The Gymnast and the Night Demon

Jane was sitting at her table thinking dark thoughts about herself when the doorbell rang.  She cautiously looked though the peephole and viewed a pleasant looking dark skinned man with a package in her porch light.  Something about his appearance made her feel safe, so she opened the door.

The man introduced himself “Hello, I’m night demon Jerome here to help you.”  Jane started to laugh at this absurdity, but stopped as she saw Jerome change in appearance and get much larger.  The man or thing before her now was over seven feet tall, muscle bound with hair sticking out of his clothes.

Jerome apologized for his subterfuge and explained “I knew you wouldn’t have let me in if I came in my natural appearance, so I transformed.  Do not worry, I will not harm you, I know your problem, and will solve it for you.”

Jane couldn’t think of a rational response, so she said “Sure, my problem, you’d solve it.  First, what is my problem, how do you know what it is, and how will you solve it.”

“In the order that you asked:”

“You are a high level gymnast – made the Olympic team, in the Olympics and other tournaments, you’ve placed second or third, but never a first.  Because of the discipline required your menstrual cycle is messed up.  You’ve never had a serious romantic partner of either gender, and because of your appearance you are only hit up by perverts, mostly old males, who want sex with someone that looks like a prepubescent boy.”

“I found out by listening to you talking with other gymnasts about your problem.”

Jane interrupted “How did you do that?  I’ve never seen anyone like you before.”

“As a night demon, I can take several forms, as you should know.  During daytime, I disappear.” 

“The package I brought in is the beginning of your new diet.  I learned that you will retire in a year at twenty-five.  While you follow my prescribed diet, your body will transform to that of a sexy mature female.  It will make gymnastics a bit more difficult, but you can still compete until retirement.”

“I thought of two more questions.  Why should I believe you and why are you doing this?”

“In order that you asked, again.”

“Isn’t it more likely that I’m telling the truth than that I could do the shape-shifting you observed?”

“I’m one of the good demons whose purpose is to bring sexual healing to deserving humans.  Not that we don’t enjoy our job.  We frequently treat ourselves and our projects to rapture.”

Jane wasn’t a believer yet, but she had a request which might convince her.  “Can you change back to the man I saw at the door?”  He did, and she said “Please hug me on your way out.”

Jerome complied and pressed against her body with his arms around her waist.  The heat of his body and the erection she felt through their clothes gave her a full body orgasm.  Fifteen minutes later, he was gone and she found herself dazed on the floor.

Around a year later, Jerome came back to visit Jane in the original form she had seen him.  The new Jane was a happy beauty.  Jerome told her “Looks like the diet worked.  You are radiant.  How about the romantic front?  Afraid I’m had too many other projects to check in.”

“There are two guys who are serious about me.  Joe is a baseball player who strikes out in bed sometimes, but when he is on, he hits home runs.  He swings a big bat.”  Jane chuckled at that.

He is really good about getting me warmed up.  We experimented a lot and we know where the hot spots are.  We are both into nipples and necks and some other places I don’t want to tell you about.”

“Ted is a Yoga instructor who is an expert at all of the best positions.  He can do a slow burn or white heat.”

Jerome smiled and said “Sounds like my work here is done.”

“Not until I’ve thanked you appropriately”.  Jane led Jerome to her bed.  After a couple of hours of moaning and groaning, and friction leading to fire, Jerome departed.  Jane woke up the next morning thinking about a decision between Joe and Ted and whispered “Thanks Jerome”.

Tiny Fearsome Hurricane Force

Surprised I knew her language was Tagalog, she asked me out, so we met at Barley’s in Knoxville’s Old City for pizza and beer. She was so tiny she got drunk on one IPA and we had to go to Java City over on Jackson Avenue for coffee to let her sober up for the drive home.

We only kissed that first night, but that led to many more nights. She was a 23-year-old in-demand stripper, a single mother, and she wanted badly to be married. It took two weeks before she let me come to her place in the projects behind barbed wire fences and patrolling cops, but after that first time, she wouldn’t let me leave. She clung to me and passion ran deep. She was a goddamn tiger in bed, a lover and fighter. When she fought, storm clouds gathered and she was wicked fierce. But Holy Christ, these were the most violently explosive orgasms in history and that girl was the horniest person I’d ever met. She needed it at least five times a day and was always wet no matter what or where. It seemed like Heaven, at least for awhile.

(Yeah, I knew I was in it for all the wrong reasons… I’m not proud of it.)

After eight months of passionate tussling, of my continued refusals of marriage, of my telling her I wanted only an uncommitted relationship “for the time being,” having just been burned in a very long-term, decade-plus relationship, she apparently ran out of patience and told me out of the blue that she was moving to Michigan with an old boyfriend to get away from me and the city. An old boyfriend who was her son’s father. 

