Angelica's Grotto

13 Night Side

‘When the world was young,’ he heard himself saying, and his voice woke him up. ‘What?’ he asked himself, trying to hold the fugitive thought. ‘When the world was young the movies were black-and-white, the people in them spoke in short snappy sentences. At restaurants and getting out of taxis they paid with banknotes and never received any change. The big gangsters used electric shavers in their cars as they were driven downtown. At home they were massaged by ex-prizefighters who called them Boss. When they got shot there was no blood. The chorus girls had beautiful rounded legs, not thin. The money in those films was only stage money; no wonder they didn’t bother with the change. There was an organist at the cinema of my childhood, spotlit and sparkling; we followed the bouncing ball and sang but later, much later, last night I was thinking of the red telephone box in Beaufort Street, I can see it now. In 1970 Forbidden Fruit was the shop at the corner of the King’s Road. ‘The Windmills of Your Mind’ was a song we listened to. Hannelore gave me a copy of Jung’s Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious and I still haven’t read it. New flowered sheets on the bed for our first night. Minutes and hours that will still be there when I’m long gone.

‘I want to speak in black-and-white,’ he said. ‘I want not to bleed when I’m shot. I want to part the slats of a Venetian blind and look down at the street and say, “I’m tired of running.” From what? Everything. “Keys that jingle in your pocket, words that jangle in your head. Why did summer go so quickly? Was it something that you said?”’

Although Klein’s self-discipline had slackened of late he was hoping to get back to a solid work routine with Naked Mysteries: The Nudes of Gustav Klimt: opening one of his Klimt books he turned to the plate of Danae being entered by the shower of gold that was Jupiter. He studied the picture intently, marvelling at the magnificence of Danae’s haunches lifted to the downrush of the god, the pearly paleness of her breast, the surrender in her flushed enraptured face, eyes closed, red mouth open. From the opulence of Danae he went to a book of drawings, ghostly sketches of naked and half-naked women sitting, standing, lying in each other’s arms or playing with themselves, Klimt’s faint and snaky lines stroking every curve and savage flaunt of hip and thigh, buttock and breast, lustful lines enclosing volumes of indolent and eager female flesh. ‘He was as woman-hungry as I am,’ said Klein. ‘I wonder if he ever got as much as he wanted.’

‘Others have appreciated women,’ he wrote, ‘but Klimt is unique in the astonishment with which he perceives the essential mystery of the female.’ He stopped typing.

‘What he does,’ he said, ‘is fuck them with his eyes.’ He saved the page, switched on the modem, went to the Internet and put Angelica’s Grotto on the screen.

He skipped from picture to picture in the various galleries, shaking his head and following the anatomical permutations eagerly. Returning to the homepage, he looked long and earnestly at Angelica’s face. ‘Haunted,’ he said. ‘She looks haunted; there’s no other word for that look. What is the rock she’s chained to? Is it the money she gets for posing? Is she a prostitute? Does she want to be rescued? Is she waiting for Ruggiero?’ He saw himself mounted on the hippogriff, felt the wind on his face and the beating of the great wings, heard the shriek of the animal as it battled through the murk towards the incandescent nakedness of Angelica.

When he reached the end of Gallery 7 the screen suddenly went black, shuddered a little, then came up with the home-page picture of Angelica in her grotto. Below her a dialogue box asked: WOULD YOU LIKE TO TAKE A WALK ON THE NIGHT SIDE? YES/NO

‘Yes!’ he said, and clicked on it. On the left side of the screen appeared a block of text under the title, MONICA’S MONDAY NIGHT. The right side was a photograph of the Strand near the Aldwych on a rainy night, the wet road and pavement reflecting the darkness and the lights. Walking towards the viewer was a very pretty young woman with long red hair, very chic in a black suit with a short skirt, black stockings, and shiny black high heels. She was carrying a leopard-spotted umbrella.

‘Clip-clop,’ said Klein, imagining the sound of her heels. He read the text aloud:

‘It’s quarter past ten on a rainy Monday night. Monica, an English lecturer at King’s College, is on her way home from a meeting. The Strand is still lively but when she turns into Surrey Street heading for Temple tube station there is very little traffic and her heels make a lonely sound on the wet pavement.

