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the dog syndrome

By Tom Piccirilli

With the homeless cowering in the wet trash, pointing and chuckling as if they could tell his father on him, Kent checked the row of smudged names beside the buttons, found hers and pressed it. She buzzed him in without bothering to say hello. A squeal of static made him wheel from the urine-stained steps, growls of starved puppies wafting from the mouth of an alley. He swept inside, wind at his back, and wiped the sweat from his lips. Anxiety corkscrewed through his ribs; they would have it better and worse than he could've thought, and he would not care, there in the dark.

Moving up two flights he arrived at her apartment, and wondered if she waited on the other side, peering out the peephole, already cheating at the game. He moved his hand to cover the hole, and tried the door. Like she'd said, it was unlocked.

Latino music thrummed through the walls from somewhere up above. Taking a ragged breath, Kent opened the door a half inch and looked through the crack. Only darkness and the hum of an air conditioner. The cool air snapped against his burning forehead, and he hoped she'd put her cats in the bathroom or someplace. He slid inside and slammed the door, making his presence known to Nadia, who would be hiding.

He hoped she would speak first, laugh or recite some ridiculous love ritual the way some of the Greenwich kids got into the New Age majik shit, but the thunder thrumming through the building worked against his anxiety. He shivered in the cold room, chills worming up his spine. He would have to give in, at least at the start. "I don't know where your bed is," he said.

Her voice, heard only over the phone before, seemed loud and distorted in the apartment, coming at him from all sides. "Here." And again, "Here," like calling a frightened dog.

"Uhm…"

"Here," she repeated, somewhere to his left.

"Do you still want to go through with this?"

"Don't you?" she asked.

Again she'd given him the reins, and he hated the fact he wasn't supposed to ask questions, not allowed to be gentle. Not all the time anyhow, and not in certain ways. Kent recognized the drive, but didn't understand how they could share it. Jesus, he'd been in New York for a year and a half and had yet to meet a normal woman. What the hell happened to them down here in the Village, the leather too tight, brains poisoned from the ink of tattoos, piercings going deeper into the matter. She was the victim and purveyor of the loyal dog syndrome, she'd told him, explaining how she needed the roughness of a master more than the touch of a lover. But only sometimes.

He knew how to be gentle in particular areas, only sordid in others, and didn't think his needs would mesh with hers. Still, he'd come a long way through the storm for Nadia - who had mistakenly dialed his number, she said. It added another tinge to think she'd sought him out. He held on to a faded hope that she was somebody he knew, and wanted. It made it easier to play. There would have been nothing but sitcom reruns if he hadn't kept her on the line, and if she hadn't come along.

"Are you on the bed?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Naked?"

"No."

With each word he took a step towards her. He'd been edgy the entire ride through the city, in traffic, screaming at the cab drivers and rollerbladers, watching the gesturing prostitutes as if they knew all his lies, nearly plowing down slow-moving pedestrians. 

The churches seemed to glow darkly with his defeat, and he didn't know exactly what the loss was, or whether he missed it.

He would have to be mean to her, but in a nice way.

The phone and terror of the undistinguished moment had played tricks with him before, with other lovers and other enemies. He wondered if he and Nadia should not talk at all, if everything would be better in silence. Let the depravity be in his hands and body, instead of inside his skull.

"What do you want to do?" she asked, as if he might actually say, Hey, let's get a pizza, go catch a movie, or play Scrabble. Kent was perverted, perhaps, in the way prudes could be, but he wasn't crass, and didn't know how to take full advantage of the dog syndrome.

"Ah…screw me?"

Too much of a question in the command. He wasn't sure if this was what she wanted. Maybe Nadia had lied, and she lay naked on the bed, breasts heaving in the frigid air, maybe with a riding crop plying her thighs and piano wire slung over a bedpost, waiting to dig. She breathed loudly and made a pleasured noise, as though she'd been touched by him. The thought solidified his resolve. "Screw me," he repeated, but almost added, please.

"No, I'm not a whore."

Ah.

She moved through a script from her own past, another game she'd played with another man, an Irishman she'd said, using the same dialogue. They hadn't been on the phone long, so how could he remember so many impacted details? Kent didn't know why he'd questioned her about sex with the Irishman, but he had, and learned the guy had a penchant for backhanding her, and she had loved him, or thought she did, which amounted to the same enslavement. Kent knew what the Irishman had said, and now he would say it too, keeping to the script for the time being.

