I got home early that Friday. We’d just finished handling a client at work that damn near gave me a heart attack. I opened the door and heard nothing but the dust settling from the door’s swinging. There’s something very lonely about coming back from work to an empty home. My wife was out somewhere and the children were at school, so I took a shower, changed into my casual clothes and sat to watch some mindless television. Television is different at two-o’clock. I wanted to change the channels from house supply advertisements, but I couldn’t muster the strength by the time I’d settled into the couch.
The exhaustion had taken over me, so I couldn’t care less. I didn’t need cable to dream for me. I can’t tell you when I dosed off, but it couldn’t have been long. I thought about my day as soon as my eyes closed. My mind demanded it. If you close your eyes and keep conscious of the darkness behind your eyelids you can watch your mind organising snap-shots into their appropriate mind drawers. You’d be a moron to try and stop such a delicate process. Far too many fight against their own dream machine. Thoughts that they don’t appreciate, they consider hostile. That’s how you lose sleep, not allowing your mind to organize, trying to impose your will onto it, your own reality.
Sleep isn’t difficult for me. Never was. I could never understand when my wife would stay up at night, tossing and turning, battling her mind, fighting it, neuron by neuron. Until then, I couldn’t. I had my first nightmare on that couch. I was tied to the back a train, dragged on the tracks, getting hit in the face at full speed by every individual wooden board. I tried reaching out, and I managed to hang on for a moment using a necklace with my wedding ring, but I couldn’t hold on for long, it broke and I lost my ring. The train suddenly stopped and I hurled towards it, expecting to hit my face, but I got greeted by an open door, through which I entered and landed gracefully. As I stood in pride, looking around to see who was there. I found my Mother and a specifically nasty English teacher I had in fourth grade talking, being interrupted by my entrance. My teacher looked at me disapprovingly, and waved at my mother with her finger, to which my mother reacted to by looking at me, shedding some tears and coldly slitting her own throat with a pen.
When I woke up, it felt like my mind was trying to run away out of my body. I jolted out of sleep and took a moment to adjust to reality again. The dream refused to stop repeating itself. The part that bothered me the most was how it felt when I lost my wedding ring. My heart was racing, my body was cold and sweaty. I went to the bathroom and washed my face, made some tea to try and calm my nerves. At this point I wanted to call my wife, but I was having a difficult time doing that, I couldn’t say why. Just before I fell asleep I was excited to nag her half to death with my rough day, but every time I thought about her, I would be attacked with the most debauched sexual thoughts.
To think of my wife, was to think of throat fucking my neighbour’s daughter. The more I fought the thought, the more intensely vivid the image would be. At some point, every tiny detail of her drool dripping down my member onto her chin would be amplified. What I found most peculiar was the fact that I never had an interest in that act, or any rough manners in sex, nor had I ever seen any, yet my imagination had created what I believed to be the most faithful rendition it could have. I was being attacked by my own mind and the more I fought it, the stronger it became. Tea couldn’t solve my dilemma, so for the first time in my life, at forty-two, I decided to try and drink my thoughts away.
I wore my shoes and left the house. It had been a few months since I left the house without my work suit. Being a civilian feels different, no matter what costume you don usually. I felt naked without it. I was myself and my mind decided to make a statement right then and there. I walked calmly to the car, but now the image of fucking the receptionist at work in the ass until she bled had taken over my mind. Every tiny crease of her anal entrance, the stretch marks on the side of her hips, her improper posture causing her ass to bend in a specific way. All details I had never thought I’d processed.
These details were all true. I realized that on the intersection on my way to the bar. The pornographic imagery had gripped me. Every woman I saw on the way had become a sexual object that I wanted to express the most debauched feelings towards. My wife and I had sex, but nothing close to the things I wanted to do to those women. The guilt kept eating me up and it became too much to juggle my guilt and trying to stop myself from thinking. I finally got to the bar, and went into the parking lot near by. I couldn’t help myself and I started masturbating in the parking lot, imagining my neighbour’s daughter begging me to “fill up my whore cunt.”
The guilt multiplied as soon as I orgasmed. The climax gave me shivers, but when those were over, I was almost moved to tears. I could barely handle the fact that I’d ruined my pants, like a child, masturbating in a parking lot, thinking of the most foul thoughts my mind could conjure. I cleaned my pants as best I could and went to the bar, which thankfully was dimly lit. I sat on a stool by the bar and ordered my drink. The bar tender was nice and tried to start conversation, but I was so absent minded I only muttered a few words, and I believe he got the idea. The extent of our relationship was me ordering my Whisky, and him pouring it and taking his money.
Dark settled when I left the bar. I had hardly noticed the time pass, I was almost asleep, lost in a hell made of wet dreams. I approached my car, but I noticed I was far too drunk to walk. Calling my wife occurred to me, but I could hardly say her name to myself without feeling sick with guilt. How could I even look at her? I chose to find a taxi, so I started walking towards a main road. As drunk as I was, the thoughts refused to stop. I tried to get lost in the rhythm of my shoes hitting the pavement, but that quickly turned to the sound of flesh pounding. That’s when I heard her.
“You wanna party?” she said.
She sounded young, no older than my own daughter who just graduated high school. I looked in the voice’s direction, and I saw a girl, no older than seventeen, skimpily clothed and heavily made up. Her stomach was bulging, I’m no doctor, but she looked at least six months pregnant. Despite that, I couldn’t help myself but look at her legs, trying to catch a glimpse under her skirt or through her shirt.
“You look excited.” she chuckled, and took a drag of her cigarette.
I was already hard. Had I not been drunk, I would’ve been embarrassed, but I was lost in her. Her sex. The smell of her sweat. The taste of her ass. I wanted to know if I could make her cum. What was her pussy like? I wanted her to be on her period. The thoughts drove themselves, and so did my words.
“I want to fuck your mouth until my cum flies out of your nose.” I blurted out.
She smiled at me, and I couldn’t tell if it was genuine or not, if she was going to love feeling my dick ramming her wind pipes.
“All rough stuff is limited to the face, understood?” she said, pointing at her belly.
“Yes, whatever you want, I’ll make sure I don’t hurt it.”
“It’ll cost you.”
I nodded like a moron, and she grabbed my hand, and it felt soft and I wanted to slip my dick in it right then and there. We entered a motel, and walked up the stairs into an indiscriminate motel room. I put the money on the table, and she started undressing herself.
At this point, I’d like to say that I won’t go into too many details, both because of certain actions I still have problems accepting. What I will say is this; I had to pay her, much more than three-hundred dollars. Her face was fractured at three points, and I ruptured her windpipe with my penis. She asked me to pay her hospital bills and I had to settle with her outside of court so she wouldn’t sue me. What I did to that poor girl is unconscionable. I met a beast in myself that I never knew existed, and it frightened me. It still does. I rarely find rest at night, trying to wrestle that demon within every night.
It shames me immensely to say that the demon over-powers me, and does so often, and to this day, I cannot understand what caused it. Since my first occasion, I learned much. Mainly; how to not hurt the girls too badly. Further than that, I learned that my wife’s no idiot, and that it’s hard to maintain a double life, but not impossible. For now, this is the course of action I’ve decided to take. The accumulative shame of what happened is too much to bare. It would destroy my life if it came out. Until then, I’ll put my demon in his cage until he breaks out again.