Dissuasion

                                                     DISSUASION

     Someone burst out laughing and the room began to fall in. No one seemed to notice a cloud of locusts flowing out of the ventilator. I had to get out. I was going to collapse in a screaming pile of writhing limbs. I rose deliberately keeping my eyes to the floor and clenching my teeth into a smile. The wall behind me fell as I entered the clattering swarm of insects. The undulating mass hovered around me as I inched towards the door.  I couldn't get my breath. I was wild with terror by the time I made it out the door.

     I whipped out my vile of cocaine and did three spoons. The insects began to clear. I was breathing easier. My mind went blank with relief. I looked across the street and noticed a large motorcycle parked in front a small church.  Two people on its steps were looking at me. They got up and walked toward me. One towered above the other who suffered a minor limp. I found myself unable to move. I couldn't reach my weapon, my mace, my knife. They lead me to the motorcycle and lifted me on. I looked into their faces. They were smiling as I was pressed in between the two of them. The roar of the bike overwhelmed me. I could see nothing, feel nothing, think nothing. I blacked out.

    The pulsating roar of the motorcycle returned. When a blur of color snapped into focus, I found myself in a crowded bar. I realized I had been hearing dozens of voices. I was standing at the bar frozen next to a heavy set man in his fifties chewing on a cigar and playing with his necktie. His face was large as were his features with the exception of his eyes which were small and far apart. A thick mustache drooped over his lips and a heavy shadow of stubble flushed with the redness of his skin covering his cheeks and neck. He began to speak.

      "I'm not so good looking but I've always had a high opinion of myself. Though I am a large man, I never had an affinity for athletics with the exception of a few solitary, noncompetitive recreations such as swimming or hiking. I was also rather late in my physical development. With that combination, I found myself often ridiculed as a child. I came to detest the competitive, athletic types and by the time I'd grown large enough to dissuade further ridicule by my appearance alone, I held an almost vindictive attitude toward anyone in a uniform. This has at times worked against me."
     "Another condition I have that has caused me some difficulty is my proclivity toward sexual addiction. Perhaps sexual mania would by more definitive, and this mania of late has taken unexpected forms that I have no control over. I have yet to explain one particular manifestation that in fact has taken control of me. I remember the first time it happened, I had no idea I was at fault. I was on a city bus when a woman standing next to me started acting very strangely. Her breasts were hard, her nipples turgid. An awareness began to wash in on the waves of pleasure that shuddered her body, an awareness of heightened sexuality, of sexual abandon. When the bus came to a sudden stop, I was forced against her. She opened her mouth and shrieks of ecstasy darted out. Hooting, squeaking and screeching, she transformed into a flagellating convulsion of limbs that dropped into the laps of an elderly couple. My eyes shot from the woman to the back door and before anyone was aware of it, I slipped out into the night."
   "I've done almost everything, almost anyone I find attractive, anyone, any group at any given time. I have loved and have been loved. I've practiced satyrism, monogamy, polygamy, fetishism, onanism, and on and on. Perhaps my total obsession with sexuality in all its forms, practical and imagined has resulted in this plague of uncontrollable circumstances, the first of which I've just described. Recently this horror has begun to appear during normal (normal by my standards) sexual encounters. I'll be having wonderful sex with one or more people when suddenly I'll find myself staring at my partner or partners writhing and wailing in sexual ecstasy completely independent of me. I suppose it wasn't completely independent of me since in some way or another I was responsible but I have yet to fall into this abandon myself. As a result, I, who have considered myself as sexually liberated as anyone have, for the first time in my life experienced sexual frustration. This frustration has begun to build in me and I have found myself at times almost overcome with rage. I have been forced to become practically asexual as I find it occurring more and more frequently. There are times when I'll see someone I find attractive and they'll have a fit the moment I lay eyes on them. I can't seem to have sex with anyone any more without the inevitable happening. I have even found myself pleasuring myself alone in my apartment only to hear the all too familiar screams in the apartment above me or below me or next to me. You may well wonder why I have not sought treatment for my problem but how can I be treated if the nosology of my disease does not exist? Intensive research has turned up nothing. As far as I have ascertained, I am completely unique. Psychiatrists, psychologists, neurologists or specialists of any sort would do me no good if I were to seek help which of course I wouldn't consider. They'd lock me up in a padded cell and experiment on me for as long as I lasted, not that they would find a thing for the worst curse of this curse is the symptoms of my condition are temporary on all those it afflicts and I am the only one aware of them as no one, once they recover has any recollection whatsoever of what has happened. Friends, acquaintances or strangers, upon reviving will find me white with shock or boiling with rage and will either suggest I see a doctor or leave as quickly as possible thinking they have been subjected to the presence of a lunatic. I have been separated from the joy of life."
     The man stopped talking, lighted his cigar and ordered a drink. He turned to me and smiled then frowned. He became forlorn. He asked me if I'd ever had an experience so strange that no one would believe me if I tried to describe it. I nodded and was astounded. I could move again if only slightly. I was no longer frozen like a mannequin leaning against the bar. He apologized for rambling on, blaming it on too many drinks then admitting that he had to get it off his chest. He asked me if I thought he was crazy. I shook my head and told him that I'd had some very strange experiences recently myself. I could speak! He smiled again. His puffy face bloomed into an intricate network of lines. He offered to buy me a drink. I reached for it, took a sip then surreptitiously checked to see if my weapon had been stolen. It hadn't, nor had my knives, gas, poison or drugs, not even my phone. I relaxed enough to take in my surroundings, putting the man and his soliloquy aside for the moment. I was back. I was alive. Claudette was waiting for me. Then I glanced at my hands. My wedding ring was gone. Still gone. I had removed it when she died. I died with her but I was still alive. Alive and dead.

