Portrait of the Psychopath as a Young Woman - Edward Lee.wps

by phuc

Daddy would beat her mother senseless, so his friends could fuck her while she was unconscious or in pain.

  It was a game to Daddy, a kick. He served her mother like a bowl of pretzels at a card game.

  Quick thrills for his friends. Frequently, he served his daughter too...

  Don't cry, her mother says again.

  She can't help it.

  She's crying now in front of the mirror, her tears making her mascara run.

  Her mother's smiling.

  She's beautiful in spite of all the pain she's felt.

  All the horrible things men have done to her.

  Don't cry.

  She washes her face.

  She reapplies her makeup.

  She must be strong like her mother.

  An auburn wig tonight.

  Long like a mane of beautiful smoke.

  A see through black lace blouse.

  A black, embroidered linen jacket.

  Gray stone washed Guess jeans.

  What a beautiful daughter I have, her mother says. You're so beautiful.

  "I know," she says into the mirror.

  And smiles.

  (II)

  Jams, Johnny Duff thought. He slipped Slayer's "A Season In The Abyss" into the Nak in dash CD player and cranked up some watts. Yeah, he thought. Music always got him in the mood.

  He equated his car to himself. A Nissan 300ZX: fast, sleek, turbo-charged. Orange, like fire. He'd put on his phony plates tonight, so whatever bar cooze he fucked over wouldn't get a line on him.

  Women were paranoid these days. Roofies, GHB. He remembered some jizzbucket he'd picked up in Annapolis a few years ago, she'd actually written down his tag number before she'd gotten into the car. He wished it hadn't been before he'd gotten the Big H, so he could've given her a dose. Then that other time Crystal City? he thought he'd woken up in some cooze's bed at about four in the morning to see her going through his wallet with a penlight. She hadn't been robbing him, she was writing down his name and address off his driver's license! Johnny had a fake license now, which he always brought with him when he went out on the town. It had cost him a couple of hundred from some printing place he caught in an ad in Merc magazine, but it was worth it. Looked just like the real thing, had his picture, height, weight, eye and hair color, but a phony name and address. He couldn't very well pull any good fuck overs with his real ID in his wallet, could he?

  So tonight, Johnny Duff of Arlington, Virginia, was John Richards of Northeast Washington, D.C.

  Johnny was 29. He was sharp, smooth talking. He pulled in a good 40 to 50 grand per, selling high end Nissans; he could talk the fuckers into anything, and he got his own car on the dealership's tab. Salesman Of The Month seven months out of twelve in '96, he reminded himself. Forty to 50K was good money for a single guy, and Johnny couldn't imagine being anything but single. Marriage was for twits, he reasoned. They sap your cash, sap your social life, then divorce you and take half. Fuck that. Besides, he couldn't pull fuck overs if he was hitched.

  Being single, with a class set of wheels, a nice pad, and righteous bread in the pocket, was too much fun.

  He always hit bars far afield, maybe once every two or three months. He didn't want to be bumping into any old stuff he'd done a job on. They all got it coming, the shits, he reasoned.

  Johnny didn't consider a fuck over to be rape. Can I help it they get wet just looking at me? Bar girls were all the same taking care of number one. When they saw a guy had looks, a slick ride, and cash, they turned into sharks. I'll show them a shark, he thought. It wasn't like he was putting a gun to their heads in an alley and making them bend over. They came on to him, then Johnny finished what they started. He'd had a lot of good fuck overs in his time. Giving them a dose was the mainstay kick. He always insisted on using rubbers, to show them he was sensitive to the times; girls liked that. Johnny's herpes was almost always active; he used non lubricated condoms so the lubricant wouldn't kill the virus. What he'd do, when they weren't looking, was he'd pop a herpes sore onto his finger before putting the rubber on, then he'd rub the discharge on the outside of the rubber, or he'd finger her snatch before sinking in. Give the bitches a good dose, yeah boy! he thought. Something to remember their night with Johnny. By the time they realized they had the Big H, they'd probably been fucked by another dozen guys. Johnny particularly liked to pull this move on chicks who were out cheating on their boyfriends or husbands. Two birds with one sore.

