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Life & Art

By: Starlight



I met Carla Drovnik at the wedding of a friend. The bride introduced her as an old school friend, and from the moment we shook hands, I was a lost soul.

In that instant Carla seemed to have an aura of light around her. She was all my fantasies about women rolled into one.

She appeared to be about twenty-four or five and around five feel six tall. 

She was dressed in a garment that had strips of cloth passing over the shoulders that then descended to cover her breasts, just. The breasts were unsupported and from what I could see, and what I could see was a considerable amount of breasts. They were like beautiful twin cupolas, firm, yet moving just sufficiently to be tantalising. During our ensuing conversation it was an effort of will not to keep staring at them.

The garment terminated just below her knees and was split almost to the hip on one side, revealing long and deliciously strong legs.

Her hair was almost black and flowed down over her shoulders, setting off almond shaped dark blue eyes. Facially she had a slightly hawkish, predatory look, with a slightly curving nose over a wide full lipped mouth. Her complexion was light brown and gave the impression that she was of Anglo-Indian origin. It was a strong face, the face of a woman who knowing what she wanted would get it.

Every male present seemed to be focusing on Carla, much, no doubt, to the displeasure of their partners. She was not partnered herself.

Thus I found myself standing talking to this goddess among women. I had no expectation that, with all the obvious male interest in her being shown, I would have her company for long, but I was wrong.

For whatever reason, she seemed to want only my company, and so we chatted on for nearly two hours. I told her I was a draftsman with an engineering company, and learned that she was an artist. 

I suppose I was at a bit of a disadvantage in that I knew little about art, but as an artist Carla knew something about drawing, and therefore, about draftsmanship. Not that it mattered what I knew about art because I hardly noticed what was being said I was so engrossed in her beauty, and frankly lusting for her.

As the reception drew to a close I expected we would go our ways and probably never meet again. Wrong again.

"Peter," she asked, "I don't have a vehicle. I wonder if you could drive me home?"

Had "home" been a thousand kilometres away I would have agreed to take her, but it happened that it was only a little out of my way. I rejoiced that I would be in the presence of the divinity for a while longer.

The divinity's residence was something of a surprise. I had thought the goddess would live in resplendent temple, but the exterior of the block of flats where she lived had a rather dingy appearance. 

I stopped the car expecting her to get out, but she sat on, looking at me. Nothing was said for a moment, then Carla spoke in her soft contralto voice:

"Peter, I have a couple of tickets for the ballet tomorrow night. Would you care to come with me?"

My interest in the ballet was minimal, but I would have jumped into a crocodile pool if it meant being with Carla.

"I'd love to come," I responded.

"Wonderful. I have enjoyed your company, Peter. Can you pick me up at seven o'clock?"

"Certainly."

"Goodnight, Peter."

She leaned over and kissed me softly on the lips, then slipped out of the car, and moving like a lissome panther, she disappeared from my sight into the building.

I was astounded at my good fortune. I was twenty-five years of age, and had been dating girls since I was sixteen, but none of them matched this gorgeous creature. That night I had difficulty in getting to sleep, and had to masturbate three times before I was relaxed enough to drop off.

The visit to the ballet was a success, not because I saw much of it, but because I was seated next to Carla for two hours. I could hardly be expected to concentrate on the dancing or music, given the erection her closeness and female fragrance inspired in me.

Arriving back at her block of flats, I took the initiative and kissed her goodnight. The response I got to what was a relatively gentle kiss sent fire racing through me. Carla's mouth opened and her tongue thrust into me. Her lips swirled over mine as if she would eat me.

When we broke she said, "Peter, darling, you've had a bit of a problem all evening, come up to my flat and let me help you with it."

My legs were shaking as we ascended the stairs to the third floor, and entering her flat I took her in my arms and pulled her close. As we kissed she began to rotate her hips, pressing hard against me. I was beside myself with lust for her.

"Come to bed with me, Peter," she whispered. She led to into a small bedroom that was almost filled by a double bed. Carla began to undress immediately, and quickly lay naked on the bed. 

Looking at her, as with shaking hands I tried to undress myself, I saw those magnificent breasts standing up like two domes surmounted by light brown nipple set in darker brown aureoles.

