The Woman Thing

The Woman Thing




One of author Daimler's more unusual works, involving debates about philosophy, madness, religion, and the screaming tender demon inside. Martha and Macdonald sit in Paris, debate and chat, and need, and desire, and reject... And have lots of sex.



Publié par
Date de parution 07 janvier 2013
Nombre de lectures 40
EAN13 9781608728169
Licence : Tous droits réservés
Langue English

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The Woman Thing
Harriet Daimler
This page copyright © 2003 Olympia Press.
“Macdonald, can I turn on the light now?” “Absolutely not.” He hunted for her body and found it by following th e descent of the mattress to the precipice where she had to be. “Then you turn it on, please,” she let him pat her wet thighs and her dry belly and then graduate up to her breasts. “I can't sleep. I must talk to you.” “Does a tropical disease prevent you from hearing y our voice in the dark?” “That's just it,” she detached him from the nipple stuck between his irregular teeth. “I can feel me reabsorbing my voice. I want you to hea r it.” “Attention is a child of darkness.” Macdonald mumbl ed into his yawn. “You'll go to sleep.” Martha sat up on her side of the bed, collapsing his in a landslide. “I know you'll go to sleep. You always d o when I talk serious.” “I go to sleep,” her ingratitude woke him sharply, “and elevating my love to an ecstasy of pleasure for seventeen hours. Does that seem abrupt?” he labored to regain his own pinnacle. “But we're always either sleeping or fucking,” she moaned. “I can never talk seriously.” “Martha,” he asked in fatalistic calm, “is this goi ng to be the same as last week's conversation?” “With variations.” “Then just rattle off the variation without the res t. I swear, I haven't managed to forget one consonant.” “If you won't turn on the light, can I open the cur tain? It might still be day,” the girl bargained. “Keep your revolting faces of nature to yourself,” he said, pinning her to the bed. “You Americans, no timing. Just this appalling accu racy. Clocks where your cocks should be.” “Cunts,” she beggared. “A detail that wouldn't give nerves to a poet.” “You're not a poet, you're a doctor.” “I've forbidden you to use that word in this bed,” he snapped at her, shutting his eyes at the unforgivable trespass. “Why did you stop being a doctor?” “I couldn't stand the image of myself, tall, slende r, humorous eyes, vital hair, a nervous intensity, quick competent movements?and th en that long white coat, so obscenely attractive women got sick at the sight of me.” “Do you ever think of all those sick, neglected patients.” “People have a right to be sick,” he said darkly.
“Also a right to be cured.” “Absolutely not.” “That's nonsense and you know it.” “I know that you're trying to keep me awake.” Macdo nald lifted the arm from her flattened body and scratched his eyes open. “When y ou've got my complex glandular system alerted, you'll sneak into that monumentally meaningless conversation of yours, the whole serious thing, variations and theme.” “Even if I had nothing else to say,” Martha extract ed her body from the tangle of damp, tobacco stained, wine stained, yogurt, coffee and come stained sheets, “I'd still say nonsense.” “Congratulations.” “Nonsense.” He listened to her bare feet pressing cigarette but ts on the tile floor. “If people are healthy, they're healthy,” he delivered himself of a quotation no one would ever quote, “and if they're sick, they're sick, disgusting egom aniacs, all their ingenious little diseases that it takes generations to cultivate. Fu ck them.” “What about being hit by cars,” she fought for the masses. “Each man to his own bad habits,” Macdonald reached above his head and squeezed forty watts of electricity into his eyes. “I frankly prefer livers decomposed by excessive drink and insanity caused by sleeping all night and struggling to stay awake all day. Martha, there's enough light in the room. If you touch that curtain and one sliver of day falls across my exhausted form I will consid er your death a suicide.” She took a chance and pulled back the curtain. Had the window been wide enough to frame an adult skull or the curtains full enough to form one fold, her gesture would have achieved significance. Squinting one eye she t ried to focus it through the architect's esoteric joke. “It's a glorious day. I think there's sun somewhere, but, of course, not in Paris.” “Of course not,” Macdonald reached for the Gauloise s, “you want to turn tourist agents into prophets.” “It's that wall, Mac,” Martha stayed sentinel at th e rampart through which the enemy could not be spotted until he'd shot the pinks of h er eye, “the whole world could be raging with peace and we'd just see the wall. Why,” she turned her imploring, naked search on him, “now why would the French build a ho tel against a wall and then put a microscopic vaginal slit in all the rooms facing th e wall when so many painters are screaming for commissions?” “When this hotel opened, little one, daylight was r ecognized as vulgar and ill flattering to fair complexions,” he stared back at her, “and how wise were our ancestors is confirmed by your revolting appearance.” “Then why did you become a doctor?” “Have I missed my cue,” Macdonald apologized to his fellow players, “or did I just have a monotonous chat with myself about walls?” “Well, why? Did you love humanity?” “Never,” his laugh turned into a nicotine addict's hackle, “humanity, those nauseous gases that solidified into you.” “But why?” “Who can fathom nature?” “No, the other why.” “Come back to bed,” he said. “I can see you too cle arly at this distance.” “I look like hell?”
