Misogynette

In the dim light of the bedside lamp, I can see her eyes. They are empty and distant, like the eyes of a porcelain doll, but I keep watching. I’m waiting for the sign. The tightening of the pupil, the slight furrow in the brow as she realizes something’s not right. I start to exert myself, my deep breathing matching my rhythm, but I don’t look away. I want to see it happen.

The people out at this time of night are cockroaches. They hustle back and forth, spreading their filth as far and as deep as they can before the sun comes up. I’d love to flick a switch, make that sun leap up into the sky in the dead of night and watch these people scurry away in terror, flee back to their hovels before someone steps on them, but I can’t. So instead, I do this. She shifts her body under me, trying to figure out what’s happening, what’s gone wrong. She looks up, and catches me staring at her. She quickly looks away. She remembers shame.

I have trouble sleeping. I’ve seen a shrink about it, and he said it was due to unresolved anger issues, stemming from my childhood. The problem with shrinks is they can figure out why you’re messed up pretty well, but there isn’t a single fucking thing they can do about it. I tried plenty of things to fix it. Drink worked well enough, so did pills, but the price I paid the morning after was too high. I tried dating. A long procession of braying, shallow women cemented my disgust with the human race. The clawing desperation of women my age, the fierce desire to procreate that oozes from their pores and coats them like a layer of thick sweat. I found myself increasingly repulsed by the thought of any human contact beyond the most basic. So I turned to prostitution. I figured I’d pick up a cheap fuck, and if that didn’t help, well, I’d drive her out of town and smash her face in with a shovel. That’s when I discovered the answer.

I work faster now, strong, deep thrusts. She lets out a moan despite herself. I’m a terribly gifted lover. I’d always considered this natural ability to be a piece of bitter irony, but now I use it to it’s full. Her back arches slightly, and she grips the sheets. I remain locked on her eyes. I’ve watched them go from cool indifference to bewilderment to open loathing. She’s coming. Her whole body tenses like there was a thousand volts coursing though it. And with her release comes memories, drifting down through the long years. Memories of what seems like a different life. She remembers when she made love for pleasure, when she made love with passion. She remembers time when sex was good and whole and pure; a time when she could still feel strength and safety in a man’s arms. A time when she could still come. She sees all these things, and more. Then her thoughts become a mirror, and she sees what she has become. And she cries. I watch her as she sees these things, and I see her tears. And I come.

I buckle my pants and stand up. She remains curled up on the hotel bed, sobbing gently. She looks at me through red-rimmed eyes. I pull a few notes from my pocket and toss them on the bed. I’ll sleep well tonight.