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 me....you 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.

Singles Party Antics

It all started so innocently enough.

It was 4:30pm on a Friday, a time where you are aware that the fantastic opportunities that a weekend presents are only too nigh. The past couple of weekends had yielded limited social contact and I was ready to roll the dice no matter how strong the odds were that the house was gonna win. I answer my phone to find Johnny on the other end who says that there is a 'singles party' in town tonight and, whilst I find the idea of agenda based organized interaction unromantic, the possibility that I might find myself in awkward situations is intriguing.

Three hours later I find myself at Johnny's where, after "gettin' down one time" and sinking a couple, this whole thing has suddenly seemed like a great idea. On the taxi ride there I quiz Johnny on this whole deal and am suddenly informed that this 'event' is being held "in a church or something". This perplexes me;

"What do you mean 'in a church or something'? Give me the ticket"

I snatch violently and see that, yes indeed, I am headed to a church. For a singles party. My mind swirls with pre-conceived ideas which gives this thing a whole lot of bad juju. But hey, in a house of God it would be diplomatically irresponsible not to, at the very least, have a representative of Satan. The rest of the ride there is filled giggling uncontrollably.

Once in town we look for a bar, anything to make what we are about to go through more palatable.

"John, are you sure you don't wanna find another church and get a quick one in before the party?"

I still got jokes.

After a couple more at a bar across the road we head out. The plan is set, as Johnny already has his ticket he can scout the place out. If there is anything less than 50 people there, I would rather give Johnny half the price of his ticket to go somewhere else. His reconnaissance mission proves fruitful and I am told they serve alcohol and food. The blood and body of Christ. Upon entering we see that we are clearly the youngest people in the room. I do have to give these people props, although they have an agenda, it is clearly on the table for all to see as we are eye-fucked on the entire walk across the room to the bar. Not just eye-fucked but our bodies are riddled and we spasm like we are on the wrong end of an Tommy gun incident. The wait to be served is long and, as a result, I get us two drinks each. If they are gonna show their hand then it is only fitting that it is reciprocated. These go down well and I am suddenly proclaiming myself "the best looking guy in this room".

I attempt to 'open' a group of girls by asking whether they remember if there was a firefighter in the Village People. Their answers are short, sharp and they are clearly looking down their nose at the beast that I am becoming. I reply that their opinions would matter "if they weren't yuck". The full moon is upon us and the beast spares none his wrath.

Outside I find Johnny smoking and talking to a group of mid-30 year old women. I introduce myself and prepare to say the word 'yuck' again. One of them, a short blonde women with an apple dumpling face and a steak and double cheese body starts talking to me. She is clearly into me - I don't blame her. Our discussion proves that "Terina" is extraordinarily ordinary. No hobbies, no passions, no real opinions and about as deep as a puddle. She says that she enjoys going to the gym but her body betrays her. People without any kind of 'edge' are tedious at best. If there isn't a chance that I will cut myself holding it then it won't hold my attention for very long, in fact it has already held my attention for too long. I have to give it up to Johnny at this point as he is keeping the rest of herd entertained which, I think speaks about something inherent about him, he is just so easy to be around.

I decide to go it alone inside where I find the old and the desperate dancing. This party clearly is in it's highest gear as the DJ has taken to playing the 'oldies', those novel pop music favourites guaranteed to get the crowd dancing. Lines of people are doing the 'Time Warp' however it is only 10pm and my time is nowhere near ready to be warped. I swear that if I hear anything by 'The Exponents' I will stab somebody with the nearest sharp object I find. I am suddenly approached by something far easier on the eye than the offerings up until this point. She asks me to guess her ethnicity, people who usually ask this kind of thing clearly belong to some group that are typically foreign to these lands. Under normal circumstances I would have said half-Maori but decide to "air it out a little".

"You look Spanish...but your not fully Spanish. Half-Portuguese"?

