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Toxic Sex Poetry

“How does it feel to be completely defenseless?”

Story by Thor Benson - thorbenson@gmail.com Photos by Muge Karamanci
Photo ©  Muge Karamanci

Photo © Muge Karamanci

The sound of my glossy black dress shoes slapping the wet pavement was bouncing off of the storefronts like thoughts off of brittle skull walls. I was approaching the bar where anything could happen. There was a poetry reading that evening and imaginary happenstances were fading in and out of credibility. I could hear swing jazz slipping out of the cracks in the front door as I approached the club.

When I entered the club, a well-postured brunette passed me, wearing a flowing floral dress. “The reading is downstairs,” she said, “come on down.” I followed her cautiously. The stairs down to the reading were a narrow tunnel lit by party lights. The bottom of the stairs opened to a musky blue room with candles lining its walls. At the end of the room was a stage which, outside of a dim spotlight, was shrouded in shadows. I was quickly approached by a friend who would be reading that evening. “I’m glad you could make it Rider,” he said. “Wouldn’t miss it,” I replied.

Photo ©  Muge Karamanci

Photo © Muge Karamanci

I sat with a collection of starry-eyed writers and half-wit groupies. After a moment of settling, I realized I was sitting next to the temptress who had led me inside. She looked at me as if she was waiting for me to respond to a question—fondling her hair and crossing one leg over the other. I introduced myself and we engaged in the typical groundwork conversation. She was an Argentinian girl named Lourdes, visiting the city to see the art scene in some kind of romantic tour of the west coast of the states.

There was a hidden agreement being made. We would not be seeing the end of these performances, for there were other views to take in. We waited for the right time to cue our exit. It turned out to be about three readers in. We left the bar together and went to a swanky bar down the street. It was the kind of place you would expect to have a disco ball and groups of customers doing lines of coke out in the open. The drink prices were inflated, and so were the breasts of the bartender. The place had a quiet discord that was waiting to be provoked.

Photo ©  Muge Karamanci

Photo © Muge Karamanci

“This is my favorite bar so far,” she said in her strange Spanish accent. I couldn’t imagine why, but the place seemed to make her happy. Perhaps it was similar to the kind of places she would go back home. She seemed to be bouncing with excitement in her seat. I created caricatures of her in my mind, painting her as a party girl with a shallow interest in the arts. It didn’t seem fair to write off a girl’s interest in writing solely because of her beauty, but her temperament was also at odds with the artist archetype. She was outgoing, happy and energetic; all things creative people are not.

We spent a couple hours at that bar, taking shots of whiskey and rum like they were medicine. Eventually something changed in her and I couldn’t put my finger on it. I had put my arm around her, and it was as if some kind of dread had washed across her face. She went from a chipper Latin tourist to a depraved drunk, like me. She talked less and resorted to one-word responses. I thought maybe I had said something of offense, but I couldn’t recall such a misstep on my part. Her actions became empty, and after a while she simply said: “I need to go back to my hotel.”

Photo ©  Muge Karamanci

Photo © Muge Karamanci

She let me take her to the hotel, my arm draped over her shoulder, and she chased the sidewalk all the way. When I tried to ask her what was wrong, she said she just needed to get to the hotel. I became quiet, wondering what the rest of the night would hold. I had been quite explicit with my intentions for the evening, and she had seemed very willing to take me to her hotel. Somehow I had gone from crumbling the city walls with a capable companion, to the shoulder to lean on for a distressed drunk. I begged the drinking gods to alleviate whatever was weighing on her.

When we entered her hotel room she rushed into the kitchen and opened a pill bottle, dosing out a few capsules. She swallowed them with an open bottle of wine, and shot a sinister smile in my direction. “Antipsychotics,” she said. This was a flattening surprise, because I had viewed her as a two-dimensional fuck buddy. The girl I had met was the kind of girl who shops at expensive boutiques, drinks frilly drinks and dances whenever possible. I couldn’t grasp how such a specimen would be a head case. “That’s better,” she said. “Are you feeling okay?” I replied. “Yes… much better,” she said, smiling, “now for some fun.”

