Copyright 2015 Robert Scott Leyse
Author Website: http://www.robertscottleyse.com
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All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Except for use in review, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher and author.
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, and events, past or present, is entirely coincidental.
Cover Star: Heather Hanna Hathaway
Photos: RSL
Cover Designed and Built by RSL
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ShatterColors Press
New York, New York
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Also available on Kindle:
Attraction and Repulsion
Penelope Prim
Self-Murder
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For those who realize the air is never as clear and pristine, and the sun and moon and stars never as bright, as after the passing of a storm; and, likewise, that personal growth is not possible without a periodic clearing away of inner debris, even if by mind-bendingly stressful means.
Table of Contents
Part One: In Quest of a Stable Girl
Part Two: Rapture in the Storm
About the Author
Part One: In Quest of a Stable Girl
Part One
t Two
Part One: In Quest of a Stable Girl
From: Justin
To: Angie, Ella, Steven
Sent: Sunday, May 19, 2013 3:49 PM
Angie, Ella, Steve,
I ask for your indulgence again: more of my usual complaining’s going to follow—more bitching about my apparent inability to bring home one girl in Manhattan who’s content with being safe and predictable, happy to simply be happy. There has to be a few of them out there—I’m fairly certain they actually exist—but do I ever get involved with them? Such delight continues to elude me! The only girls I get involved with are strife-sowing crazies who can’t stand it unless there’s a disturbing dose of conflict in the picture! What do I really want? Do I even know? I think I want emotional quietude in relationships, but the minxes I get mixed up with make a mockery of such thinking—flatly contradict what I’d like to believe I’m looking for in a female! Maybe I secretly want the friction? I can’t help but bring the proverb to mind: being known by the company one keeps. If I’m drawn to lunatical wildcats, then perhaps it’s an indication all’s not balanced within myself and that, God forbid, I have far more in common with them than I care to admit. But if that’s the case, then why do I get authentically upset after misreading a girl again, lacerate my soul with speculations as to whether I happen to be sane? No, I refuse to believe I want to go on one emotional roller coaster torture ride after another! What’s the point of spending the night with girls who quickly spin out of control, bring on panic and chaos, make a mockery of the concept of Home Sweet Home?
Right, you’ve heard it all before. So why am I bothering to write of my girl-fiascoes again, resume cursing the hand fate continues to deal me? Perhaps in an effort to comprehend my predicament, ascertain what makes me tick, determine what my true proclivities are? Perhaps so as to relive my latest misadventure and, in so doing, better arm myself against future ones? Perhaps in order to simply fling my arms up in surrender and laugh, dissipate some tension? It is funny, in a twisted way: if some other sorry individual was yearning for peaceable girls and only getting entangled with maniacs I’m sure I’d be laughing. At any rate, it’s Thursday evening (I’m taking tomorrow off, so I can have two three-day weekends in a row) and, instead of seeing the girl described below again, I’m alone at home—enjoying heavenly privacy and tranquility, planning on having it remain thus for the entire weekend. At least in writing of our first, and last, entanglement (the glorious event occurred last Friday) I have a safe means of passing the time, as opposed to allowing her, or some other mayhem-infatuated nutcase, to drag me into her demon-populated world.
So here goes: even though writing of my dealings with these girls carries no more guarantee of a positive outcome than dealing with the girls themselves, I’m going to do my best to cast my unfortunate adventure in the form of a story, including—hopefully—a nice tidy wrap-up ending that extracts some sense from the insanity. Maybe I’ll manage to get some therapy out of it, maybe I won’t.
