Satisfaction

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Satisfaction Page 7

by Alina Reyes

Bobby felt Babe’s fingers brush against his dick, probing it, before finally gripping it tightly as if she were hanging on to the rail of a bridge above a swollen river that was sweeping everything away, even threatening to submerge the bridge itself in its powerful, muddy current. Babe sighed. The Pistol stiffened in her hand.

  If God had wanted to make things easier, He would definitely have made the Pistol detachable, so that you could just take it away with you and enjoy it at your leisure, like a snack. Instead, He had sadistically hung this tempting serpent between man’s legs to force women to get on their knees and abase themselves before him.

  If men had their penises in the middle of their faces—in place of their noses, for example—that would change everything. For a start, they would lie a lot less. And then they would have to prostrate themselves in order to screw women. Or allow women to sit on their faces. And if women also had their sex where their noses are? It would be hard for people to look at one another—you wouldn’t be able to think of anything else! You would be able to watch yourself making love in close-up, with your sex organs right in front of your eyes … You could lick yourself at the same time: men could suck themselves off, and women could make themselves come by applying a good, chunky lipstick in an up-and-down direction …

  “Hmm, hmm,” groaned Bobby as Babe’s hand moved up and down firmly, albeit dreamily, and then “Umph, umph” and the occasional “Ohh … !” Meanwhile, Babe said to herself: We ought to be able to move his penis around every now and then, stick it in the small of his back or in one of his hands, it would be less monotonous, more fun …

  “Oooh …,” moaned Bobby in a more plaintive tone, his Pistol as big and hard as a cannon now. Babe’s arm was beginning to hurt. She loosened her grip, and Bobby took advantage of this to turn over and clamber over Carmen toward his wife.

  “No,” she said. “Not me—her!”

  It was still raining, and the rain whispered constantly: “Mingle together, my children, flow away, love … go on, my children, go on, I’ll look after you …” Nothing else existed now but the rain, the night and the beached bodies, with a world to make afresh … The three bodies grappled together in the dark.

  Babe raised Carmen’s nightdress, opened her legs and slid Bobby’s penis into her silky, elastic vagina. At the heart of the darkened room, with its supple, pulpy forms, her body was alive, passive, available, exciting. Babe had pulled her nightgown over her head, and, naked and pressed against his back with her pubis jammed like a sucker between his buttocks, she embraced Bobby tightly, pushing with each of his thrusts between Carmen’s legs as if she were penetrating her herself.

  “Take it gently, darling,” she whispered. “Make it last … She adores that … Go on, push all the way in now … Oh, she likes that … You are so handsome, my darling … I like feeling you fuck her … I love that … I love you fucking this woman … My darling … If you knew what we got up to earlier, the two of us … I sat on her face … Is that a sin, Bobby?”

  Bobby wondered whether he should reply, but as he wasn’t too sure he could maintain his erection, he decided to concentrate on the task at hand.

  “Is it a sin to do that on her face? The Good Lord has granted me pleasure, so it can’t be bad, can it?”

  If only he could have foreseen this situation that Carmen had gotten him into! My father was right, basically, thought Bobby. And as he felt himself starting to go limp, he closed his eyes and desperately tried to summon up some erotic scene, at the same time doubling the rhythm of his thrusts.

  “I’ll show you …,” said Babe, excited by his passion. “It’s what I’m doing against you now … I’m rubbing my button … I’m rubbing it, it’s so sensitive … ! She has awoken me … the Good Lord has sent her to awaken me … It’s as if I’ve been asleep for ages and forgotten all about it … It is so sensitive … I never knew … I never knew … It’s good to remember … She’s a woman, like me, do you understand?”

  Just don’t think it: I’ll never understand women …

  “She knows what’s good for me … Women know … I also know what she needs … Her face, her mouth … I’d like to have it between my legs all the time … Have her do it to me all the time … Between women it’s not a sin, is it? Even the Good Lord likes women doing it between themselves …”

  The slut!

  “Because that’s what it’s like in heaven … I came, I couldn’t stop coming … How can you stop yourself when you know how good it is?”

  The slut, the slut … !

