by Terrie Leigh Relf

"Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And when you look long into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you."—Friedrich Nietzsche (Prelude 146)




ou said, "I'm a lesbian woman trapped inside a man's body," while donning jeans and a Rimbaud T-shirt. The image made me pause; a koan resonating.

"Maybe it's the sake," I said.

"It's probably the sake," I repeated, waiting, while you looked at the TV screen, mesmerized.

"Ah!" you offered, but I wanted more.

"It's just that I don't know where you end and I begin," I said.

You turned to me finally, and said, "Is that something that you really need to know?" Then added, "It's all fiction, anyway. Our lives, we create them as we go along."

For a moment I realized what you meant, then the knowledge vanished with your presence.

I went into the bathroom to take a shower, wanting to wash away the scent of your sweat and semen. The door bell rang.

"You shouldn't answer the door like that," you said, while assuming your tough-guy act, pressing my naked body against the wall, your knees between my thighs, painfully gripping my hands above my head.

"You got somethin' for me, babe?" you murmured as you went to work on me, not waiting for an answer.

"I just can't do this anymore! I just can't," I moaned, but you wouldn't release me, my body traitor to my words.

"What's the matter, babe-got a real boyfriend now?"

"That's not the point and you know it! You just drop by when you feel like it, and you always expect me to let you in. You used to bring wine, we'd talk-t

"But babe," you interrupted, "That's 'cause I have somethin' better for you to drink."

"Just go-GO!" I screamed.

"If I told you once, I've told you twice. Great expectations, great disappointments. No expectations-hey! No disappointments. Listen and learn."

You're such an asshole, I thought, but didn't say as your image faded.

John Coltrane is singing, "A Love Supreme" on the radio while I wait for you with incense and candles burning. The Champagne for me is on ice. I'm feeling daring tonight, white-lace panties beneath my floor-length velvet dress.

You're late, but you look so fine, so I forgive you for the moment. Your black curls are still damp from a recent shower and a slight veneer of exotic oil. Your purple silk shirt is slightly open, revealing a thin trail of dark curly hair. And your jeans are so tight that I can't breathe with looking at you.

You bring me a basket filled with freshly-cut Jasmine, which you scatter all over the living room floor and furniture. Its scent stirs a memory.

"Remember when we used to walk along the beach at night, taking in the scents of seaweed and Night-blooming Jasmine, naming the constellations, bringing them to life? I remember how you always loved Diana, how you wanted to be just like her, how you wanted to be her."

"Yes," I answer smiling, "I remember."

We swam, you and I, like gods and goddesses from an ancient world, dolphins by our side, who emerged from each wave's foamy crest, reveling in motion. I had never known a man like you. There was something eerily magical about our time together, as if with a wave of your hand we entered another realm. And during these, our beginning days, you promised that I would live forever at your side.

"Forever is such a long time," I told you, not knowing what else to say.

"No," you replied, "forever is now--now expanding in all directions."

At the time, I didn't realize that the gift you offered was a curse, that once conquered, you would tire of me, and yet not release your hold.

"It is a sacred bond," you assured me.

Like a fool, I said, "I trust you."

We lay upon the sand, drying our bodies in the early morning sun. Then you began to draw symbols into its shimmering surface while I watched, wondering what they could possibly mean. A door opened at the ocean's edge, and you pushed me through it and into a space so vast that I trembled, barely balancing upon the golden cord stretched across the abyss. "I dare you to look down!" you said. And when I did, my body fell and fell and fell, my screams seemingly silent upon your ears.

You drew another symbol in the sand, and I lay unharmed, but alone. Not even the dolphins' song could release me from my fear and sorrow.

While we sit on the couch, with arms and legs intertwined, a tangled knot rises in my throat, and I remember how you were always on top, my naked skin ground into the sand, your every movement plunging me deeper. I had to soak for hours to remove all the sand and bits of shell and seaweed from my crevices.

"I can go for hours," you said, lifting your head occasionally to gaze at the moonlit patterns in the ocean, inhaling deeply, then breathing the salt air into my lungs with a kiss.

