hotel room with no one to share my hunger with, expend it
upon?
Listen: suddenly I was second-guessing my caresses almost to the
point of being unable to begin them—close to being afraid
to touch her at all—on account of the fear of frightening
her, being abandoned, stranded in a state of unappeased yearning.
And I knew only too well that such uncomfortable self-consciousness
wasn’t likely to inspire her with confidence, put her at
ease; knew that the more I allowed apprehensive constraint to
affect me, the more likely it was she’d succumb to the same;
knew that my fear of frightening her might very well frighten
her into subjecting me to my worst-case scenario; but I still
couldn’t banish the picture of myself pacing about the room
alone in the dead of night from my head, prevent that picture
from undermining spontaneity—afflicting me with self-censorship,
awkward hesitation. And, worse: soon it was as if I was gazing
upon her from behind an opaque pane of glass; soon the features
of her face, though they were but inches from mine, were losing
their lines and definition, blurring into unfocused planes of
haze; soon it was all but impossible to read her responses, discern
where I stood in her eyes. As a result of this perceptual disunity,
additional anxiety gripped me—such that I couldn’t
help but suppose my face was tightening, becoming angular and
unfriendly; that my eyes were hardening, becoming cold and distant;
that warmth of feeling was departing from my touch, being supplanted
by insensitive abruptness, irritating clumsiness; that she’d
very soon, indeed—and justifiably! be whipped towards the
door by worry!
But I additionally remember that, even while I was recoiling at
the thought of being abandoned, there was a budding urge to spring
away from her, scamper from the bed and dress myself, although
I’m not certain why: was it because I was beginning to seriously
doubt I’d be able to salvage the situation, starting to
ponder whether it was better to outright accept that I’d
be spending the night alone—prepare myself for spending
the night alone—than further frustrate and annoy myself
with vain attempts at postponement of such? or...? Oh, is it possible
that, unbeknown to myself, I was more afraid of what might transpire
if she chose to remain than I was of being abandoned? more afraid
of permitting our activities to pursue their course than I was
of passing the night in lonely insatiety? Yes, is that why I at
one point found myself poised to race to my clothes, exit the
room: because I was afraid she might not get around to doing it
herself? On the other hand the fact is that, to however great
an extent I became convinced I was about to call it quits, I did
nothing of the kind... Ha, so why pose these questions? Why wonder
who was afraid of whom? or who was afraid of what? or which fears
eclipsed the others? or whether there was, in fact, a single fear
which had a firm grounding in actual perceptions and existed independently
of my imagination? Because, for all I knew, I’d been unwaveringly
going through the motions of an exemplary lover while playing
out a scene of incompatibility, suspicion, and anxiousness in
my head; for all I knew, my outward behavior hadn’t at any
time mirrored what was going on inside me. But that’s the
point: I didn’t know whether I’d been behaving well
or badly, hadn’t a clue as to what her true frame of mind
was.
I’ve no idea for how long the above-described uncomfortable
interval lasted: all I know is that I—in an eventual hands-flung-up-in-futility
frame of mind—gave up attempting to discern if there was
discomfort in the situation or not and simply surrendered, collapsed
onto her with my head turned to the side; that, although my eyes
were still open and I was aware of the brightness of the overhead
lamp, all thought was erased from my head; that, following what
must have been a couple minutes of blankly staring into the air,
I gradually became conscious of the steady rise and fall of her
chest, soft breeze of her exhalations upon my cheek. I raised
myself to my elbows, gazed upon her: the pane of glass which had
separated us was no longer there; the pale oval of her face was
crystal clear, with a look of smoldering delight and trustful
submission plainly stamped upon it! Ha! Ticklish tingles spread
over the surface of my skin, relief and joy pulsatingly surged
in my veins—I was instantly dizzy with eagerness to resume
our activities! Yes, I wanted to make amends for the interval
of unease I’d undergone, and possibly imposed upon her—caress
away every last pocket of tension in her muscles, uncoil every
trace of wound-tightness in her nerves!
