The Chrysalis and the Pimp
http://www.loserturdmafia.com
from 
JoeUser Forums
JoeUser Forums
I love women. Really! I married one. Smooth white skin like scented paper. Black hair that sometimes, if you’re lucky, reflects lunar light like a puddle of oil, sucking it in while breathing it out. Her steps are the compass point that her hips revolve around, a sultry swing that whispers as she passes by.
I almost got sick on our wedding night.
Correction: I did get sick on our wedding night. Throwing up over the side of the bed like it was an ocean liner. She lay underneath me in tears.
I hadn’t had one glass of alcohol.
I hadn’t eaten anything.
I was too nervous throughout the whole production we call marriage for either.
Nothing other than the event could have caused it.
There are certain theories that state that signs, signifiers, point you to nothing, to a void of meaning, to the black hole we mistake for reality.
My marriage pointed in the same direction. It misdirects and diverts the way American foreign policy misdirects and diverts. It directs the gaze away from a deeper and more profound fact, a state of being abhorrent and abominable.
She always asks why it is that I can’t sleep with her.
“Why can’t you fuck me?”
The “fuck” never sounds like it belongs to the question. It stands on its own, other words standing around it like strangers at a bus stop.
Why?
Because of the night-sweats, the waking up with a silent scream on my lips, an inability to swallow, a deterrent against breathing. I stop, but the reflex always kicks in, the sick joke that God implanted in our nervous systems. Respiration without choice, dreams without eyelids, without being able to close your eyes.
I found the number in the Yellow Pages. Nondescript, without fanfare or border, a simple, cheap thing that like all signs, points away from itself – you always wake up to find yourself walking back into that black hole.
The office looked like his Yellow Pages ad. It wasn’t yellow and it had a door, but it gave you the impression that if you keep on running your finger down the page you might find something better. A lot better.
He likened himself to a pimp.
“Why’s that? I thought that you were a psychiatrist?”
“Yeah, I am. But I introduce people to the other people. I introduce them to themselves”
The certificate on the wall was proof enough for me, but the rest of it I had heard on late night television sprouting out of monstrously tall men with big hands.
I told him about the dream.
I’m fucking my wife without throwing up. I get violent. Tearing seams in her back. Her head leaves small, delicate dents in the plaster. She’s blind folded and gagged. Every time I hurt her I leave a scar on myself, a mirror image of pain and abuse. I hurt myself and her so bad that I start screaming.
I scream until she turns into the recurring chrysalis.
She eats me whole.
The chrysalis has no mouth.
It has a black hole.
He gave me a card. A referral. He told me that I needed to see a specialist. He wasn’t qualified enough. His ethics and insurance didn’t cover the treatment I needed.
I checked into a hotel. I hadn’t looked it up in the Yellow Pages, even though it felt like that I had. It was called the Exchange and that seemed to be its business. Bodily fluids, drugs, whatever. It was located on the outskirts of life.
I called the number on the card.
He likened himself to a psychiatrist.
“Why’s that? Aren’t you a pimp?”
“Yeah, people come to me with problems and my treatments usually fix them. The body is the only inroad into the mind baby.”
She came around half an hour later. To a hotel that charges by the hour.
Not as beautiful as my wife, but more accessible, more in line with the fantasies of men, cheap and obtainable, like seeing something through the windows of a moving car.
“Been having dreams huh? They wouldn’t have been about me, would they baby?”
“Your pimp called me that as well. And no. Not about you.”
“We’ll see. I’m going to have to do something. Part of your treatment.”
“What’s that?”
She took out the blind fold and handcuffs.
“I’ve got to tell you. I get sick. I have a tendency of expelling things. I don’t want to choke.”
“Not this time. Not like this.”
The room slipped behind the blind. Back here my eyelids made no difference. The paralysis was the same as the dream. You resign yourself, only half wanting to wake up, nightmare or not.
I didn’t get sick. I didn’t throw up. I didn’t stop breathing and curse its resumption.
We fucked in a hotel that charged by the hour, on a bed with a history and its stains, with a prisoner gagged and blind eating the cause of it bliss, tasting every moment.
She told me to leave the blindfold on while she changed and left. Part of the treatment.
When I took the blindfold off (she had called it her gift) she was gone.
It was gone.
It left a fragrance and an empty shell.
Chrysalis.
I picked up the card from the bedside table. Looked at what I had ignored when a number was all that was required. We trust our doctors.