‘Monica feels good in her little figure-hugging black suit. As she walks she feels her silky red bush rubbing against her silk knickers, feels her skirt tight against her thighs and buttocks. She feels the nakedness of her body under her clothes and her nipples stiffen.

‘She’s thinking about the weekend just past, remembering the feel of Gerald’s body against hers. He’s a terribly nice man who makes love as if he’s done an A level in it. Unsatisfied but not wanting to seem ungracious, she’s always faked orgasms and he’s convinced that he’s wonderful in bed.’ NEXT

‘I know the type,’ says Klein. ‘He probably considers himself an expert on wine, too.’ The next picture showed Monica from behind in all her shapeliness and tightness and clip-clopping shiny black heels. ‘Yes!’ he said. ‘So sweet!’

‘It’s so quiet, thinks Monica. The tube station seems far away. She looks back over her shoulder and sees no one. Were there footsteps behind her? She stops to listen, hears only the distant traffic on the Strand and the rain pattering on her umbrella. She finds herself recalling newspaper stories of women dragged into cars and taken away to be raped. She sees her thighs being forced apart; she makes an O with her lips, imagines the taste of semen on her tongue and the sweat of brutal men on filthy mattresses in evil-smelling rooms.’ NEXT

‘O God,’ said Klein, ‘it’s going to happen.’ He clicked again and got a close-up of Monica’s face under the street lamps, her mouth open, her eyes closed:

‘Monica finds strange pictures in her mind, strange stirrings in her body, feels a wetness between her legs. I want to get home, she thinks as a van draws up beside her. As she turns, a powerful hand is clamped over her mouth and she’s pulled inside.’ NEXT

‘I knew that was going to happen,’ said Klein as he clicked. The new photograph was a close-up of Monica face-down on a mattress in the van, her skirt pulled up to expose her little black silk knickers and suspender belt, the whiteness of her thighs above her black stockings. Klein read:

‘Her captor’s hand on the back of her neck forces Monica’s face down against the musty mattress. “Don’t scream,” he says as the van pulls away. “If you scream I’ll hurt you.”

‘“I won’t scream. Please don’t hurt me.” She trembles as he pulls up her skirt and she feels his hands on her.

‘“You’ve got a sweet ass,” he says. “I’ve had my eye on it for a while. Have you ever been ass-fucked?”

‘“No.”

‘“I’m going to have your asshole cherry then. That’s nice, I like that. But first we have to get acquainted. Turn over and give me a kiss.”

‘Monica was expecting rape but not kissing. She doesn’t know how to prepare herself for this.’ NEXT

In this picture Monica was kissing a black man.

‘Monica closes her eyes and turns her face towards his. “Open your mouth and suck my tongue,” he says. She obeys. His breath is clean; he tastes as good as Gerald. This is like a dream, she thinks. How will it end? His hand is inside her blouse, inside her bra, playing with her nipples. His touch is rough but she feels her body responding to him. She reaches between his legs, feels him huge and hard, feels herself wet and ready, thinks of what he’s going to do and is afraid.’ NEXT

In this picture the man, naked from the waist down, was kneeling astride Monica who was naked from the waist up. His thighs were pressing her breasts, his penis was in her mouth.

‘“I think you want it,” he says, “but I’m not ready yet. I need you to lick my balls and suck me ready.” Monica obeys, wanting the spurt of his semen in her mouth but he withdraws and turns her over.’ NEXT

In the next picture Monica was face-down again with her torn knickers around her left thigh. Her legs were apart and her own hands were spreading her buttocks to expose her anus.

‘Monica feels the man’s hands on her naked bottom, on her thighs and between her legs. “Spread your cheeks,” he tells her, “and open your asshole for me.”

‘Monica obeys. “Please be gentle,” she says. ‘I’ll do whatever you say.’

‘“I know you will, baby. I know you want it.” He puts his hands over her hands, spreading her cheeks further apart, then his face is between them and she feels wet kisses on her anus and his hot tongue squirming in her. Gerald has never done that. Her captor changes position and she cries out, feeling herself almost torn apart as he thrusts into her.’ NEXT

The picture showed the man mounting Monica whose face was turned towards him, mouth open, eyes closed as he impaled her. His penis was as thick as her wrist.

