Halon

I can't say I ever liked Marjorie Aplomb.

There was something odd about her; something twitchy, freakish, combustible.

I also can't say in good conscience that I didn't want to bed her, but the fantasy usually involved Hopkido classes and two halon fire extinguishers. But it was that edgy, loner, assassin combustibility that made me want her and made blood rush to my unnamables at the sight of a fire safety station.

So, all in all, I thought the evening was going well. She seemed more sedate, over her plate of cajun blackened salmon, than I had ever seen her. I have always felt that people let their guard down when they eat. All fashion and facade dissipates over a nice stuffed cabbage or Belgian waffle. So I hardly touched my crab. 

I, instead, watched the real Marjorie shovel seafood into her skull. She had the unnerving habit of eating everything on her plate counter-clockwise. However, as she finished each item, she would stare -- without blinking -- at the next dish that she was going to devour as if it were going to make a break for freedom. Then, satisfied that her rice pilaf had no hidden agenda andnno intention of racing for amnesty, she would plunge her fork into its depths. Her gaze would then lock onto her steamed vegetables.

The whole evening was filled with this type of quirky, eerie and downright disturbing behavior. Several times during the night we passed a billboard of McGruff, the Crime Dog, and every time she felt compelled to roll down my car window and bellow "You piss-swilling, fascist mongrel!!!" at the sign. Every time I would try to kick start a conversation it would come around again to the fact that she'd been raped by a freelance journalist at a Reggae Sunsplash concert, and then she would pivot mentally into the social significance of heavy eyeliner. Marjorie was fathoms below any normalcy I had ever encountered in my relatively short life.

But the sex was exquisite.

As we hungrily shucked our clothes, I saw Marjorie in a whole new light. Nude in the semi-shade I could have mistaken her for a coed, Young Republican hard-body. Her pigmentless, white skin was surprisingly free of any blemishes. And, oh God - the way she moved. It was as if I were basting myself in warm butter and attempting a medium-tension Stairmaster at full speed. I felt like I was fucking a Jackson Pollack -- animalistic and guttural, yet brilliantly abstract. My head swam in euphoria. When she climaxed the first time, she threw back her head and seductively moaned "I am Death, destroyer of worlds." The second time she whimpered breathlessly, "My name is Ozymandias, King of all this land. Look on my works Ye Mighty and rejoice!" My degree in literature kept me going. Kipling! Dickens! Capote! Umberto Eco!; Yes! Yes!  

My degree was worthless in the end. I collapsed , exhausted onto the bed next her, my abdominal muscles still quaking. She leaned over and kissed me gently on the forehead. She ran her hand along the line of sweat on my face that had just begun to cool.

"It is a far, far better thing I do than I have ever done. It is a far, far better rest I go to, than I have ever known," she said.

I just chuckled and asked for a difibrulator.