Amanda Filipacchi - Love Creeps

“The foods that saleswoman mentioned made me hungry,” she said, and headed for an ice-cream store across the street.

The ice-cream store only served those perverted European cones where the two scoops of ice cream were positioned side by side, like testicles. She always avoided getting those cones because they aggravated her problem. Sick, those Europeans, to make an innocent ice cream look like a penis.

She considered not getting an ice cream at all, but she was afraid Alan would suspect her problem.

Or maybe he wouldn’t suspect anything — she could never tell how obvious sex imageries were, to other people. Nevertheless, not wanting to risk arousing his suspicion, she took the cone and gave the testicles a tentative lick, just to look natural. She tried to be relaxed, but her tongue came out pointy and tense. It jabbed at the balls in a manner that might not have pleased them had they been alive.

“So, what do you think about this weekend idea? Is it okay with you?” Alan asked.

She looked at the ground, holding the edible penis guiltily. “Yes, it’s okay with me.” She was disappointed that she didn’t have enough willpower to tell him not to leave her to her orgiastic fun.

Alan laughed. “Don’t seem so sad! You trust me, don’t you?”

She sighed and nodded. He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close, kissing her temple and squashing her creamy testicles between his furry pink chest and her breast.

“Oops.” He grinned. They wiped themselves.

A few blocks later, they passed a bookstore, and Alan wanted to stop in.

“Why?” asked Jessica. It had already been four hours since their last sexual intercourse, and today, on her day off, she expected more sex. Plus, the ice cream got her hot.

“I want to check out a short story called ‘A Perfect Day for Bananafish,’ that Roland told me to read,” Alan said. “Have you heard of it?”

She didn’t answer. Alan looked at her and saw a curious expression on her face. He had no idea how to interpret it, so he repeated, “Do you know it?”

“Yes. There’s no reason you should read it. Roland is a fool and an asshole. Let’s go.”

“Aren’t you curious to know why he wanted me to read it?”

“No”

“Because you already know?”

“Yes.”

“So why?”

“You obviously told him that story about when you were little and the woman said it’s a perfect day for mangofish and she helped you pet one. I don’t know why you open up to that bastard. You shouldn’t tell him personal stuff.”

“It’s not very personal.”

“Yes it is, as a matter of fact. It’s very personal.”

“Well, I don’t agree,” Alan said, swinging open the door to the bookstore and heading toward the literature section.

“Alan,” Jessica said, in a small voice behind him.

“What?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound harsh.” She stroked his neck affectionately and gave him a kiss. She looked sad.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She nodded, smiled reassuringly.

He found the book. He skimmed the story and suddenly dropped his rabbit head, which went rolling down the isle. He sank to the floor. Jessica ran to his side, hugging him, kissing his cheek.

“Say something,” she said.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you can’t change the past. There was no need for you to know.”

“No need to know I was sexually molested as a child?”

“What’s done is done.”

Later that evening, Alan said, “I wish I had known years ago. My life could have been different.”

He didn’t say anything more about it.

But he thought about it. And thought about it. And thought about it.

His abuser was his mother’s neighbor, Miss Tuttle, and she had given him to pet what she claimed was a mangofish, but what he now learned was her vagina. He had been floating on her yellow raft. She had brought his hand under the water, his view blocked by the raft. She said the mangofish was shy and didn’t like to be seen. He remembered what it had felt like. It was mushy and it had folds. And yet, in all the years since, it had not occurred to him that he had touched the woman’s genitals.

Maybe he would pay her a visit one day and confront her about what she had done.

Over the years, Alan had frequently asked his mother how Miss Tuttle was doing. His mother had always told him Miss Tuttle was the same as ever, that she hadn’t moved and still earned her living mostly as a hairdresser, and occasionally entertaining children at birthday parties. He never understood why he inquired about Miss Tuttle. He didn’t care one way or the other about her. Now he recognized this neutrality was his repressed shame, his disgust, his hatred of her.

In awe, he thought, I am actually a normal person, who happened to have been abused. Deep down, I am normal. I was not born defective — I was damaged a little later .

Alan had always felt inferior to the other stalkaholics in SA meetings, who seemed more sane than he, because they talked about their childhood abusers, on which they blamed their stalking addiction. Alan had a happy, sound childhood, which made him feel like an outsider, a freak, a truer criminal than the stalkers with excuses.

Now that Alan had discovered he had not had a wholesome childhood, things were different. His sexual abuse was like religion. It explained his deficiencies, his problems, even his lack of artistic talent. All of it was the fault of that abuser. He almost felt grateful to her. Grateful that he could dump it all on her. His stalking habit — her fault. His poor sense of direction, of style, of observation — her fault. His facial expressions that were formerly too drastic and too frequent — her fault. His poor singing, poor dancing, weight problem, hair loss, poor muscle tone — her fault. Life made sense. Finally.

He pondered his problems with swimming. He wondered if there were swimming lessons made for survivors of aquatic sexual abuse. He thought of himself as a completely different person now: a victim. It was liberating and empowering. It raised his self-esteem. He marveled at how his life just kept getting better and better: First he had conquered his stalking addiction, then he had embarked on self-improvement and improved himself, then he had found a great girlfriend, and now he had just learned he was a victim of childhood sexual molestation!

Patricia informed Lynn, “The British Transport and General Workers’ Union has rejected your application for membership on the grounds that you are not British and not a transportation or general worker.”

Lynn nodded slowly, a look of concentration on her face.

Patricia admired Lynn’s devotion to her rejection method, her perseverance in applying it despite getting rejected by Alan on a daily basis anyway.

Alan and Roland told Lynn about their idea of redoing the weekend deal. They gave her no choice as to the order — she’d first be going with Roland, then with Alan.

She agreed.

Ray the homeless man still closed his eyes and held his breath when the stalking chain passed. He had long ago stopped his therapeutic comments. These beguiling crazy people.

When Roland and Lynn arrived at the inn, Max exclaimed warmly, “Ah, Roland and his stalker!”

“Not quite,” Lynn said. “Things have changed. Roland is now my stalker, and next week I’ll be coming with the man I’m currently stalking.”

Lynn scrutinized Max. He hadn’t changed at all. He still had his long curly hair, his ruffles, his codpiece. For some reason, Lynn suddenly wondered how Max and the sex addict Jessica would have hit it off if they had met. After all, he was the guy who thought female stalkers were whores and wanted to be fucked. Jessica would probably have no problem with that. If he were to say to her, “Come and sit on my cock,” she’d probably say, “Are you sure you don’t mind?” It could free up Alan.