     A man walked up behind us and began talking to the bartender. His attire upon first glance suggested an eclectic, expressive, even creative personality given somewhat to excess as full length capes were not in vogue. Examining him in detail would have been out of the question normally but I found myself threatened by his high pitched voice constantly on the verge of cracking, his frantic stream of manic verbosity, the sight of his bulbous, flabby fingers scratching at his scaly scalp and scabby beard, his too short double knit trousers exposing bony ankles swimming above baggy white socks and scuffed wingtips. His whining voice clawed at me. My new found freedom had found me alone without my wife. Claudette was gone. I was threatening to freeze up in disgust and loathing. 

     Suddenly I remembered the pepper spray. I relished the memory of the tiny brass canister shaped like a fountain pen nestled in my shirt pocket, a weapon with dead point accuracy up to three yards with no sound, no trace. I pulled out the canister. Pretending to write something down on a cocktail napkin, I aimed quickly and fired the gas into the idiot's face. His voice cracked and I felt the unconscious relief of a dozen people around me. His face flushed crimson and a flood of tears erupted from his eyes. He made two honking noises, grabbed his throat and fell to the floor. 

     As the bartender and a customer rolled him out the door, the sight of thugs on a motorcycle speeding at me flashed before my eyes. They dismounted and charged me. I felt the syringe in my arm again. I muffled a groan. I heard my confidant ask me if I made a habit of gassing mentally unstable people. I responded that I was only acting in self defense. The mental state of the moron was inconsequential. I heard Claudette chuckle. I rationalized that the pepper spray had no permanent effect but that the lunatic's voice could have left scars on me for years. This didn't seem to sink in. I told him that I was under extreme duress. The memory of the thugs looking down at me and laughing made me shudder. The thugs had paralyzed me. But how did I get into the bar? I had no memory of it. I put a hand on my forehead. My new friend relented, admitting that the man had annoyed him to the point of disturbing his train of thought and even went so far as to consider the incident interesting. I wanted to put us both at ease. I wanted the flashbacks to cease. I wanted my wife to live. Oh God, I wanted to hold her in my arms again. I didn't want him to return to the subject of his affliction any more than I wanted to think about what the thugs had done to me, that my wife was dead, that I would never kiss her again. I changed the subject. I asked him if he had heard of the leeches of Atlantic City. He had not.
     "That's my story!" I whirled around. A beautiful young woman was glaring at me. "Thousands of mother fucking leeches, each as long as your arm all writhing around in a stinking pit! They’d soon be eating each other if they weren't fed! And after they ate each other? The biggest, strongest monster of a leech was going to crawl out of that pit and eat a whole busload of school children!"
     I decided that it was time to leave. I thanked the man for the drink and apologized to the woman or interrupting her. I suggested that she continue her story. I excused myself and smiled at the man. "Your affliction is a burden but at least you bring pleasure into the world."

      A sudden chill swept over me then a physical euphoria stronger than any I'd ever experienced began to spread over my body. I glanced at the man who was frowning. Fear flitted in and out of my mind. I was completely immobilized. The most sensual orgasm I had ever felt threw me to the floor. I screamed in pleasure as orgasm after orgasm pushed me closer to unconsciousness.   