She extended her arms to me, drawing me on to the bed, to begin kissing again. After a few moments, she broke from the kiss, and taking one breast into her hand, she extended the nipple to me and said, "Suck me, darling."

I took the nipple into my mouth and suckled her. She began to give out with little cries and said, "Bite me, darling. Hurt me a little."

I hesitated for a moment, but then gently bit onto the delicious morsel.

"Harder, darling, harder."

I obeyed, and she began writhing and screaming. I stopped, but she commanded, "Don't stop, harder, harder." I bit down firmly and she made a convulsive movement, holding my head against her breast to prevent my moving away.

"The other nipple darling hurt me there."

As I bit her other nipple I searched with my fingers for the entrance to her vagina. She was soaking wet with her women's fluid and ready for penetration. I stopped biting her nipple and came over her, searching with the crown of my shaft to find her entrance.

Her hand reached down and guided me in.

I felt my crown pass through the heavenly gates and enter paradise. She was soft and warm inside and as I slowly penetrated her I felt her vaginal muscle grip my shaft spasmodically. I must have given a moan because she said, "Like that, darling?" Then she kept on flexing as if to draw me into her.

Carla started to make sound like, "Ah-ah-ah-ah." I knew her orgasm was coming. I felt the first pumping of sperm up my shaft, and then I was driving into her as her cries grew louder. Then she suddenly shrieked out, "O my God, don't stop, don't stop."

I felt her nails raking my back like hot needles and I responded by crushing her nipple between my thumb and forefinger. This elicited an even louder scream and a cry of "Deeper, deeper." 

I put my hands under her buttocks, and her legs wound round me as I made my final thrusts, struggling under a primeval urge to impregnate her.

As I finished Carla was still experiencing the after shocks of her climax. She was murmuring, "Stay with me, stay with me."

I remained in her until I felt we had both come down from our mad coupling, then I pulled out and sank down beside her.

"You really are a big boy, aren't you Peter?" She said softly. "We really must do this very often."

I knew to what she referred when she said, "big boy", having had girls make similar remarks about the size of my organ. As to doing it "often", I had no problems about that. "As often as you like," I replied.

I was totally infatuated with Carla. I persuaded myself I was deeply in love with her, and as the following weeks passed, I was either making love with her, or thinking about making love with her.

I spent most of my free time in her flat, and was able to do what I could not have done that first night, and take in my surroundings.

It was a rather stuffy little place, and there were paintings everywhere. They stood against walls, in cupboards and drawers.

Knowing little about such matters, I did come to the conclusion that they were not very good paintings. In quality they seemed to stand somewhere between popular paintings for people who like "a tree to look like a tree", and some avant-garde school of painting.

Since Carla was trying to make her living by painting, the fact that so many works littered her flat suggested that it was not a very good living.

The room in which she worked was nothing like the sort of artist's studios I had imagined. It was a rather small, littered room, with a single window of no great proportions.

I endevoured to make conversation with Carla about her work, and she said something like, "I want to do 'experiential' work, but I haven't been able to come to terms with it yet."

Showing my ignorance I asked, "What is experiential work?"

"It's a new school of painting that says all works of art arise out of the artists life experience, and all that does not come from the artists experience is garbage. It's called 'The Experiential School'."

I had always thought that all art was the outcome of an artist's life experience, but decided not to pursue the matter further.

Our lovemaking grew hotter as we began to discover each other, or perhaps I should say, "experienced" each other, and what we liked. In fact, Carla liked just about anything sexually speaking that a man and a woman can devise. Practically her slave devotee, anything she wanted me to do, I did.

We had been lovers for almost two months and I was still enthralled with Carla, when she made her grand announcement.

It was after we had finished one of our ardent couplings, and she said, "Darling, I hope you don't mind, but I'm pregnant."

I should have had no reason to be surprised except that I had vaguely assumed that Carla was on the pill. I had actually seen what I took to be a packet of contraceptive pills in the bathroom one day, but I could have been wrong.

I asked her what she wanted to do. I was not averse to Carla having a baby I had put into her, indeed, I could not think of any woman I would rather make pregnant, but it was her body.

"Darling," she said rather resolutely, "I shall have the baby of course. It is our love that has put it there. I shall of course understand if you don't wish to be part of…"

I cut in; "Of course I bloody well want to be part of it. Children need a proper father."

