Spill (2)

Continued from Part 1

Now and then, that Impulse troubled her. When she wasn’t eating right, wasn’t working out the kinks each day with a few moments of private silence or exercise, when she underestimated her Beast, it rose up in her, overwhelming sensibility with its brute force, shattering the lines between decorum and Drive. Love gave way to lust. Desire gave in to its darker side. And in every glance I, surreptitiously stole, in every silent echo of construction worker hoots and hollers that echoed in her mind, she was reminded of the jeers and sneers of so many men I’d encountered, who’d seemed determined to uncover some speck of lust they could polish, some hint of willingness they could enhance, to reflect their own urges. “You want it, baby,” echoed in the back of her head with each passing hungry female, as she recalled the many times I’d turned away a heckle from a work site along the street, a proposition in a bar. So many men trying to get in so many women’s pants, and here she was, mimicking the worst of them.

But she was different, she told herself.

She was better than those men, she tried to insist.

And yet something told her she was worse. For her Beast was armed with an intimate knowledge, that sharpened her drive with familiarity. She knew from her own body, her own sex, her own flesh, what it was those starving women wanted, and that knowing gave teeth to her fantasies, her yearnings, impromptu scenarios flashing through her mind for a brief and thrilling second on a crowded street corner. Her visions were not the stuff of contrived, repetitive soft-porn shot on a skeleton budget. They were rich with detail, authentic in every aspect, and her images of what the woman standing beside her on the street corner might look like stretched across her bed, moaning mouth gagged, wrists bound to the bed frame, eyes begging for more of her hand, hips riding upward into each fisting thrust, cunt swallowing her as far as her hand could go, made her blush, instantly uncomfortable amid suited and proper executives waiting for the traffic light’s “walk” signal to favor them.

No longer the passive, receptive one, the Beast made her the aggressive initiator. No one dictated her impulses, but her Desire. The blood that would give life coursed through her — not only in her loins, but through her entire body. Engorged. Enthusiastic. Insistent. Wanting only to find release, replication, some response from another’s skin and bones, to sweat and be sweated, to grind and be ground between the millstones of her aching drive, to dance that dance of messy, complicated joining and splitting, merging and separating, rising and falling, in the eternal give and take of passion, desire, sex.

And as the days and hours passed, the egg inching towards the very tip of her tube, her Desire grew fixed on having a woman. Not just a lesbian or bisexual or bored-and-curious housewife, not just a woman-identified woman, but any woman at all. Any female who would have her. Whether in the light of day rolling in an open field, on the broad table of an unreserved conference room, or in the dark, removed recesses of a dilapidated motor lodge along the interstate, it made not a bit of difference. Did it matter what kind of lover that other woman cared to be with? Tall, short, dark, light, male or female… what difference did it make that she herself was a woman? As long as the other woman wasn’t squeamish or timid, it made no difference what she looked like with her clothes on — or off. She had the knowledge and the experience to please any woman at all, and she was ready to take on whomever would consent to lie down with her and let her do their bidding.

Hungering past hunger, craving with no name for her ways, she was only faintly recognizable to herself — yet undeniably, uncomfortably familiar — all that energy in her gut pushing and pushing and raging to spring free, like a well-oiled trap about to be sprung for the first time in trapping season. The rush hour rut she’d worn into her daily routine, the same trek to and from the office each day, 200 days out of the year, normally so drab and mundane, was charged with electricity that crackled and snapped before her eyes — the chrome of passing cars flashing, catching the early morning sunshine… the reek of the homeless nestled beneath the bus stop benches… the trim of the subway cars shooting through their tunnels… the clear, white solar orb that ducked in and out of the shifting clouds… the flow of traffic she forded on hasty foot… It was all heavy with the sense of life, quietly waiting or pushing intently to become.

And as she strode to the front door of her office building, not even the closer spaces of corporate propriety could mute her Drive. The sensor above the sliding glass bade her good morning and slipped the entrance open with a whoosh, then closed it behind her with a whir. She marched down the hall, taking the corners wide, weaving in and out of clusters of employees awaiting their turn at the coffee maker. The energy of each room she passed echoed in her belly and amplified, shooting off sparks before her eyes in swirls of incandescent light. She levitated through clouds of aurora borealis, wondering if others around her could see and feel the same. From a distance, she saw her desk, ominous in its passive potential for abject boredom.

It was a trap. A poorly constructed and concealed trap. All that was coiled within her, the calls of her body to be drawn in, split apart, and gave rise to new life… the waves of energy that undulated and peaked as she passed each woman in the halls… the thundering blood in her brain… the crash of her ebbing and flowing pulse… the churning in her gut begging for some spawning contact… The thought of spending the day at a desk, was almost too much to bear, turning her into a wild beast pacing behind invisible bars of her own professional choosing. She approached her work area like a wary tiger sniffing bait tied atop a Burmese tiger pit.

