FICTIONAL LETTER TO ANNA ARDIN, FROM AN ANONYMOUS FAN
My name is “Pru” … short for Prudence. I have read about your case against that “DickyLeaks” guy, and I felt compelled to write to you. While you do not know me, I feel as if I know you. I am sitting on my terrace here in Arizona, watching the bees rape the morning glories on the trellis, which are now in full blossom.
And I am furious.
I know that it is a symbiotic relationship, necessary for pollination … but it reminds me so much of a poem I once read, which has provoked me from the first time I read it – and which I can never be finished with:
THE RAPE OF THE DAUGHTER OF ALCATHOUS.
Purity of white fleshes outward
With the subtlety of wind chimes
Swaying lithely in the seabreeze …
Sublime fragrances of jasmine and
Virginity meld unwillingly
With sweat and fear
Engendered by threat of violation …
The scent of victimization
Only encourages animal passion and
Further increases the value of the prize …
Beauty – inviting – passion –
Creating – revulsion – increasing –
Attraction – begetting – fear –
Maximizing – passion …
Contorted faces and war-drum heartbeats
Distort humanity as minds are
Dismembered by occlusion …
Peace cannot prevail until
A victor is crowned and
Reintegration is impossible until
Silence shreds its hostility.
The reason I am sitting on the terrace and fuming is that I am sick and tired of not being able to express my need for gender equality and justice … at least not without being referred to as a sour bitch or a “feminazi”. I like masculine men … but I cannot bear misogynistic fools that use verbal and physical aggression – and the accompanying boasting humor – to “keep the bitches under control”.
Last night was a disaster. Cork, my twenty-seven year old live-in boyfriend told a stupid story at a dinner party that we had in our suburban apartment on the outskirts of Phoenix:
“I remember an incident in the apartment building I lived in in NYC, years ago. A woman on the floor under me had a Black lover that played around (she worked at the phone company, and he lived off her). Anyway, one afternoon I was entering the building when a White woman who was literally half-naked ran out of the building and exclaimed to me: ‘He tried to rape me. I’m gonna call the POLICE!’
I chuckled and seconds later the Black neighbor ran out onto the street butt-naked, screaming ‘I’m cumming baby, I’m cumming!’
Well, I quickly went inside and locked the outer door – knowing that he had neither clothes or a key on him. He looked back at me and I just smiled, and went upstairs.
Days later an elderly Ukrainian neighbor was in the hallway and she asked me if I had heard the ruckus. I said: ‘Yeah, and saw it too!’
She then replied: ‘Yes, me too. He rang my buzzer to get into the building. It seems he ran out without his keys.’
After a few seconds of silence, she whispered to me: ‘I have never seen one so big … and so black before!’ “
To be honest, I did not particularly like the guests anyway. They were all colleagues of Cork from his job at Ernst & Young. Cork was the “new guy” at the firm, and he attempted to impress everyone with his special stories from the Big Apple. After two hours of cocktails, wine, appetizers, main course, and dessert — all slavishly made by moi – the “boyz” felt brazen enough to turn the conversation from niceties to conquests.
It began innocently enough, but it soon became a match to determine who had the most brilliant feathers amongst the cocks. Of course, Cork – in his attempt to both assert himself and also to ascertain the strength and cockiness of his colleagues (and competitors) managed to twist the conversation into a sexual context. The three male colleagues listened attentively and laughed all too haughtily at Cork’s story – hoping to both size up this emigrated Englishman, and to show their own worldliness and manhood. The only other female at the dinner party was Cynthia, who was Peter’s wife. Cynthia and I exchanged a few glances, acknowledging that this turn of events was both expected and hopeless. But neither of us dared to interject a protest, or to attempt to change the subject.
I had my own reasons for playing it off. Cork had recently suggested that I was prudish, and tried to make associations with my birth name: Prudence. Ohhh how I have hated that name my entire life. My well-meaning parents wanted to give me a special name, something old-fashioned chic but also with associations to what they equated with a cultured lifestyle. I was ridiculed already from the second grade, when my fellow students mocked my name and made up embarrassing rhymes that haunted me throughout elementary school. And so it was that I went by Pru most of my life, and from high school onward my birth-given name was conveyed only on a need to know basis and in official circumstances.
A short conversation with Cynthia in the kitchen revealed that she had her own strategy all laid out. She was two months pregnant and planned on revealing the “news” to Peter when they got home that night. That surprising news would surely nullify any bachelor-life longings and “guy-talk” residue that might be left over from the dinner conversation. She sat and smiled throughout the evening before she leaned over to Peter at ten-thirty p.m. and whispered that she is tired and needs to get home. Just to be certain that he would leave promptly without more prodding and drama she added: “Honey, I was at the doctor recently and I have something I need to talk to you about.” That clinched it, and Peter soon asked Juan and Ahmed if they needed a lift back into the City. Neither had taken their car that night, and the bus communication back into the City was infrequent at that late hour – so, of course, they said “Yes”; and by eleven forty-six the three were thanking their hosts and stumbling out the door.
