T for Tom

The Horror

Posted in Europe by johnsontoms on November 21, 2011

There was blood everywhere.  The spot where our crotches met was red, solid, with the blood that was leaking from her slit.  Sophia was sitting on top of me, still leaning back with her legs toward me and her arms in the air, trying to catch her breath after grinding my prick down to a nub.  I had been leaning back myself, my thoughts wondering what kind of distraction I would need in the morning to allow me never to call her again but, God, I never thought the answer would come so soon and be so goddamned red.  This was not the kind of blood that I’ve seen when I started a woman’s menstruation early with a hard fuck.  This was the kind of blood that comes spurting out of a vein when sliced wide open with a serrated blade.  It was then that I had my Colonel Kruetz moment: “the horror.”  She was still leaning back and congratulating me on a job well done.  I hadn’t even gotten mine but the moment was no longer selfish.

“Sophia, I need you to sit up and look at me.”  She did so, not with much curiosity.  “Look at me, Sophia.  Don’t panic.  But you need to look down.”

Her head went toward our genitals, my cock hard and still engaged but clearly no longer in any condition to continue.  Her reactions were now more aware.  “Oh, oh dear god,” she said slowly, at once realizing something was terribly wrong, even if she couldn’t feel it inside her.  She jumped up to dismount me and there were our groins, each covered in a dark liquid mass making circles on our legs, almost like two lovers with identical scars.  It didn’t start too long ago I concluded, which was a good sign since we had been fucking for about two hours now.  The sheets weren’t soaked but they were absorbing the droplets of blood that fell from her cunt as she stood up and frantically began looking for a towel.  She was apologizing as she tried to think, “This does not happen, this has ever not happened,” in her broken English, unable to translate her thoughts to me.  Convinced that the injury wasn’t mine I was able to make one good point quickly: “Go wash yourself now.”  She stopped looking for clothes and left her room to find the water closet.  I was left sitting there on her bed, the red stains on my thighs glowing from the low lamp light, wondering how I had arrived at this moment.  What could have possibly gone wrong, and what did I do to deserve this?  These are things that happen, but this is not a good way to spend my first fuck in a few months.

We met that night in her hometown, Wurzburg.  Corey and I had gotten off the train a few hours earlier and began with our typical journey through the streets of a foreign country – walking with cigarettes in our hands, hiding behind the smoke while we ogle the girls walking by in the streets.  This country’s people are every bit as beautiful as the hills on the horizon, the footsteps of the Alps just to the east.  Today’s main prize became a brunette that we followed off the train, sharp, glaring eyes like Audrey Hepburn, but sitting on the face of a girl not a day over 19, about 5’6’’ and wearing jeans so tight you’d pop right through them if you had a boner.  Her heels made her walk just right so that her legs, real skinny, moved with a shake underneath an ass so firm I could grab it with one handful.  I shoved Corey over and he tried to make something out of nothing, but she wasn’t having it; seems she just wanted to go shopping alone.

After a meal to supplant the hangover from sharing a bottle of Jameson’s the night before, we started walking in the direction of the river.  Earlier in the week I had squared it with Sophia to meet today.  We had met just seven days ago in Nuremburg, spending a few moments together that taught me just one trip to Wurzburg would reap my reward.  She wasn’t a whore, didn’t have the build of one.  She was wider, more natural; black, straight hair over eyes sunk behind thick black eyebrows.  Attractive, but not a supermodel.  It was the hounds-tooth coat and red leather gloves holding a cigarette that let me know she have something, maybe intellectual, with substance.  Carnal knowledge wouldn’t be hard for me to get, she made that evident.  It was the intrigue of something more that stoked my curiosity.  In any case, I was biding my time and in no rush – she had been at work during the day and what difference would it make if I got to her sooner.  The end would probably be at the witching hour anyway, like it always is.

When we reached the Residenz I decided to phone her.  We were standing in an open parking lot in front of the city’s palace, designed to replicate French capital buildings, and it just seemed an easy thing to do at the moment.  She was at the supermarket, but would meet us later when her friend arrived from out of town.  Corey was delighted to hear this.  So we continued walking through Wurzburg on our own, building schemes about how things would work out, if we were in fact to get them back to their apartment.  It was more than a desire, it was almost becoming necessity.  The last train back home that night ran at ten ‘til midnight, and we weren’t the types of alcoholics to go home so early, with or without cunt.  That meant if they didn’t have us over, because no one likes animals running loose in their home, we would have to drink until the morning’s first train at 5:00.  We were only in Germany six weeks but this we knew already was not of the question.

