May 1 1978

It was the first of May, 1978 when I first raped her. We were like poetry in the parking ramp men's room. She was so lovely, her skin fair and soft, her lips moist, her eyes like a fawn's, fingers to her lips. She nearly collapsed when I wrapped my hands around her neck. The toes of her cork wedges crossed and her thin legs gave away. I caught her by the throat.

I could feel her life's story at that moment, pulsing under my fingertips. Her heart raced, I wasn't trying to kill her, but I wanted her to know that I was willing to, and maybe I was, but she was so delightful. So perfect. No woman has made me feel like such a beautiful animal; physical, violent, and so exceedingly awake.

Her hands went reflexively to my wrists where she clung. She tried to steady herself on her feet and I let her drag a little air in. She's a tiny thing, no more than a hundred pounds and I needed her. No threat of violence, no plea for mercy was going to stop this. We were too far along. I pinned her neck to the subway tile between the electric hand dryers. Ballasts in the ceiling hummed and the old fluorescent tubes made everything look green like dirty japanese neon.

I smelled the sweet skin under her right ear. She didn't wear conventional perfume, it was more like those oils you can get in high-end boutiques on Gadmen Square where the folk singers drone poems over the same two chords. She was like cotton candy at the state fair. A sundress top, no bra. Perfect sun-bleached hair. Her nipples were stiff even before I grabbed her, when she knew I was there. When she dropped her keys and bent down to get them, one knee a little lower than the other. Her delicious thighs there begging to be groped. Her palm over her mouth in almost convincing surprise.

The truth is that she wanted me there. She lured into the parking garage. Her compact falling out of her purse. Fumbling with her keys, alone, unsure. So I followed her, like I had done before. Standing on the corner, she held an unlit cigarette in her lips and was digging into her purse when I passed her on the sidewalk. There wasn't much room so I brushed past her in my way and allowed my fingertips to graze her flank. Her glorious skin sang longingly and tiny fireworks exploded in the cool air breathing between the concrete and stone block buildings. We were alone.

I walked on, as I usually do in our after-work ballet. The charge between us was building. Tonight was going to be the night. Our first time. Typically I lose her after twenty or thirty minutes. She ducks in a little bar or makes it to her car and drives past me, ever looking me back as I stare. Once she got into a cab and gave me a most alluring glance as she slid in. I could only smile as they pulled off.

I stopped on the next block and could see her strike match after match trying to light her cigarette. Finally, lit after the fourth try, she tossed the pack into her purse and strode ever-so slowly toward the garage entrance. She knew she had an audience. In the middle of the street, she let her purse dangle to her side, bent over and made a small adjustment to the buckle of her shoe. She knew how to make me hungry. I wanted to wrap my hands around her ankles and wrestle them flat while she kicked. I want to put her feet in my mouth. I want her to squirm.

She crossed conspicuously, her keychain with feathers and rabbit's feet dangled at her side. She marched languidly, like a tired child who's been at the amusement park too long. I crossed back in the shadows, back her way. I approached the entrance as she walked in. Where had she parked? This was the game and she played it well.

She pretended to suddenly notice me. She composed herself and walked like Mrs. Petrov had taught her in ballet class. I gawked at her long legs moving in white nylons. She wore a short, cheap sundress with an native pattern. It was gold and red and I would tear it from her body. I would grasp her firmly by the hair and make her watch in the filthy mirror as I bend her over the sink and start groping her and tearing her clothes.

I can't help it. I cup her in my hand, press my fingers against her cute little pussy and rub firmly. She says "No, mister, please". She wants this. I grasp and tear a thin pair of silk panties from her body. I stuff them in her mouth. Her hands, on either side of the mirror, push back but barely. She whines with the cloth in her mouth and wiggles her perfect ass, seductively. I want to knock her up, to do filthy things to her. To make her hurt and sting, make her cry and come standing up while I choke her and slap her face.

A river of profanity erupts from me as I spread her legs and push in behind her. I am going to fuck her and she cannot stop me. I am a beast, a demon. I am an animal and pull her hair harder and press her face into the mirror. She squirms and I love it. I tell her that she's wet and she wants it. She starts to cry as I push myself into her. Yes. Like a perfect day, a motor in full throttle, like a moonless night in September with smoke on the wind, everything falls into place. I own her body, I fuck her mercilessly, pulling her hair and squeezing her throat. Her moans muffled by the thin fabric of her sheer, torn panties.