It's good. Craig is straight money in the pocket. The next half hour is filled with her making excuses to touch me whilst I wallow in my own awesomeness. I suddenly feel a presence and turn to see Terina who hands me a slip of paper right in front of Portugal. Looking at this simply would say that all she was doing was attempting to continue contact with someone she felt a connection with, but I see through this thinly-veiled action. She was attempting to stake a claim and scare off a rival predator. It was a gank - plain and simple. That'll do pig, that'll do.

Portugal quizzes me on my affiliation with Terina and I attempt to diffuse this by asserting that "when your out people give you their numbers....you know how it is?". Clearly she doesn't. Johnny is ready to leave and Portugal weakly gives me a phone number. This is b.s.. Johnny and I get our groove on at other bars but we are drunk and hungry for the slaughter. I text both Portugal and Terina to see if they were "still in town with some friends" and "tell them to meet us at another bar". The motivations for this are simple, to the winner go the spoils. We arrive at the rendezvous point to find Terina and her friends all sitting outside. No Portugal - this is b.s.. A couple of drinks later and my conscience has been beaten into submission so I am suddenly thinking that this is almost a good idea. They invite us back to their place and whilst Johnny is keen I am the semi that still needs to be guided in and out. We agree to meet them back at their car however our taxi takes us some place else. The Gods of chance are clearly smiling upon us. I get a phone call enquiring where we are and I tell her that we are on the way....which we were.... weakly, however we quickly bail when navigation becomes impossible. My phone is going again, which I ignore, and five minutes later I retrieve a voice message stating;

"It was good to meet you, obviously you got lost. Give me a call during the week."

She sounds remarkably composed and, without a hint of desperation in the message, I briefly consider it. For composure under pressure is an admirable trait and the lack thereof will severely lower your social value. Thus the economics of the situation will prove that we are all selfish utility maximisers in search of the greatest value.

After noshing out on kebabs Johnny and I are both in a taxi on the way to his place. My phone is ringing again which means that desperation has won out however this decrease in your social value and my sobering up means that this has reverted to a opportunity that is most unpalatable. I arrive home at 4am feeling most self righteous. Craig had the opportunity to do something disgusting, and rather than compromise my own well-being "for the fellas" I not only held steadfast but resisted the forces around me which would have given me an excuse. A second glance at my phone sees that I missed yet another phone call.

That'll do pig. That'll do.

Genesis

This was the my first foray into writing, and specifically, trying to incorporate any kind of social commentary. This 'quasi-factual' piece originated after I received a message on a social networking site from a friend of a (now ex) girlfriend. This person fancied them self as a sort of deviant/scenester/exhibitionist and their message contained questions like "what is your favorite part of my body?" and "what would you want to do to me?"

Seeming like a desperate cry for attention I yielded and wrote the following post;

We are both at the same bar, with different parties, but penetrating stares mean that we are both aware the other is looking. As the night moves on, the courage only afforded by power drinking beers leads me to approach you and we engage in small talk, both pretending to care yet both aware what a precursor this task really is. You ask me to dance and whilst usually I feel this is something only girls and homos partake in, I am aware that this is one of the hoops that women use to screen potential suitors and validate their actions (along with other such vacuous factors such as how much money I make or what kind of car I drive). We dance, well, you dance seductively whilst I resemble an epileptic in a full body cast and once you are fully satisfied that we have made a “connection” (which is totally ironic as dancing is the least engaging format, both interpersonally and with music) you drop the bomb on me: “How about we go back to your place?”. I react manically and mechanically, there is no need to give the boys notice as it would only lead to ridicule, and within minutes we are both in a taxi.

The taxi is a lot longer than the 10 minutes that it takes to get back to my place. We have exhausted all the small talk there is to make and change of environment means that those awkward silences are now compounded by the incessant beep of the taxi meter and the cultural gap between driver and passenger. We know what we are both here for yet strain for dialogue both neck deep in the illusion that this could possibly something more than what it really is.

