As I said before, this story is long and large. So I may cut the update time again—how does every other day sound?

I wouldn't be able to put it into effect right away, because I'm busy. BIZ- EE. But anyhow, here's your ninth chapter. Enjoy it.

***

CHAPTER NINE

AFTER HOURS

***

In. Out. In. Out. Further in. Further out. Warning shot. Rest. Relieved moaning. Back in. Pleasured grunt.

More.

More.

God, I am loving this.

Now I see why it's such a big deal.

And I know that what I'm doing is an atrocity. An absolute, psychotic act of insanity that you only see in your nightmares.

And how much trouble I can—nay, will—get into if the others, or anybody finds out.

This is horrible. Despicable.

But I don't care. I'm enjoying it. And my partner is getting something out of it. A loss of virginity. Thanks will come later. And I'm getting a similar result.

I am writing this now in the knowledge of what I have actually done—but in the frame of mind of what I THOUGHT I was doing.

And what I am actually doing is beyond insane.

It's criminal.

It's evil.

And I love it.

How long can it go?



All night?

By now you probably want to know what the hell I'm talking about…

Well, I'll tell you…

I am having sex…

Oh, but wait. There's more to it than that. Quite a lot more.

Lubrication. Loud scream. Two kinds from two places.

Sudden realization that I need to go. NOW.

***

We are outside the place. I had to sneak around from the back entrance, of course. To avoid having the words 'members only' and 'femme fleur sale' imprinted forcefully into my skull.

"You did not just say you had kids."

"Yes I did."

Can't believe it.

Don't believe it.

Don't want to believe it. Can't want to believe it either.

Why am I talking about this? There are more important things to be telling her. Like, she has demeaned her existence by taking her qualifications to the quick fix.

"You have kids. You're kidding me."

She gives me a look.

"Of course not," she says. "That was just an excuse to get out of there. I don't have any kids. Or even a boyfriend, for that matter."

"Thank god," I say, pulling out another cigarette. These things are addictive. TOO addictive.

"Gimme one," she says, withdrawing a lighter and taking the cig in my hand. "God, I need one of these right about now."

"Don't burp," I say. She scowls.

"I hear you."

Great. She completely missed the point.

"You realize you're working in a fucking hole. You're too smart for that place. What happened to your diploma?"

"Never mind."

"Come on, I have more reason to be in a place like that than you. What's going on?"

She sighs. She is hiding something.

"From ME, of all people. The one person I can think of who really cares about you."

Did I just say that?

"You're right."

My god. She knows what I'm talking about. We have so much in common.

I just left her career at a strip club. So maybe that's not such a good thing.

"Knuckles, I hate that place."

"And so you should. Why are you working there?"

"Make ends meet."

"You've got to be kidding me. You're a really smart girl, Rouge. I'm sure you could get any job you want. Why are you working THERE?"

"Look, Knux, I'll tell you everything. Just let me get us back to my apartment, all right?"

"Okay. I'll take your rain check."

"DON'T give me that right now, Knuckles."

We leave the District. We come to the intersection. We walk for about an hour. I follow her, and run through two cigs—including the one I gave her.

I see a lot of things that I don't want to see. I see Rouge screwing someone in the street. I see her offering another woman a lap dance. I see her trying to pick up a hobo. I see her offering services to a child.

I see myself kicking her head in. I see myself slaughtering every person I saw in that bar. I see myself destroying her, her existence. Everything.

Tonight she has added to my pain. That's all there is to it.

She has let me down.

Why, Rouge?

Why did you do it?

***

In. Out. In. Out. Further in. Further out. Warning shot. Rest. Relieved moaning. Back in. Pleasured grunt.

More.

More.

God, I am loving this.

Now I see why it's such a big deal.

And I know that what I'm doing is an atrocity. An absolute, psychotic act of insanity that you only see in your nightmares.

And how much trouble I can—nay, will—get into if the others, or anybody finds out.

This is horrible. Despicable.

But I don't care. I'm enjoying it. And my partner is getting something out of it. A loss of virginity. Thanks will come later. And I'm getting a similar result.

I am writing this now in the knowledge of what I have actually done—but in the frame of mind of what I THOUGHT I was doing.

And what I am actually doing is beyond insane.

It's criminal.

It's evil.

And I love it.

How long can it go?



All night?

By now you probably want to know what the hell I'm talking about…

Well, I'll tell you…

I am having sex…

Oh, but wait. There's more to it than that. Quite a lot more.