  “Oh, when I think about it, it makes me angry … You can’t stop yourself, eh, Bobby? That’s why you got Carmen … Now there are the three of us, I don’t want it to stop ever, ever … Why does that make me angry? I’m angry, I want to come … Fuck her, real deep, avenge me … I want to make you come to your very roots … I don’t know what’s happening to me …”

  Me neither …

  “I’m a real bitch in heat … I love it when you fuck her … When you fuck with her … and I fuck you … Fuck her for me, Bobby … I’m fucking you … I’m fucking you …”

  And as Bobby pumped away manfully, unquestioningly, Babe brought her mouth next to his ear and whispered, separating each word with the anguished precision of someone delivering her dying words:

  “I’m going to tell you … the truth … I am a bitch. You are a dog. We are bitches. We want to fornicate. Uh! Uh! Fornicate. I am also a dog. You’re the dog, Bobby, and you’re the bitch … Uh! Uh!”

  Don’t listen. You’ll never come if you listen to this.

  In the complete darkness the words had mass, they felt like objects hurtling into him, dark, heavy objects bombarding him through the thick curtain of rain. Under Babe’s heavy blows he pressed even more against Carmen, whose breasts flattened softly under his sweating torso. He felt the sperm rising; he stopped still and held it back. As she ground against his ass, he heard Babe’s deep breathing give way to high-pitched yelps. He surrendered all his remaining will and gave in to the pleasure as if in a dream, inside Carmen’s soft, tight vagina.

  ξ

  Her left arm was as hard, heavy and cold as stone. It was the first thing she felt, even before she opened her eyes. She didn’t move a muscle, for she knew the slightest movement would release her circulation and she would have that uncomfortable sensation of feeling the blood flowing back into her frozen veins.

  Vegetating in her half-asleep state, she immersed herself completely in thinking about her numb arm, this arm that could just as easily belong to Carmen. Babe had Carmen’s arm and Carmen had Babe’s arm, a flesh-and-blood arm with which, now that Babe’s whole body was paralyzed in a state of mineral well-being, Carmen had grabbed hold of Bobby’s penis in order to fill her hand with his morning erection.

  Babe also allowed her whole soul to immerse itself in Carmen’s body, in order to receive her hard, satisfying soul in return. For their bodies were now two connected vessels, two dens where, like thieves, their souls could hole up and stash their booty.

  Bobby heard the bell and immediately came up with a dream to keep reality at bay: he was waiting for a train, but instead of stopping in the station, the train hurtled through, its whistle blowing piercingly. He started to run, trying to leap onto it as it went past, even though he knew that this was not only pointless but extremely dangerous.

  The bell rang again. Bobby raised himself on his elbow and then gave a start, surprised to find Carmen lying there next to him, naked. On the other side, Babe sat on the bed and began gently to stroke an arm, while looking at her husband with an almost frightening expression of depravity. He had never seen her like this; she was unrecognizable. It radiated from her face—it was like she was possessed.

  “My God,” he said, “that must be Tommy. It’s midday already! I’m going!”

  But scarcely had he uttered these words when Babe took hold of his penis and started to massage it languorously. Bobby was unable to recall the last time she had done this with such conviction,
the last time they had spent the entire night completely naked, that they had slept so late on a Sunday morning. And yet it was as if it had been this way forever, as if his whole life had consisted of nothing else, as if the doorbell had rung only in a dreamworld, a distant world containing everything that was outside the house, outside his sex, things that had never really existed, except as distractions on the way to this moment of truth, this moment where there was nothing but sex, this moment stuffed full of sex, which was also an eternity, since night and day, past and future would be no more, there would be nothing but a present swollen with desires and replete with pleasures.

  “I’ll go,” said Babe. “Be a good boy and take care of Carmen … She’s hungry …”

  As she kissed her on the lips, she opened Carmen’s mouth in the shape of an O and drew her husband toward her. “She’s hungry …” He entered with a single thrust, straightening his back with a groan of satisfaction. Babe got dressed, never taking her eyes off Carmen’s distorted, ecstatic face.

  After they had rung a second time, Tommy and his girlfriend Carroll sat down on the steps of the veranda and lit a cigarette. The wood was still damp, but the sky was now cloudless, and the sun beat down. A strong smell of vegetation and rain-soaked earth bloomed like a monstrous flower over the whole yard. Shirley Gordon appeared on her doorstep, her fat flesh barely covered by a saucy black see-through number.

