Thursday, July 23, 2009

Natasha and Anthony

This was another thing I put together about people I know. The real life 'Natasha' and 'Anthony' (names were changed to protect the innocent) commute with me to work and are fairly close, (not just) my own speculation inspired me to write this concerning their dynamic. Hopefully they feel a lot more awkward about it. I got to give it up to 'Natasha', for we are tight, I have a lot of respect for her and she tolerates me admirably....

"...every pair of tits comes with a gaping hole of need that even Kenny Powers can't fill." - Kenny 'Fucking' Powers, Eastbound and Down

Natasha’s nerves rise with every creeping kilometre. The radio, whilst supposedly providing light relief, has now become an eerie testament to the task at hand. For Anthony is a married man, with a family, and now the innocence of the initial chemistry has boiled over into a passion that cannot further be contained.

The escalation caught even Natasha herself by surprise. A chance encounter whilst commuting to work revealed a certain ideological synchronicity and, given that they were both pleasant individuals with open minds, conversation came easy. This dynamic extended to outside their regular commute and they soon found themselves spending time together during the weekends, still innocent, they traded thoughts and generally enjoyed each others company. Then things started to change. The more they spent time together the more it became apparent. Physical contact became more free and regular and the innocent playfulness crossed that grey area and became flirting. Whenever Natasha would turn up to Anthony's house his wife and family would normally joke about them both, however lately those jokes had a malicious tinge and they both knew that his families' derisiveness was more prophetic than mocking. Then it happened. After work drinks on a Friday escalated into shots and cocktails which, in retrospect, provided them both the nerve and the initial foreplay. A night turned into a second as she was suddenly in his mouth, in his arms, in her bed. Three months had now passed and the original chemistry and passion had become sinister, the motivations became clouded, the lovemaking became fucking. And, as she pulled up to the motel, that sense of anticipation became foreboding.

The motel is exquisite in its suburban mediocrity, brown and orange cubes with what is supposed to be an awning constructed in a horseshoe shape. It's post-lintel, but the absolute antithesis of the beauty of either the Ionic or Doric modes. Hidden within this community, it's functionality only serves to hide the relative horrors of inside.

Natasha can see that his car has already arrived. The silver seven-seater a constant reminder of what is at stake here. Not just hurt feelings, not just a broken heart, but the disintegration of the family unit she had long rejected. The walk between the car and the room allows her a brief moment to collect yourself. Steady her mind, straighten her clothes, accentuate her cleavage. One last deep breath before opening the door.

Inside is bland and provides everything it's one-and-a-half star rating promises. A double bed that appears clean to the eyes but not to the brain, a wooden bedside table with television remote velcroed, a small tv and the walls are adorned by what can only be described as 'motel art'. These crudely painted monstrosities of vases and woodland landscapes were probably labelled as 'impressionist' by the artist, a term they most likely used to hide their pedestrian ability. The general vibe of the room makes her believe that it is hiding something and her mind races with possibilities. A murder? No. Then she comes to the realisation that what it is really hiding is exactly what she came there for. As, although the act itself is somewhat ordinary, the context, the motivations, are dark and ugly.

She walks in to find Anthony sitting on the bed, his expression is a mixture of excitement and relief. She sits next to him and the silence is broken awkwardly with them both trying to speak at the same time. General pleasantries follow however he breaches the subject of his family and she reacts.

"Listen, when you are with me you are with need to leave them at the door!"

He counters;

"I know, it's just hard y'know. Every time I come home and they are pleased to see me. Like they look at me as a saviour. They are just....unaware...naive...and...and I'm scared that they will find out and suddenly they won't look at me like that anymore."

And she baits him,

"If you want to stop then you need to speak up and stop being a pussy. I'm sorry - I thought I was dealing with a real man!"

The conflict is rising, and with that Anthony grabs Natasha by the shoulders and hoists her to her feet. He thrusts her against the wall holding her by the neck and it's only when he sees that fear in she eyes that he kisses she. Violently so, and Natasha gets the slight taste of blood. She is thrown to the bed with force enough that she bounces. The look in his eyes is a cocktail of intensity and purpose and buttons fly as he tears his shirt. In the brief seconds before he approaches, Natasha allows her mind to wander and she deliberates on how he is going to explain that to his wife, for it is a consequence that speaks of incidence rather than any ordinary everyday type occurrence.

What started as passion in the initial instances had slowly become a type of aggression for Anthony who, by now, had totally disregarded all duties of care and the love and warmth that she had initially felt from him had been replaced with belligerence. There is a usual disconnect between the genders in ideas of intimacy however Anthony had always been considerate, too considerate if anything, which now makes her think that maybe this aggression is something he originally planned to hide only to have the beast rear its ugly head.

Anthony tears at her clothes, an action that she tries to match yet her efforts are overwhelmed. Natasha suddenly comes to the harsh realization that the relationships sinister turn has now reached a new level. An awareness she has come to too soon, as now she must just endure and hope to survive. They are both finally naked and Natasha chuckles ever so slightly on the inside about Anthony's ‘old man balls’. She is then unceremoniously mounted, like an old chair in the lounge that you keep as the comfort it provides far outweighs the aesthetic. He is rough, really rough and her mind would go elsewhere if it weren’t for the intensifying rhythmic thudding.

Suddenly the assault is over and he collapses on top of her, limp, sweaty but somehow still overbearing. Both their hearts are beating full speed, his from exertion, hers from fear. There is quiet now after the storm and Natasha knows that she can only be comforted by her safety for so long before she can escape somewhere and inspect the damage.

After he rolls off Natasha does not know what to expect. His rage subsided, Anthony returns to his calm business like demeanor and suggests another meeting. She wants to decline, she needs to decline, however she can only accept. Despite the bruises, the degradation, the physical and mental pain, Natasha knew why she kept going back. The reason for coming back was exactly the reason why she should leave, she came for the abuse and she stayed for the cock.

You see, men had always fallen at her feet. For she was very attractive, unassuming and with an air of arrogance that guys would fantasize about taking from her. Their efforts were fumbling though and if any of these suitors could show any poise and restraint then they would succeed. Thus, after a lifetime of the type of privilege that a woman's beauty entails, this kind of rejection only served to validate her attraction to Anthony as legit.

They both leave the room at the same time and become strangers with the same cold directness that it all started with. The sunlight, and the warmth it brings, seems harsh and foreign. Anyone from the outside would have thought that these two individuals were unrelated in every aspect. However, like the deep sea on a calm day, its outward serenity is offset by what exists in its murky depths.

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