"But you'll be my whore tonight." Christ, what a jackass the guy had been.

"Don't be too sure."

He frowned and wiped the clammy sweat from his neck. Distant lightning lit the windows, but illuminated nothing. Rain thrashed and boiled against the glass. The dog syndrome called for more skill in the art of demand than Kent possessed. What would the correct move be? Perhaps they were all wrong, or all equally right, and only his hesitation proved him a poor player.

He moved to her voice.

"I'm sure," he said, lying, but hell, at least they were progressing. "It's been a long ride in the rain. I'm tired and cramped and need you to take the edge off."

There: he'd used the word 'need.' Like a puppy bringing slippers she was suddenly down near his feet, impossibly silent, kissing his stomach through his shirt as she knelt before him; he didn't know the contours of her body, and was afraid to feel beyond the back of her head. She kissed his wrist and he pulled his hand away, unable to touch too much of her face. Nadia had told him that she was not pretty, foregoing description, but making certain he understood her loathsomeness. He didn't. He thought she lied, it was the tact to take.

Kent unzipped himself but didn't lower his underwear. He said, "Now that's better," and she chuckled. He didn't know what was more obscene, her need or his own. He took a step towards the laughter. His hands worked at the darkness, pressing at Nadia, yet not wanting flesh to touch flesh. He waited for her to move her fingers inside to free him, and when she didn't he growled, "Come on," aware that his strings were being roughly pulled, by her or only himself. Stubby fingernails stroked his legs lightly before she finally released him.

"Is this what you want?" she asked, tongue flicking. He prayed this was not some Crying Game fuck-up. He moaned, power shifting again as he fed her his vulnerability, and weakened. Nadia had a lot of hair. He could feel it down by his knees, all across his feet. It seemed too much for one woman. Was there someone else here? He held up handfuls and still didn't reach the end of it. He tried to measure in the meanness, but didn't like the violence twisting in his own thoughts, like the broken necks of everyone he hated. She slumped and groaned and never lost contact, paying great attention to the details of him, lips shrugging. He nearly toppled, sweat dripping onto the wood floor. But the dog syndrome called from him to do more than accept this token so docilely.

Awkwardly, Kent shifted, circling as she gripped him and tried to hold him in place. She was strong, Jesus, but even in the chilly room he was slippery enough to slide away. She came closer as he moved, until he was shuffling backwards to the blackest corner where the bed lay hidden, backs of his legs meeting the mattress. He sat with a huff, and found no definition. Was that her tongue, what the hell else was in her mouth?…asking more questions as she used him even more perfectly.

"Get up," Kent said. "I want you."

"You want me to what?"

"Just…"

"No."

Another wall, another war. Should he grab her? That would be too much, and he could hear his mother already, coming to bail him out of the Tombs. Nadia giggled a bit, as if she thought about his mother too. He could not kiss her, she'd said. He could not hug her. He could not pass out beside her and find himself in her embrace in the morning. The lightning came no closer. Safe from illumination, he drew himself up onto the bed, like a child afraid of the grave, and wondered what in the hell he should do next.

Nadia moved and he heard noises: a belt jangling, steps across the floor. He waited patiently, listening to metal on metal, not quite scraping, not sharpening, but nearly so.

He realized she wouldn't come to him without the proper bait. He removed the remainder of his clothes, letting them drop in a neat pile at the side of the bed, where he could easily find them again at the time of escape. Would she need to be slapped, bitten? He ran his tongue over his teeth. Pinched, marked or scarred? The Irishman had not gotten this far before losing control, he hadn't lasted a half hour inside the apartment before the jaws of the dog syndrome snapped shut. Kent would have to do better and much worse. Keep her heart intact, body away, but the sex where and how he wanted it, and the terror held at bay.

He had no idea where she stood in the black room now. "Get over here," he said, making the effort. "I want to taste you."

"No. You don't mean it."

