Hidden sex in bus

2020.10.24 12:26 ArsenicFantasyFr Bus sex in hidden

Let me introduce myself, I'm 18 (M), currently in university.
I must take two bus to get home, and I started university the 28 September 2020.
I met a girl at the bus stop who is also in my group, so she talked to me when she see me. We were talking only at the bus stop waiting our second bus, not the first. The first bus we take is the same, the second one is different.
Till a few days later, we were talking only at the bus stop a few minutes. So she proposed me to take the first bus together instead of just wait for the bus stop to talk, logic, I said "yes".
The problem is, I'm shy, suffer from social anxiety and I'm depressed, I don't have any self estim or very low, so I just keep to take bus alone and not talking to her till the bus stop.
When we were taking the bus together we didn't even speak, it was awkward, we was with our earphones on, looking through the windows. Awkward.
One time, she didn't even see me at the bus stop or in the bus. I was at the bus stop, "hidden", I saw her get on her second bus. She immediatly texted me on Snapchat asking me where I were, of course I didn't tell her the truth (sorry I'm just shy I didn't dare to talk to you) or something like that. Instead I told her bullsh*t after bullsh*t, I feel, I'm pretty sure she didn't believed me.
So I tried to redeem myself. Days after, I've start to take bus with her, but as I said before, It was jsut and still awkward, earphones on, looking through the windows. I really tried, all I know is, she love studying and dance. This is her life, nothing more. We talked about that and then it was awkward.
I don't know what I can talk with her. I tried music, party...Nothing seems to work. It's always awkward.
There was just this time when I was a little bit drunk and high, we were in the bus together, we laugh, I had a conversation with her and it was good, but you know what ? She put her earphones on telling me "tell me if you want to talk I only have the right one working" I was shocked so I stoped talking. Even the alcool and drugs wasn't too much, I still knew I fucked up. But I don't know how, why and where, what I'm missing.
Last Wednesday, she came sit next to me, telling me she were dissapointed because her friend weren't there (Am I a stand-in?). We joked a bit, talked and she even helped me (I'm struggling in class). She asked me if I take bus, I answered "yes".
This same day, my last hour of class, I was joking with a another girl behind me, and she, few times looked at me (we were noisy) maybe it was bothering her since she is a serious student. Even if we didn't speak loudly, maybe she was hearing our bullsh*t (joking about sex...).
So just after, instead of waiting me, she went to the bus stop without me, fastly, I was at the start of the bus stop, she was at the end, so we were pretty much "far" one from each other. It's a big bus stop because there's always A LOT of people. I still manage to look at the distance, discreetly and manage to see that she were doing the same, I think. Like I was looking for her and she was looking for me type thing.
I don't know if she saw me, but I'm pretty sure she saw me, I saw her so I don't know. We took the bus on our own each other. Then at the second bus stop, she told me she didn't see me in the bus and we still talked about dance, studies.
I get into my second bus and texted her if she were dancing or she were late (she often go to dance after university), this allowed me to talk to her apart from the university or bus stop, the discution was short but cool.
She talk to me sometimes in class, we jokes a little bit, Idk so my friend think I have a chance with her. Idk if he is right because, she is a very nice, good girl, she is not fucked up and all, clever, beautiful...to be honest, I don't think she is into me because, I'm not really a bad guy but not a good one either, she's taller than me, and I'm acting like a weirdo.
What do you think and what advices can you give me ? Should I try something with her or just try to be friend ? If someone could help me understand her or girls in general lol it would be nice
TL;DR: I met a girl in university, we talked sometimes but it's weird and I don't know if I should be into her or not
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2020.10.17 16:28 Crafty-Hovercraft788 In bus hidden sex

My (M35) Wife (F34) of 13 years and I are in a free fall. Sexsomnia, work, and trust to blame
I’ll use this account to speak on this subject because of work and stuff.
I'm a pastor (that's the work part) and my wife moved out of the house two weeks ago to get some space and be able to think and process.
The last year and a half have been hell.
From my point of view, we had our issues but could talk about them and find balance and make things work with our three young (ten and under) kids.
Here's where we struggle:
My high expectations
I told my wife it was super important to me that we be home with our family 4 nights a week. For a while, that was what she expected of me. In my first job, I was out a lot. And I worked and worked to be home more. After moving, I found a place where I was only out one night a week.
I also really wanted to have dinner together as a family. That was important to me.
Then she got a job in fitness. At first, it was great. She's a KILLER coach and is great at delivering a class. She taught one class at night and others during the day. We even all went together to her Saturday class as a family (kid care was awesome) and then went on an adventure.
But she changed gyms and roles and started working 3 nights a week plus a class on another night. It was tough, but I started taking her class and bringing the kids to the gym later than we normally stayed out "to see mom" and so I could cheer her on.
But she said she felt like I hated her job and wanted to take all of her time. She would often come home from work at 8 or 9 pm and then have to work more on a class for the next day. So I felt double robbed of our time.
And she felt like she only disappointed me.
Negative Feedback Loop
So whenever a dispute came up, or she pointed out something that was difficult for her, she said that if she told me about it, I would get sad.
Then the only way for her to cheer me up would be to be physically intimate with me.
So she felt like she was carrying her burdens plus my dead weight.
I honestly did not put these pieces together until last year, but she still says because of the past Negative Feedback Loop, she has a really hard time sharing anything with me.
I am willing to break this cycle now that I know about it, but then...
Sexsomnia
I have the sleep condition known as sexsomnia. And it's not new. We talked about this for the last decade of our 13 year marriage.
Now we had a regular and I thought healthy sex life. Once a week or so and we talked about things, tried things and were positive with each other. We would both "finish" and weren't lacking in being satisfied.
And the sexsomnia didn't bother her. It would be perhaps once a week on top of our awake sex. She even said if I found myself having sex with her (I would sometimes wake in the middle of foreplay) that I shouldn't stop because she'd be all hot and bothered and awake. So might as well we both finish.
She would express frustration at not getting enough rest (and with there kids, I get it), but that was the end of the negatives.
Until it wasn't.
She had a conversation with her boss who shared that he had experienced sexual assault in their younger years. My wife replied with "Well, my husband does this weird thing at night..."
He replied with "Wow, that's really f*cked up"
And then this thing we had known about and talked about for years became something that was really f*cked up.
Like, she would have PTSD like triggers if I even touched her while she slept. Rolling over in the middle of the night my foot touching her foot triggers.
We slept with a pillow between us. I went on antianxiety meds and to counseling. I took a sleep study.
She couldn't deal with it.
It's been a full calendar year since my last episode, but the pain is still really fresh to her.
She said it was like taking away her choice. If she didn't want to have sex that night, I'd say that was fine, while I was awake.
Then I'd try to have sex with her when I was asleep.
I hated myself for this thing I have no control over. I wanted to take every step I could to fix it and have.
But she says she doesn't know if she can ever trust me again.
This leads to...
She doesn't trust me, but wants me to trust her completely
We never had secrets between us. There were some counseling situations I couldn't share with her at work, but other than that we talked. Often. And about a lot of things.
But then she shut down.
She didn't want to share anything with me.
So I started to reach out to communicate more. But she asked me to give her space. Then she didn't want me to know who she was talking to.
She didn't want me to ask who she was texting. She didn't want me to ask where she was going, who she was going to hang out with, when she would be back, nothing.
She told me she was hurting and that I needed to trust her process.
Even if that meant being out until 2 or 3 am or texting people what felt like non-stop when we actually were together.
She's hidden her location on her iPhone. She's hidden her activity on her watch.
Now I take care of the bills. And the insurance. And the dentist and the doctor appointments for the kids. I get the kids up and ready for school in the morning and on the bus. And the house stuff. I do it all. Dishes. Cleaning. Literally of it.
She trusts me with our kids, finances, doctors, etc but not herself.
I'm not deep enough?
She's a smart one. I try. She's said she's experienced real pain in our relationship (something that I can't really put a finger on outside of what I've outlined above). Whenever I say "Oh, I think I figured this out about myself" it's usually met with "I knew that about you already. That's not deep enough. It's still really shallow."
MAN I'M TRYING.
I told her I had been doing a lot of thinking and writing in order to try to discover more. She told me that she's prepared to be disappointed with what I've found out because it's probably just a step deeper and not REALLY deep where she is.
She didn't feel heard
This is TOTALLY my fault and I get it. She would say she had an idea and I'd get really excited about it.
A laundry hamper for the bathroom or a trip to the beach.
Then I'd take care of all the details.
And she felt like I didn't take or want her input. That was bad. I admit that I really messed that up and wanted to make it right. I've tried to make it right by asking her for her opinion and trying to slow down my rushing out to fix things and do things before we've talked about it.
Totally me.
And then everything else
She didn't want me to meet her at the door when she came home from work at night because she was stressed and needed space.
She didn't want me to come upstairs in the morning when she was getting ready to talk to her because she just woke up and wasn't ready to talk.
She wanted me to speak her love language of getting her gifts, then she DIDN'T want me to do that anymore because each note or gift was something she had to unpack and think about.
I had a hobby writing novels (and making a good chunk of change from it) and doing some podcasts, but then she wanted me to stop that so I could focus on her more. I did, then it became I'm focusing on her too much.
She didn't want me to text her during the day.
She didn't want me to call her.
She wanted me to dress better (bought clothes and did).
She wanted me to be more athletic (have been going to the gym 5 days a week)
She wanted me to meal prep with her because she felt lonely doing it all by herself (done)
She didn't want me to offer to take her to lunch or spend time with her because she felt like all I was trying to do was lead up to sex.
She didn't want me to sleep in the same bed as her.
She wanted to rent an apartment and move into it for six months so she could have some space to process and think and feel (She's been moved out for two weeks).
...
I'm exhausted.
I love this woman with my whole heart. I told my church about the difficulties we were having and was hinted at heavily that her moving out was going to be a deal-breaker. I told her and the church it didn't matter. She was more important to me than my job. Since then I've been assured my job is secure, but that we should go to marriage counseling.
Something I wanted to do a year and a half ago when she told me that she was in a bad place.
All of this came down in the last year and a half. I wanted to go to counseling together right away. She said she wasn't ready. She's still saying she's not ready but willing to go to the counselor she selected and at the frequency she can handle (probably not once a week, in other words).
Granted, a crap ton has happened to us in last two ten years:
My father passed away before we found out we were pregnant with our first child
Our second child had a major heart condition corrected at ten weeks old (TAPVR).
We went on food stamps because of student loans and only one income.
We moved across the country.
We had a third kid.
I lost my older brother, all four grandparents, and my uncle.
She's lost her grandparents.
A good friend of ours died of breast cancer. My wife literally felt her friend's last heartbeat as I hugged her husband's neck.
I broke my leg and was out of my normal dad helping for three months.
She had a herniated disc in her back that required surgery to fix (much better now with a ton of PT and training).
There's a LOT of stuff we've been through.
...
I've been to counseling. Like, A LOT of counseling. Six months, twice a week and a crap ton of journaling. Personally over all of this and feel like I'm a plain better human being because of it.
I just wish it was enough for my wife.
...
Every time I talk about our years before, which I look back on with such fondness, she tells me she just sees sadness and pain. Now granted, we talked about that when we were going through it. I know we did. But we overcame it. Or so I thought.
She can't really name times she was happy.
We went on quick weekend trips just to be together and go on adventures. We had regular dates. We laughed. A lot.
Until it all stopped.
...
I don't want to lose her.
I'm afraid marriage counseling will be too little too late.
I'm willing to make the changes and do the work.
She has said she knows what the counselor is going to ask of us, but she doesn't want to do it.
I'm exhausted.
I love her.
But I'm exhausted.
TL/DR!
A year and a half ago, my wife told me everything that was wrong with us. I was blindsided. She doesn't think she can trust me or be intimate with me again. We're going to marriage counseling next week.
Is it already over?
Questions
Are there things I'm missing here? I want to take responsibility for my own faults but I don't want to be blindsided again.
How can I approach the marriage counselor when we are together without just saying "But I've done everything she's asked of me!" without throwing her under the bus?
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2020.10.08 23:59 millymichelle Hidden sex in bus

This is a re-post from an analysis I did last year. Wanted to share it again for our larger audience and because October is SPOOOOOOOOOOKY SEASONNNNNNNN.
(TRIGGER WARNING: THE EVENTS TALKED ABOUT BELOW ARE EXTREMELY DARK AND DISTURBING. PLEASE ONLY READ IF YOU HAVE A STURDY MIND. THESE ARE BRIEF ASTROLOGICAL VIGNETTES MEANT IN PART FOR ENTERTAINMENT BUT ALSO FOR EDUCATION. FULL CHART READINGS ARE LABORIOUS, SO THESE ARE TRUNCATED. IF YOU HAVE ANY OF THESE PLACEMENTS LIKE I DO, PLEASE DO NOT DESPAIR. THERE ARE MANY MANIFESTATIONS OF PLANETARY ALIGNMENTS, AND MANY ARE POSITIVE OR NEUTRAL.)
You’ve seen the meme going around. The one that tallies up infamous serial killers and their Sun signs. The result? A heap of mutable signs. Gemini, Virgo, Sagittarius and Pisces. I’m tired of the slander! Jokes aside, it does seem to perpetuate harmful stereotypes, especially for Gemini and Sagittarius (or Sagiterrorist as Twitter says---yikes) ,that there is something inherently dubious, untrustworthy or sinister about these signs. So here is a brief examination of all 12 signs, the infamous killers who belong to them, and the planetary conditions that can compel heinous acts. That’s right, murdering is equal-opportunity and doesn’t discriminate based on sign. Leggo!
Aries: Donald Harvey, born 4/15/1952. Killed 37-57 people while working as an orderly. Method: mostly poison. RX Mars in Scorpio square Pluto in Leo. Mars in the 8th, Pluto in the 5th. Poison, a rather passive way of killing someone, can belong to a RX Mars in Scorpio, and the perverse pleasure from such acts can belong to Pluto in the 5th. ASC ruled by this Mars, out of aspect to the ASC—suggesting a hidden, unwieldy martial nature. Tense aspects between Mars and Pluto can manifest…darkly. He also had Neptune opposite his Sun-Jupiter conjunction in the 1st. Neptune can destabilize the ego, create low self esteem, and produce disturbing fantasies, especially here with a sextile to Pluto. Uranus in the 4th in Cancer is the apex of a T-square, with the opposition between his Sun-Jupiter and Neptune, both of which square Uranus. Acting out in erratic and disturbing ways whilst taking care of people in a place they call home (Uranus-Cancer-4th). Harvey said he killed out of empathy, wanting to end others’ suffering, or out of anger. Jupiter conj Sun in the 1st in Aries can create a hot-head whose anger gets out of order (Jupiter expands) very fast. Harvey also had tense aspects from his Venus to his Moon and from his Venus and Mercury to Saturn. Unloved, a hardened love, loss of confidence. Moon in detriment in Capricorn.
