Sunday, November 11, 2012


Taxi Driver could not be the same film with a female protagonist. A woman scarred by trauma and unable to connect with people won't turn to ammunition. She won't shave her head. She may seek out needy people to rescue, but these will be men who will absorb and deflect her need to be needed. She may experience a few rejections, but often she'll find a man willing to be her object. He will soak up and manipulate her attentions to make himself feel better, eventually discarding her, but not as a ticking time bomb. She will be a husk, an empty vessel. Not enough self left to produce a psychotic break.

I writing this, and the wander to the sink. I have a razorblade in my hand. Last week, I had the word "Sorry" tattooed across my chest. The tattoo artist paused with a short look of concern, but I look haggard, mean, hard. I am not a middle-class woman having a mid-life crisis. He shrugged and carefully applied the tattoo. Sorry.

I use the razorblade to carefully trim away the dark hairs on my upper lin. 

I closely examine my face. Find a few blackheads on my chin, and lose myself in squeezing them, pushing out the dirt and pus, making the pore empty and clean. In five minutes my chin is red, inflamed, with a few spots of blood, but purified. I squint at my eyebrows. A memory pushes forward, Tom's hand on my cheek, his thumb tracing the line between my eyes, smoothing it upwards, like I am a cat. His pussy.

I reach for the tweezers, plucking the stray hairs from between my brows, the hairs growing under my browline, as if ignorant of the fact that this is not their place. Stupid hairs. Squint again at my chin. Whiskers. Those hard hairs, the bristly ones, the hairs that say I'm over forty. Pluck them too.

I open my shirt, check my nipples for stray hairs. Pluck them too. Someone inserts a rogue slide into my mental presentation: Amber's perfect rounded cleavage. I take the razorblade, underline the Sorry.

Trance-like. I idly apply the razor to my hair. I shave a patch around my right ear. It's harder than I imagined. Not much wonder deNiro's mohawk wasn't straight.

I fill the tub with water, hot hot water. Put in a capful of bleach, and a bath bomb one of Tom's cousins had given me two Christmases ago. Remember the overheard kitchen conversation: God, I never know what to get her. I know, right? She's so.... weird. I got bath bombs from Liquidation World. Some for the kid's teachers, some for the lady who does our cleaning, and one for her. What else are you gonna give her? Right?

I put the razorblade in reach, pour a glass of wine. Cheap red, tastes like cardboard and vinegar. Whatever. I slide into the tub. Now? No, not yet. Sip the wine. The wine & hot water are relaxing. Masturbate one last time first. My hand cups my right breast. Imagine a man behind me. Not Tom. Someone with a big dick and a hard need. My eyes close. I knead, pinch the nipple, press my thighs together tightly. I feel the blood pounding in my clit. Soaped, I glide my hand over my belly, down to my thighs, fingers in position, dip between my legs.

I watched Transsiberian last night. Now I imagine sex on a train, in one of those tight bunks. So public. So naughty. I rub around my clit, moaning, feeling everything becoming lubricated. Sip more wine.  Imagine for a moment that it's Amber's cunt. That appeals to my humour. What if Amber left Tom for another woman? Yeah, fuck, feel that bitch? Feels good, doesn't it? I moan more, picture her big round titties floating in the water. The man I imagined into being is still behind me. Likes seeing me fingering Amber. His dick is rubbing against my ass. I feel my orgasm bearing down on me, bursting out like sunlight from the clouds. I ride the waves for nearly 30 seconds. Lay still, panting. Eyes closed. Maybe I can drown.

Open my eyes to see a wee pair of paws on the tub side. A little pink nose and two green eyes. A loud MREOWR. Jinx wants to be part of everything. Or maybe she's just hungry. I  sigh. Look again at the razorblade.

Travis Binkle should have bought a cat. I wonder if I can find the screenwriter's email address and send him this message. I rise from the tub and wipe the blood from my chest. Go find polysporin. Pour another half-glass of wine. And then wait.

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