  Fuck overs were part of what he was too, like the car, and his threads, and his lifestyle. It was dog eat dog: you either fucked them over or they fucked you over. No way Johnny Duff was going to wind up on the shit end of that stick.

  These nights were important to him they were a ritual. He liked to gear up. He drove around Georgetown awhile first, to eye snatch. Up and down M Street, the lookers were out. Johnny wished he could do all of them, give it to each and every one of them like they never had it before. Fuck ‘em 'til they bust, he dreamed, and turned off towards Washington Harbor. But Georgetown wasn't his style. It wasn't sleazy enough.

  Gear up, he thought. Gotta gear up. He thought about cruising down L, maybe picking up a hooker for some quick head. But the dark avenue, its corridor of black stone and glass, showed him little to choose from tonight. Just a few strays; it was too early. Bored at the succession of stop lights, he picked up his car phone and punched in 1 900 LIVESEX local girls, he'd heard. A voice like slow, running honey answered: "Talk to me, baby. Let's get it on."

  "Jesus Christ!" Johnny replied, "your pussy stinks so bad I can smell it over the phone! What kind of a loser are you anyway? You too stupid to get a real job?"

  "Fuck you!" the girl shot back.

  Johnny laughed. "I wouldn't fuck you with an elephant's cock. It'd be too small, big as your stinky pussy is. Get a life." He switched off and dialed another one.

  "Pleasure Line," another oozing female voice answered. "You ready to party?"

  "Let me start with a joke," Johnny said. "You like jokes?"

  "Sure," the woman said. "I'll play with myself while you tell it."

  "Fine," Johnny said. "Here goes. What has a little dick and hangs down?"

  "What, sugar?"

  "A bat," Johnny answered. "And what has a big dick and hangs up?"

  "What?"

  Johnny hung up, barking laughter.

  It was best to hit the pick up joints late; by then most of the cooze was drunk and showing their true colors. Johnny parked the Nissan in a BMI garage. "The Lot," as he called it, was always a great way to gear up first. A dress code kept out the riff raff, and the talent was state of the art.

  The doorman, spying Johnny's class clothes, let him in at once. Lancelot's was D.C.'s best strip joint, strictly high class, not one of these redneck shithouses with dancers who had more tattoos than teeth. Johnny got a stageside seat upstairs, ordered a Heineken from a waitress with a killer rack. The stage, an elevated half circle backed by mirrors, glowed before him. Lights flashed to Foo Fighters; Lancelot's was rocking. A dancer who looked just like Heather Locklear moved with the beat, absolutely flawless in her nakedness. Patrons gathered round the stage to tip her; the deal was you stuck a buck in her garter for a good, close look at her bod. And it was none of this g string shit at The Lot; the girls stripped down to the bare muff. Some of the regulars had made a little local fame. There was one dark blond chick who'd been on some TV shows including Howard Stern, and a redhead who'd supposedly been gang banged in an Italian restaurant by two congressmen and a certain senator from up northways. Then there was the black chick who'd been hounded by the illustrious mayor, before the asshole had been thrown in jail for smoking crack in front of a hidden FBI camera at the Vista Hotel. All of them had bodies that could clear out a fucking monastery.

  Johnny settled back, nursing his beer. The Lot was just his primer, an appetizer of vision.

  Applause exploded when the Foo song went off; after each cut, the dancer had to empty her garter it was so full of cash.
What a can, he thought as she bent over. Hoots fired like rifle shots.

  Her tits tossed below her grin, legs like statuesque pillars rising to the trimmed bush. Yeah, perfect, Johnny thought. But maybe that was the problem. These girls were too perfect; they didn't seem real to him. They were unreachable. That's why he liked to go on fuck overs; bar girls he could reach, all right. He could crank off a couple good nuts, and leave good sized dents in their souls.

  Next a strawberry blonde stepped onto the stage. Her big implanted breasts showed off nipples like the tips on cannon rounds. Johnny watched without much interest. No, not real enough, he conceded to his beer. He was itching, he was ready to get out of here and hit a bar. Let's see, he mused. The all time best Johnny Duff fuck over. Which one? He'd had some doozies. The music, Rage Against The Machine now, beat with his thoughts as the dancer twirled. What had been his greatest conquest? There was the blond broad he'd picked up in some Hampton Mall dance dive.