Taurus: Albert Fish, born 5/19/1870. Killed 3, confirmed. A suspected 9-100 others. Method: variable, but sexual in nature. No time of birth and therefore no rising sign. Mars conjunct Pluto in Taurus. So we are sensing a Mars-Pluto theme. In the fleshy sign of Taurus, this conjunction unfortunately manifested as a fascination with genitals and sexual mutilation. Mars can be our sex drive, and Taurus is a carnal and physical sign, concerned with the body and physical pleasures. Pluto adds the darkness and obsession. Fish also mutilated himself, sticking several needles into his, uh, pelvic region. Mars in Taurus cuts into the flesh. Fish said that he felt God was compelling him to torture children. His Capricorn Moon was opposite his Uranus in Cancer, disturbed rationale on the idea of taking care of children. Here, Venus was also square the Moon, conjunct Neptune, and square Uranus. His prevailing sense of value and love was disillusioned by Neptune (feeling directed by God, a higher force) and completely abnormal (Venus sq Uranus). He was apparently nicknamed The Moon Maniac because he struck at night. Weirdly enough, the Moon exalts in Taurus. Not astrologically relevant but ironic.
Gemini: I feel like I should skip this re: the meme alluded to above. So many to choose from…
Uh—David, “Son of Sam” Berkowitz, born 6/1/1953. Killed 6. Method: stabbing and shooting. I know you’re wondering by now: what are Mars and Pluto doing in his chart? Well, they’re in a softer sextile, Mars in Gemini and Pluto in Leo. But Mars is conjunct Mercury in the 8th and trine Neptune in Libra in his 12th. He famously suggested that he was under the influence of a demon dog while at the time of the murders, feeling compelled to carry out these terrible acts because of this voice in his head. This is the seamless conversation of Mars (aggression) Mercury (your mental processing) and Neptune. He made up a fantastical lie, probably to be declared mentally incompetent. The 8th and 12th houses are also a fitting arena for stories of demons, possession, killing and other otherworldly phenomena. Berkowitz enjoyed the publicity he got from his crimes, perfect for an 8th house Gemini stellium and for a Leo MC. He also enjoyed writing letters to the police, taunting them. Gemini loves a cat and mouse game. Sadly, this was a disgusting one. He mostly victimized women, perhaps owing to a fallen Venus in Aries opposite his ascendant, Neptune and Saturn. This is also the 3rd serial killer in a row to have Moon square Venus, an infelt tension between his emotional gratification and the principle of femininity.
Cancer: Genene Jones, born 7/13/1950. Killed 2. A suspected 60 others. Method: poison. No birth time. Jones was a nurse in the pediatric unit of a hospital. And so yes, all of her victims were infants and children, fitting for a Cancer Sun. She also had her Moon, Mercury and Uranus in Cancer, with Uranus in a tight conjunction to her Moon. This goes without saying by now but pretty erratic emotional nature. Mars was conj Neptune in beauty-loving Libra, and Jones worked for a time as a beautician before becoming a nurse. This combination later ended up producing a woman who murdered (Mars) but injecting lethal amounts of drugs (Neptune) into her patients.
Leo: Luka Magnotta, born 7/24/1982. Killed 1 human, several animals. Method: suffocation, decapitation, severing and stabbing. No birth time. Subject of the new Netflix docu-series: Don’t Fuck With Cats: Hunting An Internet Killer. Magnotta had Sun conjunct Mercury in attention-seeking Leo. He tried out for many reality shows, was a porn actor, and portrayed his life online as a jet-setting model and socialite. He had several fan pages on Facebook, with almost all the comments praising how beautiful he was. It later surfaced that he created all these fan pages, wrote all the comments, and doctored images with his face on other people’s bodies to give the illusion of a glamourous life (His Sun-Mercury conjunction is square boastful Jupiter). His Moon was in shy, calculated and sometimes cold Virgo, square Neptune, embedding within his emotional life a perverse kind of dreaming and wanting. His emotional nature was at odds with his Leo Sun, setting the ground for a person who needed to find attention in a less obvious way. Oh and yes, here he had a Mars-Pluto-Saturn conjunction in relationship oriented Libra, sextile his Neptune in Sagittarius. Mars and Pluto square his Sun—a magnetic, forceful, lustful, and aggressive personality, an ego bent on control and perverse desire. All 3 malefics in Libra show that relationships would never be easy for him, owing also to his Virgo Moon, which can view emotional satisfaction as a struggle. Magnotta uploaded videos on YouTube of him murdering kittens, never showing his face (Virgo). This is how he ended up filling the dark desire of his Leo Sun: he got A LOT of attention. Later on, he also uploaded a video of him killing a Chinese man studying abroad in Canada. He had Uranus trine his Sun-Mercury conjunction in Leo. That he used the Internet to display the attention-seeking needs of his Leo Sun is no surprise.
Virgo: Paul Bernardo, born 8/27/1964. Killed 4. Raped 13. Bernardo was known as The School Girl Killer which off the bat is an eerie coincidence for a Virgo Sun and Rising. If there is anything that conjures up the innocence and purity known (kind of stereotypically) for Virgo, it is the archetype of the school-girl. He has Mars exactly conjunct Venus in Cancer, and trine Neptune in Scorpio. His first rape was against his sister in law and aided by his wife. So, grossly, it was a family affair, the domain of Cancer. Neptune brought in the element of drugs and alcohol—Bernardo drugged his wife’s (Karla) little sister with rum and sleeping pills, and took advantage of her when she passed out. Mars conjunct Venus can indicate violence against women. But strangely, in Bernardo’s case, it also represented that he carried out many of his crimes with his wife by his side. This theme continued—where Karla would bait the victim and drug them, and Bernardo would assault them. Bernardo’s Mercury, Pluto and Uranus were involved in a tight conjunction in Virgo in the 1st, opposite Saturn in Pisces in his 7th. His identity to the world and within relationships was wrought with control, obsession, restriction, and darkness. He frequently boasted about his sexual prowess, experience and preferences—a signpost of compulsive Pluto defining the personality from the 1st. His wife Karla (Taurus) had the same Mars conjunct Venus aspect in her chart and Pluto conjunct Bernardo’s ascendant, fueling his sexual appetite. Bernardo’s Mars conjunct Venus fell in Karla’s 7th house of relationship. They also both had Moon in Aries conjunct, solidifying the sordid theme of Mars in both of their charts. This is the story of a fated relationship intertwined with the ominous themes of death, sexual gratification and predation.
Libra: Angelo Buono, born 10/5/1934. Killed: 9. Raped: 1. Method: strangulation. Buono and his cousin Kenneth Biachi were known as the Hillside Stranglers. They’d pretend to be police officers to lure young women into their car, and would subsequently torture, rape and kill them. While committing these atrocities, Buono’s cousin was actually in the process of applying to be part of the LAPD. Gross. But back to Buono—there are several troubling things to note. He had Neptune conjunct his Virgo ascendant in an applying square to his Gemini midheaven. That he played pretend in order to carry out his crimes fits this planetary narrative, not to mention that Gemini can be a dubious trickster and so let’s introduce ruler of his ascendant and midheaven: Mercury. Jester of the solar system. Mercury was placed in Scorpio in his 3rd house and opposite Uranus. Deceptive communication, unwieldy and dark behaviors all placed in the arena of immediate community (also: cousins are a 3rd house theme). It is also sad to note that Buono would “experiment” with different ways to kill and torture young women. And such is the dark nature of mad scientist Uranus. Among those methods were lethal-injection (Neptune), electric shock (Uranus), and carbon monoxide poisoning (Neptune). Name a more terrifying duo. His Uranus was also in an applying trine to his Neptune. Buono was self-proclaimed “ladies man”, with Venus, Sun and Jupiter in Libra. Jupiter is clearly where we can boast, Venus where we want to feel valued, and the Sun there added a disproportionate amount of spotlight on what would fuel sordid acts. His Jupiter in Libra squared his Pluto in Cancer, a trigger point for exaggerated violence against women. Pluto was the apex of an out-of-sign T-square. Relief from inner-felt tension could only find catharsis through Plutonian behavior. The most apropos signature in his chart, to me, is his Mars in Leo in the 12th opposite Saturn in Aquarius in the 6th. Tense aspects between Mars and Saturn can make one ripe for aggressive or violent behavior, a person who can act out on rage (Mars) and then meticulously reals it in and plans the next event (Saturn). Buono’s chosen method of seduction via pretending to be a police-officer is a Saturn in the 6th theme: service and duty to the community. Only here, there was a hidden motive (Mars in the 12th) that ultimately led him to commit terrible acts.
Scorpio: We’re skipping Charles Manson, ok? Instead: Nannie Doss, born 11/4/1905. (We need more women represented here, amirite?) Killed: 11. Method: Poison. Doss was known as the “Lonely Hearts Killer” and called herself a “self-made widow”. Big Scorpio Energy. But she was also known as the “Giggling Granny” and “Giggling Nanny”. Two juxtaposed archetypes that can be seen in her chart. She does not have a birth time, so here I will dive into planetary conditions and archetypes and leave out the houses. There can still be rich information without a verified time of birth. Doss has an aspect that is dime-a-dozen in the charts of people who commit atrocious acts: Saturn in hard aspect to the Moon, and here they were conjunct in Aquarius. Saturn is a deadening agent when it comes to emotion, and Doss reportedly suffered from depression. She also had an extremely controlling father (Saturn) that forbade her from wearing nice clothing, make up and from going to social events. Instead, he forced Doss and her siblings to work on their farm, even preventing them from going to school (Saturn also squares Doss’s Mercury, the planet responsible for learning). In her childhood, likely because her real life was so restricted, Doss became obsessed with romance magazines and disappeared into daydreams about her own future love-life: Venus in romantic Libra square Neptune in Cancer, Sun in obsessive Scorpio trine Neptune in Cancer—signposts of delusional ideas of love, escapism, and an ever-elusive state of stability for her ego. Married at 16, Doss fell into alcohol and nicotine addiction to cope with her unsatisfactory relationship. The Neptune signatures mentioned above can cause one to go overboard with numbing substances, but Doss also had Mars opposite Neptune. Her actions were governed, in part, by Neptune. Poison is the domain of Neptune, and Doss admitted to killing several family members and her four husbands via deadly tinctures like rat poison and arsenic. As mentioned in part one, Scorpio-like killings tend to be passive versus overt. Why was family her primary target? Neptune in Cancer encouraged the deeds to be taken out on family (in one instance, she poisoned a sweet potato pie and fed it to her then-husband). Despite her horrific actions, Doss had a certain charm distinguished by her Venus trine Moon signature. She continued to find various lovers through her participation in dating services. She was said to have a habit of laughing and giggling while on trial describing her murders. In prison, she was also said to have remained “cheerful”, making jokes about her case. Even before sentencing, she responded in jest to reporters questioning her about the various murder allegations and enjoyed the press. Jupiter in Gemini (news) formed an out-of-sign opposition with her Mercury, perhaps allowing for a larger-than-life outlook and optimism despite her circumstances. Owing also to a strong Neptune, she never quite grasped the gravity of her actions. Lastly, Venus was involved in a tense square with Mars (intermarital violence, domestic aggression) and a trine with Pluto, giving her a loving nature that was combative, controlling, and dangerous. Her first husband called her “frightening,” and fled abruptly after the suspicious deaths of their two children due to “food poisoning”.
Sagittarius: Dennis Nilsen. Born 11/23/1945. Killed: 12-15. Method: strangulation, drowning. Nilsen had a massive conjunction between Moon, Pluto, Mars, Saturn and MC. All three malefices bearing down on his emotional core (Moon) created a dark and twisted individual. He lured young homosexual men with high-risk lifestyles back to his home in exchange for shelter or alcohol. It goes without saying that Neptune is involved—sextiling his Mars-Pluto conjunction. I’ll stop here to say that the sextile, known as the “lesser” trine, is an aspect of ease that, when taken advantage of consciously, presents tremendous opportunity. Nilsen took advantage of this by employing “guile” to lure and seduce his victims. It also helped that he had Jupiter tightly conjunct his Libra ascendant, fueling an image of congeniality, care, and warmth that his sometimes homeless and otherwise downtrodden victims found comforting. As a child, Nilsen was an excellent student. He enlisted in the armed services, and enjoyed his time travelling—an apt intellectual and cultural appetite for a Sagittarius Sun and Mercury in the 3rd. Nilsen noticed his homosexual desires first as a child, and then in the British Army, began trying to enact those desires, albeit shyly. He drank to excess (Jupiter), both to override his shyness and in the hopes that a fellow cadet would take advantage of his stupored state. But generally, Nilsen went to great lengths to suppress his sexuality, even refusing to shower with his fellow soldiers. Nilsen had Venus in Scorpio square a retrograde Pluto in Leo, an aspect that can repress sexual desires, or even pervert them. The perversion here is NOT homosexuality, but the necrophilia that ensued, a manifestation of his sexual attraction to unconscious men. Venus in hard aspect to Pluto can certainly bring in the element of death, even in a literal way. But it also adds in the complete need for control over others, and easier to do so if they are unconscious or aren’t even alive. He described this time of his life as starting down “the avenue of death and possession.” Nilsen’s Moon was in trine to his Venus, adding an insatiable emotional component to his murders. His Venus in Scorpio was also the ruler of his 8th house, Taurus, perhaps accounting with the obsession with death. His Moon in Cancer also places an emphasis on the mom: when his grandfather passed away, Nilsen, a child at the time, recalled his mother encouraging him to see the dead body as it laid in wake. This sowed the seed for what would later become necrophilia. As time progressed, Nilsen would come to resent his mother’s attention on his siblings, a rejection that would later turn his desire to be with other men into an obsession—he needed them “at all costs” and “whether [they] wanted to or not.” His Moon was squared by Jupiter, over-exaggerating the initial insecurity and the subsequent aberrations. The Cancer moon can also explain why he lured and buried all of his victims at his home.
Capricorn: William Bonin, born 1/8/1947. Killed: 21-36+. Method: torture, blunt force trauma, stabbing, strangulation. Bonin has eerily similar placements to our Sagittarius entry above. His Moon was also conjunct Saturn and Pluto, but his Mars was forming an opposition to this trio from the bottom of his chart. His Mars, in Capricorn in the 4th, was also involved in a tight conjunction to his Sun. Bonin’s father was an abusive drunk. The archetype of Mars, violence, and the Sun, father, is apparent here. Mars is also particularly strong in Capricorn, but here ended up exacerbating on the worst of Capricorn archetypes: restriction, isolation, and sheer discipline. Bonin’s father neglected him and his siblings, forcing them to rely on the kindness of strangers for food and clothes. In an attempt to protect her children from her husband, Bonin’s mother sent he and his siblings to an orphanage known for its backwards punishments for break of conduct. There, Bonin was subject to beatings, stress positions, partial drowning, bondage, and sexual abuse. This is the darkest of the dark for Saturn. Bonin fought in Vietnam, the carnage he saw there inuring him to human suffering, later remarking that human life is “overvalued.” His Saturn, Pluto and Moon conjunction played out in his 11th house of humanity at large, and his Mars squared his ascendant, amplifying the stress of fighting and combat (first seen at home, then seen in war). Mars exalted, conjunct the Sun in the 4th, the seat of the soul in a chart, and in aspect to the ascendant, made Mars the strongest player in his life. It ruled his 7th house of Aries, further amplifying the potential for violence against others and with others. Bonin would drive around in an olive van and look for hitchhikers, schoolboys, and male prostitutes. He overpowered and restrained them, taking atrocities once enacted against him and doing them to others. He also removed all the door handles from the inside of his van. His Venus was in the 3rd house in Sagittarius, bringing in themes of short-distance travel, highways, roads, and early schooling. Venus in a Jupiter-ruled sign can be unwieldy, with an insatiable appetite for what it wants, especially so since it was also trine his Leo Moon. In one instance, Bonin committed a murder and was “horny” to commit another one just five minutes after discarding the body. He later said that he was “excited” when looking for victims, with the violence escalating in order sustain his “euphoria,” much like increasing the dose of a drug one has built a tolerance for. His Jupiter was in Scorpio in the 2nd, making a great case for the expansion of dark, sexual acts as it relates to one’s physical sustenance and pleasure. He also had Neptune conjunct his ascendant in an applying square to his Mars and Sun, making his personality one that needed to feel high, that needed to escape, and/or needed to numb. In addition to strangulation and blunt force trauma, Bonin also toyed with chemicals like hydrochloric acid, rounding out the Neptunian narrative at work. Bonin died via lethal injection, a final goodbye from Neptune.