Photo ©  Muge Karamanci

Photo © Muge Karamanci

What happened next was a sharp pain in my jugular, and I stumbled backwards. I remember searching my neck for the source of the pain. Eventually I found the culprit. I grasped what felt like a mosquito covered in course prickly hair. I pulled it out of my neck, and found it to be some kind of diminutive dart. I looked up to Lourdes and, as my vision began to blur, I saw the sick look of satisfaction that had overtaken her face.

I collapsed onto the stiff hotel bed next to me, and Lourdes approached me with resolute intention. She took calculated steps towards my seized body and looked me over. I couldn’t move a muscle, but I could feel the crisp bed sheets below me perfectly. I was paralyzed, but serenely aware of my surroundings—despite the haziness of my vision. Moments later I came to the strange realization that I was fully erect beneath my slacks.

“You’ve just ingested a healthy dose of a toxin named Curare, as well as a little known drug from Latin America that makes sure the blood flows to the right place. Essentially, you’ve lost control of your muscles, but the one I’m interested in is ready to go…” she said.

Photo ©  Muge Karamanci

Photo © Muge Karamanci

I could feel her unbuckling my belt and unzipping my pants, but I could not speak or move. She removed my pants with a perverse smile. She caressed her hands along my bare legs, “You can feel that, can’t you?” She kissed both my thighs, and then pulled off my boxer-briefs. “Very good,” she said. She pulled her dress off over her head, and then took off her underwear. All I could do was watch what was unfolding in front of me, unable to react. I was very frightened because she had complete control over me. I felt my heart beating irregularly and my breaths came with serious difficulty.

“How does it feel to be completely defenseless? I have been raped nine times now, since I was a girl. I have a need for sex, but I cannot trust men anymore. This way I can be sure you will do as I please. They say men cannot be raped? I disagree,” she said. She has taken back the control she once lost, I thought to myself.

Photo ©  Muge Karamanci

Photo © Muge Karamanci

She crawled onto the bed, hovering over me, and kissed me on the forehead. Her kiss was tender, but also resigned. She lowered herself onto me and straddled me delicately. She sprung up and rebound continuously, closing her eyes in indulgent gratification. She eventually started groping herself and imitated the hand movements of a participating lover. I was torn between the pleasure of what was taking place, and the internal pain of not being able to act willingly. I tried to convince myself it was just another kinky experience, but part of my mind felt seriously betrayed.

There I was, reclined on a hotel room bed wearing nothing but a shirt and shoes, with an attractive Latina girl gyrating over me, and I was helpless. She fucked like she was dancing, the way Latin girls do, as if we were entangled in seduction. At times she would stretch her hands across my chest, under my shirt, and clench my rip cage with her fragile hands. I could feel she was taking something out on me, growing more viscous as she went on. The first time she climaxed she bit my shoulder as if to take a piece off of it, and I could feel it, but not react. “It’s so much better this way, so much…” she said.

Photo ©  Muge Karamanci

Photo © Muge Karamanci

I had often questioned the likelihood of a man being raped, but now I was witness to exactly how such a thing could happen. She had removed the only barrier to achieving it by drugging me into arousal. An unusual sense of pride filled my mind at one point, having been the one chosen for such a thing. This thought process was quickly dwarfed by the fact I had no idea how long this paralysis would last, and what would happen when she was done with me. If she were capable of drugging me for sex, then it wouldn’t have been a stretch for her to do even more deranged things to me.

She climaxed several times over the course of the experience, and, eventually, I did too. I didn’t think I would be able to under such mental duress, but sometimes the body has its own ideas. It was strange not making the typical gnarled face one makes in such a situation. After I finished she pulled herself off of me slowly, and collapsed onto the bed, next to me. “You were fantastic,” she said.

Photo ©  Muge Karamanci

Photo © Muge Karamanci

Photo ©  Muge Karamanci

Photo © Muge Karamanci

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