Within seconds I was stroking her chest, throat, cheeks—licking
her lips, thrusting my tongue between them! without trepidation,
any remnant of self-accusatory caution; yes, unhesitantly squeezing,
slapping—lightly scratching, nipping! her undulating body
in response to the smile of encouragement upon her face—unflinchingly
greeting the radiant accord of her eyes with my eyes! and... I
couldn’t say when it was that I became aware I was actively
listening to the rhythm of her breathing (which was becoming more
audible by the moment, beginning to rise and fall in seductive
oscillations of cadence like gusts negotiating a narrow alley’s
sharp twists and turns); aware I was redoubling my caresses and
kisses, rubbing myself against her more insistently, with the
aim of increasing the force and depth of her breathing—duration
of her sighs, moans! and... Ha, the deeper the breaths she drew,
the deeper the breaths I drew; and, before I half-realized what
I was doing, I was covering her mouth with mine, sealing both
of our lips, while holding my breath—holding it up to the
moment when she expelled hers through her nose! Yes, before I
half-realized what was happening, we were drawing increasingly
deeper breaths together—holding them for longer intervals!
and...
Listen: during those intervals in which we held our breaths together,
I’d feel the taut urgency of her muscles ripple—twitch!
against my skin; feel her inner vitality quiver—throb! in
my veins; feel the electric warmth of her yearning crackle—seethe!
in my nerves; yes, feel it all with a vividness I’d seldom,
if ever, experienced before; feel sensation intensify—the
very pulse of life accelerate! in a manner deliriously magical,
and... All I can say is that I wanted those intervals to last
longer; that, each time we held our breaths together, I’d
feel her exhale from her nose—break the spell, end the intensification
of sensation! before I was ready to do so myself; that, as a consequence
of my sense of deprivation, I found myself pinning her wrists
to the mattress with my elbows, winding my legs about her legs,
grinding my belly into hers, immobilizing her. Then, as soon as
we drew another breath together, I seized her hair with one hand,
pinched her nostrils shut with the other, and sealed her mouth
with mine—held my breath while preventing her from breathing!
and... Oh, I’m telling you I couldn’t stop pressing
myself against her harder, winding my legs tighter, grasping her
hair more firmly; telling you that, even had her eyes been frozen
in an expression of stunned bewilderment, shocked disbelief—even
had she been struggling to twist from under me, kick me away,
reclaim her right to breathe at will—I would’ve been
incapable of perceiving it; telling you I was sensationally blind
to all but the shimmering friction of her skin, vibrant hum of
her nerves! God, and forceful sparkles were swirling and rushing
throughout me, accumulating to such a degree (far quicker and
with greater intensity than when she’d been free to exhale
and inhale on her own) that they were overspreading my skin with
hot chills—engulfing me in prickly numbness, fiery anesthesia!
I lost the ability to localize sensation, distinguish one portion
of my body from another, determine where my body ended and hers
began; was only aware of euphoria unlike any I’d previously
known, and of wanting to prolong and increase it!
Ha! All too soon I became aware portions of my body were shaking
off the numbness, announcing their discomfort; aware I was beginning
to want to tear my lips from hers, inhale a breath of air; beginning
to see flicker-flash pictures of myself falling into a faint!
Instants accumulated: the urge to seize a breath became stronger,
all but unbearable! But then: I swear something else suddenly
slipped inside my body, froze every muscle, and prevented me from
taking the breath I needed; swear the something else was savoring
the sensation of hovering on the edge of a swoon at the very moment
my fear of swooning was at its height; swear the sentiments of
the something else and myself intermingled and that I was seized
with what I can only describe as being upstaged fear, eclipsed
terror; yes, that I was, indeed, afraid but that the joy of the
something else—the other! was meeting my fear head-on, balancing
it, propelling me into a state of explosive equilibrium where
the very stream of time was as if doubling back on itself, uncertain
of how to proceed! But no sooner did it flash upon me—in
a millisecond burst of blinding white! that I was only now beginning
to experience what I was truly seeking—on the threshold
of grasping a precious secret, being propelled into a magical
realm of inner-clash resolution! than I was in the grip of sharp
vibrations, shaking without being able to stop; than both of our
bodies separated—erupted! as if stung by whips! Yes, her
mouth violently jerked in a streak of red towards the right—hissed,
gasped! at the same time that bursts of air rushed down my throat
so forcefully I could barely feel the arms which were striking
my shoulders, face—barely feel the slapping hands, clawing
nails!—just manage to discern the agitated face, heaving
chest, flailing legs on the bed below me; to hear a muffled stammer,
shout—hear, “Not again! Do you understand? Don’t
you ever...!”