Aquarius: Robert Hansen, born 2/15/1939. Killed: 17-21+. Method: stabbing, various. I want to jump right into the most stunningly symbolic astrological occurrence I’ve encountered while writing these. Hansen had his Mars in Sagittarius, and while behaviorally this can manifest as someone who behaves without any limit (Mars in a Jupiter sign can go beyond any established parameter, which can manifest darkly) as most serial murders tend to do, it also happens to explain Hansen’s interest in…archery. Sagittarius is the archer, and its glyph is the arrow. Hansen escaped into archery and hunting to avoid his domineering father. He was skinny, shy, riddled with acne and icepick scars, and shunned by the opposite sex. As a result, he harbored violent fantasies of revenge on them. Hansen had Moon conjunct Venus in Capricorn. Here, the Moon is in detriment, struggling to realize emotions healthfully. With a conjunction to Venus, there was a deep emotional need to bond through relationship with women, but this desire was stifled by Saturnian energy (notoriously late blooming, awkward). Saturn also squared his Venus and Moon from the sign of its detriment—Aries. Saturn placing restriction on the self-assured sign of Aries can make one particularly shy in expression, and here, it also aggravated the loneliness of his Venus-Moon combo. When the yin nature of one is repressed, out comes the yang. Hansen enacted his Mars in Sagittarius by hunting young women with a knife or rifle in the wilderness of Alaska. His Mars was squared by Jupiter in Pisces, exacerbating the excess of his martial desires. Saturn in trine to Mars in explosive fire signs, Hansen’s criminal records started with him burning down a school bus garage. In prison, he was diagnosed as bipolar. The depression perhaps owed to Saturn square Moon, and the mania perhaps owed to his Jupiter-Mars square in mutable signs. The psychiatrist who made the diagnoses observed Hansen as being hellbent on “revenge” for those who even slightly wronged him and with an “infantile personality” to boot. Hansen’s Aquarius Sun was involved in a stressful quincunx with Pluto, an aspect that can make one extremely suspectable to obsession, power plays, self-hatred, and crime. The power he felt (or needed to feel) with Pluto was not recognized or accepted by his Sun, his core ego, and thus Hansen may have went above and beyond to try and integrate these stressors more harmoniously, and seemed to have done so using violence. Thus, his infantile, unintegrated Sun shone through in some situations, and his brooding and violent Pluto in others. I also opine that since his Sun (and Mercury) were ruled by a debilitated Saturn in sometimes rash and selfish Aries (trined by a sometimes rash and selfish Mars in Sag), that Hansen had no reliable structure on which on build a more mature persona.
Pisces: Aileen Wuornos, born 2/29/1959. Killed 7. Method: shooting. Wuornos became a prostitute at a fairly young age, having been repeatedly sexually assaulted and then thrown out of her home for getting pregnant. With a Venus in detriment in Aries, prostitution fits, as it is a self-sustaining way to make money and seemingly be in control of your sexual agency. Opposite her Moon in Libra, though, prostitution always came at the expense of Wuornos’s well-being, as we might expect. Her Venus was ruled by an exalted Mars at 0 Capricorn, and not surprisingly, all of her victims were men. Venus in a Mars sign is deeply uncomfortable, and brings about an air of violence and anger to ones love life and sense of femininity. Wuornos was certainly besieged by anger issues, lashing out on men as a way to cope with a tremendous amount of sexual trauma. Wuornos would claim she only killed in self-defense, but this story would wax and wane throughout the years, with Wuornos recanting her testimony and then recommitting to it many times over. Her Libra Moon was tightly conjunct Neptune, so lies, the inability to get her story straight, and general disillusionment were all embedded into her emotional nature. At its extreme, Neptune can create so much delusion as to render one completely psychotic—out of touch with reality, out of touch with human nature. Wuornos scored a 32 out of 40 on a psychopathy checklist, with a score of 25 or above indicating severely aberrative psychopathy. Neptune here also saw Wuornos descend into alcoholism, having been pulled over for DUIs several times, and with several of her brawls taking place inside of bars. Her anger was worsened by Pluto, which was in trine with her Mars. This is a person obsessed (Pluto) with getting their way (Mars), and can truly produce a ceaseless ambition that sometimes manifests horribly. She had a cold (and, admittedly, deeply intelligent) Mercury in Aquarius forming an opposition to her Pluto and Jupiter, creating a conversation and confrontation style that was forceful and debaucherously loud (she was arrested often for disorderly conduct or disturbing the peace.) While working on a documentary of her life, director Nick Bloomfield recalled she would “get into a screaming black temper” yet, when not in an extreme mood, had an “incredible humanity to her.” Such is the Pisces Sun, a benevolence and care always latent, no matter how obfuscated. This Sun was square Saturn, producing a person with insecurity and fears, one that never feels quite good enough. Having the two father figures of the chart in tense aspect is also symbolic of her relationship to her father and grandfather—the former a child rapist who committed suicide in prison, and the latter a caretaker who beat her, sexually assaulted her, and allowed her to be raped by a friend. Wuornos’s Venus and Moon were involved in a T-square with Uranus as the apex. That her anger boiled over into erratic, random and sloppy crimes that only spanned one year (far less than the normal sequence killer) was unfortunate cosmic sentence. In the end, Wuornos did not bemoan her death sentence: “I’m okay, I’m okay. God is going to be there. Jesus Christ is going to be there, all the angels and everything.” She thought the afterlife would be good and like Star Trek, that she’d be beamed up. As haunting as her crimes and life were, her ability to hold on to a sense of hope and transcendence is characteristic of her Piscean nature.
Unrelated, but here is Wuornos’s final interview, a day before she would be killed. In her affect, you can see the blending of all the planetary positions in her chart. And if you scroll down to the comments, many were in awe of her composure (Moon in Libra), intelligence (Mercury in Aquarius) and felt sorry for her. A Pisces martyr or monster? Who’s to say. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yFBcjII3QAE
(In the video, she also weirdly predicted the current crisis and growing tension we have with Iran.)
Thanks for reading this. I’m done talking about murderers for now, but do believe that their charts offer striking insight into the accuracy and patterning of Astrology, as heinous things are often easier to isolate and examine than the benign goings-on of normal life.
Be well. And don’t kill people.
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2020.10.02 17:52 iota5atg Hidden sex in bus

I used to think that novels like The time machine by HG wells were just a joke, there is no way state of humankind could deteriorate like that. but now my perspectives have been effected significantly. The current state of hyperinflated wealth inequality, a bus full of people owning 90% of wealth in the world, & the other dramatic shifts in social hierarchy clearly demonstrate to me, humankind will divide into two parts definitely in the future. The chads chadlites and superbetabuxxers rich people will be the top men eloy, at the top of the world who'll benefit from the society at full. They'll be 7' tall handsome white men they'll have harems of thousands of girls willing to have sex, as men their natural instinct to gather all resources available & spread genes far and wide into as many females possible will be fully met and satisfied; and women don't mind really sharing the top 10% of alpha men as long as they can provide resources. win-win for both of them.
meanwhile the incels low tier normies and other undesirable men will devolve into morlocks; they'll be kept forcefully inside hidden by the government in underground societies to keep the world above them functioning for the chad(lites). The government will use futuristic technologies to keep us all sterile and in states of a mindless drone workers so they don't realize the ugly card life has dealt to them or they rise and rebel against the corrupt system. life has shown me that there is no nefarious end to which it won't swoop down just to survival of the fittest, the government has also always done horrific things to it's citizens in order to meet it's agenda and will do it all over again in just over a swift notice. the positive virtue signalling chads and Stacies harbour a deep dissatisfied unjust hatred of the ugly poor and downtrodden people and will gladly kill them even just for fun. I have experienced this in my life all the times, the constant positive affirmations they get render them totally incapable of feeling guilt for other people even for a murder, and they'll shoot us people down as hunting or target practicing on the weekends. The government will not interfere as the men who will be running it, are the men keeping it that way the chads and Stacies in their lust for power and controlling less fortunate human beings. Always has been like that,
The bottom line is it was never over, it has never even begun to begin with. hopefully it'll all be over soon atleast for me. looking forward to no future. sign out.
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2020.10.02 10:40 KieselguhrKid13 Hidden sex in bus

Alright, home stretch foax. This section's a beast. Hang in there and keep sharing your insights! All together now...
Section 66
"You will want cause and effect. All right." (663) What an opening - it's almost confrontational, mocking our need for clear narrative structure and causality.
We discover that Thanatz was tossed overboard in the same storm that sent Slothrop off the Anubis and off on his adventure with Frau Gnahb. Thanatz is rescued by someone even stranger - an unnamed Polish undertaker (think on the etymology of that word) who happens to be a lightening aficionado. I'll stop here and comment that, earlier, when Slothrop fell into the water before and after getting on the Anubis, it brought to mind the river Styx in Hades - another underworld. It washes clean one's identity and memory. Makes you forget who you are. And there's traditionally a ferryman, Charon, to help people cross it. Can't help but think that's who saved Thanatz here, carrying him from the land of the dead to the land of the unliving, the preterite detritus of WWII.
(An aside: Speaking of Styx, has anyone listened to Mr. Roboto recently? That song has some Gravity's Rainbow vibes.)
Our undertaker here is inspired by the Franklin myth and is trying to get struck by lightening in order to experience that "singular point, [that] discontinuity in the curve of life" (664) passing from a rate of change of positive infinity to one of negative infinity in the blink of an eye. Seems there's something of a conspiracy among those who have been through this point of infinite inflection - a secret society of lightening heads who are aware not of another reality but of a new layer of reality laid on top of our own. Insight into a higher level of reality, of hidden systems.
We get an example of the content of the lightning-aficionado's publication A Nickel Saved and it's supposedly full of coded messages for Those Who Know, each part being a veiled reference to other topics that contain the true meaning, requiring a true paranoid's ability to see (make?) connections. For example, there are repeated mentions of April, Easter, and Spring - the season of rebirth. To an Amperage Contest and lightbulbs failing - Byron the Bulb's attempts to strike back, perchance? A screen-door salesman - what is a screen door except a permeable interface?
But our undertaker isn't interested in secret knowledge - he just wants to be a better businessman - and he deposits Thanatz on the shore and rows back off into the storm. Here, Thanatz meets a group of 175s - men formerly imprisoned in the Dora camp for being gay - who have formed their own solitary community in this isolated section of northern Germany.
I suspect some of this imagery may initially shock readers - concentration camp victims who want to return to their prison? Who set up their own 175-Stadt to recreate the conditions of their imprisonment? But think about it - just last section, we saw Katje, someone who's been used and abused by those in power, balk at the thought of being truly free because she had become dependent on systems of control. She had integrated those control systems as part of her identity, her sense of self. "She needs the whip," Blicero wrote of her (662). Just like Katje, these men became so conditioned to depend on a system of total control and rigid social hierarchies that they don't know how to function without it. Their 175-Stadt doesn't seem like such a ridiculously dark, inappropriate caricature now, does it? Because isn't that a central point of this book - that everyone has been conditioned to need control, to need Their System, to not know how to function without it? Slothrop was our perfect everyman from within this system, and look at what it took for him to actually be free (and even then, the ideal of America still has a colonial outpost in his head). But in their 175-Stadt, these men at least control their system of control. They built it, they staff every level of it, and it's entirely under their control. An isolated state, separate from the broader System. But is there a ruler in this system, a king? No, simply the figment of Blicero. His name, his specter, looming over everything. A system of control with no real king? We've seen that before.
Not only that, but this micro-society is not based strictly on the SS command from Dora, but what the prisoners inferred about the rocket command structure in the Mittelwerke. So even their "recreation" of their imprisonment is an approximation of a different system. I'd also stop here to comment that, is this imagery really as ridiculous/insane as it first appears? I'd say no, since the queeS&M community absolutely took inspiration from Nazi uniforms as symbols of dominance and control, repurposing it into fetishwear. But then, as in this 175-Stadt, the control is by choice, as is the submission. As we've seen elsewhere in this book (Blicero's Oven-State), turning submission into a fetish can be a form of rebellion, since it subverts Their means of control (fear of pain) and turns it into a source of pleasure. Is it truly control if you're choosing it? Enjoying it? No one said this book asks easy questions of its readers...
Thanatz keeps looking for answers, and gets swept up amidst the vast swarms of preterite Displaced Persons being shifted across the zone. What's concerning is that these supposedly-free, albeit displaced, people, are shuffled without purpose across the Zone, with minimal food, water, or medicine, being "herded into wire enclosure[s]" and shipped around in freight cars, "deloused, poked, palpated, named, numbered, consigned, invoiced, misrouted, detained, ignored" (669). It's almost impossible to miss the painful similarity here to the treatment of Jews and other victims of the Holocaust. Only here the mistreatment isn't out of some pathological hatred, simply a system without a place for so many people, and without the committed resources to actually, effectively help them. The thought is unsettling, since we like to imagine that only Naziesque hatred could prompt such brutal mistreatment, not apathy.
Finally, he's rescued by the Schwarzkommando thanks to his knowledge of Blicero and the firing of Rocket 00000. Here, we learn a bit more about what happened that day. Looking into Blicero's eyes, he saw windmills reflected, though none were in the area. Another four-way mandala, like we saw last week with Slothrop. Thanatz isn't in great mental shape by this point, and he's beginning to equate Gottfried and Bianca both as his children. Why? Because he felt some sense of responsibility to them? Because he failed them? Either way, the Schwarzkommando learn all they need from him about that fateful noon on the Heath, though we do not. The section ends with a simple touch of hands between Enzian and Christian, a moment of connection, of trust.
Section 67
Man, how do I even start summarizing this complete doozy of a section? As Weissenburger writes, "In this episode the narration begins to fragment." (344) Ya don't say... Well, here goes.
We being one serious trip of a section with Slothrop, as part of a rather unimpressive team of quasi-superheros (the "Floundering Four") fighting against evil ol' Broderick Slothrop amidst the factory-state (a Metropolis-like iteration of the Rocket-State with movable buildings?!). Broderick, in the role of comic book supervillain, keeps trying to off Slothrop, but our hero has a lucky streak just wide enough to keep him alive.
Right off the bat, we see another image of the chessboard - the whole factory-state is laid out in a grid, and it's all A Game of Chess, as der Springer already informed us, and our movements are limited. Crucially, "Your objective is not the King - there is no King - but momentary targets such as the Radiant Hour." (674) How can you win at chess when there's no King? How can the land be restored and the cycle renewed if there's no King to die and be replaced?