It read: FemAsculine, Double encoded pleasure.
There was a small graphic of two snakes entwined in the shape of a double helix.
I had been cured by a chrysalis and a pimp.
I almost got sick on our wedding night.
Correction: I did get sick on our wedding night. Throwing up over the side of the bed like it was an ocean liner. She lay underneath me in tears.
I hadn’t had one glass of alcohol.
I hadn’t eaten anything.
I was too nervous throughout the whole production we call marriage for either.
Nothing other than the event could have caused it.
There are certain theories that state that signs, signifiers, point you to nothing, to a void of meaning, to the black hole we mistake for reality.
My marriage pointed in the same direction. It misdirects and diverts the way American foreign policy misdirects and diverts. It directs the gaze away from a deeper and more profound fact, a state of being abhorrent and abominable.
She always asks why it is that I can’t sleep with her.
“Why can’t you fuck me?”
The “fuck” never sounds like it belongs to the question. It stands on its own, other words standing around it like strangers at a bus stop.
Why?
Because of the night-sweats, the waking up with a silent scream on my lips, an inability to swallow, a deterrent against breathing. I stop, but the reflex always kicks in, the sick joke that God implanted in our nervous systems. Respiration without choice, dreams without eyelids, without being able to close your eyes.
I found the number in the Yellow Pages. Nondescript, without fanfare or border, a simple, cheap thing that like all signs, points away from itself – you always wake up to find yourself walking back into that black hole.
The office looked like his Yellow Pages ad. It wasn’t yellow and it had a door, but it gave you the impression that if you keep on running your finger down the page you might find something better. A lot better.
He likened himself to a pimp.
“Why’s that? I thought that you were a psychiatrist?”
“Yeah, I am. But I introduce people to the other people. I introduce them to themselves”
The certificate on the wall was proof enough for me, but the rest of it I had heard on late night television sprouting out of monstrously tall men with big hands.
I told him about the dream.
I’m fucking my wife without throwing up. I get violent. Tearing seams in her back. Her head leaves small, delicate dents in the plaster. She’s blind folded and gagged. Every time I hurt her I leave a scar on myself, a mirror image of pain and abuse. I hurt myself and her so bad that I start screaming.
I scream until she turns into the recurring chrysalis.
She eats me whole.
The chrysalis has no mouth.
It has a black hole.
He gave me a card. A referral. He told me that I needed to see a specialist. He wasn’t qualified enough. His ethics and insurance didn’t cover the treatment I needed.
I checked into a hotel. I hadn’t looked it up in the Yellow Pages, even though it felt like that I had. It was called the Exchange and that seemed to be its business. Bodily fluids, drugs, whatever. It was located on the outskirts of life.
I called the number on the card.
He likened himself to a psychiatrist.
“Why’s that? Aren’t you a pimp?”
“Yeah, people come to me with problems and my treatments usually fix them. The body is the only inroad into the mind baby.”
She came around half an hour later. To a hotel that charges by the hour.
Not as beautiful as my wife, but more accessible, more in line with the fantasies of men, cheap and obtainable, like seeing something through the windows of a moving car.
“Been having dreams huh? They wouldn’t have been about me, would they baby?”
“Your pimp called me that as well. And no. Not about you.”
“We’ll see. I’m going to have to do something. Part of your treatment.”
“What’s that?”
She took out the blind fold and handcuffs.
“I’ve got to tell you. I get sick. I have a tendency of expelling things. I don’t want to choke.”
“Not this time. Not like this.”
The room slipped behind the blind. Back here my eyelids made no difference. The paralysis was the same as the dream. You resign yourself, only half wanting to wake up, nightmare or not.
I didn’t get sick. I didn’t throw up. I didn’t stop breathing and curse its resumption.
We fucked in a hotel that charged by the hour, on a bed with a history and its stains, with a prisoner gagged and blind eating the cause of it bliss, tasting every moment.
She told me to leave the blindfold on while she changed and left. Part of the treatment.
When I took the blindfold off (she had called it her gift) she was gone.
It was gone.
It left a fragrance and an empty shell.
Chrysalis.
I picked up the card from the bedside table. Looked at what I had ignored when a number was all that was required. We trust our doctors.
It read: FemAsculine, Double encoded pleasure.
There was a small graphic of two snakes entwined in the shape of a double helix.
I had been cured by a chrysalis and a pimp.