Truthfully, he did, but the truth played no part in this interaction. The thunder spread an awful pressure through his chest and he doubled-over as if poisoned. It could hit like that, so aware of the moment that the myth of the world flung itself at your face and sucked your breath out. It was clear that if he got off the bed now, if he touched her to perform or accept, he'd fail; like a fool he'd rushed to the bed and given up an advantage. The contact gone, he was in the need.

Finding the headboard, Kent reached over to the night stand and discovered a lamp and what felt like stacked textbooks. Was she in college? Plenty of psych courses, a thesis on the Irishman, a supplement on the nature of want. Already he was good for a couple hundred pages of addendum. He touched the lamp's cord and followed it down to the outlet, pulled it out. He turned the switch gently, enough for only one loud click to be heard, and said, "Oh, the hell with this crap. I want to see you."

Nadia shouted, "No!" and rushed at him, as if from several directions at once, above and behind, sounds all over the place, maybe the cats even; what felt like an outstretched arm passed against his left shoulder, going for the lamp.

Contact. God, he thought, listen to her voice. He was no Adonis, for certain, but neither was he so grotesque to fear the light. So much staked to the game, he tightened himself for the touch of metal. A sad laugh fluttered in his throat, her body obviously situated directly in front of him, and he moved a hand between where he thought her legs must be, hoping to fondle her. He found nothing for a moment, perhaps she'd drifted from between his fingers, like so much dust. Finally he met with something, and thought it wasn't exactly breaking the rules, he hadn't actually touched Nadia. She stood before him and finally he discovered a familiar outline. He couldn't tell what kind of body she had, large or tiny or ridiculous. Her intake of air was like a giant bellows working, drowning out the air conditioner. He crooked his finger and he thought she drew forth, and the bed sheets moved beneath weight. She had to be beside him.

"Hike up," he ordered. There was enough vehemence in his words for Nadia to immediately obey, and it sounded like she did. The sweeping motion of her legs caused a breeze in his face. She had to stand over six feet. The night began to nibble at his suspicions; maybe she was a leggy, beautiful blonde who just liked to toy with heads; a porn star testing new lapping waters. If so, what kind of madness drove her, what sort of petty evils fueled her fantasies? He couldn't think that creatively. The instant a smile began to twitch his lips upward the images shifted, now thinking of hideous scars he'd seen on women in the street who'd gone through windshields, disfigured by fire, gruesome birth defects, mouths so riddled with tumors they couldn't use a normal-sized straw, moles the size of toads.

"I want you," he said.

"Here," she told him, and something brushed his upper lip. "This one." He opened his mouth and her nipple dipped against his teeth; it was huge, pointed, and he sucked greedily, unsure of the size of her breasts themselves. After a minute she moaned and he tasted a drop of sticky lactate. Was she pregnant? That put another spin on things, and as he moved to draw another drop, she pulled away.

With his finger still in place he struggled as she shoved herself out to meet him; inches away she still wasn't close. A sweet smell encompassed him, with a somehow different scent lurking below, a nice but acrid perfume, stinking a little like a crack pipe. Was she high?

Nadia bucked wildly against his hand and he fell face-down into the dark, tongued syrup without flesh. As if fighting her own possession, she threw herself against his chin. There wasn't any taste. Her vertebrae crackled, elbows and knees snapping with loud pops as if throwing every joint out of whack. Soon she released her hold and he heard her legs drifting back down around his ears, then clamped hard enough for concussion. He yelped and felt the veins in his temples squeezed out of place. Her pubic thatch was strangely warm-feeling heated, and he thought of the cats again. He'd heard weird stories of people who had sex with their pets, iguanas, can openers, anything that had a non-human mouth. The storm grew closer, but he held on, head stopped-up with the flavorless flavor, and still he kept on. Kent wouldn't be the first to quit as she fought and pawed at his neck, slapping him,. He got no real sense of her hands on him; the stubby nails scratching and drawing blood. He would make her speak to him. He would command her to take command.

"Now," she ordered.

"No."

"What?"

"Okay." Satisfied but unsated, he rose above his own space, as though he were about to drop upon himself, and shoved. They groaned together, none of it like anything he'd ever heard before; he hated keeping his hands in the air so far away, it worked against the rhythm, pressing into her, feeling the slow release of her as he drew away. Easing forward, he lowered his chest by millimeters as if about to fall onto razors, waiting for the icy feel of forks.