Well, Cork was in a good mood, if not well-intoxicated – both by the French cuisine that I had prepared, the liquor and wine, and the feeling that he had “made the grade” with his colleagues.
This is how it all started:
“It went well, don’t you think Babe?!!”
“Yes, Cork. Your new work friends seem very nice. And …”
Cork had cut me off in mid-sentence and was recounting bits and pieces of the evening conversation – all the while analyzing what was said, the body language, the “male drive” of his colleagues. I continued to clear the table and stacked the dishes and silverware and glasses in the sink and on the kitchen counter. As you can probably understand, I was all too tired to do the dishes at that late hour, and there was no point in asking Cork to help tonight. A good night’s sleep and forty-five minutes of work in the kitchen in the morning – and all would be back to normal in our small two-bedroom apartment. Or so I thought …
Typically, Cork suddenly decided that he was in an amorous mood, and that he wanted to get laid. “Hey Pru! C’mon over here. I have something to tell you.”
I tried to mask my slight irritation at being disturbed by someone who was not helping me to do a thankless task, and replied: “What is it Cork? I need to organize things here in the kitchen so it will not be so much work when I clean up in the morning. Tomorrow is Saturday and I have lots of chores to do.” I added: “And I hope that you remember that I have to go visit my Aunt Martha at the retirement home in the afternoon. Just come into the kitchen and tell me whatever it is – while I finish up.”
Cork walked into the small kitchen, now already half-undressed, and leaned into me from behind. He nibbled on my neck, started to grind his genitals up against my bum and clumsily caressed my breasts before starting to unbutton my blouse. “I want to tell you that you are the most beautiful and sexy woman in the world,” he whispered into my left ear. I made a half-turn of my head towards him, gave him a quick peck on the cheek and said: “How sweet, Cork. Now go away and let me finish up here.”
But Cork would have none of that. “Leave it until the morning. I will help you.”
“Ha!” I exclaimed, thinking: “How many times had I heard that before?” Cork would not stumble out of bed before ten o’clock, and if he was really hung over then not before almost noon. I replied: “Go into the bedroom, and I will be there shortly.”
Cork then let go of me, brushed his teeth, got butt-naked and jumped into the bed, feeling great about the evening so far. Of course, in his mind, there was now only one last thing he needed to cap off the perfect evening: sex.
However, I had other plans for myself. I slowly and meticulously took off my make-up, had a nice long, hot shower, and put on my favorite flannel pyjamas before turning off the light on the night table on my side of the bed. I leaned over to give Cork a goodnight peck on the forehead, thinking that he had already fallen asleep since his eyes were closed and I could hear his drunken semi-heavy breathing. (I was relieved not to have him chasing me around the bedroom tonight. You see, I enjoy sex and enjoy being pursued … but my boyfriend still has not learned to respect a “no” for a “NO!”)
Alas, Cork was not asleep – he only pretended to be. He suddenly grabbed me by the head and pulled me close up to his face and plunged his tongue deep down my throat.
“Hey! Wait a minute!” I exclaimed. “I need rest and sleep now. We can do this tomorrow.”
But Cork wanted sex now. He playfully wrestled me down onto my back, pressing me firmly with his large and gym-trained body. His huge arms pinned my upper arms and shoulders down so that my only possible movements were to flail with my forearms and hands, and to squirm and kick with my legs. Cork then used his muscular thighs and calves to pin down the bottom half of my body as I screamed out in vain. “Stop it, Cork! You are hurting me. I don’t want to do this. Cork!”
But Cork only tried to muffle my protests by covering my gaping mouth with his own, thus burying my protests with kisses designed to shut me up. Before long, Cork had ripped my panties off of me and was trying to force his penis into my vagina. Anna, I then became desperate, but the more I resisted the more forcibly Cork exerted his aggressive libido … and the more excited he became. I bit him and I scratched him, and I even tried to punch him with my finally-freed right arm but Cork was too strong, and too drunk … and focused on “one thing”. That one thing that men always seem to want and need from women in order to feel masculine and powerful.
He won out in the end, or at least he felt as if he did. Directly after he ejaculated into my pussy, he flopped over onto his side of the bed – still panting, and exclaimed: “God damn! That was fucking hot, Babe! Wasn’t that great sex?!!”
