writing from
Scars Publications

Audio/Video chapbooks cc&d magazine Down in the Dirt magazine books

 

This writing was accepted for publication
in the 84 page perfect-bound issue of
cc&d (v238) (the November 2012 Issue)

You can also order this 5.5" x 8.5"
issue as an ISSN# paperback book:
order issue


cc&d magazine cover

Order this writing
in the book
Cheap Thrills
cc&d 2012
collection book
Cheap Thrills cc&d collectoin book get the 228 page
Sept. - Dec. 2012
cc&d magazine
issue collection
6" x 9" ISBN#
paperback book:

order ISBN# book

Crazy for You

Michael Trainor

     “I’m so in love with you,” she said, still holding the gun to my head. We’ve been here in this gas station for a good two and a half hours and she hasn’t once taken the gun away from my head —except to tell the clerk and the few customers who wandered into the station to get down on the ground and put their hands on their heads.
    “I’m so in love with you,” she said, “and no, I’m not crazy.”
    I didn’t call her crazy. I definitely didn’t call her crazy. The last time I messed up and made a stupid mistake like that, I found myself in the passenger’s seat of a blue Toyota Corolla rocketing down the highway at 100 miles per hour. One minute I think we’re on our way to get lunch and talk about our relationship like civilized human beings. The next minute I’m trying to remember which prayers to God they taught me to use in case your girlfriend ever takes you hostage and goes speeding down the highway saying things like: “people think clearer when they think they’re about to die.” No, I definitely didn’t call her crazy.
    All I asked was why she felt she had to take me and these other people hostage. Why couldn’t she just key my car like a normal person? Not normal is not the same as crazy, I tell her. But she won’t hear any of it.
    I’d say all in all I’ve been taken hostage by my girlfriend a good three or four times. And that doesn’t include all the role-playing sex stuff either. I guess you could say I’ve been a hostage for two and a half years. The entire length of our relationship. Mostly I’m afraid to leave because of what I think she might do to me. These things usually happen when our relationship is on the rocks. That time in the Corolla I just described, that was eight months ago already. And now I’m kneeling down on the floor of a gas station with a gun to my head. Time flies.
    In a weird way, I think that incident in the Corolla - all these incidents - actually did help our relationship in the short run. Maybe she was right. Maybe we do think clearer when we think we’re about to die. You prioritize. You think “what’s really important in my life?” Maybe I’ll be stuck in this relationship for a little longer, but the sex is great and at least I won’t be dead. I won’t be dead and isn’t this kind of exciting?
    You start to forgive her little mistakes, like her annoying laugh or how she’s constantly leaving her hair in your bathtub drain or tying you up and cutting your thighs with a box cutter she lit on fire. It’s ok, I’d say. It’s ok, and isn’t it more exciting this way?
    They call this behavior Stockholm Syndrome. Where the hostage takes the side of his captor in a hostage situation. I call it hedging my bets. If someone else has all the power, if someone else holds your life in their hands, why not try to make nice? When Armageddon comes, and Satan and his armies start burning cities, slaughtering innocents, I’ll bet he’ll gain a lot more followers.
    God does this sort of thing even now. Do this, don’t do that, believe in me or go to Hell. And if God can hold your soul hostage your whole life, why can’t your girlfriend hold your body hostage every once in a while? Clearly she loves you. It’s actually sort of flattering if you think about it. Sort of romantic, in a way. They call this behavior Stockholm Syndrome.
    The first time she took me hostage, we had been dating for 6 months and I brought her to her favorite restaurant to break things off. I liked her, and I cared about her, but I just didn’t see our relationship going anywhere. We had nothing in common. There was no substance, just great sex, and little else. I didn’t want to waste her time. I think she thought I was going to propose. Propose after 6 months? Yeah right. I thought I was being sweet. Ending things maturely. She thought I was leading her on.
    She said she had to go to the bathroom to compose herself. She didn’t come back for a good 15 minutes. I thought about leaving, but instead I went to check on her. Be sweet. End things maturely.
    Women’s bathrooms in fancy restaurants sometimes have couches. The couch in this particular bathroom was in a totally separate room from the room with the bathroom stalls. This extra room also contained the sink and mirror, and on the sink there was a whole bunch of little complimentary toiletries, makeup wipes, and perfume samples. I guess you’d call this the Powder Room.
    I knock on the door and announce myself to the room because I don’t want to scare some old lady to death while I’m trying to break up with my girlfriend.
    I open the door and find my girlfriend lying on the couch, her arms from the elbows down disappearing beneath one of the pillows, clenching it tight against her body. She’s crying and I feel sorry for her.