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I should’ve known the night was going to unfold differently than I wished. Why? Because Tallulah’s a dancer—a dancer at WH and elsewhere, where she does a go-go, hula hoop, and acrobatics routine in a pink and blue light show before capacity audiences, that certainly never fail to regale her with raucous appreciation. (Not only did I witness such firsthand, she told me a couple highly engaging, and readily believable, stories concerning her exploits.) No matter that Tallulah’s also studying law at Fordham, interning with a district court judge, and in the top tier of her class; no matter that she’s barely over one hundred pounds, five feet five inches in height, and has the sweetest face and most melodious voice imaginable; no matter that she blushes easily, giggles readily, and chatters on and on with blithe enthusiasm about anything at all: none of these sane and safe things carry any weight when faced with what’s hiding inside her and waiting to spring forth. And because it’s these sane and safe things that duped me into feeling comfortable with her and bringing her home, I’m unable to smile at the thought of them now: they’re nothing but nefarious bait on the hook. Law school might occupy the bulk of Tallulah’s time and attention, such that she regards her dancing as little more than a hobby but, with all due respect to the sharpness of her wit, that’s an inaccurate view of the matter: when she’s dancing she’s the star attraction, at school she’s merely another student. It’s Tallulah’s dancing that best defines her and, I reiterate, I should’ve known better than to assume otherwise. She’s a petite package of nonstop frenzy onstage and her physical stamina’s more than matched by the force of her will. She dances as if she’s endeavoring to exorcise demons and, obviously, she doesn’t fully succeed in doing so because there are plenty of demons left inside her regardless of how long and frenetically she dances. Her onstage frenzy lingers inside her after the show’s over and spills into other activities and sweeps others into its current. Tallulah ought to wear a sign that says Danger: Inflammable! so that peace-loving individuals flee at the sight of her, instead of falling for her innocent appearance (She even had a soft-as-feathers angora scarf, aquamarine with silver polka-dots, tied about her right bicep, for Christ’s sake!) and getting stuck with a hellcat—a girl who lifts in-over-one’s-head to a whole new level.
So late last Friday night (technically early Saturday morning) I arrive home with my prize—blithe, blue eyed, candy-voiced, petite Tallulah. She’s wearing a lemon yellow backless knee-high one-piece, pleated from the waist down. I’ve always been enamored of the swirl of pleats and Tallulah’s lithe slender perpetually animated figure’s an optimum showcase for the swirl: most becoming is the swishy bounce of the hemline about her silk-smooth legs. And her curly and fluffed blond hair, barely beyond her shoulders in length, also swishes and bounces, captures and bends the light, with every tilt of her head. She’s, indeed, the very picture of innocence: there’s no reason whatsoever to fear she’ll catch fire in an irrational manner and involve me in stress and strife. All’s more than delightful at the commencement of our night. There’s a great deal of delicious cu
ddling on the couch—lingering kisses and caresses, gazes of admiration, gushing compliments. Not the slightest hint of unrest and unruliness.
An hour or thereabouts later, after we’ve indulged in sundry explorations of each other’s physiques and are highly excited, Tallulah glances meaningfully towards the bedroom. Well, who am I to deny a cutie a reasonable request, especially when it accords with my own wishes? I grasp the twin globes of her behind, squeeze with gusto, and lift her to my chest, whereupon she clings to my shoulders and wraps her legs around my waist. We’re deep-dish kissing as I carry her to the bed, ease her onto the mattress; and then, once she’s… All right, those details are private. Suffice to say it’s the sort of sex one would expect from a dancer. An ardent girl, Tallulah, and very fit: strong for her size, well-toned musculature under her unblemished chiffon-soft skin.
Again, so far so good, right? A happy night of mattress-tussle, healthy and refreshing: I have no cause to complain or worry whatsoever. Sex followed by cheery post-play—tickle games, laughing banter, an exchange of amusing childhood anecdotes, silly talk carried on in French and southern accents, an interval of quiet snuggling. Tallulah’s sweet demeanor has remained sweet; her buoyant voice has remained buoyant; her kind eyes have remained kind. In other words, I’m blind and idiotic with contentment, a sitting duck.
Because here’s what happens next: I open my closet so Tallulah can choose a shirt to wear when we prepare a pre-dawn breakfast (Of course with the understanding it’s not for borrow, but a gift: many girls think of men’s shirts as souvenirs.) and her eyes dart to the skis standing upright in one of the corners. “So you’re a skier?” she inquires, raising her eyebrows.
“During the holidays,” I reply, unaware of what I’m getting into.