Slothrop is joined by a truly slipshod lot: Myrtle Miraculous, the only one who seems to have actual powers; Maximilian, a suave Black club manager who can flow with all natural rhythms and thus able to navigate any scenario with ease, and Marcel, a mechanical chess player (an embodiment of the Mechanical Turk, but crucially, one without the hidden human operator. No hidden Grandmaster lurking inside Marcel here - nope, this android's the real deal.
This section includes one of my favorite quotes from the book: "Decisions are never really made - at best they manager to emerge, from a chaos of peeves, whims, hallucinations and all-round assholery." (676) I can think of several times where I've been able to relate to that scenario all too well.
Their chances for success and failure are equal, but these opposing odds don't cancel each other out - instead, the two opposing forces just create a "loud dissonance". The crew undertake some truly hallucinatory adventures through the Racketen-Stadt which I will not attempt to summarize, as that would be an exercise in futility. But we are treated to flashes of Slothrop, "Broderick and Nalline's shadow-child, their unconfessed, their monster son," (677) getting locked in an icebox, piloting a mobile building through the grid-streets of the factory-state like a giant chess piece. One line really jumps out at me, here, that I think is important: "Their struggle is not the only, or even the ultimate one. Indeed, not only are there many other struggles, but there are also spectators, watching, as spectators will do, hundreds of thousands of them." (679) Makes me think of the "glozing neuters," mentioned earlier - of the masses of people who are just trying to live their lives, neither part of any conspiracy nor actively aware of being subject to one. Must be nice. At the same time, the idea of other, simultaneous struggles, is noteworthy - it brings to mind the concept of intersectionality, and how people realizing their unique, individual struggles share common sources, and common traits, which they can work together to fight.
We end this sub-section in an arena for these exact masses, where our heroes are on a stakeout, with Slothrop in full drag waiting in the Transvestites' Toilet for a message.
You may be wondering about the multiple instances of cross-dressing, in various iterations, throughout the book. Slothrop in drag and Blicero in a wig and merkin come to mind. One aspect, I'd say, is that it reflects a blending of two (as far as society is generally concerned) binary opposites. A crossing-over, a transgression against the status quo and an option other than 1 or 0.
Eliot, in his Notes on The Waste Land, wrote,

"Tiresias, although a mere spectator and not indeed a 'character', is yet the most important personage in the poem, uniting all the rest. Just as the one-eyed merchant, seller of currants, melts into the Phoenician Sailor, and the latter is not wholly distinct from Ferdinand Prince of Naples, so all the women are one woman, and the two sexes meet in Tiresias. What Tiresias sees, in fact, is the substance of the poem." (Emphasis mine).
Cue Crutchfield the Westwardman's world of only one of everything. Likewise, the women in Gravity's Rainbow often blend together, share traits or imagery. So do the men. The joining of the two sexes in Blicero, as well as Slothrop here at the end, is significant.
The Low-Frequency Listeners
The introduction here of the character of Rohr, the Keeper of the Antenna, specifically as a Jehovah's witness, was odd. It's such a specific subsect of Christianity. Then we see - he heard a man on the radio, dying, asking for a priest. Rohr says, "Should I have got on and told him about priests? Would he've found any comfort in that?" (682). In what? I had to look it up, but when I did, it clicked - Jehovah's witnesses apparently do not have priests, because they are all ordained. There is no separate priest caste in their church, and thus no Preterite/Elect division. In this section, we also learn that the Nuremberg trials are getting underway.
Mom Slothrop's Letter to Ambassador Kennedy
You start to feel even more sorry for Slothrop as you realize just how terrible his parents apparently were. His mom cares enough to at least write another letter asking Ambassador Kennedy as to what the hell happened to their son, but her letter quickly devolves into drunken ramblings complaining about striking workers and managing to make an innuendo about Jack Kennedy while also dismissing her love of her sons. Oof. Maybe Otto was right with his conspiracy of mothers...
On the Phrase "Ass-Backwards"
An entertaining linguistic debate between Säure and Slothrop on American idioms, specifically ones involving a reversal, as in the case of "ass-backwards". The section then slips into a story of Säure, in his youth, breaking into the home of a young woman, Minnie, who is unable to hear or pronounce umlauted letters, and thus manages to shout the word "helicopter" rather than "cute robber" well before the vehicle was ever invented. Her cry is heard by none other than a young aerodynamics student. The word is taken as a prophesy and a warning of the helicopter's symbol of the police state, with armed officers hanging out the sides, aiming down at their targets.
My Doper's Cadenza
It begins with a serenade from Bodine, and then an exploration of the tenement building "Der Platz" that is home to numerous drug addicts, dope peddlers, and general ne'er-do-wells. They are building an anti-police moat around the building, entirely underground so as to avoid detection, saving breaking through the street for the end.
Shit 'n' Shinola
Another idiomatic diversion for Säure. A beautiful line is tucked away in here - "from outside, the Hall is golden, the white gold precisely of one lily-of-the-valley petal in 4 o'clock sunlight, serene, at the top of an artificially-graded hill." (687) This building, the Schein-Aula (Seeming-Hall), suggests "persistence, through returns of spring, hopes for love, melting snow and ice, academic Sunday tranquillities, smells of grass just crushed or cut or later turning to hay..." (688) Yet again, imagery of spring, of a return to life from the dead season of winter, of the cycle.
We return to the Roseland Ballroom, where shit 'n' Shinola do actually come together. "Shit, now, is the color white folks are afraid of. Shit is the presence of death, not some abstract-arty character with a scythe but the stiff and rotting corpse itself inside the whiteman's warm and private own asshole, which is getting pretty intimate. That's what that white toilet's for.... that white porcelain's the very emblem of Odorless and Official Death." (688) Here Pynchon cuts straight to the point - the almost pathological fear of death and its connections to fears of blackness, excrement. Shit, Death, and the Word. Edwin Treacle hit on this back on p. 276 when he tried to show his colleagues at the White Visitation "that their feelings about blackness were tied to feelings about shit, and feelings about shit to feelings about putrefaction and death." The cycle of life is too organic, too messy. Better to replace carbon with silicon, to hide shit with porcelain, to treat people with dark skin as "other" or sub-human to avoid acknowledging that their non-European, communal ways of life were, in fact, totally natural.
An Incident in the Transvestites' Toilet
Not King Kong, but a small, costumed ape comes up to Slothrop, who's wearing a Fay Wray dress while waiting in the bathroom for a still-unspecified message. We get a Miltonic blank-verse poem (thanks, Weissenburger!) about the movie King Kong, written in the voice of Anne Darrow (Fay Wray's character). It's honestly quite good - I love the line "in your own stone living space" - the internal rhyme there sounds really nice, and I like the riff on living stone / Livingston, both of which have popped up previously. In the poem, Darrow talks about when she was tied up, hung by the natives as an offering to "the night's one Shape to come" (689), echoing both Greta Erdman's scene in Alpdrücken and the Hanged Man card of the Tarot (willing sacrifice, sacrifice that prompts a return, a renewal of the cycle). Darrow says she prayed, "not for Jack," her suave costar, but for her director Carl Denham, "only him, with gun and camera... making the unreal reel / By shooting at it, one way or the other-" (689). Throughout GR, we've seen a film motif, and this really brings it home. The analogy of a gun to a camera, both of which make the unreal real (a camera creates films that interpret real life - the "unreal reel", a gun makes death, which we've blocked away and tried to avoid, real and inescapable). The director is in control of the movie, the actors, the story, of how it works and what is told. Darrow ends by asking Carl to "show me the key light, whisper me a line..." - a key light is used in cinema and photography to not just shed light on the subject, but to do so in a way that provides form and dimension to the subject and the scene. So Darrow is asking for the director to literally give her form and definition, to tell her what to say next.
This ape, though, isn't so Romantic as ol' Kong though, and is much more direct. It hands Slothrop an anarchist's bomb straight out of the comics pages, and takes off. Slothrop freezes and is saved by a helpful transvestite who takes the bomb and flushes it down the toilet. But it explodes anyway, sending geysers of water up out of all the toilets. A Voice comes out of he Loudspeaker informing everyone that it was, in fact, a sodium bomb that explodes upon contact with water. Tellls everyone to get the "dangerous maniac" who threw it. That was supposed to be Slothrop, but he was saved by his indecision and the kindness of a stranger, who is now set upon by the other occupants of the toilet.
A Moment of Fun with Takeshi and Ichizo, the Komical Kamikazes
We now jump to a pair of comically-mismatched Kamikaze pilots stationed on a remote island well away from any conflict. One flies a Zero, the other flies an "Ohka device" which is basically a rocket-bomb with a pilot's seat. They get moonshine from their radarman, Kenosho, who mocks them daily for the lack of opportunities to fly to their deaths and who comes up with haikus that, while in the right format, really miss the heart of what a haiku is supposed to be.
Streets
Back to Slothrop, now, and a catalogue of the streets he's traveled down and what he's seen. We get a meditation on the absurdity of army chaplains, who worked for the Army and "stood up and talked to the men who were going to die about God, death, nothingness, redemption, salvation." (693) And it does seem a bit absurd when you consider that the Army that employs the chaplains is the same entity sending the men off to die. We see a bus driver (perchance our maniac bus driver from earlier?) driving through town in the night, his passengers looking out the windows, their faces "drowned-man green, insomniac, tobacco-starved, scared, not of tomorrow, not yet, but of this pause in their night-passage, of how easy it will be to lose, and how much it will hurt..." (693) Going back to the Waste Land, the phrase "I do not find / The Hanged Man. Fear death by water." is symbolic of a death without return (drowning) contrasted to the sacrifice/return symbolized by The Hanged Man. These poor passengers, it seems, aren't to expect any return.
Slothrop also, at this point, learns of the bombing of Hiroshima from a discarded Army newspaper, the photo of the atomic blast placed in poor taste next to an image of a pin-up girl. The bomb's mushroom cloud is compared to the Cross, to a capital-T Tree. But which tree? Is this a meditation on the deadly, unforgettable knowledge of how to split the atom, or of the tree of life, with the citizens of Hiroshima as a sacrifice made... but to what? I'm honestly not sure. Would love your thoughts.
Listening to the Toilet
As others have noted, this book in many ways is about the drug counterculture and hippie movement of the 60s/early 70s. This is the most overt in this section, in which we learn that listening for the cessation of the flow of water to the toilet in the pipes is a cue that a police raid is imminent - shutting off the water being a way to prevent the flushing of illicit substances. But it takes a special ear to hear the cessation of a subtle, pervasive white noise. What if the sun, in fact, massive furnace that it is, emits a constant, low-level roar that is so incessant we don't even hear it? What if eddies in the current of the Soniferous Aether cause rare spots of true quiet, where the noise is no longer transmitted and anyone in that spot can hear their own heartbeat it's so quiet? Interestingly, there are "quiet rooms" designed to absorb nearly all sound, used for precise sound calibration. I remember reading that most people can't sit in one of those rooms for more than 30 minutes or so because it's literally so quiet that you can hear the blood flowing through your veins, and people have even reported auditory hallucinations as a result. But why this digression? Maybe because we need to be asking what other white noise is out there that we've become completely deaf to? I think Roger and Jessica found a pocket of this quiet, early in the book, where the "noise" of modern society and all its associated obligations was muted by the War.
Witty Repartee
A return to our Komical Kamikazes, and a meditation on the ubiquity of the Hotchkiss machine gun across nations, independent of alliances. We get an image of a false King - an inbred idiot lying naked in a dumpster, attracting the attention of potential revolutionaries. But they can't decide if he's "a diversionary nuisance planted here by the Management, or whether he's real Decadent Aristocracy to be held for real ransom" (698). While the would-be revolutionaries are debating in the alley, sentries with the aforementioned Hotchkiss guns take positions on the rooftops, aiming down...
Heart-to-Heart, Man-to-Man
A dialogue here between Slothrop and ol' Broderick, with dear old dad interrogating his wayward son about a modern electric drug. Slothrop reassures him that he'd never shoot raw electricity - no, they dope themselves with waves. Major pre-Cyberpunk vibes here, with Broderick warning "Suppose someday you just plug in and go away and never come back?" to which Tyrone replies, "What do you think every electrofreak dreams about? .... Maybe there is a Machine to take us away, take us completely, suck us out through the electrodes out of the skull 'n' into the Machine and live there forever.... We can live forever, in a clean, honest, purified Electroworld-" (699). Matrix, anyone? Not to mention the waves of radio, TV, etc. and the simple, episodic, controlled reality they offer. Pleasantville also comes to mind, with all its commentary on the shows of the era.
Some Characteristics of Imipolex G
We learn that Imipolex G is the first erectile plastic, stiffening in response to certain electronic stimuli. The potential of a layer of controlling wires just under the outer layer of Imipolex, making it a second skin - a synthetic interface. Alternately, there's the potential to control it via a projection of "an electronic 'image; analogous to a motion picture." (700)
My gods, I made it through this section...
Section 68
Tchitcherine now, dealing with a spook, Nikolai Ripov, from the Commissariat for Intelligence Activities. His pal Džabajev has run off with "two local derelicts" (700) and is impersonating Frank Sinatra and wooing the ladies of the Zone. We get the line, "While nobles are crying in their nights' chains, the squires sing. The terrible politics of the Grail can never touch them. Song is the magic cape." (701) - Seems another example of folks recognizing the game, the Grail quest, for what it was and checking out - deciding not to play and just enjoy themselves while the Elect lose sleep over the endless searching.
Ripov explains to Tchitcherine how "the basic problem... has always been getting other people to die for you." (701) Religion used to serve as an effective control for that reason - death isn't quite as scary if you think you're going to heaven. But modern society has moved on, and needs more secular sources of control, like a commitment to "History" as if you're part of some great narrative, sacrificing yourself for some imagined end-goal of what society is "supposed" to be.
Seems Tchitcherine was doping on Oneirine theophosphate. Wimpe, his dealer, argues that a man is "only real at the points of decision. The time between doesn't matter." (702) Points man again - the moment of decision, of choice, that splits the future in two. Points of control. Contrast that to:
"Datta: what have we given? / My friend, blood shaking my heart / The awful daring of a moment’s surrender / Which an age of prudence can never retract / By this, and this only, we have existed." (The Waste Land, Part V: What the Thunder Said - emphasis mine).
Both are arguing that it's these key moments, irreversible junctures in our lives that make us real. Not what comes next, not what people say about us, just our moments. Integrate those moments, run them fast enough (say 24 frames per second) and you might even approximate something close to a person...
We learn that Oneirine apparently leads to "the dullest hallucinations known to psychopharmacology" (703) - hauntings of the mundane, the almost-normal.
Tchitcherine's Haunting
Tchitcherine hallucinates that Ripov is interrogating him, and he becomes fixated on the question of whether or not he was supposed to die. Seems like part of him wants to believe in life after death, in some hope for meaning, which goes against the Soviet doctrine and thus isn't exactly endearing him to those above him. Thankfully this is just an Oneirine haunting, except... wait, it's too real - no subtle violations of reality. He tries to escape, but is outnumbered. But no execution for him here - just a reassignment to Central Asia. A cold and operational death.