Lubrication. Loud scream. Two kinds from two places.

Sudden realization that I need to go. NOW.

I quickly get up and get my jacket. I have to leave.

***

"Okay. Let me start from the beginning."

"That may help."

"Please, Knux… I'm tired. I don't need the sarcasm."

"I thought you were a night owl."

"Knuckles…!"

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry."

I'm in her apartment.

It's not much of a place. Singles flats. Canned goods here and there, some newspapers along the ground, a crappy TV, and a box with some meager amounts of cash in it. A cubicle of a kitchen with a shitty microwave and oven. A tiny toilet, encrusted in neglect.

Paradise!

"Murphy bed?" I ask, seeing no sign of a bedroom.

"Fold-out," she says, indicating the couch and sipping some of her canned soup. She's very generously made me some. I was hungry. But not hungry enough to take an extra soup for one from her. I won't ask for seconds, even though my stomach is throwing a spoiled temper tantrum.

"Nice place you have here."

"Thanks," she says, knowing I'm not being sincere.

"It's got to be better than Angel Island."

"Which brings me to the beginning of my story."

I am silent. I have instigated another conversation—I am unable to speak for the orgasmic pleasure.

"You remember when I bit you…"

"How could I forget?"

"I'm sorry. I really am."

"So I heard. Please just continue." I really don't want to relive that day again.

"Okay… well, after I quit my job in Washington, I moved back to Station Square. I knew it was a good spot to set up camp."

"Camp?"

"I wasn't ALWAYS in this little shack, for your information."

"Continue." Just get on with it, would you? Go into one of those long ass informational lectures. Maybe I'll die of boredom. Hopefully.

"I began looking for a place where I could work. I'd already earned my Ph.D…"

"Which is exactly why you shouldn't be working in that slutty shithole."

"Can I finish?"

Of course she can. How stupid of me to interrupt. I silently berate myself. Die of boredom, die of boredom die of boredom die of boredom. And hunger.

"So, after thinking about our little… meeting…"

"The BITE…"

"The bite… I sort of took a Freudian turn. I began thinking. You remember how Freud asked about what a woman wants?"

"Rouge."

"Sorry… well, he did." She explains the Freudian query. I am slowly losing consciousness, I think.

"…So I decided I wanted to find out. What does a MAN want?"

Well. This is sounding a hell of a lot more interesting. But she's still a slut.

A DIRTY, FUCKING WHORE.

"And, I got my office set up. I became a professional psychiatrist."

The shock and happiness is too much. Not only am I surprised and pleased that she, at least for awhile, had a proper job—but there is potentially a beautiful woman sitting across from me that can give me psychiatric help. God bless… um, fate, God, whatever.

Ha. God bless God. Good one, Knuckles, you idiot.

"A psychiatrist?" I ask, interested, lighting another cigarette to calm myself. Listen to her tell her story first, Knux. Die of boredom die of boredom die of boredom die of boredom.

"Yeah. I started taking patients and listening to their problems, giving them therapy, et cetera. All the while I tried to milk a few opinions on women troubles from the male patients, which almost inevitably ended in a little contribution to my list. Look—" she pulls out a long piece of paper. It's got several little things noted down on it. Most of them refer to mental things, like want of a sense of humor and liking girls with a good personality. Others refer to large body parts.

"Quite a list," I say.

"Yeah."

"Continue, continue."

She shifts uncomfortably.

"Hmm…"

"Rouge… look at me for a second."

I want to tell her this. It is more important to me now than anything. She has to know this. She has to.

"Rouge, you can tell me ANYTHING."

She just looks blank. She's mulling on it, I can see it in her eyes.

"Well."

She stirs her soup around.

"Just a reminder, I haven't eaten in a week, so if you don't want it, I'll take it."

"A WEEK?"

"Continue."

"A whole WEEK?"

"Continue!"

"S…sorry."

She is silent for a bit.

"I got sued," she says. This has taken a rather unpleasant turn.

"For what?" I chuckle. "Emotional distress?"

"Exactly."

Great. I feel like a total heel now.

Don't talk. Don't say another word.

Die of boredom die of boredom die of boredom die of boredom…

She removes my head. Then continues talking.

"Some guy came by one day. He said that ever since I made him relive his girl problems, he'd been feeling like he'd gone insane. So I lost most of my money, and I had to move into… THIS."

