Steamy Screams: Anthology of Erotic Horror

BLACKOUT Kenneth Whitfield

They say if you stay long enough, sooner or later, you will hear someone tell your story. I listen to sincere people telling serious stories in a general way about how it was, what happened, and how it is now. People genuinely grateful to have kept an addiction at bay for days, weeks, months. Even years.

The ones who have been sober the longest usually tell the most general—and frankly, boring—stories. But the newcomers, the ones yearning to be free, to be indoctrinated into the sober and sane society - they tell the best. Most seem to participate in a “Listen to this, mine’s worse!” round robin sort of thing. Sharing tales of desperation, depravity and darkness.

Me? I seldom share anymore. It’s all been said and done in one form or another. That’s what the old timers have figured out. Nothing new under the sun.

So it was just another routine meeting. Nothing special.

And then she stands up.

Newcomers do that from time to time. Stand up. Look at me! But she would have attracted attention even if she hadn’t stood up.

She wasn’t particularly pretty. Dull blonde hair cropped short. Very skinny. Washed out white skin. But she had something. Part was the way she was dressed. Faded cut-off blue jeans that she let ride up, showing a flash of gray thong and a lot of pale cheek. Her loose fitting top, a rust colored version of gold, tied at the side showing a trim belly and dipping low enough up top for glimpses of small boobs with thumb size, rock hard nipples surrounded by large, dark brown areolas.

I liked the way she looks. Familiar. And to me, sexy. Another thing is her large brown eyes. They smolder as she opens pouty, cherry red lips and says:

“My name is Michelle and I have a problem.”

“Hello, Michelle,” several soft voices fade out as metal folding chairs creak; people lean forward, wanting to hear her tale. Should be juicy. Whispering crosstalk in the back, two ladies pass around a pamphlet among other ladies, soliciting phone numbers to give Michelle for support. The chairman silences the whisperers, bidding Michelle to continue.

“I think I may have gutted a man during sex.”

She has my attention.

“After doing the usual, drugs, alcohol, whatever was at hand, we moved to the sex part. You all know what I’m talking about.”

Several knowing nods and smiles.

“My recollection is foggy. But I remember I kept a fillet knife under my pillow. I was in a paranoid time. A bad place emotionally. Thought they were out to get me. Whoever they were.”

More knowing nods and smiles.

“I just remember that I was… peaking. And he was peaking. And the knife was in my hand all bloody and ropey things that looked like smooth, pink snakes were crawling on his stomach… ”

Hushed silence in the room. She cocks one leg, shifting her weight to one side; posing. Hugging herself. Shivering at the memory. A dramatic effect.

“Our bodies all wet and glistening and reddish pink.”

She crosses her arms underneath her small breasts, nipples straining against the worn fabric. Dingy white pockets stick out from underneath the frayed cutoffs, dirty little rabbit ears. Barely covering Christmas.

Several men shift in their seats, crossing legs, hiding growing excitement.

The chairman looks at her, dumbfounded. The women gathering the calling lists have stopped in their tracks.

I am the only one with a knowing nod and slight smile.

She looks at the spellbound audience, at the uncomprehending faces. Seems a bit embarrassed. Realizes she may have said too much. She shifts her weight, repositions her arms; flashes cheek and cleavage, says:

“I am an addict that has blackouts. I’m not sure what is real anymore except that I use too much and my life has become unmanageable.”

The audience relaxes. Several clap. Some say “Thanks for sharing.” The phone list is presented to her, a token of acceptance and understanding. Please call anyone on this list before you drink or use again. Lots of hugs and a bit of crying from the ladies. We understand.

Bullshit.

I’m the only one that truly understands.

And I know about needing help. Been coming to meetings for a while now. Helping myself and others. Slowly filling that hole inside. The hole I tried to fill with alcohol and other drugs. It’s smaller now, but still there. What a lot of people in the program called the God-hole. And today, seeing and hearing her, I know I can be of service again and fill that hole a little more.

I linger close by as the meeting breaks up. Sipping my styrofoam cup of coffee, blending into the surroundings. I’m pretty good at being a chameleon. I listen as several of the ladies hover around her, offering encouragement and advice. “One day at the time.” “Call before you use.” “You might want to give some thought to how your appearance comes across to others… ”

And especially:

“Be true to yourself.”

They finally drift away; she makes her way to the door. Was she strutting? I follow; catch up with her in the parking lot.

“Michelle?”