I was sore, scared … and pissed off. I felt like a sardine in a tin … drowning in cold tomato sauce, with no escape from the blood-red sugary tension of domestic rape. I was outraged at the violation, and equally so that an act of love could be so emotionally and physically perverted into a boxing match requiring my ultimate submission. And all the while he acted as if he “knew better”, and would show me what good sex is really all about – almost as if it were an act of kindness for which I would thank him once I realized what I had been denying myself, and how badly I needed a “good lay”!
I answered him coldly: “It was … all right.” My jaws were tight. I wanted to grab the lamp on the night table and bludgeon him, again and again. But I knew that I could not win a physical fight against him. I would have to attack his ego, and his manhood.
“All right??! What do you mean by that?” retorted Cork.
I wanted to tell him that he does not know the first thing about how to turn on or satisfy a woman, and that poking his cockiness in and out of my vagina in a selfish and crude and insensitive way had nothing to do with romance, or even sex. It was basically just him getting off, and holding me hostage as his “cum dump”. But I was suddenly feeling too tired, and begrudgingly said — while turning my back on him and hugging my pillow: “Let’s talk about it tomorrow, Cork. I am too tired.”
Cork did not pursue the matter anymore, and I lay awake for hours watching over his heavy breathing and snoring … ready to spring from the bed at the first sign of him waking up out of somnambulance.
Men can be such “cunts” …
Good luck with your case, and best wishes from Phoenix.
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SATIRICAL FICTIONAL LETTER TO JACQUES BREL.
Félicitations ! Ta chanson ” Ne me quitte pas “ est devenue un succès énorme. Tu fais sentir ta douleur … en utilisant la veine ensorcellante de Maurice Ravel, comme dans son ” Boléro “, où tu gardes le même refrain et le même ton calme, mais la colère en plus, dans tes mots. Et tu te protèges d’une manière si poignante en me demandant à plusieurs reprises de ne pas te quitter, à en devenir fou de rage. Ta chanson nous ravit, mais en même temps, elle a plongé le poignard dans le coeur de notre conte de fées. Si seulement tu n’étais pas si lâche. Pourquoi n’as-tu pas pu exprimé tes craintes et tes émotions dans la vie réelle, au lieu de me faire passer pour un citoyen banal? Comme ta stupide maîtresse, qui a voulu exploiter ta gloire et ta réputation ? Tu sais que je ne me suis jamais soucié de telles choses. Je t’ai simplement aimé. Et toi, tu … tu as seulement été amoureux du romantisme, du simple fait ” d’être amoureux “. L’annonce de notre ” enfant d’amour ” s’est avérée trop pesante pour toi. J’ai aussi eu peur. Mais tu étais un enfant, jouant à être un homme. Ma fierté ne m’a pas permis de porter les ombres que tu décrivais dans ta chanson. Et comment oses-tu inclure mon chien adoré dans ta chanson pitoyable…? ” Laisse-moi devenir l’ombre de ton ombre, l’ombre de ta main et l’ombre de ton chien. “
Tu exprimes ta colère et ta confusion tout en me priant de ne pas te quitter. La vérité est que tu n’étais jamais complètement là dans notre relation d’amour. J’étais un jouet pour toi, un joyau à chérir dans le secret … mais tu ne m’as jamais vraiment aimée comme un homme devrait aimer une femme. Je sais que je dois te sembler amère. En vérité, je ne le suis pas. Je me sens finalement libre de devenir la femme que je suis … libérée de cet homme immature qui me détruisait avec ses émotions toujours changeantes et extrêmes. Tant d’apitoiement sur soi-même, tant de colère et d’indifférence soudaine ! Non, notre ” enfant d’amour ” n’a aucune réalité et il n’existera jamais. J’aime ma chambre sans berceau. Pourquoi n’écrirais-tu pas une nouvelle chanson, Jacques ? ” la chanson des vieux amants … “?
Ne me quitte pas …
ne me quitte pas …
ne me quitte pas …
ne me quitte pas …
Je ne t’ai jamais quitté … parce que je ne t’ai jamais eu.
Entendons-nous : tu ne me parles pas – et je ne te parle pas. C’est mieux comme ça. Tu peux maintenant écrire toutes les chansons que tu veux de notre amour perdu et devenir ainsi encore plus riche et plus célèbre.
Et je me contenterai d’épouser le plombier ou le charpentier.
Je pourrai alors chérir mes enfants, des enfants conçus avec amour.
J’aurais d’utiliser ce subjonctif que tu aimais tant, je regrette de ne pas y avoir pensé plus tôt!
(from my novel “The Stalker: tale of a French Bitch”)
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DEAR READER: LOOK AGAIN AT THE PAINTING ABOVE. HOW MANY FACES OF DEPRESSION DO YOU SEE?!!