“Do you have a ski mask?” Such an innocent question.
“A few,” I say, gesturing towards an upper shelf. (If only I’d responded in the negative.)
“Will you put one on? I want to see how it looks.”
So, clueless fool that I am, I reach for one of the masks and, pulling it over my head, adjust it until I’m gazing and breathing through the openings, and what does Tallulah do? She, as if suddenly possessed by an alien creature and in thrall to its desires, seizes my shoulders, digs in her nails, and heatedly says with a hard glint in her eyes, “I want you to tie me up and punish me as I deserve to be punished, ski man! I want to be your hostage on the kitchen floor! I want rough treatment and discipline, no more of this (She gestures towards the bed with contempt.) regular lovemaking that’s way too tame!”
I’ve seen sweet girls do a one-eighty demeanor-wise—flip into strident mode, become desperate and demanding and violent—without warning far too often not to realize Tallulah’s absolutely in earnest (the burst of panic in my breast, as accurate a measure as any, clearly informs me she means every word), but that still doesn’t mean I’m not going to do my best to redirect her attention towards enjoying a peaceful night. So I laugh, saying, “Sure, Tallulah! Good joke, you almost had me going! For a second or two, I was definitely off-balance! Whew! (Here I pass a hand across my forehead.) And now that you’ve had your fun, cutie pie prankster (Here I playfully tap the top of her head.), why don’t we get breakfast started? I’m starved.” Bringing my hands to the base of the mask, I begin to peel it off.
“You leave the mask on—I mean it!” she scowlingly hisses, seizing my hands and scraping at their palms with her nails. “It stays on until you’ve done your duty and brought me to heel! Joking? You think I’m a joke, here for your amusement? Don’t you dare laugh at me! I’m not joking, buster, and I’m not about to back down! You keep that mask on and look mean and be threatening and tie me down in the kitchen or I’ll break your fingers! You’re going to do what I want, or else!” So saying, she none too gently twists one of my fingers.
“What’s wrong with you?” I exclaim, yanking my hands from Tallulah’s grasp—already afraid I’m dealing with an extraordinarily disturbed girl, compared to whom the majority of the others pale, and in for a ghastly night. “Get off of me! If you want to talk about it, fine, but…”
“What’s wrong with me?” she interrupts, incredulity leaping into her face. “I think the question’s this: why won’t you wake up and grow up and stop acting like this is a child’s game?”
“A game?” I respond. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to, what I’ve done, but I can assure you I don’t think anything’s a game, or that…”
“Nah! Nah!” she breaks in again, making angry shush-gestures, rapidly crisscrossing her arms in the air; then, clapping her hands to her hips and looking me up and down with supreme distaste as her voice acquires a downright savage tone, rises in volume by leaps and bounds, “You stare at me at the club when I dance like you want to rape me—you bring me here and shamelessly flatter me and dally with me like I’m a mindless toy—you tell me stupid stories from when you were a boy and laugh and joke! You don’t take me seriously and think I can be mocked! You treat me like I’m a silly teenager, ripe for deceiving, and refuse to act like I’m a mature woman! You think I can be pawned off with routine lovemaking, dumb stories, and breakfast! You know what I’m really about and what I need, but you’re ignoring it on purpose! Either you’re toying with me because you think that’s funny or you’re just plain lazy! But guess what? I’m not going to be an obedient idiot for you and put up with it! Think again if you think I’m going to be made fun of or fobbed off! (She stamps a foot and brings her face within a foot of mine; her expression’s a snarl; her eyes flare.) Yeah, that’s right! I’ve got your number—you can’t fool me! You know I’m not the sort who stands for ordinary stuff, but you treat me like a bimbo and dump on me anyway! Do you have to get up early so mommy can take you shopping, little boy? Is that why you’re going to feed me breakfast and show me the door and go beddie-bye all by yourself? Or is another woman coming over? Bastard! Do you really think I’m making way for her? Not in this lifetime or any other! I’ll sooner...”