She pauses, one hand on the door handle of a dirty and dented lime green Chevette. Bending from the waist, more cheek peek. She doesn’t straighten, allows me ample view time. Posing so natural she doesn’t even know she’s doing it. Turning her head slightly, she softly says:

“And you are?”

I don’t speak. She slowly straightens, turns and fixes me with those bedroom eyes. No matter what the rest of her body has been through—those eyes are beautiful.

And maybe a bit too bright. The way a light will flare before burning out. I stay a safe distance from her.

“Your story. It… it was interesting.”

She smiles, looks away. Shuffles her feet in an embarrassed way. “Oh. Well, I’ve only been clean twenty-eight days and I still have trouble telling reality from fantasy.”

I step closer. “Yeah, I went through that myself. It gets better.”

She cocks her head to one side, fixing me with those burning eyes. She looks me up and down. Grins. “Are you trying to 13-step me? They told me about guys like you in rehab.”

I smile. “Maybe.”

We look at each other a moment. Not awkwardness, just checking each other out. I ask if she would like to get a cup of coffee. The addict’s way of asking someone out for a drink. She smiles, offers to drive.

I listen to her talk about herself. Something newcomers love to do. She tells me her rehab was court ordered. She did some minor time for theft and prostitution, and that was where she began to sober up. It was a blessing. She was really serious about cleaning up this time. She was having all sorts of nightmares and flashbacks. Her past was checkered. But it was past and she was learning to deal with it. Slowly learning to live with it. Her sponsor in rehab encouraged her to share in meetings whenever she was feeling confused and at a loss. She was looking for a new sponsor on the outside. Too bad they didn’t approve of women having men sponsors.

She pats my leg as she says that.

Twenty-eight days. Her brain was still ping ponging in her skull. She was in a fog, high on the pink cloud as they say.

She rubs my leg. I hear her breath quickening. It’s late in the evening and there is not a lot of traffic in this part of town. No much activity. She pulls into a parking lot behind a closed block of stores, stops the car, and grabs my crotch.

“How ‘bout a little cream before coffee?”

My breath quickens as she expertly unbuckles, unbuttons and unzips my pants. She pulls them down to my knees, I lift my butt to assist her. Her hands are all over me. I feel her tickling my stomach with her tongue. I close my eyes as I feel her gentle tugging, rubbing; her warm breath getting lower, lower…

Then she pauses. Actually holds her breath. She raises her head slightly and looks questioningly as she fingers the scar just below my belly. I think of making a joke about having a Caesarean section—but she knows. She remembers.

“It was real? It was you?”

I share my story. Back then, she was riding me cowboy style. I remember the sting, the funny feeling of my insides being sliced and separated as she slipped the thin blade in. Pulling it across my midsection while never breaking stride. My guts spilling out. I came so hard it took my breath away. White and red body fluids mixing. Her smile looking down on me while she gripped me tightly inside her and I withered and bled out.

Maybe it was shock, maybe all the drugs we had done, but I never felt any pain. She stood up, straddling me, dripping blood and semen—and I just felt spent. Cold. And sleepy.

She’d licked the knife blade. Dramatic, even then. She’d dressed, planted a red kiss on my forehead, left.

I’ve never shared that story with anyone before. Not even my sponsor during my fourth step. After the maid found me and called 911, I just told everyone I had been in a knife fight and didn’t remember much. No one really questioned it after my blood test came back, just told me how lucky I was to be alive and that I really should get some help.

Yeah. Lucky. Right. But—

The meetings do help.

Her hand moves again slowly up and down my member.

My hands tighten around her neck. I squeeze as she pumps me harder, her eyes begin to bulge, those once beautiful bedroom eyes now blood shot and bleeding internally. I hear vertebra cracking as inside her throat something soft gives way, collapses. She inhales sharply, gurgling; a death rattle. Then she is still. She goes quickly. Her thin body frail and brittle. Worn out. Her hand drops away from me, still dry. Her left hand, the one now on the floorboard, relaxes… releasing the thin bladed filleting knife she’d had hidden under the seat.

I’ll be damned.

I pull my pants back on, get out of the car. She looks like she’s sleeping. It will be at least tomorrow before she is found. I walk away, actually feeling pretty good. The hole in me has shrunken a bit.

I head back to the meeting center. The walk will help clear my head. There’s a late night speaker meeting and I should be able to catch most of it. Maybe hear my story.

Again.