“The enamel is cracking a bit,” he admitted. “You l ook like the Mona Lisa that didn't get returned to the Louvre.” She rushed her face to the piece of mirror over the sink. “You're right,” her fingers forcing the cracks to fuse and disappear. “I must p ut on all fresh powder.” “Women,” he marveled, “how with the mysterious and subtle changes of your delicate inner life and metabolism you create life's only calendar.” “Also I'll have to make some more black for my eyes .” “Oh Christ,” he moaned, “you're going to make all t heconciergesout of their electric eyes.” “Well I can't go around like this,” she glared at h im out of yesterday's ruined mask. “Get back into bed.” “Why did you become a doctor?” “So I could study my body,” he relented, “without e veryone getting suspicious. I was always mad for my body.” “Is that all?” She stood leaning over the bed looki ng for the opening, and then finding the corner where the blanket appeared to be in contact with the mattress, crawled in. “Oh no, my precious Penelope, also to study female parts. I reasoned that if I could memorize all my vitals and then progress onto femal es' I'd make a fortune giving frigid American ladies, who sometimes came to our modest b ut picturesque village, orgasms. At the time I chose that livelihood,” his words wer e aimless but his fingers on her cunt sure, “like most of my ignorant Scot neighbors, I t hought that all frigid American ladies were rich. You, of course,” he released a torrent o f accusing smoke in her direction, “are only one of the examples confirming that youth shou ld not be left to choose his own destiny.” “Macdonald.” “The voice I hear is not of my present love but spe aks like a specter out of last week, and the week before last week.” “Macdonald, are you the only man who can make me co me?” “I wouldn't be surprised. I've always had rotten lu ck with my successes.” “Then it must be because we have a profound relatio nship.” “It must be.” “See,” she pulled the burning cigarette out of his mouth, “see, you're going to sleep with a cigarette and the light and window and every thing. We must have this discussion.” “Discussions,” he groaned, “couldn't you write down your thoughts, leaving wide margins on either side of the paper for me to blue-pencil in my corrections.” “Why were you the only man to make me come?” “Because I'm clever. Because I have an iron and tireless prick.” “Nonsense.” “That phrase keeps recurring.” She increased the agony of the bedsprings and turne d to him. “I think I was ready. I used to believe it was your great skill or my great love that made me come, but I've been reconsidering. I'd become less neurotic in Europe, any man could have done it.” “Why my sweet,” he reached gently for her hand, “an d have I been the last to try? I never dared to ask or hope.” “Well practically.” “Practically? You equivocate, have there been impra ctical results?” “No one else can,” she said bluntly. “And the thing you wish to know is if this is a curse or a blessing? You are wondering
if it will be necessary for you to throw your body on the burning pyre in the unfortunate calamity of my demise preceding yours.” “Yes, that's what I'm wondering.” “I can see your dilemma,” he picked up another crac ked mirror that fate had deposited on the bedside chair-table-crate and stud ied his ravished teeth, “and when you allow for the modern savagery of inhumation, I marvel at how you maintain a calm. Then you don't really maintain, do you?” “Badly.” “You would like me to assure that you will be the f irst of us to go? Is that what's haunting our idyllic relationship?” “Do we have a relationship, Macdonald?” “I knew it was a