It never came. As she bucked she painfully smacked against him, and Kent drew away with a stunned grunt, and grimaced. Like a diver meeting freezing water he plunged his hands on either side of her and cried out, thinking the bed wasn't there and he'd go somersaulting into space, out a window onto the street where the Chinese delivery kids would run over his neck with their bikes. Still unsure of what kind of body this was, sleek or bony, he felt only the sheets and let out a loud sigh of relief. Where had all the hair gone? The positioning was bearable. Somewhere far below, miles and millennia in front of his eyes, she was smiling, frowning, sneering, or making a face he could put no name to.

Nadia said nothing, but after a moment she hissed, and he understood - or thought he did - that she wallowed in the captivity of his own humiliating desires, and they weren't even that bad. He wondered if the handcuffs would ever come out, some kind of weird grease, maybe somebody was supposed to pee on somebody. They weren't having fun yet.

That wiry pubic hair felt like a separate entity trying to get at him, a thousand legs scratching, getting on him. She gasped, and the rough sound of her intake excited him. Mastery moved between them, he in her, she allowing the pressure, not denying him the instant, but the possibility always existing. He geared his hips and kept doing what he was doing, unsure of what that was, but never really reaching her, staying with her for the ten count as she rocked on the bed. He was startled to find himself on the verge of orgasm - he hadn't known it until this moment, didn't feel like he was working up to anything. He twitched, listening to her muttered groans, rapture or disgust, buried in either the pillows or all that hair hiding somewhere else. Another rasp, through her clenched teeth, as if she suddenly discovered a new angle, her mouth in the wrong place.

"Turn me over," she said. "Please."

"No."

He lurched forward, aiming for where she ought to be, but misjudged and nearly toppled into the night stand, hearing the books clatter to the floor; something else moved, hot and pliable as melted wax - her chest? ... her neck? - and something took him quickly, yanking perfectly. He orgasmed and made little 'eep' noises that he couldn't figure out how he was making, or why, and bent over her too far again and still didn't touch her, his head clunking the wall. Flooding from him, along with this joy, went his lust and fascination, until like some misguided and lethal sex majik, all that was left behind in him was fear.

"Kiss me," she said.

"No."

"You promised."

Had he? Probably, on the phone in a stupid joke, or merely in his dreams. "No," he said, leaning away, or what he thought might be away from her, imagining that scar tissue reaching up for him, a couple of corpses under the bed moving. He reached back for the well-placed pile of clothes and found them, slid off the bed as silently as possible, pulse blazing, and started putting his pants on. Would the slap of leather against his ass happen now?…he could almost hear the dental drill, a blow torch igniting. How much had the Irishman left behind in his half hour here? What had she taken from him, what had been the ultimate cost of breaking her heart? And for not touching her?

Kent heard a clicking - what, the cool slide of a clip into an automatic?…or, finally, the handcuffs? Jesus Christ, she was trying the light. When she found he'd pulled the plug she'd stick it back in the socket. He heard Nadia fumbling around.

"No," he said, just a short bark. "Don't."

The voice, filled with hair and the remainder of him, packed with heartache and death, coming for him now.

Not caring whether he was victor or victim of the dog syndrome, Kent shut his eyes and threw an arm over his face as the light came on.

He spun, blindly falling against the wall. He skittered to the door sideways in a crab-walk, refusing to look, thinking about what his father would say if the man could see his son like this. Finding the knob he yanked the door open and dropped tumbling into the hall, nearly weeping with shame and something else, listening to her approaching behind him too fast, all the sounds, those cats, her big feet, and the metal still ringing, and whatever else came after him, now doomed by the sudden betrayal of truth. He ran down the stairs, tripped and pinwheeled down the final flight, hitting the front door so hard his back teeth splintered. Blood flooded his mouth but couldn't wash away her tasteless flavor. Kent rushed into the shrieking rain, prostitutes and crackheads and Chinese delivery kids jeering him as he spit out his teeth, spirit now leashed, heart muzzled, soul stuffed with fangs, and knowing he would be back.

Copyright © 2001 Tom Piccirilli

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Copyright © 2002 Darkside Productions, All rights reserved. Contents may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission of Darkside Productions.