Section 69
"The dearest nation of all is one that will survive no longer than you and I, a common movement at the mercy of death and time: the ad hoc adventure." - Resolutions of the Gross Suckling Conference (706)
In other words, they seek a nation that does not function independently of its citizens - one that is not some separate identity with a quasi-personhood (much like how corporations are legally "people"). Rather, a nation that is inextricably linked to the people and that will die when they do. No immortality, no denial of the cycle or death.
But poor Roger's still dealing with Jessica, and now with Jeremy, too, who he's at least amicable with. But he's struggling with their acceptance of the System, their embracing of it. Jeremy's all about reassembling the rockets and firing them, asking "What else does one do with a rocket?" (note how disassembling it or at least not using the weapon isn't even an option...).
Jeremy's even so kind as to invite Roger to a fancy dinner with a bunch of corporate bigwigs, including folks from Krupp, ICI, and GE, and hosted by one Stefan Utgarthaloki, whose name should be a giant red-flag that something's amiss with this shindig. Roger picks Seaman Bodine as his date, the two having struck up a rather theatrical friendship, dress in their absurdist best (Bodine in the mother of all zoot suits), and join the party.
We get some insight here into the nature of rebellions, and the danger of them not only fizzling out or failing, but of being co-opted as a tool to "help legitimize Them" (713). Of either dying or "living on as Their pet" - it brings to mind the corporate branding of "rebelliousness" as cool, as "a phase" that it's normal to go through and eventually grow up from. Treating the idealism of youth, the desire to make the world better and to fight against the problems of the system before you become numb to them, as a normal phase of life is such an effective way to neutralize it culturally. How many people have heard the phrase "you get conservative [i.e. more resistant to change] as you get older"? How many of us have seen youth-led movements being dismissed as examples of immaturity, for example? Between that and companies stamping their logo on it (hello, Hot Topic), it's a way to change the cultural narrative around any movement against the status quo to one that's dismissive, just accepting enough to let people burn off their energy and eventually fall into line. Because how else can you continue to live a decent life in a society that refuses to change? You either go build a shack in the woods somewhere, die, or acclimate to the system and just focus on being comfortable yourself, not constantly fighting for change. It's a depressing thought, and I'm sure Pynchon saw a lot of that attitude in the 60s. I have to wonder - do non-industrialized societies have "teenage rebellion" as a normal part of life? Is that a part of human nature, like we tend to think, or is it an explicit reaction to reaching maturity in a system that is anti-human and anti-nature?
Anyway, back to the dinner party - between the depressing, anti-social music (kazoos?!) and the lavish dinner, things seem fine, but there's a plot against the Roger and Bodine. Fortunately a journalist, Constance, tips off Bodine that they might just be the main course of this feast, so Bodine cues Roger to begin the evening show - an absurd gross-out session that they planned in advance with the aid of now-deceased Pudding communicating via medium Carroll Eventyr. The pair recite an increasingly disgusting list of alliterative dishes, triggering "well-bred gagging" and guests to flee, though a few find it all quite entertaining. But it's enough to break up the dinner party and allow our heroes to flee.
Note: If you made it this far, actually read all this, thank you. Bloom warned me this was a longer section, and boy, he wasn't kidding. I think this is longer than some college essays I wrote... Damn fun, though, and I hope you've found my thoughts informative, interesting, useful, or if nothing else, sufficiently diversionary for a spell. I truly look forward to seeing what you other fine foax have to say on these labrynthine sections.
Questions
  1. In the lightning-aficionado's "A Nickel Saved" excerpt, are there any other references or hidden ideas you can find? I have to think there are.
  2. What is the meaning of the windmill reflected in Blicero's eyes? How do you interpret the imagery in this scene in general?
  3. 175-Stadt. Oven-State. Hund-Stadt. Rocket-State. Factory-State. We've seen numerous examples of specialized micro-states across the Zone, experiments in different forms of society. What are your thoughts on these? Are they hints at ways to find alternate societies, or manifestations of humanity's tendency to divide by category and put of fences?
  4. In the "Shit 'n' Shinola" subsection, Pynchon connects Jack Kennedy, Malcolm X, and Tyrone Slothrop. What do you make of this intersection?
  5. In "Streets," the bombing of Hiroshima is presented as being similar to the Cross, "it is also, perhaps, a Tree..." - the capitalized "Tree" here could be the tree of knowledge, the tree of life, the tree from which the Hanged Man dangles, or perhaps something else. What's your interpretation of this imagery?
  6. In Section 69, we see references to the Albatross, famous symbol from The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. It's presented that Slothrop is the (now-plucked) albatross, but it's not clear who killed this bird, or who's wearing it around their neck. They? Any ideas?
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2020.09.26 17:33 tapricks Bus in hidden sex

First of all I would like to apologise for any English inconsistencies, it's my second language :D Anyways, I'm extremely sad right now and really need to vent. So ill be sharing with you my history with my abusive father. It all started way before I was born, my mother had my brother who is 8 years older than me. They lived in my grandma's house (she has a 2nd house on the back, this was kinda common in that time) and even in the start of their marriage my father was ah alcoholic, constantly coming home drunk and cheating on my mom god knows how many times. At the time my mother already knew, but she was very afraid of him. He would smack her head on the kitchen sink, tell her that she was useless because she didn't work and all that horrible stuff abusive husbands do. And she suffered a long time until when my brother was 6 or 7yo, when she just gave up on my father and decided she would only be a mom. She didn't file for divorce yet because she was afraid of what my father would do to her, considering my brother was still very young. So then she endured all the drinking, the gambling and the cheating, all the times my father would come home smelling like woman's perfume, and all the times he brought woman home and had sex in their bed when mom wasn't around. She always knew but she was patient, because my father was a monster, there was simply no telling what he would do if he heard the phrase "I want a divorce" from my mom.
So then I was born, and I pretty much had a nice childhood, mostly because of my mom. She was there to play with me, I would draw on walls and the floor and she never stopped me, she gave me love, support and all kinds of toys and I have nothing bad to say about her. But my father, on the other hand, never was around. If he wasn't working, he was at the bar drinking a LOT. And don't get me wrong - he would provide for us. But that's it. He just gave us money and nothing else.
Then we arrive at the crucial point. When I was 13yo my mother talked to me and said she was unhappy, she wanted to divorce my father for a very long time but was waiting until I was a little more grown up so that I could understand. I obviously understood and supported her, I didn't realized all the shit my father did at that time, but I knew that their marriage wasn't good considering my mother didn't even sleep in the same bed as him. God, I don't think I ever saw them kiss. Anyways, she talked to him and he obviously didn't accept it. He went berserk, breaking everything around the house so my mother, afraid for her life, left the house and went to my aunt's place, and stayed there for a couple days. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to endure life without my mom around and desperately asked her to come back and she did. But then shit got serious. She went ahead with the divorce and my father threw one of his animalistic rages, saying that she would kill her. I was in my room and my mother came running, locked the door and asked me to call the police, while my dad was trying to break open the door to my room. He almost succeeded. He broke the door in half while my mother screamed she had called the police and they were on their way. I guess my father was scared because he just left. Then I remember jumping my window so that I could open my door from the outside and get my mother out too. Police arrived, mom explained everything and showed the bruises my father had left in her body and they said it would be best if we left for a while, until mom could make progress with the divorce papers, and file a "maria da Penha" which is a law in Brazil that protects women from physical and psychological abuse. She ended up not going through with the latter (a terrible mistake if I may add) but she didn't want me to see my father arrested. Little did she knew that my father's image in my head was permanently stained with blood after this day.
So we ran away, we stayed in one of my mom's friend house for a couple days then went to my aunt's. All the while my father had no idea where we were and was desperately trying to find us. We stayed hidden for two weeks I think, until mom finally let him see me. I remember he was crying a lot and hugging me saying he missed me. So we went home finally, my dad seemed to had calmed down and accepted the divorce. So he left the house and me and my mom started living alone and happy that that nightmare was over.
Except it wasn't. It was only the beginning.
After all that shock, my father suddenly realized that I existed, and began to come home to see me and take me to some rides. I didn't really liked it, considering the fact that most of the time he was moping about the divorce and that he lost 'his house, that he built with his bare hands'. He would say to me that he wanted to kill himself and other shit that I can't / don't wanna remember. He would come to my front door constantly, begging my mom to take him back, he would say he would smash the car into our house if we didn't let him in, he would scream and swear in the driveway for the whole neighborhood to hear. My mom would call the cops and when they arrived we would suddenly be a whole other person, charismatic and nice. He was a sociopath. He would persecute my mom, tell her he would come by her school to kill her (she was depressed, unemployed and getting a degree in social services at that time. God knows where my mom got all the strength to bear with all of this at once.) I would constantly come with her to her school, because she was scared of him and we knew that he wouldn't do anything with me around. I remember one day where I was at a friend's house and he called me saying he was at my house and came to pick my computer that he was taking away from me. While all of this was happening, I didn't said a word to anyone in school, none of my friends knew what I was going through. I was really embarrassed and ashamed of all this shit. So on this day I lied to them that I needed to go out with mom and went home so that I could unplug my cpu for him. He ended up not even taking it, he just wanted to mess with my mom. Using me.
After some time he eventually calmed down, he started dating a woman and she took him to church (a church that demanded 10% of your monthly income for you to participate, LOL) where they would go every week and suddenly my father was a whole other person. I saw that as great news at the time, considering all the shit I've had to endure while he was crazy. Little did I knew that he would never change.
So I went on with my life, I was always very good at school, had top grades on most of the subjects, but I was lonely. Not really alone, I had friends. But I never opened up to them, I never learned how to trust a friend with my worries. So I started to watch anime, listen to my chemical romance (who got me through so much shit I can't even begin to thank them) and draw. I absolutely loved to draw and in school I was always drawing and never paying attention to the lectures, but I never had to considering my grades were one of the best.
So after middle school I got accepted In a state highschool that wasn't private, but it had a great schooling system and you had to do a test to see if you could get in or not. I passed in 1st place. I studied there in the mornings, and from the second year forth I also worked on a computer shop in the afternoons, and went to school again at night to a computer science course. I was really giving my best. I gave my blood and my sweat and I didn't even really enjoyed the course, but I went through it so that I could have something on my resume. After I finished highschool, I was certain I wanted to do something related to art. Here in brazil we don't have college, we just pick whatever course we want (or think we want) and apply for it, there's public ones that are free but really hard to get in. And there's paid ones that are easy as hell considering you pay for it. Also there's a social program that gives aid to students so that they can study at private universities for free but it's really hard to get one, you have to apply and go through a test, and then considering you were accepted they would check your background to see your finance status and determine if you are indeed unable to pay. I passed the latter. First place again. I started Design school and I was really really happy. I was making good friends, everyone there was very nice with me, it felt like heaven.
But then in my third year I started to fall off. I was working throughout the day 7am till 5pm, then at 5:30 I would take a bus that would take me to the university that was in another city. Then at 10pm my class was over and I would come back to my city, arriving at home like 12am, 12:30 sometimes. It was really really exhausting. And on top of that, I wasn't so sure I wanted to chase a career in design anymore. As I said before, I really love art. But design is very corporate focused. I was feeling cheap, you know. I didn't want to have a design degree so that I could end up having to make advertisements,(because that's mostly what designers end up doing done here) I wanted the freedom that art provides. I wanted my soul on my canvas, not on the money. So I started to feel depressed. I quit my job because it was too much for me, moved to the city my university were at, during this time, my father was paying for my apartment, he agreed to do so, so I was out there searching for jobs but never found anything. It's really hard to get a job when you're depressed. My only escape was watercolor. That was the only thing that gave me joy at that time.
So I finished my degree god knows how, and moved back to my city since I didn't had a job and my father wasn't able to provide for me anymore. I completely understood and came back home to search for jobs here. But after all I've been through I was broken. I was traumatized with design and didn't want to work on this field so I started to look for jobs on any place, just so I could have a paycheck. Bear in mind that I was still depressed and since psychological treatment is expensive, I couldnt really get one since I didnt have an income and my mother couldn't afford it. And my dad didnt care or didn't understand what I was going through.
So now we arrive at the present. My father is desperate for me to find a job. And so am I. But he don't understand anything about me. God, he don't even understand what kind of degree I have. He just wants me to make money. So two days ago he sends me an ad for a job opportunity in my field, saying that they needed someone with experience in the field (which I don't have). I thank him and say that I'll call but I know that it will not result in anything. I call and the guy doesn't answer. So I decided to call the next day. I wake up and immediately get a call from my father. Asking me if I had called about the job. I explain what happened and he flips out on me. Says that I don't show interest, that I'm afraid to work, and if I don't get a job, he would sell the house (which is 50/50 his and my mother's) and make us go live on the street.
Needless to say I was pretty sad. I never expected to hear that from him, you know. I thought his crazy days were over, but I was wrong. So I spent the day really sad and at night I couldn't take it anymore so I told my mother what happened and she was really pissed with him, and sent him messages to stop harassing me. He then proceed to tell her that the thinks he wasted money on me. That I'm ungrateful for all the money he spent while I was at uni. He seems to forget that I didn't had to pay for my uni, that I studied for free because I gave my best and earned it. He also seems to forget the two universities that he paid for my brother before me. That my brother didnt even finished any one of them. He doesn't seem to care about that. But when it comes to me, the son that did absolutely nothing wrong, that had all top grades and passed in everything, did nothing but give him pride, he thinks like that. I feel like I'm not his son, I'm just an investment. My brother ended up going on a course for massotherapy and now is very successful, so I guess thats all that matters to him. But when all that shit about the divorce was going on, my brother was in another city, studying. He didn't had to endure what I did. It was ME who had to endure it all by myself. He seems to forget all the shit he made me go through. All the pain and suffering I had to endure as a child. All the times I had to hear him say that he would kill my mom. He went to church and asked God for forgiveness, but he forgot to ask that from his own son. He made me afraid of men. He made me shut my feelings and till this day I have difficulties on opening up to people. I'm extremely afraid of confrontation. Men in general scare me, especially when they're drunk. Where did that all came from? Exactly. Him.
He also had the courage to tell my mom that she never did anything for me and my brother, that she never worked and she stole his house and turned me and my brother against him. My mother may not had helped me financially, but she made me food when I didn't have time to piss during uni. She supported me on my dreams, she was there for me emotionally every day of my life. She decided not to work so she could be home with us and he doesn't even recognize all she did for him while they were together, when she would give him lunch, dinner and washed clothes while he spent all his money on alcohol and other women. If it wasn't for my mother, I would've killed myself a long time ago. He is a monster. And I regret every minute I spent with him. I tried to look past those mistakes he made, thinking he turned a new leaf, but he is the same abusive asshole now as he was 15 years ago.
So now me and my mom are looking to sell this house so that we can finally go NC with him. I never want to see this asshole again and that's the feeling that will drive me until I'm free of him. I'm sorry for the long text, but I needed to get all of this off my chest. If you read all of this, thank you. It really means a lot.
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submitted by HaulA18Sep1l to u/HaulA18Sep1l [link] [comments]


2020.09.12 22:36 hotdogsrock Bus sex hidden in

Hi all,
So I’m a mid-20 yo f who’s recently-ish moved out of State, and away from my immediate family. I really just want to compile a listing of my justifications in cutting ties, and so I don’t blank next time I’m at the therapist. I only have 2 more counseling sessions that are free on my insurance and want to maximize my time. I’m open to any advice should anyone have any to give. Just kinda getting it off my chest.