“But who said I’m showing you the door?” I cut in, utterly astounded at what I’m hearing—wondering whether Tallulah’s attaching random thoughts to her anger (never mind that her anger, in and of itself, makes no sense either) or genuinely under the influence of delusional interpretations of reality. “Did you hear me say I want you to leave? I said no such thing! And what gave you the idea someone else is coming over? No one’s coming over! With all due respect, your suspicions have zero basis in fact! As for what you need and whether you like so-called ordinary stuff or not, all I have to say is…”
I’m not able to complete the sentence because Tallulah, her eyes glittering with malice, slaps me across the cheek. “Think you can lie your way out of this?” she shrieks. “I’m not going anywhere until you treat me like an adult woman and assume the responsibility of disciplining me! I’m not letting you off the hook! You’re stuck with me until you decide to grow up and be a man!”
“Jesus Christ! Are you completely nuts?” I yell, quickly taking a few steps back—placing a couple yards between us—and finding that my back’s literally up against my bedroom’s wall. As I gaze into the glinting blades of Tallulah’s eyes I understand all too clearly she’s under no circumstances going to allow her delusions to be dispelled, for the simple reason they serve her need to introduce turbulence into the picture. It’s a behavioral pattern I’m unfortunately extremely familiar with: Tallulah’s interchanging imagination with actuality—indulging in selective perception, only seeing what she wants to see—on account of thirsting for a fight; she’s manufacturing and rationalizing conflict by dreaming up qualities I don’t have and accusing me of things I haven’t done. There’s no longer the slightest room for doubt: I’m in store for one highly stressful night indeed.
“Am I nuts?” Tallulah screams, stomping up to me—effectively pinning me to the wall—and repeatedly poking my chest with her finger. “You have the nerve to ask if I’m nuts when you provoke me by turning a blind eye to who I am,
ignoring what I need? But, wait, that’s your way of dodging maturity and staying infantile and irresponsible, isn’t it? Just because I’m not going to let you be condescending and patronize me you’ve decided I’m nuts! How convenient for your nonexistent self-esteem! You categorize me as crazy because you’re a child who’s being asked to step up and be a man and you can’t handle it! And why did I come here if all you’re going to do is insult and deprive me to cover up how pathetic and scared you are? If you want to know what’s really nuts it’s that every guy at the club wants to be in your place—all of them want to be with the hot dancer—and I chose you! I don’t believe that out of all the men at the club I chose a baby! I don’t believe I got naked for an immature creep who thinks I’m someone to look down on and make fun of! You listen to me! You might think I’m supposed to be a priss and a ditz and play up to your insecurities and pamper you like your mommy, but I’m not going to! What you’re going to do is keep that mask on and be strong and authoritative and abuse me on the kitchen floor! You either behave like a man or there’s going to be serious trouble! Serious!” Before I can respond she’s furiously yanking at my wrists, stammering, “You…you come with me now…to the kitchen now! What I want from you…you’re going to treat me like an adult…going to respect me and do what I want to the full…in full measure, no more baby stuff…do it or else big trouble!”
Behold Angie, Ella, Steve: this is the same girl who entered my apartment less than three hours ago: all sweetness and light at the beginning—laughing liltings of voice, playful flickings of hair, happy flutterings of eyes—and now malice and lunacy and rage and zero hesitation when it comes to physical confrontation. It’s an experience—girl-metamorphosis experience—I keep having again and again. I truly believe I’m cursed! There’s such fury in Tallulah’s glare it’s leaping into and charging the air—churning in the pit of my stomach, throbbing in my temples, enveloping me in a chill. So much for Home Sweet Home! I might as well be in a complete, and very hostile, stranger’s apartment: the familiar features of my place, far from mitigating my uneasiness, are rushing at me, compressing my field of vision, creating the impression I’m in a collapsing corridor, enclosing me in what I can only describe as being a pervading tone of ominousness. I might be strategizing in the back of my mind, seeking to formulate a viable means of escape from involvement in Tallulah’s obsessions, but for the moment I allow her to yank me towards the kitchen, as unresisting as if made of straw.
Tallulah Tempest Page 1