I want to laugh. Laugh with her. Kiss her. Fuck her. Rape her up the god damn ass. Whatever. Anything to let her know I care. Maybe the last one doesn't count.

Tell me. What IS insane, Rouge? I think you should go right back to that guy and tell him to go get fucked.

"It's got to be better than I what I live on."

"Knuckles…you live in a paradise island in the sky. No bills. No job. No responsibilities. Just peace and tranquility all day long. Nothing ever has to happent to you, like with me and the others down here. You don't have to deal with anyone. Anything. You…"

Suddenly she realizes that she shot herself in the foot. Smart girl.

"Let's hear the rest of it."

"I didn't have any money left," she said. "And I knew that with my reputation and limited funds I couldn't go back to work in an office again… so I had to take advantage of what else I had."

"A voluptuous body."

"Yes… hey."

Shit.

"You creep! Stop looking at me, perv!" She giggles. I don't laugh. I light myself another cig.

"Rouge, I'm really sorry that you had to go and work in a shithole like that."

"Well, it eventually gave me an idea… I still wanted to find the key to the mind of a human male. And wouldn't you know it, one day I suddenly realized that I was surrounded by them."

"No shit."

"Shut up!"

God, I ran through that one quickly. I light another.

"Well, I decided I'd pick up my old project. I was writing a book on the male mind. What they want, what they look at, what they like, what makes them tick, and what makes them talk."

"No pun intended, I hope?"

She rolls her eyes and sighs.

"Unfortunately yes. Worse luck, that's the back cover synopsis."

"Ouuch."

"So, I realized, that working there could really help me," she says, sipping her soup. "I can start the lusts and sexual clamor section. If I finish my book, I can hopefully publish and get all my cash back."

It's a great story. But I don't think it's true.

Sure, Rouge could be a psychiatrist. But she wouldn't write a book. I think she's just trying to save face.

Poor, blind Rouge. She just doesn't understand.

"Rouge… look. You're a psychiatrist. You're a qualified shrink, am I right?"

"Yes…"

"Well…"

I pour everything into her frail little mind. My thoughts, my hopes, my despairs, my fears, my dreams, my life, my loves, my affection, my insane dilemmas. And she listens.

She actually listens.

But she looks shocked. Surprised. Blank.

"That's a hell of a problem."

"Fuck yes," I say, lighting another cig. FUCK. I need these things.

"I think, if you give me a little bit, I can come up with a diagnosis."

She's kidding me.

Joking me.

Shitting me.

Pulling my fucking leg.

"Yanking my god damn chain," I mumble, sucking the disgusting, yet wonderful white cylinder.

"No… I think, if you give me time, I can come up with something."

I don't believe it. I honestly don't. Because I know that a lot of things I've been seeing, hearing and feeling lately have just been in my mind. I'm not even sure if I'm HERE. For all I know I could be stranded in the street outside the club, which could also be a mirage. All this, this horrible situation I have returned to find my friend in is not good for the fragile soul.

There is a sudden image of full expression. I am, of course, using a metaphor. In both senses of the word.

"I should probably go," I say. God, no, I don't want to go. I don't want to leave. I want to stay. I want to stay, have some soup, watch TV, sleep in a BED, GET TO TALK WITH SOMEONE OTHER THAN MYSELF, USE A TOILET, HAVE A PARTY, TOUCH SOMETHING, SOMEONE, STICK MYSELF INTO THEM, USE THE BED IN MORE WAYS THAN—

"Okay," she says, knowing that I simply do not want to impose. I get up slowly from the chair, extinguishing the cigarette against my thick black coat, leaving a little burn mark on the forearm. She doesn't have an ashtray to speak of. I discard the used, wretched, yet hopelessly essential object.

I make my way across the filthy floor to the door. Ha, ha, a rhyme. I think I have made myself laugh. I must be retarded now too.

"Wait," she says, getting up from the table and walking over. I silently berate myself again, for noticing the way her hips move, the way her legs look, the way her chest wobbles as she walks over the garbage toward me. It's not my fault she wears tight clothing. I think that I'll be berating myself a little less silently later after seeing her in that bar. I admit it. I am a master berater.

"Before I lose you again," she says. "I may not see you for awhile."

"What is—"

My mouth is hushed as her own presses against it. I am unable to move my tongue for her own. I have been successfully silenced, unable to speak. No wonder she made a spy.

***