And you would go for hours, while I lay wondering whether I should move beneath you, thus disturbing your reverie. Does it matter that I am here? Your dark brooding profile still creates images which whirl within me, and I remember a time, many times, when we first met, and how your eyes would rarely leave my own, a gloating smile upon your lips while my body writhed under yours.

Now, you finish without sound, without warning, then roll off my flesh into the sand. You reach for your pants, which are neatly folded on a rock. I watch you dress, then turn my head and body away from your image, feeling cold and empty, only your sweet juices running down my legs.

"Thank you for the memories," I say, pulling myself free from your embrace. Much to your surprise, I ask you to leave. You fade slowly, tears trembling in your eyes, your mouth sullen like a child's.

The moonlight radiates through my bedroom window. It is a hot night. Too hot for covers. Yet I lie between the sheets, my feet searching for a cool spot, the sensation soothing. I move my feet back-and-forth along the sheets, like a caress, exquisite. The last images of a dream are before my eyes as once again you have stolen all the covers and I lie here in an old T-shirt, shivering, longing for a warm body to surround mine. I rise slowly, not wanting to wake you.

The wall between reality and the dream crumbles as I emerge wet from a steaming shower and you are gone. I used to wonder where you went. Now, I find myself hoping you won't return.

I pour myself another cup of sake, heat it in the microwave, then slide a movie into the VCR. You would be smug if you saw the tears running down my cheeks while watching these scenes of simple human passion-even tenderness.

I slowly sip my sake, longing to be the woman on the screen, who lies so vulnerably on the bed while her lover undresses her, each motion a caress.

Then, the scene shifts unexpectedly: lips joining, clinging; fingers, hands grabbing, pinching; pulling, fondling; thighs intertwined with shifting rhythmic patterns, thrusts, gyrations, pulsations, tears and screams and endless words which say nothing, mean nothing, achieve nothing.

I light a cigarette which you grab from my lips.

"You smell like alcohol and cigarettes," you say with disgust.

"What does it matter. You never touch me anyway."

"I thought you knew how to play the game," you spit out at me while tying your boots. You look up, ice cold, say, "Guess not," and walk through the door.

I came home early one evening, and realized that you weren't alone. His moans were louder than yours. I decided to stay, to wait. Perhaps there would be something left when you were finished. Or, perhaps you had other plans for him which excluded me. For the first time in many, many years, I was afraid.

When I heard the shower begin to run, and heard the sound of a single form within the water's flow, the certainly that you were now alone relieved me. But then the bedroom door opened, and He emerged, still erect, fresh blood oozing from his groin. It was an awkward moment.

"I see the two of you have met," you said in that familiar taunting tone. The man was strangely silent, chillingly so, as he bent to pick his clothes up from the floor by where I sat. His body emanated so much heat that I yearned to touch him, to press my cold skin against his.

"Don't mind her," you said, then sat down on the couch next to me, probing my thoughts for something to play with.

I held my mind still, allowing you to wander through my thoughts, longing to capture you in a corner with nowhere left to hide. You smile at my vengeful feelings, then leaned closer so that I could taste the blood and semen on your breath.

I opened my eyes while you kissed me; he was watching us, arms crossed against his chest, yet poised cat-like for motion. I closed my eyes again, expecting the inevitable, which came within moments. I felt His hands undoing my jeans, His lips, tongue, and teeth probing and devouring my flesh.

"Enough!" you commanded, and He released me.

I curled into a fetal position, my back to you, shaking with anger at your cruel games.

The phone rings. It's late, but I answer it anyway. Before I can even say, "hello", I hear your voice.

"You're too independent. You'll always be alone. You'll never let a man get close to you because you're too fucking independent. What do you need? Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!"

I hang up the phone when you begin repeating your words. The words confuse me. What are you trying to say? What do you mean?

There is no answer, so I drag all your stuff onto the front porch, pay $200 for a restraining order, then change my phone number and my name. Why do I even bother? You always come back.

A man? You're not a man...not like other men.

It is night again, like those other nights when you and I would compose spontaneous haiku and laugh and make love until I couldn't stand it anymore, my body shuddering with wave after bliss-filled wave.

"Something to remember me with," you chuckled.

