Sunday, July 1, 2012

The Nature of A Parasite

I knew it was going to be him as soon as I met him, as soon as I learned where he was from. I’m not really sure why I made him wait. I guess because it seemed like the lady- like thing to do.

It was the night before he and his family would be leaving to go back to New York. He had talked of bringing me up to the cottage, but that proved an impossibility when his parents were still up and entertaining at 2 am. They’d thrown a good- bye party for themselves and all of the other residents who vacationed down in The Cove. Instead, I met him by the big oak tree and he led me down an overgrown path towards the tall grass that separated his family’s property from the marshland. I could hear his parents and their guests laughing inside the cottage, someone was warbling a tune about the Navy. I wondered what it was like to be so intoxicated that you thought your own voice worthy of sharing with the rest of the room.

“Here,” he said, stopping right before we hit the marsh and the ground turned into soggy quicksand. The air smelled heavy with salt. He looked around for a clearing among the dense patches of reeds. “Lie down,” he said, finding one about the size of a standard water closet.

“Have you ever done this before?” he asked. “You’re not going to try to stop me once I start, are you?”

Someone laughed inside the cottage, then a woman said in a loud, flirtatious tone, “Bellevue, Frank! Bellevue!”

“Take your clothes off,” he said.

I began to unbutton my blouse. He watched me for a moment, then removed his shirt. He began to fumble with the braided belt on his pants.

“Umm,” he said. There was the sound of clapping flesh as he got on top of me. He pushed my skirt up around my thighs. His hands moved to my hips, then to my backside, searching for a zipper. Finally he found it and dragged it down.

“Take it off,” he said. He rolled off of me, and I slid the skirt down my legs and off at my sandals.

“Tell me how you want it,” he said, taking my hand and mashing it atop the hard spot in the front of his pants. “Squeeze it,” he said, scrunching my hand up with his own. He pushed my head down into the earth and stuck his tongue into my ear. His head dropped lower to my neck and he rubbed his face into my cleavage, then undid the clasp of my bra. He groped my breasts like he was a god, and could change their shape.

“Umm,” he moaned, “Umm,”

His movements became frantic. His hands slid down the sides of my stomach and looped inside the sides of my underwear. He slipped his hands underneath and slid the fabric down my legs.

“Ah!” he said, bolting upright. He held his arm in front of his face and flicked something off and into the reeds. “One of god’s creations, looking to turn me into a blood meal. I forgot my father took the dogs out here once and they came back covered in ticks. A doctor had to come in from town and give them a special bath.”

He reoriented himself to my splayed form in front of him.

“Did I ask? I don’t remember. Have you done this before, or must I break a nymph in?” He moved one of his hands between my legs and stuck a finger inside me. “You like that? How about this?” I felt a second, then a third. “Yes, you like it. You’ve wanted it all summer.”

He fumbled with the button of his pants and pulled down his zipper, pushing his pants down past to his knees.

“Take it out,” he said.

Someone turned on the porch lights on the back of the cottage and the glow offered a reaching illumination.

I reached up into the slit of his boxer shorts. His penis was hard and stiff, like a harpoon. The skin felt like the rubber of a bicycle tire. Fluid leaked from the tip.

“Line it up,” he said. “But just align it. I'll do the rest."

I stared at him blankly.

“No,” I said.

“What do you mean, no?”

“You figure it out,” I answered.

“What does that mean, you figure it out? You locals are all out of your gourds. You lure me out here with your yokel innuendos, let me stick three and a half good fingers inside of you, then say no?”

“I never said no,” I answered. “I just said no to that.”

“You know what? I like you quiet. Keep your mouth shut or I’ll roll you in the marsh.”

He yanked down his boxer shorts, took his penis into his hand and barreled it inside of me.

“Uh…” he said, letting out a low groan. “You feel so good,” he buried his face into my neck. “Wrap your legs around me.” He pinched the flesh of my thigh hard.

“What the hell...” Something crumbled off of my leg and into his hand.

He stood up and in the illumination from the porch light I could see them, little dots, like chocolate chips, on his legs, where the skin had been exposed, on the sides of his arms, where he’d supported his weight.

He sprang to his feet and began jumping foot to foot like a frenzied Indian doing a rain dance.

“You know...I’ve never been to New York…” I said, trying to retain my repose. “I’ve always wanted to go… I was thinking, perhaps I could come and visit you over Christmas?”

“What are you talking about?” he said, stretching himself into unnatural positions. “At a time like this? You are covered in blood- sucking parasites and you haven’t even moved!” He struggled to hug himself, to reach his arms around his back.

“I live here. I suppose I am used to them. Do you not have ticks in New York?”

“We have roaches," he growled.

“You said I felt so good… I could feel even better in New York. You could break a nymph in. I know I’m supposed to be in New York City. It’s something I’ve felt my whole life…”

“Did you really think you could use your feminine wiles to finagle an invitation to my parent’s apartment?”

“No.. it’s just that my parents would never let me go on my own, but if I knew someone there, if I had an invitation…”

He removed his pants from around his ankles and after shaking them furiously, began to put them back on.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “If I did something for you, why not do something for me in return?”

He looked at me blankly.

"Because my dear, I am a parasite. I gorge, but never give. Take, but never trade. To do differently would be antithetical to my nature."

© Fiona Helmsley