  “Hi, Tommy,” she simpered. “Aren’t your parents home?”

  “They must be asleep. Their cars are there.”

  “Asleep—them? Don’t you have a key?”

  “I lost it.”

  “My dears, I can’t let you sit out there, soaking your behinds … Come and have a coffee …”

  “No thanks,” Carroll cut in. “I’m sure they’ll come.”

  And as she stood up to ring the bell again, the door opened to reveal Babe, who had thrown on her plum-colored robe, standing there smiling and disheveled.

  Ever since he had left home two years ago, Tommy had been coming to lunch on Sundays, either on his own or with the current girlfriend. Usually Babe made Southern fried chicken or, if the weather was good, barbecued pork chops, and from nine o’clock in the morning would be cooking one of her famous desserts, one of the specialities of which she was immensely proud, such as banana cream pie or spiced chocolate zucchini cake—a cake she always made in two tins so that Tommy could take one home with him.

  Today, however, there were no cooking smells in the house. Babe showed the two young people into the living room and went off to put the coffee on, excusing herself in an offhanded way that rather surprised them. Bobby still hadn’t made an appearance. Babe turned on the TV and told them:

  “Make yourself at home. I’ll need five minutes to take a shower, then I’ll be with you.”

  Bobby came downstairs a quarter of an hour later; his hair was wet and he was dressed in sandals, jeans and a white T-shirt. He in turn apologized halfheartedly and went off to pour himself a large cup of coffee. He had rings under his eyes but seemed more relaxed than ever. Tommy felt like a ten-year-old when he was with his father. Instinctively, he felt a bitter jealousy toward him. He’d been looking forward to introducing them to Carroll, who was cute enough to dazzle a blind man. But not only had he and Babe forgotten they were coming, but he barely gave her a second glance, as if he had better things to think about. Sometimes men pretended to ignore Carroll, but that was on purpose, to be contrary, a kind of power game. But Bobby quite simply seemed distracted. Not even indifferent. He was being as attentive as his current state allowed him—it was just that, clearly, he simply wasn’t there.

  Babe found the three of them at the kitchen table, nursing cups of coffee. Bobby poured her one, and she started looking round for something with which to rustle up a meal.

  “I’ve got tomatoes,” she said, with her head inside the refrigerator. “Apples. Ham. Sausages …”

  “That’ll be fine,” said Bobby. “Bring the lot. I’m starving. How about you?”

  She dumped the packets in a pile on the table and sat down. Feeling uncomfortable, Tommy got up, set out some plates, glasses and cutlery, got the fruit juice out and set about trying to fry some eggs.

  Babe and Bobby wolfed down their food without speaking, still looking very pleased with themselves. Carroll picked at her food, with her chair some distance from the table, unsuccessfully trying to disguise her annoyance under an air of detachment.

  “By the way,” Tommy suddenly piped up, talking to his father, “do you know what your porn-star name is?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Leaning over his plate, Bobby bit into a tomato, and the juice rolled down his chin.

  “Nothing, really. I think Carroll and I had better be going.”

  “No, no, I want to know. My porn-star name?”

  “Yes. What was your hamster’s name, when you were small?”

  “Mickey.”

  “And your mother?”

  “Karen.”

  “Not her first name, her surname.”

  “Short.”

  “So there you are: Mickey Short. Your porn-star name. The name of your favorite pet plus your mother’s maiden name.”

  Carroll turned away with her hand over mouth, trying not to laugh. But no one seemed to notice.

  “His porn-star name?” Babe repeated.

  “Yeah, the name he’d use if he was a porn star.”

  “Then mine would be Dolly Balto!” she cried triumphantly.

  “So you had a favorite pet, then?” Bobby said, staring right into the back of her eyes, as if they were all alone in the room.

  “When I was small. It was the neighbors’ dog.”

  Her voice suddenly seemed to have gone husky. They were making love with their eyes; they stopped eating. Their good humor had given way to a sort of dull, almost palpable impatience. When Tommy and Carroll got up to go, they didn’t try to make them stay, and could barely even summon a “Thanks for coming” or “Come again soon.” As soon as Bobby and Babe had closed the door behind them, they went back up to their bedroom, ascending the stairs slowly, step-by-step, as if they were carrying a great weight.