But you were wrong. I will remember the baby who now grows inside me, the one who you will never take from me.

I remember so many years before, to the first time we were together. It was the night when you gazed past my fear and longing and into my heart.

"Be with me," you whispered, your voice soothing.

And I did.

We merged, and a window opened, allowing in a light so brilliant that I had to close my eyes or else go blind.

You disappeared after that night, and when you returned, I told you I was pregnant. You just shook your head, and I knew that you would abandon us.

"I'll take care of it," you promised, and left before I knew just what that meant.

In the early morning darkness, you joined with others of your kind, lighting incense, chanting secret spells which cast my unborn from my womb and back into the formless ream between death and birth. Her screams entered my dream, and I awoke to an empty womb, my sheets stained with blood, my baby dead.

I sit at the kitchen table waiting for you, smoking an endless cigarette, raising coffee cup to lips, sipping, gazing at the sun through the window as it emerges from and returns to darkness, watching as the moon rises and remains in the night sky.

I watch as you enter my bedroom window silently, a serpent camouflaged by night.

"Why am I so cold?" I ask, but you don't answer. I feel the anger of so many unanswered questions.

"Answer me!" I shriek, the sound alien to my ears. You remain silent, eyes transfixed upon my own. You used to have a ready retort for my questions, a philosophical response for my pain.

"I'm sorry," you say when I had almost given up hearing your voice.

Incredulous, I ask, "You're what?"

"Sorry," you reply, and I almost believe as your hand reaches for mine. I look at it posed motionless before me, so like a still life painting, knowing that if I accept it, if I surround it with my own, that the abyss will close.

I shake my head, wondering at my resistance, pausing for the onslaught of your razor-sharp admonitions. But they never come. You cry instead.# Nameless emotions surface within me, and I take you in my arms.

"Please!" You beg, "I can't keep living like this! I want to know, to feel, to-" and then you collapse at my feet, distraught, but unashamed.

I want to return your words to you: "We never die; we are immortal," but my lips are sealed, my voice unwilling to sever them.

Instead I say, "I'll help you."

My sweet juices have passed your lips, lingered upon your tongue. Blood distorts the fine lines of your lips, smeared beyond recognition. I walk towards you, damp from the shower, my blue-black hair luminous in the moonlight.

I take your head between my hands, gently. A sigh passes through you as I lick the blood from your lips and face. The poison of immortality transforms me. There are no barriers between us now, my love. There is no place to hide.

"Now! Do it now!" you implore me, no longer in control. I take my time, savoring each moment, each memory of our years together. You once told me that the three times are one: past, present, and future extend, then fold in upon themselves. I look at you and see that this is true.

"Life is death and death life," you told me one night while we held each other out of sorrow. I wondered then, as always, where I ended and you began. Now, I wonder where I end and you begin.

I anoint myself with your semen. My tongue reaches out tentatively, lingering upon my lower lip, tasting its sweetness. You smile serenely, drugged. "Thank you for doing this for me," your voice amazingly clear and steady.

I gaze within and beyond your freezing blue eyes, hoping to find an answer to my question. Why? Why am I doing this for you? But there is only silence permeated with the knowledge that I have changed. I am not the young girl who wanted you beyond reason.

I no longer see myself reflected within you. It is time. The wounds you made within me are still fresh, my blood drying slowly along my thigh. We join, you inside me, spiraling against the moist pliant folds of my body, the ascent of your final orgasm sculpting your features into an ecstatic mask of death.

Your eyes clench tightly in anticipation as I moisten the skin just below your breast, then ever so slowly penetrate your skin. As your semen bursts its last bonds within me, I feel and taste your blood, hot and sweet, flowing, then gushing down my throat.

Your body is still, yet I hold you against me, singing a lullaby from your childhood, rocking you gently while you return to the womb. I stroke your hair, press my lips against your forehead, wondering whether I should suckle you back to life.

I trace patterns in the tear-stained blood upon your chest, and a door opens before me. At first, it is exquisitely calm, and then, a great wind rises toward us. At last, I give you to the storm, watch as you rise into its core, and yes, I feel sadness-but not for reasons that you would give.

I trace another pattern, sealing the door between us

This I do for you.