NO! — she wanted to shriek at the top of her lungs and go racing through the building, tearing through departments where barely a word was said all day, piercing the silence with a bloodcurdling scream. She wanted to snatch up piles of carefully collated reports and toss them into the air — or into the shredder. She wanted to take a hundred staid and stolid secretaries by the shoulders and spin them around in their chairs, the cords of their dictaphones tearing away from their ears, their fingers pulled from their keyboards with a cacophony of typos. She wanted to race through the building, take security guards on a manic wild goose chase, streak down the street, jump the fenceline around the nearby construction site, and roll down the mountainside of dirt into the pit dug deep for six lanes of underground traffic. She wanted to race to catch a taxi just pulling away from its stand, jump in the back seat with a growl, cruise through the “Combat Zone” and pick up a hooker in front of Horny Al’s Adult Emporium. She wanted to take a fishnet-stocking-clad working girl away from all that, grab a cab to the airport, shack up in a first-class business traveler hotel, and fuck. Fuck like the caged animal she was, breaking out by the sheer strength of her drive, turning all she knew, all she was, upside down and feeling the top of her skull peel away to reveal the deepest secrets of the universe.

Within her, the primal drive that was paraded and feared in the bodies of men, romped and caroused in her belly. She drew looks, curious and wary, from people at work who gave her wide berth in the hallway. The women around her were antsy in her vicinity, and steered clear of her desk. Did it read so plainly on her face, when her eyes lingered just a split second longer on the back of a disappearing beauty? Was the twitch in her hips that obvious? Could all the world see clearly what she was about, what she wanted, and how badly she wanted it?

She didn’t care. All that mattered, was this Desire. This hunger for flesh and blood, the thought of another woman’s body rising and falling beneath/above/around her and the pounding of blood in her ears, as they rocked across the room and back. The pictures came fast and hard in her head, the images of how this one might look with her head thrown back at the moment of climax, how that one might go about seducing a lover, how that one over there spent countless nights alone with only her imaginative hands for comfort, sweet comfort…

If the walls could have talked, they’d have told tales of her itching in her seat. If innocent bystanders could have read her mind, they’d have written her out of polite society and spirited her off to an institution in a hug-me coat for running rampant over their common decency. All day, for days on end, she fended off the hydra of her desires that sucked her energy into the ravenous vortex that was her mind, her fierce imagination… that growled and howled at her, rising up with teeth of steel that wrapped around her throat and shook her like a rag doll. She was at its mercy – and part of her didn’t care. It only knew what it wanted. And how it wanted.

As her egg dangled from the tip of her tube, poised for the explosion of creation, she reined in her thoughts as they danced a satyr’s steps of bald-faced lust, rarely stopping in their flow of detail and embellishment, except to catch their breath, let her eat or sleep or piss, only to pick up where they’d left off and leave her no peace in her waking moments.

Waking days gave her no comfort. Only night could ease her agitation. Sleep became a blessing, as luminous blackness caressed her tired mind and soothed her aching body. In the night’s welcoming embrace, where the fecund intimacies of all centuries lay dormant, sleep spoke to her of things beyond her day, beyond the workings of her mind, and though she remembered little of the particulars when she woke each morning, she recalled a soothing reminder that this Drive came from within herself, that it was a part of her innermost core, and that she should have no fear of this Desire.

But fear it, she did. Until the day her egg dropped and shriveled from inattention, and her body was reminded again it would bear no children that month, the vulgar, obsessive Drive continued unabated. It would not relinquish its grip. It refused to release the back of her brain and the nether regions of her gut. It wore her down. It took bite after bite out of her dignity. It gnawed at her decorum like a cholicky child with newly cut teeth suckling at a mother’s tender nipple. It was relentless, it would not stop driving her eye after figures she passed, it would not stop the flow of saliva that pooled in her mouth at the sight of long hair falling over a soft, exposed neck, and it would not give her a moment’s rest, but drove her on without mercy, without discrimination, without any sign of good taste, to lust after the bodies of women around her. The steady thunder of desire’s abandon shook the chambers of her heart and head with resounding clashes of carnal intent. Distraction had its limits. Desire did not.

No matter how cleverly she tried to placate or outsmart it, she could never shake the shadow of the Beast. No matter how well she planned her months, looking ahead to her ovulation with a mix of thrill and trepidation, no matter how firmly she steeled her nerves against the coming of her Drive, no matter how firm her resolve to resist its indelicacies, its outright affronts, it always won out. It never quit. Like clockwork, it showed up in her life. Predictably, it wreaked havoc with her sanity.

She always kept track of her cycles, even though conceiving a child was the farthest thing from her mind.

She needed to know how her body was doing — she needed to know what her body was doing.

She needed to be prepared.



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