‘Monica’s whole body seems to be on fire; she reaches behind her and clasps his buttocks, holding him close to lessen the pain. But now the flame of arousal has burnt out the pain and she feels an urgency in her that’s new. With her right hand she reaches down between the wet lips of her vulva to stroke her clitoris as she meets each thrust of his with a backward thrust against him. As he rides her he smacks her bottom, enjoying the bouncy ripeness of her flesh while he urges her on, mastering her.’ NEXT

The picture showed Monica and her partner in action. Monica’s face was ecstatic.

‘“You like this, don’t you, bitch? Tell me how you like it with me deep in your sweet white ass, lemme hear you say it.”

‘“I like it with you deep in my sweet white ass.”

‘“Say more!”

‘“I like it when you mount me like an animal, I like it when you ride me hard, I like you to be my hard master.” Monica hears the words coming out of her mouth as this stranger sodomises her and she knows she’s really saying them, knows it isn’t a dream, thinks she might be going mad.

‘“Oh yes, I know you like it. You’re going to come with me when you feel my hot spunk shooting into you, yes? Going to do that for your hard master?”

‘“Yes, yes!” With her free hand she pulls his bottom hard against her. “Give it to me, give me your hot spunk and make me come with you.” She feels the spurt of his semen inside her and she screams and faints as her own orgasm sweeps over her in a giant wave. She regains consciousness with her master still inside her. She sees his right hand near her face and presses it to her lips and tongue. “Thank you,” she whispers.’ NEXT

NEXT was a message: DO YOU WANT TO TALK WITH ANGELICA ABOUT ‘MONICA’S MONDAY NIGHT’? YES/NO

Klein clicked on YES.

HI, said the screen. WHAT’S YOUR NAME?

Klein paused for a moment, then typed RUGGIERO.

WOW. THAT’S A HEROIC-SOUNDING NAME. ARE YOU A HERO?

NOT SO FAR.

YOU NEVER KNOW WHAT THE FUTURE MIGHT BRING YOU, RUGGIERO.

He imagined her standing close to him, lightly touching his arm, her sweet body smelling good. I’LL KEEP THAT IN MIND, he typed. HAVE YOU READ *ORLANDO FURIOSO*?

I WANT TO TALK ABOUT ‘MONICA’S MONDAY NIGHT. DID YOU LIKE THE STORY?

YES.

DID THE PICTURES EXCITE YOU?

THIS CONVERSATION — IS IT ON PUBLIC VIEW?

NO, IT’S JUST BETWEEN YOU AND ME ALTHOUGH IT’S NOT SECURE. NOTHING IS.

HOW DID YOU PICK ME?

BASED ON NUMBER OF HITS AND TIME SPENT AT WEBSITE.

HAVE YOU DONE THIS WITH OTHERS?

NO, YOU’RE MY FIRST.

WHY ARE YOU GATHERING THIS INFORMATION? ARE YOU DOING A DISSERTATION, WRITING A BOOK, CONDUCTING A SURVEY?

THERE ARE THINGS I WANT TO KNOW. I’M NOT READY TO SAY MORE THAN THAT JUST NOW. CAN WE CONTINUE?

YES.

DID ANY WORDS PARTICULARLY EXCITE YOU?

YES.

WHICH ONES?

I LIKED IT WHEN SHE CALLED HIM HER ‘HARD MASTER’. I LIKED IT WHEN SHE KISSED HIS HAND AND THANKED HIM.

WHAT ABOUT THE PICTURES?

I LIKED THE SHOT OF MONICA FROM BEHIND, BEFORE HE PULLS HER INTO THE VAN. I LIKED THE EXPRESSION ON HER FACE WHEN HE’S MOUNTING HER AND SHE’S LOOKING BACK AT HIM. I LIKED THE WAY HE’S PULLING HER TO HIM AS HE PUSHES INTO HER.

HOW WOULD YOU RATE THIS STORY? MARKS OUT OF TEN.

EIGHT.

CRITICAL COMMENTS?

YOU COULD HAVE SPUN IT OUT A BIT LONGER: MORE DETAIL; MORE DIALOGUE; MORE PICTURES.

DID YOU LIKE IT THAT IT HAPPENED AT NIGHT?

YES.

WHY?