mistake to use that word.” He spat on the insolent mirror, “I forgot about all the books you've been reading. Would you tweeze my eyebrows, Martha?” “Do we have anything, Macdonald?” “Sure, all kinds of things.” He carefully replaced the gilt mirror on the marbletop balustrade, and just as carefully separated her gol den thighs. “Among which, I sadly cannot include money.” “Macdonald, speak seriously to me, are we together because we love each other?” “Is this famous discussion of yours an elaborate pl ot to make me impotent? Because that question would require a serious answer,” he w armed his hands at the barricade, “if it made any sense at all.” “It makes great sense,” she held him out, “it's the only thing that does make sense. Why are we here together in this bed?” “Whereas the other answer would have to be too serious, this one is too obvious.” “Just to fuck, Macdonald, is that all?” “You'll weep at that preposition when you hit sixty .” “But why each other? Why, for three years, each oth er?” “We pretend to enjoy it.” “Is pretense everything?” “I'm not prepared to deal with everything, just fuc king.” “And will we want each other tomorrow, Macdonald?” “Don't be impatient, sweet. Let's wait and ignore that question tomorrow.” “But it makes everything so tenuous,” she wept, “it makes every day so arbitrary, and then so identical.” “You want a reason bigger than either ofus,my little one?” “I want an answer.” “I can't give it to you.” He wrestled with her hand that fell away like a sloppy drunk from the solid support of his offered pole. “Thank you,” she said grimly, “you can continue sle eping now.” “I have no reasons.” “You made that clear.” “I think reasons are so unreasonable.” “Love would be a reason,” she shrieked. “Is that a reason to love? Just to be neat and have a reason?” “It would be the other way round.” “My suspicions are so strong as to be convictions.” “Hate would be a reason.” “So would geography, economy, chemistry, philosophy , or sodomy. So pick any one, or even two that satisfy you. I won't turn state's evidence.”
“I'm a woman,” she insisted, into his calm face. Th e man next door put downFrance-Soir. “If you're a woman,” Macdonald surrendered on her d esert-dry cunt, “why don't you go to work like all the other women and give me som e pocket money and peace, then I'll be strong and beat you.” “That wouldn't mean anything.” “It might hurt, I'm bigger than I look.” “If you'd beat me out of jealousy or lust...” “Bring me my strap, I'll try.” “Oh, Macdonald, it's so weak our being together. It 's as if once three years ago we got into bed and neither of us has had the energy to get out since.” “You exaggerate, darling, we get out at least seven times a week. Ask anygarconat theDeux Magots.” “What's that?” “It's a cathedral on St. Germain des Pres, across f rom the other Cathedral St. Germain des Pres, not far from that other Cathedral St. Sulpice.” “I think,” she jumped out of bed in a flair of inte nsity, “that people should be together because they can't be apart.” “Like in prisons and mental institutions?” he sugge sted. “I mean there should be an urgency, an inevitabilit y, a decision that makes them be together.” “Tension is a good word.” “Yes tension, attraction, love.” “I hope my secretary is getting this all down.” “It's so easy to be cynical,” she said contemptuous ly, reaching for another cigarette and lighting it slowly and attentively, letting the sulphur fumes burn away and inhaling the clean heat. He watched her carefully and approv ed. “I want a man who needs me as a woman.” “You read that somewhere,” he accused. “A man who will accept being accepted as a man.” “You've been