Mom is physically abusive beginning from age 5, flying into rages. I recall having my karate uniform be left in the washer (by her), and she flew into a rage thinking I lost it. She raged by slapping me around the head, pushing my head into the walls. This kind of thing was common, and I’d be scolded for waiting for dad to come home. He made her stop hitting me. Still he wasn’t a good guy. Mom and biological dad divorce when I’m 8/9/10. He gambled away our house, slept with a majority of my mom’s family (male and female), and abused her through their time together. We move into a tiny apt and Mom goes into depression. I’m in fifth grade. She rarely gets up or bathes, can routinely hear her crying. Usually sleeps on the couch during the day, is up at night. Food doesn’t come in the house often. I’m yelled at if I try to make a grilled cheese. She accuses me of eating her food. I don’t have money on my lunch account. Sometimes I stole chips or a friend would bring me extra apple pieces. I’m in fifth grade, not showering, not routinely making it to school. My teacher knows I began my menses given odors and bleeding through my panties. She asks me, and I learn how to perform peri-care during this time. I couldn’t go out the house too far, but made friends with a neighboring apt kid. I stay often, helping her do chores and her mom feeds me. Eventually mom meets someone online. They talk all night and she starts to wake more during the day. She mutes the phone when she goes in rages so he doesn’t hear. He sends her money for our rent and bills. She splurges in the expensive phone bill (talking to him always) and smokes. He comes over, and everything goes wrong. A week before his arrival, mom suddenly wakes up and gives me a trash bag and tells me to clean. The house is a mess, but I’m also 10 and given no house training. I throw away a bunch of papers and trash. I clean. When he arrives he accuses me of trashing my moms divorce papers. I didn’t, but I stay awake for hours being cross-examines. Having school the next day, and being emotionally berated I just say yeah I did. This becomes common. He accuses me of using alcohol. I am 10, and do not. He accuses me of bashing my mom and “wishing she was dead” I am 10 and do not. He forces my mom to explain the circumstances of my birth. My biological father bit her deeply where she still has the scar, and I am the product of my mother being raped. I think this maybe the origination of his hatred for me. We do not get along.
Eventually we move out of this State to move in with the man. He is living with his ex. I share a bed with his ex in the 2 bedroom shack we move into. His ex found the storage info that step-dad put all of our things in and cancelled payment. We lose everything we own and my baby pictures. I am told I will be put on a diet. I am given one crackers pack a day. Laying on the floor hurts with my ribs poking into the ground. I am giving hours of chores. I sink into schoolwork as it’s a way to get away. I read on the weekends and rarely come out. My door is open and sometimes they watch me in disgust. I’m like an ant in an ant farm. If my mom wasn’t behind him he’d shut the door and name-call me. I’m accused of being emotionally stupid, and useless. Name calling. I hate myself. Middle school. I have one friend, and I can sometimes escape to going there. My mom gets a job where he works, but “makes him leave” though he did it willingly. He claims being sickly, it’s just morbid obesity and subsequent symptoms. I now make every meal(including his breakfast and meal-prepping his lunch before I go to school) and clean the house for hours after school. I begin homework at 11 and am usually called in to be scolded for missing something chore-wise. I can stand there being admonished until 5am. Sometimes he makes things up or dramatizes them completely. If he found a single dirty spoon he’d claim I’m trying to kill them from bacteria and such. Hours later, I’d just admit to it (I wasn’t trying to do that). I become cold and shake from fear and tiredness. Sometimes I miss school because it’s the one thing I like, or they pull me out early to accuse me of stealing things that they misplaced. They would make me return sometimes in “granny” clothes. I am made to stay up all day and night after big fights where I lose my cool and talk back. I am not allowed to take the bus or get rides from friends, I walk 1.5 mile both ways to school. I am so tired always. He thinks mom is cheating on him at work. I always hear them argue about her not having sex with him. I’m threatened continuously when she’s not there that if I know something I’ll be on the street with her. I’m threatened by both of them I’ll be kicked out. I never have security. I tell my mom about these things he does while she is at work, meaning the hours of yelling and forcing me to agree to things I haven’t done. He once burnt me with boiling water while she was sleeping in the other room. She says if I have to choose between you and him I will always choose him. She tells me to apologize to him and I say no. They cut my hair unevenly in a bowl cut. I am alone. High school I begin smoking weed. I will come home and clean, to go to a friends house. I clean thoroughly so I can go without any issue from my parents. It is safer, and I can sleep. I begin working at 14. 3/4 of my paycheck goes to them. Wake up, make him breakfast, school, clean, work, homework, fight, sleep, repeat. Only recently have I stopped giving them money as my step-brother will give it. My step-brother asked me to stay and help them longer. He’s the bigger payout as he’s in the military, and I’m live in help. If anything he got out easy. DO NOT SHARE THIS PART IF I CAN GET BAKER ACTED. ASK HER FIRST. I go to a Gunshow with a friend. We live in the South, and v easy to obtain. I buy my first .38 for cheap out of a trunk. I debate everyday, and hide in my room reading daily. It feels better knowing I can get out if it keeps happening. I survive to 18 I start to stay with many men. If it means I can get out of the house, I do it. I sneak to PP and get on the pill. Despite this, my one friend I’d had since middle school invites me to a local music festival. I am not on the pill as I am not active, and a former teacher reached out on instagram. I feel weird about him, but I don’t want to go home. He pulls me into his car while she’s in the bar finding us a spot. She calls once but gives up. He forces himself on to me, and I need an abortion a month later. I am still guilty to this day. Mom loses job. No one in house is employed except me. Instead of asking pay-pig step brother I am told to step up. I drop out of school, and work two jobs. I began camming for extra money. I get into the church, and if my plans with a man or friend fell apart I’d use the code to get into adoration and sleep on the lobby couch hidden in the back. I’d set my alarm to go off before anyone came in and return home then. I stay up until 4/5 to cam before work at 6:30. I am talking to an old high school crush. He has divorced and we just talk. It’s the one thing tiding me over. Despite me paying the phone bill, they look up his number. They call him and ask him about our sexual relationship. He breaks it off, and I am now referred to daily as a whore. Name calling doesn’t hurt as badly anymore, but I am embarrassed they know about my romantic life. It was the one private and good thing I had going. Emotional abuse continues and mom hits me once as a 22 year old. I meet my now husband, and I move out at 23. Stepbrother tries to shame me to stay and take care of them longer. I move out of State using the excuse of me moving to better myself professionally. I am now beginning grad school and am happily married. I don’t think this is an all inclusive list, but I just need to put it down.
submitted by hotdogsrock to JUSTNOFAMILY [link] [comments]


2020.09.09 14:52 ThrowRA1qaz My [34M] girlfriend [28F] turned into someone that don't have much respect for me, maybe I am in an abusive relationship, but my fears are making me freeze and do nothing.

Ok, so I am in need of advice. Anything you say here will be read and fully considered, I am totally lost… Sorry about any typos or grammar mistakes.
I [34M] have a girlfriend [28F] who I am with for 7 years now. We have some things in common, like us like to play video games and board games, we like to watch movies and series, and so one. I thought we share some other interests, like not willing to have children and that we didn’t need to marry, just being together was enough, at the start I really thing we shared this point, now I see that she changed to wanting both things, and I didn’t due to my family history that split up and it was painful for the kids (me and my sister). My dream house is in the middle of a forest, to be in peace, she said that this is ridiculous that we must live in a huge town, like we do now.
At the beginning she as a normal girl, then she was slowly turning into someone I never think I would be with. Today I see her as an arrogant and selfish girl.
When we started dating, things were ok, but she had some issues. She called me 11pm to go to her home. That was a long trip wich i need to travel for 45-60min just to have sex on the car, hidden from her mom, so i would be back at 2:30-3am. She ignored the fact that i needed to wake up at 6am the day after, for university from 8-12am and work from 12:15-9:15pm than an extra 40min ride home. When i argued with her, saying that it was not an viable option, she hanged on the phone, by telling nothing and holding me inline, if I end the call, she then threated finishing the relationship, saying i was an horrible person, and a lot of other bad things. This happened a lot of times…
One night she was at my home, she went to my computer, entered my Facebook and read some messages with one of my friends and discovered that I have had a night with a girl that I did not mention to her, she went nuts and the woke me up to argue with me. Later she forced me to don’t talk to this girl anymore, totally ignoring the fact that I said that it was a one night stand and after that the girl turned to be a good friend, who helped me a lot on showing the city (I have moved to the city 1 year before this happened) and not being indoors and depressive. This girl help was one of the things that helped me from imploding in a new town with almost not a single friend to talk to. I said all this stuff to my GF, she ignored that and forced me not to talk to the girl anymore.
Latter she moved to live with her best friend, they fought a lot and no longer talk to each other, she always said that she did the things correctly at the house and her roommate said that she did things very bad, like not cleaning the house correctly, and so one. First, I thought that her roommate were wrong, but after paying some close attention, I saw that she does things her way and she didn't notice that it was bad, she was too arrogant to accept that she made em wrong.
Latter on, I noticed that she didn’t never ever have apologized to me and to anyone, when she do something wrong, when confronted, she makes things look like she reacted to something else or that my reaction to her mistake was the actual problem and demanded apologies for that thing.
I guess i have never had a sane and good conversation with her about anything that bothered me that was related to her actions that has finished well, when I started talking, she starts going crazy, huge fights, saying that i was the problem that she did nothing wrong.
In 2017 we split up for some weeks, the same time her roommate left the town and then she had to give back the apartment they lived due to high costs, then she went back to her mother’s house.
I felt bad, my stomach churned just about thinking to be alone that time, I have a huge fear of being alone, just by typing this my stomach seems that is turning inside out.
We got back together after 3 weeks. I saw that she was in a bad situation. Living with her mom, constant fights (they didn’t get along well), she did not have a quiet place to study (she is at the university), they had a very difficult financial situation. She was also working on a non profit company, (no $, “reward” was a lot of courses to prepare to the “real job market”).
So, she started to stay in my house, I had a little better condition, a comfortable and quiet place, so, she slowly moved in.
After 6 months, we moved and then she was officially living with me.
Things didn’t change a lot about us, she started an internship at a good company (1 year latter she got hired) and I thought she could change and see how hard was to earn some bucks with a month of hard work.
Things between us were almost the same, but we have stopped playing together. I took the decision to stop, we were fighting a lot due to it.
Sex started to go south to, reducing drastically to something like once a month.
I started noticing that she did not care at all of her health, I even had to argue with her and we had a fight because I said that she needed to go to the gynecologist cause she didn’t go in years, yes, years…
I saw some things related to her behavior, when her mom and family called, she saw the phone ringing and didn’t even answered, totally ignoring them most of the times. I said it was wrong, another huge fight.
Then a terrible accident happened and her mom died.
I don't know if she blames herself for something, but her mental health degraded a lot, she says that she is alone, I feel and she says that I am all she had now. Me and our cats.
Months later, at one of my father’s visit to our home (he lives in other town), she disrespected him. A lot. Saying terrible things. I demanded her to apologize, she said she would not, that it was his fault. This bothers me a lot, he has never ever disrespected her, he always treated her really well, she had no right to do that. He said that I should not worry, it was water under the bridge, so I let this pass.
One time I tried to talk with her uncle, saying that I needed help, that I could not handle her mental state alone, that I needed help from her family. Her uncle was super receptive and said that he would try to help, but she was very quiet and didn't talk with the family a lot. They approached, until the day she discovered I have talked with him. The moment she discovered, she took her purse and said that she would leave the house, that I have committed an act that she would not forgive, saying that it was worse than if I was cheating, that I went behind her back.
I made it cause I felt overburden about her emotional status, I could see her imploding, she was deeply depressed and needed help.
She did not accept that, she even refused to go to a psychologist, saying that she did not believe in that. Once again, I had to go at the full time guilty of that, as all the other fights. Latter after talking a lot, she changed her mind and she stayed home.
The pressure on her job started increasing too, lots of colleagues had burnout due to psychological problems.
COVID-19 emerged, I changed to remote work, she doesn’t. At the start, I was overloaded at my work, at my rare extra time, I was studying a lot, then she started arguing and asking me to stop and stay more with her. I did it, after my work I go to the sofa and stay watching TV with her, what I think is a huge waste of time, since she stays most of the time looking at her instagram or even on whatsapp answering her job groups.
A little after that, i have received a terrible news, my father revealed that he is with advanced cancer, incurable with survival time between 3 months and 1.5 year.
She was forcing me to throw all things in the air and go to be with him. As I know him, if I got any problems at work, this would be even worse and he would punish himself for that. Due to COVID-19 a long trip, plane + bus, was risky. Months have passed and his condition got a little worse, I it was time to go to be near him, she agreed and I made the travel 2 weeks ago.
Last week, I called my fathers Dr, he said that the case was critical, that he is still good but he will enter in liver failure, that even with chemo things are getting worse, when he goes to the hospital, there is no turning back. Again, this was hard and I closed myself and reduced the times I was talking to my GF.
When I said to my GF what the Dr said, she again was saying that I should quit my job and be with him full time and all this thing, again, there was a new fight, me saying that I know what I am doing and she is demanding me to do what she wants.
Now she went crazy again, demanding me to call her multiple times during the day, to stay on the phone for hours, but the main purpose of it is to give her attention, as she feels lonely, and according to her, is my fault.
So, at this point, I feel I can't handle it anymore, as she turned into a selfish person, arrogant one and this is something that i consider the most horrible trait in any personality.
At the other hand, I feel bad about letting her down, I may have acted as her absent father and her BF and she put all the weight on my back.
Additionally, she has no other place to go, she has a job, but I feel bad about breaking up and asking her to leave.
And there is still my fear about being alone that conflicts with my understanding of the situation, we have some things in common, but I don’t know if it's worth all this burden.
So, the main purpose of writing this huge outburst/description of my relationship, is to ask for advice, to see if I am missing something, and see if I should really break up, or if I am looking something the wrong way?!
TL/DR: I may be in an abusive relationship, where we do not share the same interests anymore, other than some superficial things. In my opinion, she turned to be an arrogant and selfish girl. I feel cornered and disrespected most of the time. Due to the fact that I might have some serious issue about being alone, I don’t know if I should end the relationship or if I am seeing things at the wrong perspective. What is your opinion about it?
submitted by ThrowRA1qaz to relationship_advice [link] [comments]


2020.08.31 21:14 Jrubas My Friend's Bed Was Haunted by Sexual Energy

I was signing autographs in a downtown Richmond book boutique when Henry came in. I had been there for over four hours, sitting at a folding table scribbling my name on the inside covers of endless copies of Night Terrors, and was exhausted. My arm ached and my head throbbed. Meeting a perpetual flow of fans, many of them gushing, is hell to me. Don’t get me wrong, I love them dearly, but social situations tend to repel me, and actually engaging people I don’t know is an awkward near impossibility.
It was nearing one, dark and nasty without, and I was longing for a nice long nap in my hotel room when Henry’s turn came. I thought that the woman before him, a middle-aged blond in a brown leather jacket, would never leave. But thankfully Mr. Preston, the owner of the shop, ushered her away in his prissy manner.