  Early forties, made no bones about being married. "My husband's at a meeting in Chicago," she'd said and winked. "He won't be home 'til tomorrow night." Johnny followed her back to her nice, quaint little suburban house. Next thing he knew she was buck naked on the bed, begging him to tie her up. Johnny was always one to oblige a woman's wishes. He'd tied her up good and tight.

  "You have condoms, don't you?" she asked. "I got ‘em, but I ain't using them," he was kind enough to inform her. "Doesn't look to me like there's a whole lot you can do about that right now." She fought against the stocking bonds as Johnny stripped. "See?" he said. He showed her his pride and joy, pointing to a nice, open herpes blemish. "Got a present for ya," he said. Once she knew the score, she started screaming, but Johnny put a lid on that and fast. He stuffed her frilly panties in her yap, tied another stocking through her teeth, and climbed aboard. What'd I fuck her? he strove to remember now. Three, four times? He'd jerked the last one off in her face, and then he'd left, neglecting, of course, to untie her. He wanted her hubby to have something interesting to come home to the next day. Your wife picks guys up in bars when you're out of town, he'd written on the wall. Then there was that silly shitfaced brunette who'd put the make on him during the Halloween party at The Network. Dressed up in some dumbass devil costume, so drunk she could barely walk. He'd driven her back to her apartment in Severna Park. She didn't even give him time to hang a piss before she was blowing him on the bed. But every few sucks she kind of paused and wobbled. Then she lurched up, groaned, "Oh, God, I'm gonna " and then bent over the bed and blew chunks all over the nightstand. Johnny couldn't help but laugh. "I'm really sorry," she slurred, "I guess I drank too much," after which she slumped over and passed out. Johnny saw no reason to neglect the indulgence of a perfectly good erection for the paltry fact that she was passed out. That would be derelict. So he hauled off her silly devil's costume and rolled her over on her belly. Then he spat a loogie in her crack and sodomized her. The girl remained out cold for the whole thing. Why waste water flushing the toilet? he reasoned after he gave up his nut. This was a timely concern; Johnny believed in conservation. So before he took his rod out of her, he pulled a good long hot beer piss into her rectum. Johnny on the spot, he thought, and wiped his cock off on the curtains. Before he left, he wrote on the wall: I butt fucked you and pissed up your ass. Happy Halloween. And Happy Herpes!

  There were many more. He supposed he cherished them all, and why shouldn't he? The raucous music brought him back; Johnny smiled now in the aura of memory. Memory served him well, his past feeding energy to his future. The blond stripper gyrated like a top of flesh; her silky hair rose like a skirt. Then she slid down on her side and lifted a leg 'til it was perpendicular. Within the trimmed, waxed public hair, the slit of her vagina seemed to smile at him...

  Time to stop looking and start doing, he concluded. He tipped the blonde a five, paid his tab, and booked.

  Outside, the city night seethed. The lines were too long at Hatter's and Jonah and the Whale.

  Rhythmic vibrations filled the air; at the corner, black kids were playing pickle can drums like an African war dance. Across the street, Whackie the clown juggled flaming sticks for a passerby audience, and from some distant crevice in the city, a lone trumpet brayed over the night.

  Hearsay's looked good; they rarely had a line because the joint was so big. Johnny strode into the crush of patrons. No line, sure, but it was crowded like mad. The bar stretched on, cavernous, dark, yet deafening in laughter and bass laden music.

  Like Hell, he thought. And tonight I am the Prince of Lies.