THE NIGHT IS DARK AND SECRET. THERE IS FEAR IN IT. THERE ARE THINGS HIDDEN IN THE DARKNESS. ONE FEELS THE BEATING OF THE HEART, SEES LESS, SENSES MORE. PERCEPTIONS AND RESPONSES ARE HEIGHTENED.

PERCEPTIONS OF WHAT? RESPONSES TO WHAT?

THE UNKNOWN THAT LURKS AHEAD, THE STRANGE THAT IS BEYOND ONE’S CONTROL. WHAT IS FEARED IS ALSO SOMETIMES HOPED FOR.

DID YOU LIKE IT THAT MONICA WAS AFRAID?

YES.

DID IT EXCITE YOU?

YES.

WHY?

MONICA’S NAKEDNESS UNDER HER CLOTHES, HER SILKY RED BUSH RUBBING AGAINST HER SILK KNICKERS, HER WHITE THIGHS, HER RIPE AND BOUNCY BOTTOM, HER NIPPLES STIFFENING WITH HER THOUGHTS — ALL OF HER SWEET FLESH WAS VULNERABLE TO THE STRANGER WHO WAS STALKING HER. WHY THE IDEA OF A WOMAN AS PREY IS A TURN-ON FOR ME I CAN’T SAY, BUT JUDGING BY THE NUMBER OF FILMS IN WHICH A SEXY WOMAN IS AT THE MERCY OF A MAN OR MONSTER, IT’S A TURN-ON FOR A GREAT MANY: A WOMAN POWERLESS AND FORCED TO SUBMIT.

DID YOU PARTICULARLY ENJOY HER SUBMISSION?

YES. DID YOU?

I’M NOT SAYING. YOU SAID THAT WHAT IS FEARED IS SOMETIMES HOPED FOR. DO YOU THINK MONICA WAS HOPING TO BE RAPED?

WHEN SHE THOUGHT ABOUT IT SHE FOUND ‘STRANGE PICTURES IN HER MIND, STRANGE STIRRINGS IN HER BODY’, SO IT WOULD SEEM THAT THE IDEA EXCITED HER.

WHY WOULD THE IDEA EXCITE HER?

WELL, SHE HADN’T BEEN GETTING SATISFACTION WITH GERALD, AND THE STORY SEEMED TO HINT THAT SHE WAS READY FOR A BIT OF ROUGH; SHE WANTED A STRANGER TO TAKE CONTROL OF HER, TO BE HER HARD MASTER.

DO YOU THINK SOME WOMEN ACTUALLY FEEL THIS WAY?

I THINK ANYONE CAN FEEL ALL KINDS OF WAYS AND THIS IS ONE OF THEM.

YOU THINK SOME WOMEN WANT TO BE RAPED?

NOT ALL OF THE TIME BUT I BELIEVE THAT ANYONE WILL CONSIDER ANYTHING SOME OF THE TIME.

HAVE YOU EVER CONSIDERED RAPING A WOMAN?

NOT VIOLENTLY — I’VE NEVER HAD THAT MUCH CONFIDENCE.

HOW THEN?

IN FANTASY ONLY, WITH THE WOMAN MADE HELPLESS IN SOME WAY.

THE WOMAN AS A HELPLESS VICTIM.

AS I SAID, FANTASY.

WHAT ABOUT THE BLACKNESS OF THE RAPIST IN THIS STORY?

THAT DEFINITELY HEIGHTENED THE STORY. THE FACT OF HIS BEING THE OTHER ADDS TO THE EXCITEMENT. ONE CAN’T HELP THINKING OF BLACK MEN AS BEING MORE POWERFUL SEXUALLY THAN WHITE MEN.

WHAT ABOUT THE ANAL INTERCOURSE? DID THAT ADD TO OR DETRACT FROM YOUR PLEASURE?

WHAT DO YOU THINK?

YOU TELL ME.

‘This woman that I’m talking to isn’t the one in the photographs,’ Klein said to himself. ‘In my mind she doesn’t look like her or smell like her and she’s not naked or in her underwear.’ The woman he imaged now was short and stocky, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt and horn-rimmed spectacles; her hair had grown shorter and her smell was not quite as seductive as before.

WE WERE TALKING ABOUT ANAL INTERCOURSE, said the screen.

