Nothing at all. They have absolutely fucking disappeared from the face of the fucking earth, and the obscenity is there for dramatic effect, not that the circumstances would not be sufficiently dramatic without such emphasis.
I went to their apartments. First Arnold, then David. I sensed that this was not what my keeper would have me do, but I decided to hell with him, because I kept calling them and getting no answer and I kept imagining the worst—what else?—and finally I said the hell with it and went over there.
And they have moved. Both of them, to parts unknown. No forwarding address. Nada.
Now of course it is perfectly possible that this had nothing to do with me. Or with Eric. That they simply folded their tents like Arabs and disappeared into the night. It is possible, and I do not believe it for a moment.
God, what did he do to them? Snap his fingers? Utter a magic incantation?
I wonder why I let him destroy my charge cards. I have been thinking about that scene, how theatrical it was and at the same time how ridiculous it was. The stench of the plastic cards melting on the coal fire! Why did he want to do this, and why did I let him?
I have to go there now. He just called, and when the strings are jiggled the puppet must dance. Au revoir.
April 19
It is like going to college. A tutorial course in sexual technique. He has been teaching me the most extraordinary things. Oriental accomplishments, bits of business I never believed people actually did.
Like things from those murky books by Burton. The long ago Richard Burton, not Elizabeth’s mad Welshman. I read those books over the years, and there were certain things therein to inspire one in fantasies and other things to add a soupçon of curry powder to one’s married life (I’d like two soupçons of curry powder, s’il vous plait, and a partridge in a pear tree.)
But I always thought Burton was a big put-on. Sir Richard is sending us up, I thought. The dear boy’s having us all on. People can’t really dangle from the chandeliers and bugger one another while drinking glasses of spiced tea and masturbating pet dogs with their toes.
Well, we haven’t done precisely that, but I couldn’t swear that it’s not on tomorrow’s agenda. Already there are things I never dreamed I was capable of. There are ways of controlling one’s responses, of developing muscular control and physical agility. According to Eric, it is all a matter of discovering oneself, of making the acquaintance of one’s body.
All of this sounds desperately clinical, does it not? Like a class in karate or something. And at times it does seem quite cold and austere, and would be literally ridiculous but for the particular personality of this man and its effect upon me. I suspect that, were I not so completely his property whenever I am in his presence, there are moments when I would laugh. But the impulse never even occurs to me at the time.
And there are enough times when the passion is real enough and the classroom turns back into a bedroom like Cinderella’s coach at midnight. (Why did I put it that way, Doctor? Not at all like Cinderella’s coach at midnight, I don’t properly think. Verrrry interesting.)
He can set me on fire with a touch, a kiss, a glance. And when we fuck it is a shaking, shattering experience. Always. There does not seem to be such a thing as a casual take-it-or-leave-it fuck with Eric. Always starbursts, always mountain peaks, always the usual purple metaphors apply.
There’s often some pain, but I don’t seem to mind it at all these days. In fact—
Oh, well. Yesterday there was no pain, and I missed it.
It bothers me to write this.
April 20
I thought I saw Arnold on the street. A comic moment, I suppose. I ran up for a closer look, and the man turned and gave me a what-seems-to-be-wrong-with-you-little-girl look, and of course on second glance it did not look like Arnold at all, not at all. I muttered something and turned away, feeling out
I went to their apartments. First Arnold, then David. I sensed that this was not what my keeper would have me do, but I decided to hell with him, because I kept calling them and getting no answer and I kept imagining the worst—what else?—and finally I said the hell with it and went over there.
And they have moved. Both of them, to parts unknown. No forwarding address. Nada.
Now of course it is perfectly possible that this had nothing to do with me. Or with Eric. That they simply folded their tents like Arabs and disappeared into the night. It is possible, and I do not believe it for a moment.
God, what did he do to them? Snap his fingers? Utter a magic incantation?
I wonder why I let him destroy my charge cards. I have been thinking about that scene, how theatrical it was and at the same time how ridiculous it was. The stench of the plastic cards melting on the coal fire! Why did he want to do this, and why did I let him?
I have to go there now. He just called, and when the strings are jiggled the puppet must dance. Au revoir.
April 19
It is like going to college. A tutorial course in sexual technique. He has been teaching me the most extraordinary things. Oriental accomplishments, bits of business I never believed people actually did.
Like things from those murky books by Burton. The long ago Richard Burton, not Elizabeth’s mad Welshman. I read those books over the years, and there were certain things therein to inspire one in fantasies and other things to add a soupçon of curry powder to one’s married life (I’d like two soupçons of curry powder, s’il vous plait, and a partridge in a pear tree.)
But I always thought Burton was a big put-on. Sir Richard is sending us up, I thought. The dear boy’s having us all on. People can’t really dangle from the chandeliers and bugger one another while drinking glasses of spiced tea and masturbating pet dogs with their toes.
Well, we haven’t done precisely that, but I couldn’t swear that it’s not on tomorrow’s agenda. Already there are things I never dreamed I was capable of. There are ways of controlling one’s responses, of developing muscular control and physical agility. According to Eric, it is all a matter of discovering oneself, of making the acquaintance of one’s body.
All of this sounds desperately clinical, does it not? Like a class in karate or something. And at times it does seem quite cold and austere, and would be literally ridiculous but for the particular personality of this man and its effect upon me. I suspect that, were I not so completely his property whenever I am in his presence, there are moments when I would laugh. But the impulse never even occurs to me at the time.
And there are enough times when the passion is real enough and the classroom turns back into a bedroom like Cinderella’s coach at midnight. (Why did I put it that way, Doctor? Not at all like Cinderella’s coach at midnight, I don’t properly think. Verrrry interesting.)
He can set me on fire with a touch, a kiss, a glance. And when we fuck it is a shaking, shattering experience. Always. There does not seem to be such a thing as a casual take-it-or-leave-it fuck with Eric. Always starbursts, always mountain peaks, always the usual purple metaphors apply.
There’s often some pain, but I don’t seem to mind it at all these days. In fact—
Oh, well. Yesterday there was no pain, and I missed it.
It bothers me to write this.
April 20
I thought I saw Arnold on the street. A comic moment, I suppose. I ran up for a closer look, and the man turned and gave me a what-seems-to-be-wrong-with-you-little-girl look, and of course on second glance it did not look like Arnold at all, not at all. I muttered something and turned away, feeling out
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