When my breathing stabilized and the beat of my heart was no longer
thumping in my temples; when my senses cleared and I was again
able to place one thought in front of another... I found I was
on my hands and knees above her, restraining her arms and legs
as gently as I could (grasping the wrists of the former, pressing
my ankles against the calves of the latter) while softly saying,
“I’m sorry the game got out of hand, it won’t
happen again. Don’t worry—I’d rather die than
make you afraid...”; yes, found I was bringing my face close
to hers, smiling into her angry eyes, kissing the frown on her
brow; found I was atremble with sympathy and regret, worried in
earnest. And, before too long (following another two or three
minutes of caressing words, tender kisses, and kindly looks on
my part), her efforts to extricate herself—the indignant
twists of her torso, resentful jerks of her limbs—began
to seem half-hearted; yes, soon the angry angles of her features
began to smooth out, relax, capitulate; likewise, the hard glint
in her eyes began to fade. And then she ceased resisting altogether,
became limp, sighed; albeit, in a shrug-shouldered manner...
I remember releasing her wrists, raising my ankles from her legs,
sitting beside her, questioningly seeking her eyes with mine;
remember she was regarding me with a look which I can only describe
as being unwilling resignation, self-critical submission; yes,
as if she was attempting to convince herself I wasn’t to
be trusted—inform herself she was still too close to danger
for comfort, warn herself our activities must cease—at the
same time that her still hot and bothered body (for how could
it be otherwise?: neither of us had yet turned inside out in time
to the upwellings of procreation) was distracting her from those
attempts, undermining the workings of her reason, compelling her
to remain. No, she couldn’t prevent sweet encouragement
from smoldering amidst the uncertainty in her eyes; prevent a
flush of pleasure from intermingling with the trepidation upon
her face; prevent her posture from suggesting surrender more convincingly
than it suggested recoil. Nor could she prevent herself from suddenly
grasping the bedposts behind her, pressing the back of her head
into the pillow, widening her eyes—staring straight at me!
in a manner which caused every muscle in my body to twitch with
excitement as I gasped for breath!
God! Her pale face was framed—set in relief, made even more
radiant and vivid! by the glistening black of her disarrayed hair;
her delicate chin and full crimson lips were invitingly—hungrily!
lifted upwards; her throat—smooth, supple, slender, unblemished
throat! was right there, in front of me—stretched to its
full length, quiveringly taut! and... Oh, I recall being enthralled
and frightened in equal measure as I abruptly sat atop her belly,
grasped both sides of her torso with my thighs; recall a sensation
as of claws scratching my skin from the inside—a sensation
at once unpleasant and beguiling! as I watched my hands jerk towards
her face, pause near her chin for an instant, before descending
towards her throat... But then strident shrieks stabbed at my
ears—filled the air with jagged angles, shattered light!
as she pushed me off of her, scrambled from the bed, dashed to
the far side of the room! For a few moments she was a blur of
frantic gesticulations, rustling clothes; then she vanished through
the door...
_______________
Robert
Scott Leyse
was born in San Francisco, grew up in various locales about America,
lived in Paris for a spell, and now resides on Manhattan's Upper
East Side. Upon arrival in Manhattan he lived in several East
Village dumps and worked as a New York cab driver on the night
shift, with the aim of atoning for a sheltered upbringing and
having adventures the likes of which he'd never had before and
he wasn't disappointed; subsequently he acquired over a dozen
years of experience in the legal field, where he was pleasantly
surprised to find that additional adventures, of the office politics
and shenanigans variety, were to be had; presently he works in
the advertising field, where he's not looking for any special
adventures, having decided to keep work separate from fun and
games and have secrets that are easier to keep. He skis in Sun
Valley, Idaho, surfs with board and body in southern California
and Puerto Rico, once took a belly dance class in Green Bay, Wisconsin,
and the most incandescent yoga class he’s ever had was on
a stand-up paddle board in Condado Lagoon during a furious rainstorm.
He eats fish heads and insects and drinks blood, but can’t
be paid to eat potato chips or cake.
He
is a co-founder and the editor of this webzine (launched May Day,
2001); and the founder and editor of the ShatterColors
Literary Review (launched May Day, 2006). His three
novels are: Liaisons for Laughs: Angie & Ella’s Summer
of Delirium (July, 2009), Self-Murder (April, 2010), and Attraction
and Repulsion (June, 2011).
SELF-MURDER
A
dark love story of obsessive fixation,
perceptual disorientation, insomnia, and psychic
seizures—with madness waiting in the wings.
Excerpt
from Self-Murder
© 2010 by
Robert Scott Leyse
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