Tales of a Hyper-sexual Spy
The Trickster, Trickster: Another world away. The cold wet western edge of a cliff, rain on my skin…sometimes people just get wet…other times they feel the rain…its life giving property. It’s unspoken majesty. I haven’t been rained on for months. I can feel it. It’s beautiful. It’s soothing, its home. That word, home, has never meant this much before. Home, it fills my soul like laughter in the wind. So much about coming home from war is beautiful.
There are those who stayed here who cannot see it. Almera can’t see it. She’s not enjoying the moment. It’s gnawing at me. She wants us to change the mattress. She’s adamant that it’s impossible to sleep on. I’ve been sleeping on sand dunes in sandstorms, I’ve been sleeping on rocks and I’ve been sleeping under armoured vehicles to shield myself from mortars and the blazing sun. Lying on any kind of mattress is opulence; it’s a luxury, its bliss. It’s perfect.
She says I’ve no idea how hard her work with the council has been. She says I won’t be able to relate to an incident where a colleague was gossiping behind her back. This is because I’ve been with my real friends for months. How strange that she says that. A foreign colleague plotted my assassination; just two weeks ago, she knows that. Why is she spoiling a moment that I’ve anticipated for so long?
Six years we’ve been together. We live together. We’re meant to be getting married. When did she grow so cold?
No it’s not gnawing at me anymore. It’s sticking in my soul like an icy dagger. I’ve been home for forty hours, after months away, and we haven’t fucked yet.
She gets a phone call. It’s that guy from her work. He understands about how terrible that gossiping is. Of course he fucking does. Is this a dagger in my soul or in my back?
It’s not like we’ve been the perfect couple. We’re wild at heart. We’ve both given lame excuses for scratches on the back or carpet burn after a night out. We’ve both turned a blind eye to minor indiscretions. But she’s never been like this. She’s been full of fire, hot blooded, bad tempered. But she’s never been ice cold. This is different.
“I have to go,” she says, “pointless getting wet anyway.”
When she returns hours later she kisses me. Normally you can taste her cherry lip balm. Not this time. This time I can taste something else on her mouth. I know exactly what it is. It’s not like I haven’t sucked a few cocks in my time.
To my horror, I’m slightly aroused…but my soul is incandescent with rage.
“I’m going out,” I say, my voice calm.
“Have a nice time,” she replies.
I close the door; I stagger down the apartment steps. I know she’s in love with him. That look on her face when she spoke of him was the same look she had when she fell for me.
How could she? How could she? She’s not who I thought she was. She was the reason I’d had the strength to survive. She was the promise I’d given myself. How could she?
I drive into town. I drive too fast. I pick up a bottle of merlot. I drink it inside five minutes. Why was karma punishing me? It’s not like I’d cheated while I was away.
“Yes you did.” I see a fleeting image, a woman, a doctor. What was that, my imagination or a memory? I was playing cards that night wasn’t I?
It’s not like I killed anyone.
“Yes you did.” I see a fleeting image, a body, a man’s corpse.
“That wasn’t me that was my friend, stop it. Bastard deserved it anyway.” My mind is slipping. Which memory is real? Which did I invent? How could she do this to me now? How could she? She’s not who I thought she was.
Its best I ignore my brain until I blow off some steam. She was meant to help me blow off steam. How could she?
“Come on, stop whinging, snap out of it, plenty more fish in the sea,” I tell myself.
I’m in town now. I see a woman, her huge bosom pressing against the fabric of her dress. Her dark hair is curling around her Disney Princess eyes. She smiles at me. She pouts. She’s drunk. We’re kissing inside of a moment. Her wet lips draw me deep inside this fantasy. I’m pretending she’s my fiancée. I drag Miss Disney Princess to an alley at the back of the club.
“Where are we going?”
“Come here…now.” I tell her. I push her hard against the cold brick of the wall, she laughs, husky as woman can be. She’s thrilled to be with me, I pretend she’s someone else. I pretend I can smell jasmine instead of cigarettes and alcohol. I tear her skirt as I force it up. I can feel the fabric of her knickers…a friction burn hurting my cock. It doesn’t matter.
“Harder…faster…deeper…fuck me harder than I’ve ever been fucked.”
“Shut up,” I tell her. She sounds nothing like my fiancée.
“Harder…faster…deeper…fuck that’s hard…it hurts…come for me…come for me.”
“Shut up,” I tell her. I’ve never fucked anyone this hard. I unload months of tension into her. It comes out of her…and down her thigh.
It’s not enough.
“Can I have your number?”
“Fuck off,” I say to her. It’s not enough. I want more.
There’s more wine. I’m driving. There’s a white powder. I’m in bed with two older men, their tanned skin like leather brushing against mine, they’re thrilled to have me, they me kiss like whisky. I like it, no I love it, it quiets the fight between my memory and imagination…they treat me like royalty as they take my mouth and my arse…their hard cocks thrusting inside me…come dripping from my mouth.
“Can we have your number?”
It’s not enough.
I’m driving again. I don’t care if I crash and burn. I put the pedal to the metal.
I stumble into the apartment. Almera is asleep face down in the pillow, fully clothed. That bitch. Who is she now? Who am I? The goldfish stares at me and swims in a circle.
“At least you haven’t changed you boring bastard.”
I lurch into the shower and try to sober up, and then I crawl into bed with her. She wakes, there’s warmth in her eyes. I remember that warmth. I dreamed of it for months. It’s why I wanted to marry her.
“Are you okay?”
“My mind is playing tricks on me.”
“That trickster, trickster,” she whispers with her hand on my cheek. Our engagement ring pressing against my skin.
“Is there somebody else?”
“There’s nobody else, I promise. I hope you didn’t do anything stupid.”
“Of course not,” I lie. There’s something comfortable about our lies. We make love for the last time, on the mattress she hates, on the sweet smelling soft bed linen, as the sun rises behind the curtains. It’s beautiful. It’s poetic. It’s electric.
Then in my arms she cries, she lets go and that cold look is back in her eyes, freezing my soul. She gets a message; I snatch the phone from her. I was right. They’re in love. The dagger is in my back. It hurts worse than the war. Despite last night’s madness I can’t breathe. It hurts worse.
How could she? How could she?
I tell her to take her things and leave. She says I can keep everything that’s ‘ours’ apart from the goldfish. For two hours we fight about the fish. He’s the only living thing at home that hasn’t changed. I’ll never give her the fucking fish. She gives in and leaves.
I stare at that boring bastard fish for ten minutes after she’s gone. Then it floats to top of its tank and dies.
“Welcome Home” reads the card on the dresser. Home? I have no home any more. My heart is is shattered. It crawls across the floor. I wish I was back in the war…I wish I was back in the war.
More tomorrow xxx