By the time she called me back we were lost within the city.  Turns out we had no idea where the river was, or where we were.  There were a number of parks, trails, chapels, and vineyards all over the city, each with their own particular intrigue.  After passing through the central park we ran into a park area surrounding by wrought-iron fences where groups of older citizens were gathered playing bocce.  Their metal balls were rolling along the ground and in front of us as we passed by, following the sidewalk to a staircase.  There at the bottom was a memorial, similar to the tomb of the fallen soldier – six stone figures with helmets carrying a coffin, a rather somber sight straight from a Dali painting, surrounded by giant concrete crosses all bearing a year from World War II.  Turns out that toward the end of the German invasion over 200 British bombers leveled the entire city in just 15 minutes – the whole town has since been rebuilt to exact replications.  So much for the “millennial old” feeling.  Even the history here was faux, a gruesome one covering a tragedy.  Despite this, we loved the area.  Maybe it’s being so new was what attracted us – the dirty parts of the Third Reich were buried beneath the streets, and here people could start over, had to start fresh.

Sophia called as were reading this history, but we couldn’t give her any indication of where we were in the town – I wondered if I’d have been better at it drunk.  She got tired of trying to figure it out over the phone and told us to find the castle.  Even then we bungled it, and stopped at a church – I swear the buildings all look alike across the skyline.  A gentleman was nice enough to tell me the name of the chapel and it was enough to get Sophia a mark on our location.  I was buying a cappuccino when I saw her, wearing the same coat and looking around for me.  Our glances met and thankfully we didn’t have the “is that him?” glance where she might mistake me for not me.  I was thankful I didn’t do that to her either.

Her friend was more attractive.  Darker skin, wavy black hair over a set of brown eyes, almost could be mistaken for a Latina, but her name was Christine and she, too, was from Wurzburg.  Corey was excited at the sight of her.  When Christine asked for a cigarette, explaining that she only smoked while drinking, and “tonight will be a party!” with hands high in the air, it was too perfect.  If only I had known then.

“Should we grab some wine somewhere?” I asked, a bit impatient but mostly thirsty.

“We should wait here just another minute, my friend from out of town isn’t quite here yet,” Sophia responded.  So it’s not Christine then.  Wonder what this could mean.  Then, rather quickly, someone walked up and introduced herself.  A blonde, fully built with think thighs, running all the way to her round cheekbones.  Mother nature type. Klara was her name and she was quick to remind me we had met the week before.  Could’ve fooled me, but whatever.  She was going home to drop off a bag and so we left for the wine.  They led us to a German weinstube where I learned who they were, and I repeated myself to her; she remembered everything I had told her last week.  I’m not sure that’s a good thing, but it can’t be bad.  Turns out they were both law students at the university in town, and Christine was moonlighting as a tour guide for the castle on the hill, the big grand fortress that overlooked the entire city from the cliff.  It could be seen from most parts of town, over 500 meters higher in elevation, but just off the river.  When we walked by it felt like I was in a history book, seeing the students looking down at the text and images I too had seen so many times a child – I was there, on that ancient river, in that ancient night, breathing and feeling and finally I was living.  When Klara arrived we moved to the next bar, and I was living well.

There was something about Germany I learned in Nuremburg the week before, but in Wurzburg it was worse.  Bavarians, at least, love to have cheeky names for their drink joints – Bar Celona, Esco Bar, Rue Bar, RE Bar, Bar Code, and we must have hit them all.  At each one these girls insisted we order liquor, and at every joint I made fun of Corey for doing exactly that.   Maybe because he spent his 21st birthday in Germany the week before, or maybe because he’s that kind of flirt, he went right in on it.  All the fruits and colors of the fucking rainbow in their glasses.  No, thank you.  I’ll stick to scotch.  And the occasional tequila.  They found this peculiar of me, but every time they pointed out something “typically American” it was in Corey’s direction, despite my bullheadedness.  Also typically American of him was his pernicious attraction to Christine.  It was no good when she started mentioning her boyfriend, but it was even worse when Klara and Sophia were making sure she ate so that she “doesn’t go crazy” with the liquor.  That’s a locked closet with standing guards if I ever saw one, but you can’t teach a new dog old tricks, and he kept on.  Fuck it, mine was easy and I didn’t care what happened to him.  Sophia got the worst of me and kept on coming back.

One thing you don’t do with an asshole like me, especially while drinking, is ask him what he stands for.  “You don’t want to hear it,” I warned, but Sophia asked again and Klara’s puppy eyes insisted.  Fine.