  He scouted Hearsay's three great rooms, and squeezed through the dancefloor, taking advantage of the opportunity to rub his upper arm against some top heavy yuppie brunette's 44Ds. Enough to make a guy go on a milk diet, he fantasized. Baby, I'd suck on those hooters 'til you didn't have enough tit left to fill a training bra. Then maybe I'd do you a big favor and suck on that big pussy of yours 'til your uterus popped into my mouth. He ordered a Mich at the back bar, eyeballing the T&A. Most of the girls had guys with them smug overdressed D.C. putzes or were with friends who chattered away like parrots. Here was ditzy blonde in a shiny silver dress—and with stained teeth running her hand up her boyfriend's ass crack, some typical city shithead with dick stupid eurofag black hair and a goatee, all dressed in black. Christ, honey, Johnny thought. Why don't you just pull his pants down and fist fuck him right here in the bar?

  Another blonde, with hair so platinum it looked white, and with a racehorse bod, was sticking her tongue so intently down some bald guy's throat it looked like she was trying to make him throw up. A table of couples argued rather heatedly over who was American history's greatest writer, William Faulkner or Kathy Acker. Acker seemed to be winning, but Johnny hadn't heard of either; he didn't know from writers.

  Writers were pussies.

  A Bonnie Raitt tune rasped from unseen speakers. The husky, sexual voice about made Johnny pull a stiffer, like maybe he could mosey up to Platinum Baby and jerk off a good sized nut right into that crispy, phony hair of hers, or maybe give Silver Dress some Special Delivery Johnny Duff Pearl Drops to whiten up those pot dark teeth. You think maybe you can take your thumb out of Euroboy's ass long enough for me to fuck the dog shit out of you? I gotta friend I'd like you to meet. His name is Mr. H. Johnny's rampant hormones and social vehemence were going apeshit in his head now. I need a fuck over, he affirmed. Otherwise I'm gonna bust my pants and rip a gusher of peckersnot across the bar right into some yuppie bimbo's Amstel Light. Johnny needed a loner, he needed a mark. I need to sink, he thought, each word resounding like a hammer to brick. But every beaver's got a cock tonight. This frustrated him. Silver Dress bent over for her purse; Johnny wished he could be invisible and maybe take a bite out of her fat ass, then give Euroboy a good kick in the lumps, if he had any. Baby Platinum was still tonsil eating with Bald Guy. Christ, why don't you just stick your head down his throat? Johnny wouldn't mind conking her on the bean with her Corona bottle and treating her to a free Dr. Duff Beer Piss Enema.

  He milled around another hour, wandering amid waves of muffled music, dim light, hot bodies.

  When his trek took him full circle he was back at the bar. "Another Mich?" the keep asked. Yeah, and how about a nice wet box I can shoot a creamer in? Johnny thought.

  "Yeah," he said, and in a dissociated blink of music and light and mindless chatter and inane laughter, a stark, cock stiffening voice behind him said, "A man with a mission."

  Johnny turned.

  A subtle smile. Gray jeans hissed as trophy winning legs crossed on the stool. "You look like you're on a mission. You look like you're looking for something."

  Yeah, you. Johnny went into a cool lean. "Maybe. Everybody's looking for something, somewhere, aren't they?"

  Lustrous auburn hair. Perfect, straight ivory white teeth behind the perfect smile. "It's best, though, when people looking for the same things find each other."

  Ho, Mama! It was time to spiel. No rings, he not
iced. And no telltale kind of boyfriend jewelry shit. Just her, all woman right there next to him like a gift of flesh dropped into his lap. Johnny got to talking, the usual bar jive. He didn't hear half of what came out of her mouth, but he didn't need too. You could tell, sometimes you just knew. She was looking to get laid. "I like the summer best," she was saying in that soft, soft voice of hers. A faint perfume made Johnny think he might come in his pants. "Like right now," she was saying. "Hot, you know? Real hot."

  "Yeah, me too. Brings out the best of things."

  Another smile. Her hair, backed by bar light, could've been a halo. She looked at him as she listened. She never seemed to blink. You lose your brain, Johnny? he alerted himself, the last time you took a shit? You forgot to introduce yourself!

  "By the way, I'm Johnny Richards," Johnny Duff said.

  She offered her hand, which reminded him of a sleek, perfect little bird. The smile fixed on him.

  "So what's your name?" he asked after a long pause.

  "What are names, anyway? You don't want to know my name, do you? Knowing my name has nothing to do with what you want. Or with what I want, either."