I smiled at the man whom I did not recognize as Henry. He was tall and pale, his wavy black hair limp and lusterless, the flesh of his face tight and his eyes an unhealthy pink which bespoke sleepless nights. He smiled wearily yet warmly.
Without a word he passed me his copy of Night Terrors. “And how are you today?” I asked as I sat the book down, my blue Sharpie pen, the second one of the day, poised.
“Just peachy,” he croaked, and I at once knew the voice. I looked up, and Henry was still grinning as if through pain.
“Henry!” I cried happily, and extended my hand. He took it, and it was like a block of ice.
I and Henry were like brothers since time out of mind; our parents were high school friends who lived next to each other in the Pickett subdivision on Thomas Street, and from diapers we were always together, on play dates, camping trips, and backyard pool parties. We were inseparable all through our school years, and only parted, tearfully and grudgingly, when I left Picketts Meade to study at UVA in 1997. Since then, we had seen very little of each other, as I lived mostly in New York City and he in the house willed to him by his childless aunt and uncle.
“Hey, man,” he said, “what’s goin on?”
“Not much,” I said, “same old stuff. Working and all that. What about you?”
He shrugged. “Same here, pretty much. Listen, are you free this afternoon?”
“Sure, what’s up?”
“I got a ghost,” he said, as though the words were kidney stones.
“Sure, I’d be happy to come by.”
Henry smiled again. “Thanks. You know where my aunt’s old place is, right?”
“Ahhh, no, I forgot.”
“Okay, here.” Henry pulled out his wallet and opened it. In the translucent slot where preening fathers proudly put pictures of their children, there was a faded Polaroid of two boys, one tall and skinny, the other short and fat, at a lake on a summer day in 1988, mugging it up with their arms thrown around the other’s shoulder. I had the same one in my wallet.
Henry produced a small piece of creased paper and, with my pen, jotted down the directions.
“I’ll be there at around four or so,” I said, sticking the paper into my blazer’s breast pocket.
“Thanks a million, man, I can’t tell you the kinda shit I been goin through.”
“I can imagine.”
“Good book; is it number one?”
I snickered. “Ahead of Glenn Beck? I wish.”
Henry shrugged. “Still a classic. I can’t believe some of the shit. All of it’s real?”
“As you and I,” I replied. I jotted down my name and a small, personal message onto the inside cover, and handed it back to Henry.
“I’ll see you,” he said. “I’ll be there,” I responded with a smile.
***
Almost two hours later I left the bookstore by the back door, emerged into a narrow ally of grimy brick walls, and carefully crept toward busy 5thstreet. Above, the sky was malevolently silent.
Before leaving the relative safety of the alley, I looked both ways along the sidewalk, and found it empty save for several rushing, bundled forms. For a moment I was reminded of those old shots of The Beatles running from mad throngs of screaming women through the streets of London, and smiled.
I stepped into a freezing gust and hurried up the sidewalk, passing drab storefronts darkened by the gloomy afternoon light. A Ford Focus passed by on the street in a splash of puddled rain, its red taillights glowing satanically in the mist.
Ahead, a brave hotdog vendor, possibly a transplanted New Yorker, stood tensely behind his cart, ready to feed the world. He offered me a taste of his wares, and the almost desperate imploring of his voice touched me. Imagining poverty and mounting bills, I bought a small fountain Coke even though I wasn’t thirsty, and almost as soon as I was out of sight I cast the cup into a metal trash bin, the clanking ice cubes within having sapped the heat from my hand.
Slowly the scenery bled into one of the residential. Dirty Brownstone tenements marched dismally into the ashen day, their crumbling stoops guarded by rusted metal sentries overflowing with rank refuse.
I finally came to the small lot where I had left my Jeep in-between a pick-up truck and a hatchback. The latter was gone, replaced by a small red Beetle. I fished the keys from my pocket and opened the driver side door.
Behind the wheel, I started the engine and the radio came to life with one bland Taylor Swift song or another. Before leaving I slipped Krokus’ Change of Address into the CD player, and slowly cruised back the way I had come.
Several minutes later I took a sloping onramp and met the babbling interstate; before I joined the flow I waited for several large Mac trucks to scream by in their shrouds of water mist. The meager Richmond skyline stretched away to the east, interrupted only by the wide river which bisects the city. Maybe it was the mood and light of the afternoon, but the city seemed a deserted necropolis, the buildings bizarre Druid ruins rising black against the sky.
Once on the interstate I noticed that several idiots cars next to mine were busy blabbering into their cell-phones or texting. I’m not the kind of guy who wants to ban this and that, or the kind of asshole who preaches his opinion to everybody, but I know what can happen on a freeway when someone wants to whip out the old Droid and chat.
One girl, with wet black hair and dressed in a loose white t-shirt, flipped me off when I motioned hang up and drive.
Women, I thought with a grin, they taste good…but the heartburn!
I soon took rural Exit 154 and coasted into the parking lot of a small roadside gas station fed by a narrow hillside lane. I pulled under the gas-pump shelter and killed Marc Storace in the middle of Burning up the Night. I searched my hip pocket and checked the directions again. The name of the town was Fairfield, not too far north of the city.
I got out into the damp and filled the jeep up with juice, wincing at the price. With that done, I crossed the open space between the pumps and the store, my hair dampening, and entered.
After waiting for a white man in a mossy oak camo cap to buy a six pack of Bud Ice and a black woman to purchase a pack of condoms and tampons (an ungodly mix, if you ask me), it came my turn. The wispy old man behind the counter, wearing country regulation suspenders over his button up work shirt, studied me for a long moment.
“Hey, you’re that writer fella, aintcha?” he asked with a rough smile, revealing that his teeth were mostly black or tarnished gold.
Despite a swelling of pride in my chest, I wanted desperately to avoid an embarrassing scene.
“No.”
“Hm. You look a lot like ‘im. She loves all that damn ghost huntin’ garbage.”
I paid for the gas, and the old man wished me a good afternoon with a crooked grin.
Once back in my car, I again studied the directions, trying to absorb them so that I wouldn’t have to constantly consult them in transit.
Feeling confident that I could make it on my own, I started up the engine and followed the ascending byway toward Fairfield.
I soon left behind all urban pretense and found myself speeding through low hills and tiny hamlets made up of slanted wood structures decades past their prime. It had begun to rain more steadily. Crossing the murky Roman River, I saw that it had overflowed its banks.
The winding lane took me past yet more hilly farmland enclosed by strands of barbed wire, putting me slightly in mind of northern England. When I came to the outer limits of Fairfield, which sat across another, smaller, swollen river, I was greeted by a white board sign proclaiming it as The Nicest Town in America.
Main Street, lined with gray brick shops dating from the 1920s, sank down into the rest of the town, from which a white church spire rose into the air, and a blue water tower next to a tall brick schoolhouse loomed supernaturally forth from the thick valley mist. The sidewalk boasted fiery trees, the embers of which carpeted the wet concrete.
At the four-way intersection, the only cars that I met were a station wagon going to the east part of town, a minivan heading back the way I had come, and an SUV going down into the heart of the town, which lied spread before the hill like a fog enshrouded dream.
I took the left and followed the street for a time, passing a small doctor’s office and the police station. The big roll-top doors of the local volunteer fire department were open, and I glimpsed several men in the gloom lazily wiping down the sleeping green dragon within. A group of children struggled down the sidewalk with crammed backpacks dragging along the wet pavement. A boy on a ten-speed bike shot past them and hung a sharp right, taking a small dead-end road ending at the foot of the hill. In the rear view mirror a large yellow school grinded to a halt, the red lights on its mounted stop sign blinking rhythmically. Teenagers tumbled out and hurried across.
Lee Street was an odd mix of ranch and Victorian houses, all beautiful and tastefully enclosed by hedges or withering gardens. A few of the larger homes were sectioned off with low stone walls waist high to a man.
The last house on the left was tall and narrow, dating back at least to the latter half of the 1890s. With spires and gingerbread trim it affected a stately air.
I parked along the street and sat for a moment, memories washing over me. I and Henry had come here several summers during our childhood. Being unable to have children, Jo and Oscar doted on us so much it was almost cloying. They were rabid antique collectors, and spent thirty happy years hoarding history together before Flight 93 went down over Pennsylvania on the eleventh of September, 2001.
I killed the engine and got out into a brisk slap of wind. After waiting for a minivan to swoosh past, I crossed the street. The grass along the flagstone walk was encroachingly tall, and I wondered if Henry’s ghost had hidden his lawnmower.
I bounded up the porch and knocked on the door. I waited in the cold for a moment, a wind from the west raking my flesh. Finally, as I cocked my fist to knock again, the door opened, and was filled with Henry, dressed as he had been at the bookstore.
“Hey, man” he greeted and moved aside.
“Long time no see,” I smiled. Stepping across the threshold, I was immediately struck by the heaviness of the atmosphere, crushing down on me like the world upon Atlas’s shoulders. I staggered, and Henry at one grabbed my arm and helped steady me.
“Uh-oh,” he said, “I don’t like that.”
“I’m fine,” I lied, looking suspiciously about myself, “just tired.” I didn’t at once remember what such a black heft meant, but I did know that it wasn’t good. At all.
“Well, if you wanna go back…”
“Nah,” I dismissed, “I’m alright.”
“Okay,” Henry said and led me from the shadowy foyer and into a wide parlor. A large bay window, an ugly modern addition, sat across the room, uncurtained. Save for tall, dusty bookshelves along either wall, the only other furnishings in the room were a couch piled with tangled blankets and a pillow, and two armchairs.
Henry showed me to one of the chairs and took the one across from me.
“So, what’s up? How’s life treating you?”
I sighed. “Alright. I hate the touring, though. I can’t stand being on the road.”
“Ah,” he dismissed me with a wave of the hand, “you always were a little homebody. I love the open road. Nothing like it. You want a drink?”
I nodded.
“Coke,” he warned me.
“Better be.”
He laughed and moved off to the kitchen, leaving me alone in the room. The dark feeling pressed down on me harder than it had been, compressing my chest. I tried to take a deep breath, but was unable. It was like standing on a high butte overlooking a strange plain in a dark world, the air thin and sour.
Henry returned with two Cokes. He handed me one and sat back down. “Sorry they’re not cold. I just bought ‘em on the way back.”
“That’s fine,” I said, opening mine and taking a long drink. Henry sat his between his legs.
“I saw you on Ghost Hunters last month,” he said with something like pride, “I was over at my old girlfriend’s house and when your mug popped out, I about went crazy. “Hey, I know that guy!””
My appearance on the popular SYFY Channel show had been little more than a publicity stunt engineered by my agent. I was against it from the first, but ending up going on anyway. The target was a 13th Century castle on an Irish bluff overlooking the crashing sea. Supposedly, a family of werewolves had lived there in the sixteen hundreds.
“They’re a sham,” I said, glancing around as if expecting a hostile apparition to materialize. Maybe I was.
“Who?”
“Those attention whores,” I said, referring to the ‘ghost hunters’. “There weren’t any ghosts. It was all faked. The noises. The mist. All of it.
“I figured,” Henry said, “they usually are.”
“I guess,” I looked around.
“Yeah.” Henry finished off his Coke and sat the empty can at his foot.
“So, what have you been doing?” I asked, “just hanging out?”
“Yeah,” he said, “aunt Jo and uncle Oscar weren’t rich. They had money, but not much. The way the recession’s going, I’m probably gonna have to go back to work soon.”
“Sometimes I wish I could just stop writing and investigating and all that and just live off my books’ proceeds,” I confided, “live the life without doing the work.”
Henry chuckled. “You’re lucky; you got a kick-ass job. I’m most likely gonna end up at Food-Lion or something.”
“Gotta start somewhere,” I said. “Maybe we can write a novel together.”
Both of us had tried as children to write our own horror stories. Henry’s were mostly better than mine.
“Maybe,” he seemed to taste the idea.
I opened my mouth to reply, but a stiff gust of wind slammed into the house, and I jolted.
Henry laughed. “Scared?”
I shook my head. “No, not really. I just…well, what exactly are we dealing with, here?”
Henry sobered, his face darkening. “I…I been thinking how to word this for a while now.” He paused. “You ever hear that phrase La petite mort?”
I missed a beat. “What?”
“You know, that French metaphor? It refers to a state of euphoria after you “finish.””
“Yeah, I know.”
Henry sat grasping for a moment. “People believe that some kind of spiritual lifeforce is…expelled when you cum. Somehow that’s like dying or something.”
“Uh-huh,” I nodded awkwardly.
“And in Ghosts and Ghouls, you said that some people think a ghost is just…leftover human energy. Right?”
“The atheists and agnostics in the field, yes.”
“Do you think it’s possible that…that release of energy can leave a…a ghostly residue?”
I laughed. “Henry, that’s just a metaphor; it doesn’t mean anything.”
“Are you sure?”
I opened my mouth, but closed it again. I couldn’t honestly say that I was.
“What…what makes you ask that?”
“It’s my bed,” he replied darkly.
“Your bed?”
He nodded. “Remember Sarah Kerns?”
For a moment I drew a blank, and then an angular face framed in raven hair materialized before my mind’s eye.
“Sure,” I said, “your girlfriend in eighth grade. What about her?”
“Remember how she moved over the summer, before we started high school?”
I nodded. Her father was in some kind of business that forced him to relocate often. I can’t remember what it was, though.
“The night before she left, she came over to my house and we did it...”
“Alright,” I urged, and then it dawned on me. “You still have the same bed, don’t you?”
He shrugged. “Never saw a good reason to get rid of it.”
“And you’ve…done a lot in it, huh?”
“A lot,” he admitted.
“And now you think…what, all that combined energy has created a sort of ghost?”
“Look, I know it’s crazy, but just hear me out, okay?”
“Okay.”
Henry took a deep breath and began.
Several weeks before crying out to me for help, he told me, he had been lying awake in bed. It was a windy night and he was as far from sleep as a man can get, so, as he watched the darkened ceiling, he let his mind drift unfettered. He had always had a fertile imagination, and was entertaining himself with undisclosed fantasies when, all of a sudden, the foot of the bed lurched to one side, as though booted by an angry WWE star after an in-ring betrayal.
“Man, that scared the shit outta me,” Henry said. “I froze up and just laid there for a minute. Then it happened again, and this time I got knocked off.”
Frightened, Henry jumped up, fell in the sheets tangled at his feet, and flew down the stairs.
“I sat here in the living room for a little while. After a half hour or so, I decided it was a nightmare and went back up. In the room, I flipped on the light switch and…”
He was quiet for a long moment, looking down at his ashen hands. “And there was a fuckin dead girl spread out on the bed, covered in blood and shit.”
I gasped softly at this, my heart freezing in mid beat.
“You’re sure?” I asked incredulously.
He nodded without looking up. “Yeah. And she looked like Hanna Giles…you remember her, right?”
I did. She was a cheerleader during school, a tall drink of blond perfection. She and Henry spent much of the 11th grade getting hot and heavy together before he grew bored and found another conquest.
“And…and she…sat up, her fuckin eyes were black and she had these long Dracula fangs. She opened up her legs and…fucking blood gushed out.”
He stopped at my hiss of horror. “It looked like…you know, in The Shinning, when that elevator opens up in the beginning?”
I nodded, my mouth slightly agape.