“I believe in people,” I said.  “There’s only thing on this earth that makes us special and that’s that we think we are.  If we can’t harness that ability, and touch the people, see the people, and learn from the people we aren’t doing a damn thing to enhance ourselves as humans.”

“Is this why you go drinking with girls,” they asked.  So clever.

“I go drinking because it attracts my paranoia.  There are things rolling through my head like a sledgehammer and when I’m out with a scotch and good blues I don’t worry about those things.  For a few minutes I’m normal, and can maybe hold somebody.  Outside of that, I’m not normal to anyone even though I’m as traditional as the Yankees winning the pennant.  I don’t watch television, I never get on the internet, and phones should only make calls.  I prefer whiskey, dark beer, darker women, and good bits of wisdom that come to me while I’m smoking a cigarette.  And if I can’t do everything there is, learn from it, and provide something back to the world than I’m a failure.  And drinking makes that pill easy to swallow.”

They heard about how the world is a cracked safe with no money in it, how we’ve learned how to connect the globe and it only made us shallow, and they think I’m pessimistic if I can’t just go along with the flow – “The world can’t be changed,” Klara said while looking straight into my eyes.  Seems to me that’s more pessimistic than trying to change it, and believing I can.  But I just drank my scotch.  Maybe she’s right after all.  The good news was watching Sophia absorb all of this without running, and seeing that our distraction provided some good time with Christine for Corey.  But the talking was killing me, I needed a lay and heavy drink.  To the next place! For the next drink!

That was Tscharlie’s, spelled in Deustch, where the old people went to hear shitty music and drink shitty beer.  Perfect.  The mix was eighties and funk and everyone’s feet started moving.  Over the next hour I learned that Sophia loved to dance, but to horrible music, and that she liked dancing in clubs.  I liked her better when we were walking through the streets and she talked about the weight an entire country feels for having started and lost a world war, how the people of a city own the pain of being carpet-bombed for no reason, and how as a people they are resentful, out to prove something, even on an individual level.  But I guess all I wanted was a lay, and I couldn’t ask for the world if it comes so easily.  So often the two never come as a package deal, and here was no different.  She had her moments, but really she was like all the rest – studying in school to land a good job.  How noble.  When it was midnight the dancing stopped since it was now Sunday, apparently a day without dancing, a tradition still alive with the heavy Roman Catholic presence in Bavaria.  I was disgusted at that notion, but took the peace for the night.  Sophia replaced dancing with drinking and got more drunk, and soon she began to ask me sincere questions that I didn’t want to answer: “Why are you going to Afghanistan?” she asked as she tugged at my arm.  It seemed to me the kind of question a girlfriend would ask.  Better play it straight.

“I want to see war.  Here, where we are, freely enjoying beer, music, and the opposite sex is the best humans have achieved,” I said to her.  She nodded her head as if she understood.  “But I need to see the worst also.”

“You are so stupid,” was her answer.  She was probably right, but she didn’t mean in the way that was correct.  She placed her arm on my shoulder, and I led her outside for a cigarette.  There we confronted Corey and Christine who by now had become good friends, with him turning to me and giving me the look that said he was out.  Fitting that he gave her the opportunity by looking away to come to us and say she was leaving.  She took Klara with her and Corey was left to his own devices.  Nearing 4:00 in the morning we went inside to share one more drink at the table, my hand on Sophia’s legs, moving up and down softly to make clear my intent.  Oh, it seems her living room is available to us.  How nice of her to offer, I said.

The walk back led along the river and there in the darkness was the calm I can never find.  I hadn’t been speaking much and their drunkenness had them walking forward without noticing I had stopped, but I didn’t mind.  It was more important for me to jump on the ledge and stand upright over the water’s edge, the castle no longer lit for people to see but the silhouette barely visible on the hillside in the moonlight, the sounds of the water rushing through the dam and underneath the bridge, illuminating with the reflections from the lights on the houses that were mere meters from the flowing current.  No one was out save for us, and the world went right on by.  What I was doing wasn’t more important than the water’s movement, so I saluted it with my silence.  Eventually they noticed I was gone and had stopped.  I caught up in time for Sophia to grab me by the arm and lead us to her flat.  Up four flights of wooden stairs that creaked with each step we walked directly into a European flat, as I had seen them in the programs before: very small, and very crowded with the artifacts of their life.  Sophia joined me on the balcony for a cigarette, and when we saw Corey fall asleep inside we were alone.  I knew I had completely misread her when I heard this:

“I love the way your hands feel up my legs,” in a low tone, sensual.  Inside her was an animal too.