WELL, THE ANUS IS NOT QUITE THE APPROVED ORIFICE FOR INTERCOURSE, IS IT. SO PENETRATION THERE HAS THE APPEAL OF THE FORBIDDEN AND IT’S MORE INTIMATE, MORE EXCITING TO THINK ABOUT, ESPECIALLY IF THE WOMAN IS UNWILLING. MONICA DIDN’T SEEM ALL THAT UNWILLING, ACTUALLY. BY THE WAY, WHAT ARE YOU WEARING?

THIS ISN’T THAT KIND OF CHAT. THIS PORNOGRAPHIC FANTASY THAT YOU’VE JUST WATCHED, WOULD YOU SAY IT WAS EVIL?

I’VE HAD FANTASIES LIKE THAT OFTEN ENOUGH — I’M SURE OTHER MEN DO AS WELL. I’D NEVER WANT TO ACT THEM OUT EVEN IF I WERE ABLE TO. BUT WHEN YOU PUT SUCH WORDS AND PICTURES ONSCREEN FOR THE GENERAL PUBLIC THERE’S NO KNOWING WHOM YOU’RE REACHING. AND IT COULD WELL BE THAT NAMING AND SHOWING A FORBIDDEN ACT IS LIKE CALLING UP A DEMON BY SPEAKING ITS NAME. SOMEONE JUST ON THE EDGE OF ACTING OUT HIS FANTASIES MIGHT LET HIMSELF GO ALL THE WAY AFTER SEEING IT. SO I’D HAVE TO CALL IT AN EVIL THING.

THEN BY VISITING THIS WEBSITE ARE YOU SUPPORTING EVIL?

WHAT ABOUT YOU? IN OFFERING THIS MATERIAL WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?

CONTRIBUTING TO THE EVIL IN THE WORLD THE SAME AS YOU BUT I’M DOING IT IN AN EFFORT TO UNDERSTAND PORNOGRAPHY AND THE ENORMOUS DEMAND FOR IT, OK? I HAVE MORE QUESTIONS.

SO ASK THEM.

DID MONICA’S MONDAY NIGHT AROUSE YOU SEXUALLY?

IN A MANNER OF SPEAKING.

WHAT WILL YOU DO ABOUT IT?

TAKE MYSELF IN HAND.

HOW OLD ARE YOU, RUGGIERO?

SEVENTY-TWO. HOW OLD ARE YOU?

TWENTY-EIGHT. ARE YOU STILL A PLAYER?

ONLY WITH MYSELF. IF I HAD AN INNER VOICE I WOULDN’T BE TELLING YOU ALL THIS.

EXPLAIN PLEASE.

THE VOICE IN YOUR HEAD THAT CENSORS WHAT YOU’RE GOING TO SAY, I HAVEN’T GOT ONE ANY MORE.

THAT COULD GET YOU INTO ALL KINDS OF TROUBLE.

IT HAS. NOW I’M TRYING TO MEET UP WITH MY IT. (He didn’t want to bring Oannes into the conversation.)

AREN’T WE ALL? I FEEL FOR YOU, RUGGIERO. MAYBE I CAN BE YOUR INNER VOICE FOR A WHILE. YOUR WORDS LOOK LONELY. HAVE YOU GOT A PARTNER?

NOT ANY MORE.

WHY NOT?

MY WIFE DIED TWENTY YEARS AGO.

HOW?

SUICIDE.

WHY?

TIRED OF LIVING, I GUESS.

WHAT MADE HER TIRED OF LIVING?

CAN WE TALK ABOUT SOMETHING ELSE? ARE YOU MARRIED?

GOD FORBID.

WHY DO YOU SAY THAT?

MARRIAGE IS FOR PEOPLE WILLING TO GIVE UP THEIR FREEDOM FOR SOMETHING THAT IN MY OPINION IS NOT WORTH HAVING.

WHAT MY WIFE AND I HAD WAS WORTH HAVING. ‘What exactly did we have?’ he asked himself.

WE MUST COME BACK TO THAT SOMETIME. ANYBODY SINCE HER?

NOTHING THAT LASTED VERY LONG, AND THERE’S BEEN NO ONE FOR A LONG TIME. The Angelica in his imagination, though no longer the beauty in the homepage photograph, was not unattractive, he decided, mumbling his thoughts. ‘Good ass, heavy thighs and a lot of coarse pubic hair. Her smell is strong and funky; I like it. She probably tastes a little acidic.’