“I saw that shit and lost my mind. I ran out the front door and down the street. Spent the rest of the night in a booth at the diner, too afraid to come home.”
In the morning, Henry stretched out in the parlor.
“I was having dinner the next day. A buffalo chicken Hungry Man. So, I was sitting at the kitchen table eating, when something above my head, in the room, crashed against the floor. And right after, I heard this long, high pitched laugh.”
Stiff with terror, Henry remained unmoving at the table for nearly an hour before packing up and going to a motel for a few days.
“I was starting to think it was a nightmare, but when that shit happened…”
Henry eventually returned, convinced that the “ghosts”, while frightening, were harmless.
“So, one night, I got brave and went back upstairs to see what would happen.”
After several uneventful hours, Henry was on the border of sleep when something, something cold and dry, wrapped around his throat.
“It felt like hands, little…you know, a woman’s hands.”
The world grayed as Henry clawned at the phantom hands to no avail. He nearly collapsed into death before they suddenly and inexplicably spared him.
“That was the other night. I was about to leave, go get a motel or something, but I heard you were coming down, so I thought I’d see if you could help me.”
For a long moment I sat in brooding silence.
In 1999, I left school to work for a noted regional paranormal researcher named John Haggis. I accompanied him on many outings, most of them busts. Only three confirmed cases of the genuinely supernatural came across our desk in the three years I worked with him, one of them being the demonic haunting of a bar in Headwaters, a tiny hamlet nestled in the Shenandoah foothills southwest of Harrisonburg.
I learned several things from our experience there. One: Demons despise the presence of a professional. Two: While ghosts can, on extremely rare occasions, possess human beings, only demons can shapeshift and actually harm someone without the use of a human agent.
“Have…have you ever smelled sulfur here?” I asked, my voice natural, at least to my own ears.
“Rotten eggs? No, why?”
“You’ve been left alone outside the room, right?”
“Yeah. What about the sulfur?” he seemed impatient.
I ignored him and looked from one shadowy corner to another, the house bathed in a sour, uneasy silence. I was shocked to find myself wanting to get as away from the house as I could.
“Henry,” I drew, my eyes darting apprehensively, “there…”
I stopped. How would he take hearing that a demon was in his house? But was it really a demon we were dealing with? I couldn’t be sure; I’m not, after all, a demonologist.
“What?” he asked, his tone low and worried.
If it was, then it appeared to be attached to the bed somehow, like a ghost to a favorite rocking chair…
“…I doubt that your ghost is made of girl goo.” I at length flashed a smile, hoping that it didn’t look too fake. “I’ve heard of similar cases, and they are relatively easy to deal with.”
“Really?” Henry’s face brightened for the first time all day, and his tone was one of a child in the presence of a shyster birthday-party magician.
“Yeah,” I said, “no problem. Tomorrow I’ll call some people and they’ll conduct…sort of an exorcism. It’ll be a breeze.”
Henry sighed, relieved. “Okay.”
I looked again from corner to corner. “Hey, you want to go and get some dinner, my treat?”
Henry smiled again, his dark eyes alight. “Sure.”
We took my car, and drove off into the thickening gloom. Main Street was busier than it had been when I entered town; it was past six, and people were returning home from work in droves.
“Take a left up here,” Henry said as we approached the four-way, “and go for about…five miles. Place called Ryan’s.”
I nodded, lost in thought. I would have to call Tom Youngblood, the only demonologist in the Richmond area, in the morning. And maybe I would have to call the Catholic Church in town, too. Then again, the church has tried in recent years to distance itself from the supernatural.
I took the left, and descended down into the heart of Fairfield. Queerly, about a mile of hillside between the upper and lower sections had been left undeveloped, and was currently a hopeless tangle of dead grass.
“Man, I feel like a weight’s been lifted,” Henry said as we passed the dark shops and rain sluiced sidewalks, empty save for the phantom trees along the edge. “You can really do all of this tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” I said confidently. I took a deep breath, and seemed to blow away all of the mounting worry crushing my chest. I only had to call Tom and a priest, and they would take it from there. They were experts. It might not be an easy break, but it would get done. Demons were actually weak in the presence of religious men; which is why I abandoned my former atheism.
“Good. I can’t wait to get this shit behind me. It’s been a living hell, you know?”
I nodded, and then realized that it was probably too dark for Henry to see. “Yeah, I bet it’ll feel really good.”
“Like a million bucks,” Henry said.
“And…get rid of the damn bed. I don’t think that what we’re dealing with is…what you thought, but just burn it. It’s possible that the ghost is attached to it for some reason.”
“Way ahead of you, man,” Henry said. “I’m gonna go down to Mattress Warehouse and get me a new one tomorrow.”
At the end of town, just before the beginning of the dark, wet woods, I slowed at the traffic light, pulling to a stop alongside a school bus; the small lights affixed to the ceiling within were on against the dark. I saw a few dark silhouettes through the rectangular windows, and ascertained from their distorted shapes that they belonged to the high school’s football team.
“And…don’t have all your fun in one place, okay?” I said as we got back underway, the bus falling behind in the darkness.
“I ain’t gonna have that kinda fun for a long time.”
“Yeah, bullshit,” I jested in hopes of further lightening the mood, “you can’t go a week without having sex with someone…or something.”
Henry chuckled. “Yeah? I once went a month without doin your mom.”
“She needed that long to stop laughing at your…handicap.”
Henry laughed. “Okay. Just wait till we get there; take you in the bathroom and show you what’s up.”
I snorted. “What’s limp.”
“It won’t be limp when I shove it down…”
The restaurant, a sparkling oasis cloaked in primal black, loomed so quickly from the darkness that I nearly missed the turn.
“Alright,” Henry said after I had slid us into a slanted parking spot facing the empty road, his penis forgotten, “let’s get some grub.”
“You look like a German Jew,” I said as we got out of the car, “you need a good meal.”
“Yeah, thanks, mom,” Henry said as we crossed the parking lot. Through the big front windows, we could see happy families sharing joyful meals in the warm brightness.
We came to the double doors, and both held them open for the shuffling passage of an elderly couple. “Thank you,” the old man rasped and nodded as he helped his wife past us and toward a silver Cadillac parked in one of the closest handicap spots. They were immediately followed by two teenage girls in gym shorts and pink tops.
“What is it with kids dressing like that when it’s cold?” I whispered as we entered the restaurant, assaulted at once by the good odors of many steaming, mingling foods.
“If you got it flaunt it,” Henry reckoned.
We walked up to the long lunch counter and took cups, silverware and plastic trays from a hotplate guarded from inconsiderate sneezers by smudged plastic. We waited behind a party of rowdy college students to pay the casher.
We paid the chipper blond behind the register and were shown by a young sleepy eyed man in a red t-shirt and black slacks to a booth along the far wall of the room, mercifully away from the main population. Henry was immediately off to fix himself a plate at the buffet.
I sat at the booth for a moment, looking around the brightly lit room. It was crowded with families, mostly, passing food and laughing over their tables.
After another moment of inventorying how many people I would have to pass to get to the drink machine, I got up and moved to the Coke island. Apart from the dispenser there sat a plain metal canister marked with the picture of a tall, frosty glass of chocolate milk looming forward like a favorite uncle. I considered for a moment, and finally decided to get the milk, the likes of which I haven’t tasted since I was a child.
As I drew the dark liquid into my clear cup, a beefy older man in a brown leather jacket walked unthinkingly up to the machine and filled his cup with Sprite, all the while gasping softly to himself about someone named Mony-Mony.
Sidestepping a yellow WET FLOOR sign at the head of a nasty spill, I went back to the booth where Henry sat, bent protectively over a plate of fried chicken and breaded shrimp. I took my plate and quickly filled it up with French fries, several times nearly colliding with a young boy in small glasses examining each bright pile of food as if he would die if he did not detect the poison on his choices. At the booth I splattered a liberal amount of Tabasco sauce on the golden potatoes and dug in, my chocolate milk standing dutifully by should I need its aid.
“Remember Donny West?” Henry asked around a mouthful of food. I nodded. Donny had been one of our friends as kids before his mother moved the family to West Virginia. A beefy kid with red hair and deep freckles.
“Yeah. How can I forget?”
“He died.”
“What?” I asked, a bit of fry falling from my mouth and landing on the plate.
Henry nodded and swallowed. “I talked to his sister on Facebook, and she said he was drinking and wrecked his car into a tree a couple years ago. Took two of his friends with him.”
“That’s horrible,” I said numbly. Though I had not seen Donny in years, to hear that a once close friend was dead broke my heart.
“You remember what he did on April Fool’s Day that one time?” I asked Henry after a long, respectful moment of silence.
Henry nodded. “He had balls to do that.”
Donny, much more a practical joker than even Henry, had run the Stars and Bars of the Confederacy up the flag pole before school started that day. What made it even funnier were the facts that no one even noticed until lunch, and that the school sat right on the main highway in Picketts Meade.
“Yeah,” I sighed, black, cancerous nostalgia flooding me. “The good old days.”
We then lapsed into a comfortable silence. After savagely stripping the meat from a chicken bone, Henry wandered off to treat himself to a cold dessert. I finished the last of my fries and polished off the chocolate milk, my burning mouth greedily absorbing the cool liquid.
After a return trip to the machine, meeting once again the boy who had been diligently studying for his buffet safety PhD (he wasn’t quiet as conscientious when it came to Coca-Cola), I placed myself in my seat and awaited Henry. He soon returned empty-handed.
“They all sucked,” he declared.
I did not reply, but suddenly realized that the ice cream machine was next to the soda and chocolate milk fountains.
Suddenly, from across the room, there came a loud racket, drawling the puzzled stares of patrons in the gulf between walls. From a door came a line of people dressed in red shirts and black pants. The person at the head of the rank, a rather fetching teen goth with long midnight hair and a generous bosom, held something in her hands, something aflame, for her strong angler face was awash in orange. The Ryan’s troops behind her were clapping.
With mortification I saw them making a B-line toward our table like a personified children’s show choo-choo. Now all of the bemused eaters were looking toward me and Henry.
“You bastard,” I said, turning to Henry. He was smiling and clapping flourishingly. I broke out in my own grin, my cheeks afire. “Oh you son of a bitch; real funny.”
The Ryan’s Birthday Army now surrounded my half of the booth, leering over me like grinning psychos and clapping madly. I hung my head in embarrassment as they sat a flaming birthday cake on the table before me. “Bastard,” I muttered, lowering my head, realizing that now all of the other patrons too were looking at me and clapping.
Then the singing started.
I could just imagine Henry going up to our hostess and stage whispering across the counter, his hand shielding his mouth from prying lip readers, Pissst; it’s his birthday, pointing in my direction.
Bastard.
***
Coming out of the Ryan’s parking lot nearly half an hour later, I took a right on the rain swept street and followed it back to town past several large comfortable southern homes boasting screened in front porches and spotlighted flags. Most of these were protected from the street by rusted chin link fences.
We were silent and content, our stomachs full.
Finally desirous of breaking the silence, but too stuffed with food and lazy to speak, I switched on the radio, picking up a station from southern Maryland. After a “local” newscast about a New York mobster choking to death in a King George pizza joint and the discovery of a well-known radical poet shot dead in a D.C. parking garage, Cyndi Lauper came on with Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.
“Your song,” Henry croaked from the passenger seat.
I changed the station. The Culture Club was singing about a Church of the Poisoned Mind.
“Damn, must be your night,” Henry snickered from the darkness.
“Shut up,” I replied, hitting the scan button; the radio settled for a station playing a Seether song.
Henry laughed. “I meant you like eighties music. I wasn’t trying to say you’re gay…not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
Pulling to the end of Henry’s street, I noticed that we had left none of the lights on when we departed; the thought of waltzing through the door into the pitch black slightly uneased me.
I thought of asking Henry to stay with me at the Marriot in Richmond rather than me staying with him, but quickly decided against it; we’d be safe in the parlor.
Putting down my own childish reluctance, I parked the car at the curb and killed the engine, shutting Kanye West off in mid-rant.
We entered the house and immediately repaired to the parlor, where Henry took care of stoking a warm fire into existence.
That done, he came back to his chair and sank with a pleasured sigh. “So, you gonna write about this?”
To be honest, the thought hadn’t crossed my mind. “Maybe,” I said. Of course I would. Would it make it into my next book? It had a better chance than some of the other cases I had. People love their supernatural when it’s really weird.
“Well…” Henry said, but was interrupted by a terrible crash from overhead, which shook the house and caused us to jerk in surprised fear.
“There it is,” he shivered.
Another long bang sounded upstairs, as if something had thumped to the floor.
I swallowed around a lump in my throat, and opened my mouth, but was forestalled by another loud crash, this one followed by a stomach-piercing moan.
“Maybe we should go,” I stammered, a sudden bubble of stark fear overwhelming my cool rationality.
Henry licked his lips and swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
I looked appraisingly up at the smooth ceiling above my head, partly hidden by the gloom. There was another thump that stopped my heart and froze my blood. A shower of fine plaster rained down upon me like hard snow, and I quickly averted my eyes to avoid it.
“Henry?” I panted breathlessly, wrestling with my own galloping fear.
“Fuck this,” Henry affirmed and moved to stand, “let’s…”
Henry had been whispering, as if worried about disturbing his inconsiderate guest, so I was able to hear the soft, terrible footfall. It was as if an electric shock ran through me, reducing my bones to jelly.
I heard it again, louder this time.
Henry’s eyes were wide. “Was that…?” he whispered superstitiously.
I gulped and nodded. “It sounded like it…
From the dark upstairs hall there came a soft, fugitive creak. Henry was now fully standing, his wiry body tense and rigid.
“Hennnryyyyyy!” drifted a thin and ghostly greeting.
“Jesus Christ!” I exclaimed, and bolted to my feet. I turned to the dark threshold into the rest of the hostile house, and saw nothing but playing shadows.
“Hennnryyyy, baaaabyyyyyyy!”
I spun on my heels. “We have to get the hell out of here!” I whispered incoherently, my mind reeling. There was no hope of using the front door. We would have to pass the stairs…
Henry stood slack in place, his eyes wide and seeming to vibrate with terror.
There was a more confident footfall from halfway down the staircase, and a definite swish like that of a passing priest’s cassock.
“Come on!” I screamed, my fear boiling over. I desperately regarded the window beyond Henry’s chair. It appeared wide enough for both of us to escape side-by-side.
I grabbed Henry’s wrist, but pulling him was like trying to move a wooden post set deeply in the ground.
“Come on, we gotta go, NOW!!” I screamed franticly, hearing the loud moan of the last step. Henry shook his head as if shaking away a dream and looked at me with frightened, pleading eyes. But before a word could pass between us he turned back to the threshold.
And screamed.
Hearing the horrible, damned-soul quality of his voice broke my resolve and nearly my mind. It was the high-pitched shriek of a child on finally seeing the thing under its bed and finding it far worse than imagined; it was the scream of a sinner being shown into his new abode in hell; it was the pitiful cry of a madman.
Fueled by mindless animal terror, I sprang for the window.
Forearms thrown protectively over my face, I crashed through with a cry, and sailed into the damp night in a shower of broken glass, my stomach throbbing in my throat. I hit the grassy ground with an umph and staggered to my feet, my knees watery and quivering.
Behind me, the laughter of madness turned into the orgasm of agony.
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