sneaking copies ofReader's Digestout of the library, naughty girl.” “Shut up,” she hammered at him, “I'm not a child an ymore playing fuck. Let's play fuck. We're too old for running bases so let's play fuck.” “Sure,” he enthusiastically brought out his equipme nt, “get back into the bed.” “Macdonald, I want to commit myself.” He pulled his body back against the Greek pillar th at the hotel outrageously disguised as a pillow. “It sounds very dangerous.” “And I must commit myself to someone.” “My toenails are a sight,” he complained, “pedicure me.” “I want to say to someone, I accept you and have hi m say back to me I accept you. Simple but difficult.” “That one you overheard on a bus of sightseeing gol dfish.” “What do you know about buses,” she shrieked hopele ssly, “when have you ever been on a bus.” “Is that what you've been getting at for all these weeks,” he sighed, “you feel I'm not enough of an adventurer, an explorer, a hunter. You want to lie on this bed thinking all day of ways to comfort me while I transfer like a m adman from buses, to metres, to taxi and stagger home to you bulging with brutal worldli ness to grind my knee into your cunt. And then you want to say, that's my troubled man gr inding his knee into my healing
cunt.” “You're twisting it,” her voice flew like a wild ho rse around the room looking for something unbroken. “You want the serenity of abuse,” he pursued, “you' re afraid I'm not sufficiently amused by you. You want to be beaten into my digestive system.” “No, no, no.” “Figuratively, of course,” Macdonald calmed her, “n one of us have that much energy left.” “We won't talk any more,” her voice quivered. “Don't boss me around,” Macdonald continued. “I'm n o pervert. Just because you can't be dependent is no reason to become independe nt. I feel like talking.” “Shut up, please shut your stupid mouth.” She threa ded the thick cord through the hole punched in the top of the tin sardine can and silently began to manufacture eye shadow. “All right, when I get my second breath in three ye ars we can talk some more.” “We shall never discuss anything again,” she poured in the olive oil and lit the wick watching the black smoke rise. With priestly precis ion she erected a shed of tin over the smoke to catch the soot “Good.” “You're too disgustingly negative.” “And not at all positive.” “You leave so much out,” she stood still but her ra ge trembled. “You leave responsibility and family and faith out.” “Completely.” “You leave the world out.” “I knew I overlooked something.” “And you and me out.” “What carelessness.” “Macdonald, why you and me?” she exploded. “It goes back to why you and me.” “We happened in the same world that I left out.” “So did everyone else.” “But we're accident prone, we met.” “Thanks,” she bent her head over the small smoking furnace. “Your tears will excite me into surrendering myself ,” he warned. “I'll say that I'm your man and you my woman and apart we have no evidence till death do us in and give us eternal life together.” “I never knew beauty,” her two tears dried in long slate exclamation points on her chalk cheeks, “until I heard your words.” “Words,” he said contemptuously, “incantations, you want to make a dedication out of fucking and use your body as a living altar.” “What else does a girl dream of,” she demanded, “du ring her painful Brooklyn adolescence.” “You want me to prove that I'm better than you, so that you can really soar when you prove that I'm not.” “What could be easier.” “You have to be sure it's God's prick you stick on your pikestaff.” “You and your miserable balls.” “Get into bed and shut your blasphemous mouth,” he commanded. “Never!”