    “I think I love you,” she said, wiping the tears from her eyes. “I think I love you, and no I’m not crazy.”
    I definitely didn’t call her crazy. I didn’t know why she’d say that until I see her coming at me with a steak knife she swiped off the table, saying how we’re meant to be together forever. She pushes me up against the sink, my arms and ass knocking down some of the lotions and soaps behind me, trying to get as far away from the knife as humanly possible. I’m literally sitting on the sink when she turns around and locks the bathroom door.
    With her steak knife held against my throat, I feel like a piece of meat. I start to think does she really love me? Am I the reason she’s acting so crazy? Or am I just the latest in a long series of hostage ex-boyfriends? Does she say this kinda thing to all the boys?
    Then she puts her hand on my thigh. She leans in closer til my knees are straddling her waist, the knife still against my throat. Her hand travels up my thigh toward my crotch, and she starts massaging. I’d be lying if I didn’t say it was a turn on. Me lying there helpless, her hair messed up, her makeup running, her little black dress; looking crazy and sexy at the same time. The fact that this was a public bathroom didn’t help the situation either. It was hot. And I was literally scared for my life. Scared for my life with a raging hard on. It’s ok, I thought. It’s ok, and isn’t it more exciting this way? They call this behavior Stockholm Syndrome.
    We fucked. She fucked me good. With restaurant patrons knocking on the door, and the Matre’d yelling he’s gonna call the cops, she fucked me crazy. She bent me over the sink, took the blade of the knife, wrapped it in tissue, and shoved the handle up my ass. Fucked me with the handle of the knife she took me hostage with and I took it, loved it, and pretended I didn’t.
    We wrestled for the knife, punching and kicking each other until I’m kneeling in front of her on the couch, her legs wrapped around my waist, and I’m pounding her crazy with the knife to her throat. There were no sample perfume bottles that weren’t broken when the cops finally kicked down the door. The room smelled rank with all of them mixed together, and we even managed to clog one of the toilets. I won’t say how.
    In all my years fucking women before and since, I’ve never been fucked that good. She fucked me raw. She fucked me until I forgave her for holding a knife to my throat. She fucked me in love with her. So when the cops asked what we were doing, we just said making love. Nothing about the knife or being scared for my life. We had to pay a fine.
    Two years later, she’s holding a gun to my head and I’m thinking we’re probably not going to fuck our way out of this mess. Unless you count the other people on the road while we were speeding down I-55 in her Corolla, she’s never involved other people in our little hostage situations. I guess this is what you’d call “spicing things up.” When your relationship gets boring, try exploring new sexual fantasies, like holding a knife to your partner’s throat while you’re scared for your life. When that gets boring, maybe it’s time to think about inviting someone else into your relationship. Take a few more people hostage. Keep things fresh. Keep things interesting.
    In the gas station there’s a woman, probably mid fifties, with a child, probably her grandson or a nephew. The kid keeps picking his nose. We’re all hostages to my demented would-be ex-girlfriend and the kid won’t stop picking his nose. Does he realize he could die at any moment? Do I?
    Another woman is off in the corner, with her face shoved into her hands, trying to remember which prayers they taught her to use in case someone ever takes you hostage because their boyfriend wants to end things. She’s crying. I’m crying. My girlfriend’s crying, and that stupid kid won’t stop picking his nose.
    The cashier is sitting behind the register with a flushed white face. He’s some sort of Pakistan-arabian-indian, but his face is flushed white. I look at him and think he can’t be more than 19 years old. Probably working in the gas station because his father told him helping the family business is more important than going to college. I feel sorry for him. I feel sorry for all of them. Sorry they have to be stuck here with me and my crazy girlfriend. Not crazy. Not normal is not the same as crazy.
    “Why don’t you love me anymore?” She asked, the gun still pointed at my head.
    “I do love you,” I say, “I do love you but this relationship isn’t healthy for either of us.”
    “You don’t seem to worry about the health of our relationship when I’m sucking your cock,” she said, “or shoving my fist up your ass.”
    Everyone hears this. The little snot nosed kid hears this. He starts to giggle. My girlfriend laughs her annoying little laugh. I want to vomit.
    “But don’t you see?” I say, “you can’t have a long term relationship based solely on sex. Great sex and hostage situations,” I say, “It’sÉ It’s crazy.”
    “It’s not crazy. Not normal isn’t the same as crazy,” she says, “what we have is a not-so-normal relationship, but we love each other, don’t we?”
    And she was right about that, at least. Even if I hated her. Even if I was walking around scared for my life all the time, I still loved her. She could cut off my fingers one by one and feed them to me and I’d still love her. She could burn my house and kill my family and I’d still stay. She could do no wrong in my eyes. She was a saint. They call this behavior Stockholm Syndrome.
