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Date Rape



The Deception

Deborah says,
That I don't know her,
That I don't see her,
That I don't believe her.


     Rather than describe Deborah to you I'll just say
picture the girl that you would most like to fuck and leave it
at that. I should point out that Deborah is not Debbie the
secretary who lays as easily as a pregnant chicken, Deborah is
a femme fatale of the highest order. But everyone has different
ideas of who they'd like to wake up next to, so I'll omit any
physical details, they'll only detract from the point. We were
sitting in the cab outside her apartment, talking in the back and
watching the meter bankrupting us, but not caring. I was
telling a dumb anecdote, it was so lame I don't remember it
now but she laughed at it anyway.  The plastic leather cab
seats were very uncomfortable and yet were borne for just a
few minutes more.
     "Yes I'd love a coffee," I said eagerly, smacking my
lips dryly.
     She went inside, leaving me to pay for the cab. She
lived in an oldish house which had been converted cheaply into
flats. In Brighton there are hundreds of these houses, still
standing only because there is nowhere for them to fall. I
climbed up the stone steps as the taxi ground away into the
drizzle. She'd left the door open so I stepped inside. The hall
was poorly lit by a dusty 40 watt hanging off of the patchy
ceiling. It was, like outside, damp and cold. It barely kept the
rain from your head. A battered pine chair and table sat
smugly on the threadbare ruby brown carpet. Her flat was
upstairs on the second floor, when I was shown in I was
stunned by the contrast.
     Her apartment was brightly lit and sparsely furnished
with expensive glass tables and leather chairs. The floor, like
a chessboard, was chequered with shiny, hard black and white
tiles. She was fixing me a drink from a hole in the wall, a
minimalist drinks cabinet I was later told. She poured my
whiskey from a decanter and after adding ice passed it over to
me. Our fingertips touched, the whiskey tasted of peat, it
must've been expensive. I tried to talk but my mind was
distracted by the feel of my trousers against my legs. It's
strange with me, when I drink I don't get drunk, just tired.
And very aware of cloth against my skin. It all feels so
smooth. We weren't talking anymore. I stared at her legs as
we sat down. If you were categorising I'd be a legs man,
whatever that means. It doesn't matter what they're like, so
long as they aren't blotchy, and they're well shaved. Pale,
smooth legs really do it for me. She was wearing a very short
dress. The settee was black leather and it seemed to be
pleasantly warm to me at that point. She placed her brandy
glass on the low coffee table, it slipped slightly and sent an
oily streak across the glass. She disregarded it and picked up
a remote. Pressing a rubbery button she turned on the hi-fi and
set a CD playing. I don't remember what was on but it was
very quiet. She put the remote back and leaned closer to me.
Her breath smelt of Remy Martin and I found my hand resting
on her thigh. Legs and booze, I was sunk for sure. We kissed
briefly and then went through the delicate teasy moves, the
ones you learn as a kid. I spent a bit too long and you could
tell that I was losing the moment. I resorted to that very
dangerous tactic of quoting poetry. Your timing and choice
have to be spot on or they quite rightly laugh in your face. But
when it works, a killing blow my friend, a killing blow.
     I picked her up gently, she was heavier than I'd
imagined. Making my way to the bedroom door which I'd
been eyeing since I had arrived we scarcely said a word. I
think she smiled as I checked her head past the door frame.
We both knew that you don't make that mistake twice.

          *   *   *   *   *    
     It was very early in the morning when I could be sure
that she was fast asleep. Her breathing was regular and she
wasn't moving as much. I waited a while longer, her arm was
limp across my stomach and her leg was pressed against mine
from the hip to the knee. I'd lain motionless on my side, facing
away from her since the light had gone out. I didn't want to
move or leave, but I couldn't stand to be near her. The smell
of stale brandy was making me feel ill. The duvet was spread
pleasantly over my naked skin. When she turned over I slipped
out as quietly as I could. The bed creaked slightly and I think
she turned again. I stood on the cold tiles with the tips of my
fingers resting lightly on the bed. Slowly feeling my way in the
dark I reached the bedroom door and passed out into the
lounge. The drinks hole was subtly lit and the french doors
leading onto the balcony allowed some light from the sodium
lamp outside into the room. I fetched myself another shot of
whiskey, this time picking a cheaper single malt which I
favoured. Leaning against a leather chair, hugging the drink in
my hands I took large gulps to stop myself shivering. I needed
a cigarette. Deborah had left some by the bed so I fumbled
back to them and went out onto the balcony. She had a
smooth metal cigarette case with the letters LA elaborately
engraved upon it. I took one and lit up with the matching
lighter. Gripping the filter firmly with two fingers and a thumb
I brought it to my lips. I wasn't shaking so badly now and
inhaling deeply I felt an unfamiliar burning in my lungs.
Coughing loudly over the rail I threw the cigarette away. Not
smoking is always a disadvantage after sex, somehow it seems
to bring the charade to a conclusion. It was still cloudy but it
wasn't raining any more and I stood, naked, on the balcony
until I was numb before going back to bed.



The Detection

Deborah says,
That I don't love her.
(She wouldn't have it any other way.)
     
©1998 Mark Sexton