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.Under the houses, black words say: Coming Soon Menningtown Country Townhouses.Under the billboard, the ground's snowed with peeling paint chips.Up close, the billboard is curling, the brick townhouses cracked and faded pink.Denny tips the boulder out of the stroller, and it lands in the tall grass beside the sidewalk.He shakes out the pink blanket and hands me two corners.Between us, we fold it, and Denny says, “If you can have the opposite of a role model, he'd be my Uncle Don.”Then Denny flops the folded blanket into the stroller and starts to push the stroller toward home.And I call after him, “Dude.You don't want this rock?”And Denny says, “Those mothers against drunk driving, for sure, they threw a party when they found out old Don Menning was dead.”Wind lifts and crushes the tall grass.Nobody but plants lives here now, and across the dark center of the block you can see the porch lights of houses on the other side.The black zigzags of old apple trees are outlines in between.“So,” I go, "is this a park??And Denny says, “Not really.” Still walking away, he says, “It's mine.”I pitch the doll head at him and say, “For real?”“Since my folks called a couple days ago,” he says, and he catches the head and drops it into the stroller.Under the streetlights, past everybody's dark house, we walk.My buckle shoes flashing, my hands stuffed in my pockets, I say, “Dude?” I say, “You don't really think I'm anything like Jesus Christ, do you?”I say, “Please say no.”We walk.And pushing his empty stroller, Denny says, “Face it, dude.You nearly did sex on God's table.You're already shame spiraling bigtime.”We walk, and the beer's wearing off, and it's a surprise how the night air's so cold.And I say, “Please, dude.Tell me the truth.”I'm not good and kind and caring or any of that happy horseshit.I'm nothing but a thoughtless, braindead, loser dude.That I can live with.This is who I am.Just a pusspounding, seamreaming, dogdriving, fucking helpless sex addict asshole, and I can't ever, ever let myself forget that.I say, “Tell me again I'm an insensitive asshole.”Chapter 27How tonight's supposed to workis I hide in the bedroom closet while the girl's taking a shower.Then when she comes out all shiny with sweat, the air steamy and fogged with hair spray and perfume, she comes out naked except for a lacy bathrobe.Then I jump out with some pantyhose stretched over my face and wearing sunglasses.I throw her on the bed.I put a knife to her throat.Then I rape her.Simple as that.The shame spiral continues.Just keep asking yourself:“What would Jesus NOT do?”Only I can't rape her on the bed, she says, the spread is pale pink silk and will spot.And not on the floor because the carpet hurts her skin.We agreed on the floor, but on a towel.Not a good guest towel, she said.She told me she'd leave a ratty towel on the dresser, and I'd need to spread it on the floor ahead of time so as not to break the mood.She'd leave the bedroom window unlocked before she got in the shower.So I'm hiding in the closet, naked with all her dry cleaning sticking to me, the pantyhose over my head, wearing sunglasses and holding the dullest knife I could find, waiting.The towel's spread on the floor.The pantyhose are so hot my face is running with sweat.The hair plastered to my head starts to itch.Not by the window, she'd told me.And not by the fireplace.She said to rape her near the armoire, but not too near.She said to try and spread the towel in a hightraffic area where the carpet wouldn't show as much wear.This is a girl named Gwen I met in the Recovery section of a bookstore.It's hard to say who picked up whom, but she was pretending to read a twelvestep book about sexual addiction, and I was wearing my lucky camo pants and cruising her over a copy of the same book, and I figured what's one more dangerous liaison.Birds do it.Bees do it.I need that rush of endorphins.To tranquilize me.I crave the peptide phenylethylamine.This is who I am.An addict.I mean, who's counting?In the bookstore coffee shop, Gwen said to get some rope, but not nylon rope because it hurt too much.Hemp gives her an inflamed rash.Black electrical tape would work, too, but not over her mouth, and not duct tape.“Pulling off duct tape,” she said, “is about as erotic as getting my legs waxed.”We compared our schedules, and Thursday was out.Friday I had my regular sexaholics meeting.No chits for me this week.Saturday I spent at St.Anthony's.Most Sunday nights she helped run a bingo event at her church, so we settled on Monday.Monday at nine, not eight, because she worked until late in the evening, and not ten because I had to be at work early the next morning.So Monday comes.The electrical tape is ready.The towel's spread, and when I leap at her with the knife she says, “Are those my pantyhose you're wearing?”I twist one of her arms behind her back and put the chilled blade to her throat.“For crying out loud,” she says.“This is way out of bounds.I said you could rape me.Idid not say you could ruin my pantyhose.”With my knife hand, I grab the front edge of her lacy bathrobe and try to tug it off her shoulder.“Stop, stop, stop,” she says and slaps my hand away, “Here, let me do it.You're just going to ruin it.” She twists away from me.I ask if I can take off my sunglasses.“No,” she says and slips out of her robe.Then she goes to the open closet and hangs the robe on a padded hanger.But I can't hardly see.“Don't be so selfish,” she says.Naked now, she takes my hand and presses it around one of her wrists.Then she slips her arm behind her back, turning to press her bare back to me.My dog's nosing higher and higher, and her warm slick butt crack's gumming me, and she says, “I need you to be a faceless attacker.”I tell her its too embarrassing to buy a pair of pantyhose.A guy buying pantyhose is either a criminal or a pervert; either way the cashier will hardly take your money.“Jeez, quit whining,” she says.“Every rapist I've ever been with has brought his own pantyhose.”Plus I tell her, when you're looking at the pantyhose rack, they have all those colors and sizes.Nude, charcoal, beige, tan, black, cobalt, and none of them come in just “headsized.”She twists her face away and groans.“Can I tell you something? Can I tell you justone thing?”I say, what?And she says, “Your breath isreally bad [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]