“I’ve been wanting to do this for awhile,” I said, and looked at her, moving in to kiss.  It really is true that European women are all tongue.  She went at it, without holding back.  I grabbed her and she moved into my chair to straddle me.  But it was cold out and after five minutes I suggested her room.  We went, took Corey to his bed for the night and went into her room.  As if to be coy, she suggested I could sleep in the living room, on her couch, or cuddle with her.  Whatever cuddle meant, that was I my answer.  She began conversation as if we weren’t going to fuck, but after two sentences she was on me again.  But I learned it wasn’t just an awkward start.  The girl liked to talk briefly, a few sentences at a time, every so often throughout the ordeal.  I didn’t mind, long ago in the night I knew I didn’t want to make her a girlfriend, or anything more than a fuck.  This was confirmed when I saw her breasts, or how very little breasts there were.  It was sad almost.  Here was this attractive, mostly intelligent female that, in spite of carrying a little extra weight, had none of it fall into her bosom.  Of course it wasn’t going to stop me at the moment, but I knew then that my attraction was dwindling.  It was a good thing, then, when I learned that she knew how to fuck.  She was loud, and she liked to move her body around my cock, rather than me do the work.  It’s always such a joy when I find those girls.  I don’t mind getting a workout, but it’s nice to meet halfway.

After two hours and couple of violent orgasms on her part, that’s when it happened, just as the sun was coming up.  Her favorite position was on top, so that she could control the movements.  She didn’t go up and down as much, sliding her cunt on and off my cock, but more in the way a belly-dancer moves, rolling the hips to one side and then the other, up and down exactly like cowgirl – so the saying goes.  It was during one particularly sharp movement by her that my cock slipped out, but before anything could be done she moved back forward and it went back in, hard, with difficulty, like it was being pushed over the edge of a brick wall.  We both carried on like professionals, because it was nothing new in the world of world of sex.  Sex is a physical act that can require precision, but when you’re howling mad and mostly drunk, precision is hard to come by.  I just used my thumb to rub her clit and when it got wet our genitals began to glide more easily.  And then the horror came, the sight, the panic, the finish, the rush, the cleanup.  We washed in the shower to remove the blood, and everything seemed to be calming down until I had to tell her that she missed wiping the blood from her ass.  She got back into the shower while I started wiping droplets from the tile floor.  “You don’t have to do that,” she insisted, over and over.

I had to grab her by the shoulders and let her know that these things happen, that she needs to take care of herself, and that she needs my help right now to keep things calm.  Until I had washed I was even worried that it could’ve been me that was bleeding, and when I pulled a big clot that was stuck to my penis I thought it was – but there was no cut, no incision, no break.  This was her burden, in her home.  And after sharing something so traumatic I knew we couldn’t share anything else.  It was hard to even look her in the eyes, but I didn’t hate her.  We slept there on her bed, in new sheets, and for a while pretended like nothing happened.  I woke up some hours later to the smell of breakfast, she had gotten up to cook a feast for Corey and I.  Of course he had no idea what had happened and I wasn’t going to let him know, not until we were out of there.  So the last thing we shared was a meal.  Eggs, ham, rolls, and every kind of additive she had in the pantry.  “Did I want butter?” or “jam,” or “honey,” or anything that could possibly please me.  I ate my meal and drank my coffee, and did nothing to mislead her.  Especially because every move I made was precariously watched over by Sophia, trying her best to please my every desire, full of shame for the events that passed during the night.  She was noticeably scared, and I couldn’t blame her.  Just when she thought she had a little piece of romance it was taken from her.  And I think she knew then that it wouldn’t be the same for us.  Good, I thought.  I hope she knows.

It wasn’t until right before we left when I went back into her room that I thought she might’ve had a past with this type of thing.  But there on the top of her bookcase were two photos framed together, each of the same thing, from the same moment – it was Sophia, a man her age, and three little girls all no older than maybe four years old.  Ha! You got me this time, I said to myself.  I said goodbye, and she kissed me one time before I turned to leave.  I guess some people are better at hiding their intentions.

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  1. Before Me Lied A New Dawn | T for Tom said, on December 28, 2013 at 1:49 am

    […] put me then into a world unknown and leave inside me the pursuit of women, of romance, of raw sex.  I felt like Sir Edmund Hillary crossing the icy poles.  I knew what would be out there, but not […]

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