  Ο

  Hi, Bobby! Nice day, ain’t it?”

  Shirley was leaning on the rail of her veranda, looking like an overweight, somewhat indecent widow in a flimsy black outfit which showed off large portions of her soft, white, doughy flesh.

  Bobby hardly noticed her. As he scuttled up the garden path, she called out in a cross tone:

  “Did you forget to get up this morning? I hope Babe isn’t ill.”

  “No, no,” he said without turning round.

  He got into the Chrysler and drove off without a backward glance at the house.

  After the overnight rain, everything glistened all through the morning like the flesh of private parts, still moist and throbbing from the inclement caress of invisible hands. The greenery, the houses, the streets, everything that was alive and everything that wasn’t breathed and shimmered slowly like an enormous organ savoring its rest after hours of unseen work, after an oozing, pumping flood of activity. And now more than ever one came to wonder what the function of this world-organ really was, what body it belonged to and why, in this morass of macrocosmic and microcosmic organisms all absorbed in their obscene doings, there should be these sentient, ignorant, tortured beings wandering round perpetually.

  All this water and all this light made Shirley Gordon even more languid, lascivious and antsy than usual. She had no urge to move, she was a creature of apathy who enjoyed basking in the shade, but sometimes her appetites reached such a pitch that she felt like she could shift heaven and earth to satisfy them. So she spent much of the morning drifting between the living room and the damp veranda, unwashed and undressed, feeling moist and bludgeoned by her instincts, stupefied by this almost painful need, beyond all conscious thought, to expose her charms in poignant expectation of who knows what. Then she decided to walk across
the soaking lawn to drop in on her neighbor.

  Babe had decided to prolong her sick leave. It had been a long night and she felt tired. But more than that, she couldn’t bring herself to leave Carmen. Tomorrow, she thought. “Tomorrow,” she had told Bobby. But that was just a smoke screen, for nothing else mattered to her but this present feeling, this feeling of love that drove her toward this blind object called Carmen, which nestled in the pit of her stomach like a tiny but painful pin, just as she, Babe, took refuge, cruel and microscopic, in the body of the one she adored.

  That Monday morning she and Bobby got up much later than usual. They had forgotten to program the TV; it was the phone ringing that woke them up. The answering machine had come on, but no one had left a message. No doubt it had been one of their employers.

  Bobby had to skip breakfast, though before he left Babe insisted that he help her carry Carmen down to the ground floor. Barely had he gone out the door when the phone rang again. She didn’t answer. This time there was a message. It was the college. As Kate was talking, Babe sat down next to Carmen on the couch in the living room and took her hand to initiate that transfusion of their spirits that allowed her to remain completely indifferent to the threats being leveled against Babe Wesson, the employee, a person who no longer existed in this house.

  “A doll, a doll, my baby doll …”

  The woman’s voice was warm and soft. She was crouching down in front of a stroller at the end of the alley. Her face was hidden, but Babe could sense it anyway, split in two by a wide grin, the dark eyes shining bright. Babe was six years old and she had never seen anything like this on her mother’s face, “A doll, a doll, I’ll buy you a doll,” the woman sang, to the little girl in the stroller, the little girl who had outgrown her stroller, a retarded child, Babe learned much later, for now all she saw was the strange face, the elongated eyes, the round face and the gaping mouth. How tenderly the woman spoke to her! “A doll, a doll, my baby doll.” It was like a flute, no one had ever talked to Babe like that, with such embracing love, the strange little girl was reaching out toward the woman, as if they were drinking from each other, feasting on each other. Babe pressed herself back into the corner because she was ashamed, she didn’t know why, she shouldn’t have been there, her mother had told her not to go so far from the house on her own, there was no one in this alley except the young woman and the little girl, both of them in a sort of radiant halo, and Babe, whom they hadn’t seen and who was now hiding in the shadows, in the corner, Babe the guilty one, Babe who knew, who understood at once, who knew the truth as if she were God Himself: the little girl was going to die—Babe had to make her die in order to live in her place and feel that joy that otherwise no one, no one would give her.

 

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