She called me at my new job and asked me for cash. I barely had any money – I’d been broke as shit for a year. I’d moved across the country at a bad time and hadn’t found work doing crap. Hell, I’d been staying at her place in the ghetto, braving both the cops and the bangers, sharing her mattress on the dirty bedroom floor. However, I’d recently gotten a crappy gig bouncing at a biker bar for $6 an hour, working very late nights and getting a few bruises for my effort. I wasn’t a huge guy, but I’d always broken other people’s bones faster and easier than they broke mine. 

Still, broke is broke. I told her I didn’t have any cash, but she said she knew I must have some money. She said “Just give me some – I’m moving. I need some cash, baby.” With flickering lashes and the whole show, which worked on me every damn time. Kicking myself for being such a sucker, I told her to meet me in the big Walton’s parking lot, now next to a freshly razed old supermarket.

She drove up in her purple Kia upon seeing me standing by my ancient black once-sporty Nissan. She got out and I asked where Cam was. 

“With Steve,” she said.

“Already? You didn’t waste much time. You just told me about this last weekend!”

“Well, he’s got a new job lined up in Michigan. Plus he has a huge cock and is pretty awesome in bed.”

“Shit baby, when did he get into town?”

She admitted it was about three weeks ago.

I said, “So you’ve been messing…” and didn’t need to finish the rest as she casually nodded yes.

How long had she been cheating on me? Was dick size the culprit or was it commitment issues? Shit, how huge was it? Like Ron Jeremy-sized? She was barely five feet tall, less than 100 lbs. I thought we were a good fit, so to speak. I realized I really didn’t want to know the rest.

Whatever. I sighed and handed over my last $300 in cash, leaving myself with literally a dollar and three quarters. I emphasized it was only a loan. She snatched the bills from my hand, got back into her Kia, looked back at me, said “Thanks” and drove off.

I never got my money back, in fact never saw or heard from her again. But then I wasn’t surprised. She wanted to get married; by God I hope she did.

Violent Devotion

I.

The word of love is a mystery that sneaks up on most. Worship can be better understood. I found you when hope had died ugly, trembling with fear. We struggled for what felt like an eternity, trying to decide who would win. It was a very terrible thing, and I regret ever calling it affection, the blood that dripped from our wounds tasted bitter. I want to be kind, sweet, harmless. I want to put this rage away, inside a book of fairy tales no one reads anymore. I want to strip this of all the horror we cultivated, dress it up like a thing of beauty. It’s no use, it’s deformed, a fruit of gore, rotten. 

I think about all the things I told you, the lies I built like a castle, with faulty structure, just waiting for the right time to come down. I remember biology class, my high school self struggling to stay still, a story of spiders on the whiteboard. Their cannibalism was a tale of terror, detached, no emotions involved. It’s not how we work, strange humans filled to the brim with feelings.

I cry as I eat you.

II.

I want to try on your skin, pull it out slowly like a sticker from a beloved notebook. Wear it like a form fitting jumpsuit, glue it to myself so you can’t have it back. Move with your arms and your legs, speak with your mouth, summoned words going up from the skin of your throat, your neck but my will. It would be fun, I promise. You’ll be nothing but exposed red muscles, veins throughout your body, a living and breathing science book image. But I’ll take care of you like that. I’ll put you inside a box, closed tight so no one can see you, I’ll give you food everyday through an opening on the wood, you’ll be warm and cozy while I walk around.

I’ll tear your life to pieces, self destructive and unkind. Your job will be nothing but a distant memory, all the love in your life left traumatized. I’ll use all your knives until they are blunt, cutting chunks of your plans, eating them raw. Is this how we end? My eyes watching through your eyelids? I’ve learned the way you move, your tics and repetitions, the rise and fall of your voice, the tone you use when you want something. I’ve practiced, every night. Twisting my sounds to become yours. I move my hands while I talk too, I make the same jokes you do. This is a form of admiration, I hope you are flattered. You are a debt that is owed, and I’m the collector. I take you with greed, anxious, wanting. 

I dislike you just as much as I desire you, with all of me.

I write you in my memories, the main character in a film, the world revolving around you, the universe bending to your will. I feel like Bluebeard, keeping you locked inside, my puppet, my prey. I like it, I play the part well. I hang the people you love from the ceiling with joy, imagining your face when you see your life cut in two. I picture you in their place, hungry and lonely, malleable, clay ready to be molded into something else. 

You’ll cry of course, feeling trapped in the warmth I wrapped around you, it’s how it always goes. But I’m not moved by tears, never have been. I just watch your hope go, running away while your body stays.

III.

I’m the monstrous fisherman that captures the mermaid, unwilling to give up my possessions. I wrap you in my net, mouth watering with greed, dissect you like a fish, bleeding on the wood of my boat. Isn’t it funny, how I don’t hesitate? I’d do it again, just for you. 

I take stock of you, like cattle. Count all your fingers and your toes, think about which one I’ll cut first. It horrifies you, of course. But this is a return to nature. I kill you as I love you, make you my favorite meal. I scoop out your insides and turn your corpse into a home, your flesh my roof. 

I must be the one to do this.

You could never stomach me.