     When I slowly stirred awake, I was on my back.
     "Don't cry out loud. Only the good die young."
     My eyes snapped open. I was paralyzed by a blinding light. I winced. I groaned.
     "Put these on."
     I felt something on my face and raised my hand. Someone took hold of it and placed it on the bed I was laying on. "They're sunglasses, friend."
     I focused on a large and airy room filled with dilapidated wicker and bentwood furniture. A piano was in a corner. I closed my eyes. I heard Claudette giggle.
     "Relax. There’s nothing to be afraid of. You are in the sun room of an exclusive beach house. It's the type of place where one would want to linger. Turn your head and look at the ocean."
     I obeyed. The ocean was no more that twenty yards outside the window. I turned my attention to the person addressing me. It was my acquaintance from the bar, my confidant, an evil jade in league with the thugs who had assaulted me. He put his hand on my forehead and smiled warmly. Or maybe he was nothing more than an innocent acquaintance who had coaxed me back to consciousness with vintage pop culture lyrics, a victim of a terrible affliction that had afflicted me. I closed my eyes and covered my face with my hands, feeling the sun glasses but not daring to remove them.

     My confidant patted my arm. "Please don't try and put things in perspective. There's plenty of time for that, and don't worry, I will not attempt to explain how you got here until you feel inclined to ask. But let me start by asking you a few questions and let me preface them by saying that I have brought you here to have a conversation free of distractions. Simply put, I want to hear about you. Now, first of all, are you hungry? I can have anything brought to you. No? Very well. Are you in need any kind of drug or intoxicant? You had a very impressive collection on your person and I mean that as a compliment. They have been stored, along with your weapons and phone in a safe place "
     I resigned myself to the situation. I decided that I would indeed like to calm down yet remain clear headed enough not so much for the purpose of maintaining a conversation with my captor but rather to be alert enough to escape should the opportunity arise. I asked for a double scotch on the rocks.
     "Burstyn! Could you please bring our friend here a double single malt on the rocks, dear?" He smiled at me. "She'll be right out. Why don't we look at the ocean for awhile? We have some of the most beautiful sunsets in the world here and as you can see, the ocean comes very close to the house at high tide. Sometimes winter storms flood the room, break a window or two. Ah, here she is."
     An elegant redhead wearing a silk dress entered the room. She was carrying a double old fashion glass full of ice and scotch. She placed it on a table next to the bed, removed the sunglasses and pulled me to a sitting position. Her eyes were large and liquid. She smiled, parting her lips and exposing her teeth. They were slightly flawed. I looked to my confidant. "She looks familiar."
     I was offered a conspiratorial grin. "Oh, you've met Berstyn before but let's take things slowly. I'll introduce you properly later. Thank you, sweetheart."
    The woman glided out of the room. I picked up the scotch and took a sip, then a swallow, then another. "You're a rarity. I've never been successfully kidnapped before." I lied. "Congratulations." I took another swallow. "On second thought, I was kidnapped and brought to the bar where I had the pleasure of making your acquaintance. Two freaks took advantage of my mental instability and drugged me. Probably cohorts of yours."
     "Perhaps. Let's discuss all of this somewhere more comfortable." He led me through a door into an office. He poured himself a drink from a bottle on a desk, touched his glass to mine and walked over to an open filing cabinet beneath an old regulator slowly ticking away. "Your comment that my affliction brings pleasure into the world has given me a new perspective. The world has opened up to me again. I would like to thank you. I would like to offer you the same." He turned from the filing cabinet with a folded piece of newspaper in his hand, motioned me to sit in front of the desk and lowered himself under a glowing oil of a reclining nude sprawled across a divan. "You have been assaulted, drugged, kidnapped, overwhelmed and kidnapped again but I feel that is nothing compared to what you have been going through. You are wounded, terribly wounded."

     "My wife is dead. She was everything to me. I feel I have died with her. I know I soon must."

     "Perhaps we can arrange a reunion."

     I was stunned. A rage boiled inside of me but before it could erupt, he handed me the news clipping. "When I met you, I felt you could be one of us. When I read this I knew you were."

     I unfolded the clipping. It was an obituary. My obituary. 

     "Are you ready?", he asked.

     "Ready for what?", I gasped.

     "To join your wife.", he smiled.

     Terror chilled me to the bone. Syringes and motorcycles swirled around me. Crazed women and mad men in capes brandished huge leaches with children in their mouths. Collette's cold hands were in mine as I bent over her coffin drowning in the agony of life. 

     I grabbed my forehead and slammed my fist on the desk. "NO! I AM NOT READY!"

     I felt a hand on my cheek. "Insanity is but a bridge that must be crossed. Welcome back."

     Thousands of volts of electric ecstasy knocked me to the ground. All went red, blood red. I awoke on the side of the road as a motorcycle sped into the distance. The sun was rising on the horizon.

     I smiled.

copyright 2013
Richard Talbot Hill