DO YOU MISS HAVING A WOMAN? she was asking.

YES, AND THERE’S THE DISMAL FACT THAT A MAN WHO CAN NO LONGER GET IT UP IS NOT IN A STRONG BARGAINING POSITION WHEN LOOKING FOR A NEW WOMAN.

MAYBE IT’S TIME FOR YOU TO HANG UP YOUR TACKLE AND PUT ALL THAT BEHIND YOU.

ALL THE SAME, I’D STILL LIKE TO HAVE SOME OF IT IN FRONT OF ME.

THERE ARE MANY WAYS OF GIVING PLEASURE.

INDEED. MAYBE ONE DAY I’LL ADVERTISE IN THE LONELY-HEARTS COLUMNS: LITTLE OLD AQUARIUS, SINGLE MALE, NON-SMOKER, SENSE OF HUMOUR, LIKES MUSIC, ART, LITERATURE, CAN’T GET IT UP BUT WOULD LIKE TO GO DOWN ON LIKE-MINDED FEMALE. EXPERIENCE UNNECESSARY.

HOW OLD WOULD YOU LIKE THE FEMALE TO BE?

ANYWHERE BETWEEN TWENTY AND FIFTY. DEFINITELY NOT AS DRIED-UP AS I AM. IF I RING UP THE NUMBER ON YOUR HOMEPAGE, WILL YOURS BE THE VOICE I HEAR?

YES, BUT WE CAN TALK ABOUT THAT LATER. NOW COMES THE BIG QUESTION: WOULD YOU SAY, RUGGIERO, THAT YOU LIKE WOMEN?

ARE YOU ASKING THIS BECAUSE I ENJOYED THE ANAL RAPE STORY?

I’M ASKING, THAT’S ALL.

I’VE ALWAYS THOUGHT I LIKED WOMEN. I’VE ALWAYS NEEDED A WOMAN; I’VE ALWAYS WANTED WOMEN. AFTER MY WIFE DIED THERE WERE WOMEN I LOVED. BUT NOTHING BETWEEN MEN AND WOMEN IS SIMPLE. IT’S POSSIBLE TO LOVE WITHOUT LIKING. DO YOU LIKE MEN?

I’M NOT SAYING.

IS THAT YOU IN THE PHOTO GALLERIES?

YES.

HOW CAN YOU DO ALL THOSE THINGS?

I WORK OUT.

YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN — CAN YOU POSSIBLY LIKE DOING WHAT YOU DO IN THOSE PICTURES?

I DON’T DO ANYTHING I DON’T LIKE TO DO.

IT SEEMS TO ME YOU MUST BE CHAINED TO SOME KIND OF ROCK.

LIKE EVERYONE ELSE I’M CHAINED TO THE ROCK OF REALITY.

I CAN’T BELIEVE THE WOMAN I’M TALKING TO IS THE ONE IN THE PHOTOS.

BELIEVE WHAT YOU LIKE.

BY THE WAY, WHO WROTE THE MONICA STORY?

I DID. WHY DO YOU ASK?

THE POINT OF VIEW SEEMS MASCULINE.

WHAT YOU CALL THE MASCULINE POINT OF VIEW IS NOT A DIFFICULT THING TO IMITATE. MEN DO IT ALL THE TIME.

I NEED TO KNOW MORE ABOUT YOU.

I DON’T NEED YOU TO KNOW MORE. NOT YET.

WHEN? THIS YEAR, NEXT YEAR, SOMETIME, NEVER?

MAYBE SOMETIME. THE PHONE NUMBER ON THE HOMEPAGE IS USUALLY ENGAGED. USE THIS ONE IF YOU WANT TO TALK TO ME. GOODBYE FOR NOW. X

IS THAT A KISS I SEE BEFOREME?

FROM MY LABIA MINORA. TILL NEXT TIME, RUGGI.

Klein wrote down the telephone number, disconnected from the Internet, and switched off the modem, visualising her kiss as he did so. His fantasy partner that evening was the imagined Angelica in the horn-rimmed glasses. When he went to sleep he dreamt that he was hurrying down a rainy street at three o’clock in the morning, seeing her ahead of him and hearing her heels on the pavement. He walked faster and faster, then began to run, but he never caught up with her.