Bad to the Bones(24)

That was the last thing I needed. Another man.

Now I was stuck with these delectable images. I might have even been getting sexually aroused—I wouldn’t really know, not being that in tune with my own “chakras,” my own cravings. I gave up trying to sleep. I got out of bed and went down the hall. There were so many damned halls in Maddy’s McMansion, I still got lost even when completely sober, which wasn’t the case now.

I wound up navigating like a juicer on a cruise ship, going from cabin to cabin, feeling doors and knobs. My goal was vaguely the kitchen where I thought one more tequila drink—maybe just a shot or two straight this time—would help me. God f*cking damnit. If I ever assimilate back into mainstream society I’m going to become a fellow alkie like the ones on my bus.

I headed toward a light like some sudden heart attack victim. That had to be the kitchen, as I felt I’d gone up and down the right amount of steps. However, as I drew near the open door, I saw the corner of a polished wooden desk. Bookcases told me this was the den of an educated guy, a man who had gotten his high school diploma, unlike me.

This was Ford’s office, and he was back from his border run. Oh Jesus, he had Maddy on her back on his desk and he was f*cking her till the cows came home.

I should have left immediately, of course, but for some reason I was transfixed. I guess I wanted to see how others “penetrated.” I clung to the doorjamb holding my breath. There was no way they were going to hear me anyway, but I held my breath in shock.

It was absolute assault, the way Ford was f*cking her.

With great swings of his hips, he slammed his cock inside her. Not only was she not fighting him, she appeared to accept or maybe even like it. Her bare feet were cinched around the backs of his thighs, and she was wide open for him, her arms flung around his wide, dark-skinned, tattooed back.

But all I could see was assault, violation.

They grunted in tandem. Every time Ford would slam his muscular hips into her, air would be expressed from her lungs. He jolted the huge, heavy desk with his thrusts, almost moving the big piece of furniture with each jab. The only time I’d seen such violent f*cking was during one of my therapy sessions, and it all came flooding back to me.

Shakti had been the first on top of me. He’d pounded away at me while I lay like a defenseless blob of jelly, because that was the way to acceptance. “I am here to wake you up!” he shouted joyously while stabbing my dry vagina with his spear. “You are awake in every sense of the word, accepting my body unto yours!”

But after pounding for about ten long, agonizing minutes during which I am sure he scraped off flesh from the inside of my canal, Shakti leaped off and encouraged some other men. “Go for it!” he urged joyously. Horrified, I watched as a three-hundred-pound disciple eagerly whipped off his dashiki. His tiny little tool bobbed nearly invisibly beneath his hanging gut, and I didn’t know how he was going to complete the act, but he did—by pressing my ankles down on either side of my neck.

I felt I was being split in two from the previous onslaught and now this. I could not scream or cry out, of course. That would only encourage Shakti to spur the men on. It would show I was resisting, not breaking down my inner psychic walls. So I gritted my teeth so hard my jaw was sore for days afterward. The huge man grunted just like Ford was now grunting, and I suppose my brain made an association between the two. The huge man pounded away at me, and I allowed myself to sob with relief when he apparently expended himself fairly quickly. He reeked of baby powder, probably just having come from some massage. He writhed greasily against me like a barrel of lard. I fought to keep my meager breakfast—probably of oatmeal—down in my stomach.

There were more waiting to take his place.

There was actually a line forming of men willing to put effort into enlightening me. “Step on up!” Shakti cried happily. “She’s just an empty vessel waiting to be filled. You don’t need to worry about birth control with this one. She’s an empty urn, open to all comers. Help beat away her defenses—bring her to a state of complete surrender, like a newborn babe.”

I remember even holding my breath when a grossly smelly man mounted me. A hot, thick trickle flooded my ass crack, and I put my fingertips to it. I remember rubbing my fingers against the prickly carpet. Blood. I was f*cking bleeding from the pounding I was receiving, and no one cared. It was cathartic. It was life-changing. That was for sure.

Of course I didn’t question it at the time. But now, holding myself up by Ford’s office door, it all came rushing back to me. Shakti, squatting there in his f*cking soft angora cap, his sinister eye patch slung around his skull. A seeker had lashed out at him when he’d attempted some therapy, some said when he had attempted to reenact a sodomy trauma from the guy’s childhood. The seeker had grabbed a pen and stabbed Shakti in the eye, thus the patch, to remind him that not all humans could be redeemed.

Shakti, urging the men on. “Another one! She hasn’t reached the point of truly yielding, true submission! Thump her with your spiritual reality. Padmi! You ready for a try? Bulsara! Get on up!”

I was cleaved in two like some cut of meat hanging from a butcher’s hook. Not only was I being raped into submission, I would never be able to put the pieces together again.

I found myself in a puddle of limbs on the floor, gripping the doorjamb, sobbing. Real tears now poured down my face. I had not cried since my father had flown away one last time to LA. It was not a sensation I cared to feel ever, ever again. The tears were hot as burning lava because they’d been pent up for so many years, boiling inside my head.