    “Ok,” I say, “You’re right. I do love you. But you’ve gone too far this time. You put other people’s lives in danger,” I say.
    I say, “We can’t just walk away from this.”
    “We won’t tell,” the 50 year old woman says, “we promise.” But my girlfriend won’t hear any of it. It’s like we had already made up our minds about what has to happen next.
    “They won’t let us walk away from this, will they?” She says, her eyes welling with tears.
    I look into her eyes and I feel so sorry for her. I see that she’s scared for her life. With her gun pointed at my head, I see that she’s as scared as I am. We can’t walk away from this.
    I stand up. The first bold thing I’ve ever done in the last two and a half years. Only it’s not that bold. When you’ve been through several of these situations, like I have, you know she’s not really gonna fire. She’s not really gonna crash her car. She won’t really cut your throat. At least you hope not. You’re still afraid for your life because you know she just might actually be crazy, but you still love her and you see that she’s scared for her life.
    “They won’t let us be together,” I say, “not after this. We’ll go to prison. We’re fucked.”
    It’s not like we can tell the cops we were just making love this time. We’re not going to fuck our way out of this mess. This time we’ve involved other people in our drama. It’s too late. So I tell her what we have to do.
    “It’ll be just like Shakespeare,” I say, as I grab a bottle of bleach from one of the counters, “Double suicide. Romeo and Juliet style. Together forever. For the rest of our lives.”
    “You take the gun, I say, I’ll drink the beach.”
    I say, “I love you but they won’t let us be together. This is the right thing. The only thing we have left.”
    Weeping, she takes me by the hand. Crying, she touches her lips to mine.
    Thus with a kiss I die, I think.
    “You first,” she says, “just like Shakespeare.”
    “We’ll go together,” I say, “together forever.”
    She nods her head and I unscrew the cap on the bleach.
    We gaze into each other’s tired eyes. It’s almost like looking into a mirror. The two of us. Together. One. Now and forever.
    I bring the container of bleach to my mouth, still moist from my girlfriend’s kiss. She puts the gun to her head. The patrons and the cashier close their eyes. Even the snot nosed brat closes his eyes. That’s how serious this moment is.
    We stare at each other. Our last moments on earth. Together. One.
    “I love you,” I say and I close my eyes. I take a long deep swig of the bleach thinking at least this’ll all be over soon.
    “I love you too,” she says, and she pulls the trigger.
    I hear the gun fire. I open my eyes and I see her body drop to the floor. The walls and the patrons and the clerk are all covered with the bone and brain of my dead ex-girlfriend.
    That’s when I spit out the bleach.
    I spit it out right on top of her dead, headless body.
    Fuck her.
    I stick my fingers down my throat and induce vomiting for good measure.
    Fuck her.
    I want to make sure I live on long after she’s in the ground. I vomit right on top of her dead, headless body.
    Fuck her.
    I breathe deep and fall to my knees exhausted. Dry-heaving, I ask no one in particular if they’d please call the police. I’m shaking and I’m cold.
    When the police arrive, they question everyone for an hour or so. I hear the snot nosed kid talking to the cops. With his finger stuck up his nose, with little pieces of brain and bone still stuck in his hair, he talks to the cops. I hear him tell the cops he was scared for his life. I hear him tell the cops he thinks the girl who shot herself must have been crazy or something.
    Not crazy, I think. Not normal isn’t the same thing as crazy. But I don’t say it out loud.
    Then I close my eyes. I breathe deep and thank God this hostage situation is finally over. Not the incident at the gas station, mind you, but the last two and a half years of my life.
    See, it wasn’t about the Corolla, or the gun, or holding a knife to my throat the day she fucked me in love with her. That stuff was normal for us. That stuff was “date night.” When you’ve been through several of these situations, like I have, you know she’s not really gonna pull the trigger. She’s not really gonna crash her car. She won’t really cut your throat. At least you hope not. You’re still afraid for your life because you know she just might actually be crazy, but you still love her and you see that she’s scared for her life.
    And you know that if she really is crazy, if given enough time, she just might blow her brains out in a gas station because she thinks you’ll follow her to the grave. And you know if she’s not crazy, and you both make it out of this alive, you’ll spend the rest of your miserable lives together having the best sex of your life. I’m not sure what they call this behavior. Maybe you’d call it Stockholm Syndrome. Maybe you’d call it hedging your bets.
    I call it true love. As true as you can find nowadays, anyway.



Scars Publications


Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.




Problems with this page? Then deal with it...