We get back to my place and you are impressed by my digs, I respond by telling you that it is my parents house and we will have to be quiet which I can see totally rocks your boat. Inside I quickly use the bathroom then make us a couple of drinks and we fumble with conversation until we have re-covered what we already know. You see my array of conveniently placed instruments and ask me to play you something, I usually don’t "whore my art" like that but respond with a beautiful ballad which makes you weak at the knees and you query it, “Did you write that?”. My response is in the affirmative and I weave a magical story that my inspiration came from having my heart broken by the one person I ever thought could understand me, I am comfortable in the knowledge that you have never heard 'Interstate Love Song' by the Stone Temple Pilots. You sit down next to me and we start discussing matters of the heart, you seem cold and calculated but fortunately I have enough game to defuse it. I tell you that I think that you are hiding something as what you are telling me is not what I see in your eyes and you ask me what I see. I respond, “I see a crazy calm, like your tired of running. Your ready to face what you want to face, but you don’t want to face it alone….”. We kiss passionately and I thank Sin City and Josh Hartnett for giving me both the dialogue and the delivery.

You pull me into my room and our bodies grind like continental plates, you push me away, “We shouldn’t be doing this…I have a boyfriend!”. I also have a girlfriend but dealt with this moral implication before we jumped in the taxi. I don’t know why girls try to stop at this point, they ARE already a slut, and what (?) like post-action regret means there shouldn’t be any consequence (you have already kissed me and slept with me in your head)? I comfort you and give you some b.s. about “the heart sometimes being smarter than the head” which seems to validate your action. I care little about the schism in the virgin-whore dichotomy. We get back down to business furiously tearing at each others clothes, it has been a while for me and as a result I grope you like I am trying to crush a piece of fruit. You reach down my pants and grab hold of my throbbing f*ck stick, you notice the tip is moist and put this down to pre-cum but only I know it’s because I didn’t shake properly after using the bathroom. I am very aroused though and in an attempt to “make this party last a while” I go down on you where I am startled to find you ungroomed. I quip, “I hope that it has had it’s shots?!?”, you look confused and I save up my laughter for when I relay it to the boys later. After a couple of minutes of back-arching pleasure you ask me if I have a condom so I guess you must be ready. I roll out of bed to find the condoms amongst the mess in my room banging my knee on the bedside table…now this fucking hurts (right on the knee!) and I take a minute to rub it frantically, my eyes shrink wrapped in tears. Leftover food and sweaty clothes dot a landscape surrounded by air brushed pictures of models in seductive poses. These pictures fuel your insecurity, you know that you could NEVER match up in comparison and you start covering up. With the light on you get a full view of my physical splendor…. I am a lot paler and chubbier than my Abercrombie and Fitch polo shirt led you to believe but my shaved hog creates a 'bigger than average' illusion. The low artificial lighting compliments you and your body seems iridescent, just when I think I have a full view the selective darkness teases me. I find the condoms, "ribbed, for her pleasure"…that’s right….I’m thinking of you baby. Due to the pain in my knee my once proud boner is now limp and I coerce you to give me some head, which you do and all I can think about is how I am about to get snowballed the next time we kiss….it happens to every guy…we just don’t talk about it. In minutes (ok, minute) I am back to where I need to be and roll a condom on, mount you and thrust gently enough not to awake the hibernating bear that resides between your thighs. I flip you over and with my thumb try to give you 'the rhino' which is first verbally dismissed and then, on the second attempt, swatted forcefully away. It has been a minute or so and suddenly I am not as drunk as I once was…my mind begins to wander. Firstly, to what I have done tonight then to the models on my wall….then it all gets too much. I explode with absolute fury and go limp, a sweaty spent pile on the bed and you seem unsatisfied and bewildered.

The silence is back, I am sleepy and want you out of here. You prod me to let you stay but I lie and say that I have something important tomorrow and order you taxi you never requested. You think I am coming outside to wait with you but only go as far as the door, I mean we are both certain that we won’t see each other again…the first interaction has been uncomfortable enough.