He wrenched her on the bed in one graceless hurdle. “Put your woman's magic hand around my cock and make me feel good all over like that nauseous child in that nauseous book about that nauseous Uncle.” “I wouldn't touch your filthy prick.” “When are you going to stop listening to your own w ords? Haven't I taught you that? You're revolting when you're serious, your entire J ewish ancestry comes squatting all over your face.” “You haven't taught me anything except that a man a nd a woman can mean something together and we don't.” “I'll worry about your education after I fuck you.” “Don't come near me.” “How authentic, I have to rape you.” “You twist and vulgarize everything,” she pounded h is oncoming chest, “fucking should be a unity, where two people become one ...” “And you hate me so much you're unwilling to become me. Look darling, don't ever get confused about where I end and you begin,” in i nfuriating calm he lit a cigarette. “I don't. That may be the clue to your reluctant orgas m. Good title. Maybe none of your former heroes made the distinction and you didn't w ant to be an old spoilsport and point it out to them just when they were having the best time.” “Can I only be satisfied by someone I despise?” “I mean that you come with me because I leave you a lone to enjoy yourself!” “That's masturbation,” the scandal thickened her al arm. “With an audience! Can you feel yourself turning in digo and going blind?” he squashed out the three hundred and twenty-fourth ci garette of the week. “Come, your great mind has stimulated my great cock.” “I want to sleep,” of all things. “Later,” he pulled her against him. “I've had enoug h of being together, I'm sick of you. Let's fuck and be apart. Let me suck your cunt and forget you're here,” he jammed a finger into her, “a few minutes peace, then we ca n be lovers. Do you like it when I suck your cunt?” he snarled. “You know,” she relented, feeling the brush of his head between her thighs. “Then I'll begin neglecting you there.” “You make me feel so alone.” “Be a big girl, now,” he sank his lips over the pro tecting pinkness of her pulsing womb, whispering an answer. “I don't want to be alone,” she pressed against his skillful mouth, down to her deepest secret. “Don't leave me alone,” her hips ro tated in perverse obedience to Macdonald's insulting tongue. His fingers punctured her anus and hooked her cunt higher and tighter into his sucking mouth. “I'd rat her be a slave,” she whispered, “than be so alone, and you're so alone, you don't even wa nt slaves for company. Fuck me, Macdonald, fuck me with your prick.” He moved up to her in the bed and she sucked her female juices from his lips. “Fuck me Macdonald , be with me.” “Don't eat me up,” he warned, “just be a bitch and fuck me till I'm dead.” It turned into a very serious session, no memorable jokes or clever ideas. He just stayed on top of her, embracing her buttocks to get her pressed against him and opening her cunt with his broad stiff staff. He got the head of his cock into the center of her sex, and stayed on it, rubbed on it, without me rcy. She pressed her insides against it, revealing all her girlish secrets. He just igno red her the first time she came, persisting in deep indifferent thrusts. Her spread legs pulled together and locked him to her, and
her perspiring body got ready for the second time. It was all very serious. Macdonald had lost his sense of humor. He fucked her until she was a hot river, until he c ould feel her not knowing or caring who or what that thing inside of her was, just plun ging it up and down inside of her with lavish fascism. Then he forgot her and let his body turn into an enormous prick that went where it wanted to go, as fast and as deep and as hard as it could. Her first words, when she could see that there was someone else in the world, were, “I'm so hungry and there's nothing to eat.”
“Well, if I were a woman,” said Macdonald, removing his overused body from the waves of sea-gray sheets, “I'd never have that prob lem.” “And I wouldn't have it if I were a man,” her face the white foam on the crests. “But I seem to be a woman and I seem never to have any mon ey and I seem to get hungry every now and then.” “Now and then,” his laugh was a triumph of morbidit y, “if you lost your appetite for two seconds you'd die of terror. But we'll have no panic,” he promised, “as long as I'm decaying here in Paris I guarantee you daily, one revolting French phallic sandwich.” “Could you go down and get something now, Macdonald ?” Martha lifted her head from the round log of a cushion. “Just some bread a nd cheese, a hard cheese,” she fell back ecstatically, “maybe acantala Gruyere. Imagine butter,” her eyes dared him. or “Imagine bread and butter and cheese?” “My imagination doesn't extend to that,” in an atte mpt to poison hers, he yawned, in a treacherous display of surreal calcium formations . “Anyway it must be that large section of the afternoon when every shop is shut.” “No,” she insisted, unaffected by the cave of weird hanging stalagmites, “there's an ItaliancharcuterieRue Monsieur-le-Prince that never closes. Peopl  on e are in there all day buying olives, and hams, and roast chickens, an d tongue and veal,” she completed her catechism into the pillow, “and Camemberts, andtomate farcies, andchampignons a la grecqueand pizza and spinach.” “You're disgustingly carnal,” Macdonald reminded he r, “you'll never achieve spiritual anesthesia or my admiration.” He pulled on his pea- green trousers and exerted his hand into its torn pockets. “I know I had five hund red francs yesterday.” “We bought a pack of Gauloises,” she reminisced, “a nd you had a rum,” she pronounced resentfully. “You don't mention your...


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