"Does that mean you'll consider marrying me, Peter?"

"Not only will I consider it, I'll damn well do it."

"That's lovely, Peter. I shall enjoy being married to you."

Neither my flat nor Carla's were suitable for a married couple so, as we decided on an early marriage, hasty measures were taken to secure quarters that were more suitable. It was Carla who found what she said was suitable place.

The flat she found was in a block of apartments overlooking the river, with large windows, three bedrooms, and a well-lit room for Carla to work in, plus the usual offices. It also came with a rent that nearly brought me to my knees.

I tried to point out to Carla that as a draftsman I was quite well paid, but my salary would be stretched to the limit to pay for the flat.

"Darling," she said coaxing, "When we move in here I shall be able to do such work…You'll see…I shall start to sell my work, so don't worry. You wouldn't want our little baby to live in some pokey old hole, would you?"

We took the flat.

Our wedding was a strange affair. I had my mother, other relatives and friends attend, but Carla seemed to have no relatives. When I asked about parents she said they were dead, and all her relatives lived too far away to be invited. This seemed odd since she had gone to school with my colleague's wife – the one who's wedding I had attended and where I had met Carla. I did not pursue the matter.

I had not met any of Carla's friends during the time I had known her, but several were invited and turned up at the wedding.

They seemed to me to be a rather strange lot, and appeared to treat the wedding as some sort of joke, and especially me. On being introduced they were perfunctory in the comments to me, and virtually turned away to address all their somewhat facetious remarks to Carla. They made no attempt to mingle with anyone other than their own group, and put a bit of a damper on the occasion.

It was a week after we were married, and two months after Carla had announced her pregnancy, that one morning she said almost casually, "I'm afraid it was a false alarm, darling. I hope you're not too disappointed."

I was very disappointed, but strove not to show it. I was still totally enslaved by Carla, and continued to wonder how I had gained such a beautiful wife.

It was after her announcing she was not pregnant, things seemed to change between us. We still made love but not as often as we had, but during the act Carla's involvement became different.

I found it difficult to identify what the difference was, but it was a sort of remoteness. As we coupled, I felt as if she was somehow outside what we were doing, observing. 

I have often heard people say that when they are "fucking" they have to fantasise that they are doing it with someone else in order to come to orgasm. I began to wonder if that was what Carla was doing, but somehow it seemed different to that.

I tried gently to raise the subject with Carla, but she turned my question around saying, "Are you getting tired of me already, darling."

I decided I was imagining it, but still felt uneasy.

There were a couple of other sources of unease. Carla took to going out in the evenings and not returning till the early hours of the morning. Again I tried carefully to ask about this, and got a reply something like; "I must keep in touch with other artists, darling. We meet to discuss our work."

I noted that any meetings and discussions that were taking place did not occur in our flat.

The other unease was Carla's paintings. She didn't seem to sell any more than before we got married, if anything, she sold less, and her work seemed to be getting more obscure and grotesque.

I suggested that I go with Carla to some of the discussions, but she always put me off saying, "It would be such a bore for you, darling." Then about nine months into our marriage, this changed.

"Darling," she said one day, "How would you like to come with me to the opening of and exhibition of Experiential Art?"

Not having had any such invitation from her before along these lines, I agreed to go with her.

The opening was by invitation only. It was held in a grim looking old mansion that had somehow escaped demolition as the rest of the area had been redeveloped. 

Those present were mainly artists, some of whom had works on display. If I thought Carla's work grotesque, it was mild compared to what I saw at this exhibition.

Carla seemed to be in a highly emotional, even agitated state. People came to greet her with "Dears", "Darlings" and insincere kisses, while they ignored me.

At one point a youngish man whom she referred to as "Jeremy darling," greeted Carla and this time the kiss looked less insincere and more prolonged.

Carla turned to me, her face flushed, and said, "Peter, why don't you get yourself a drink and sit down for a while, Jeremy and I have something to discuss that will bore you to tears."

I obediently and foolishly obeyed. I got my drink and sat opposite a painting that I endevoured to untangle. It seemed to be a picture of a woman giving birth to a crocodile while a troop of monkeys looked on.

A young woman came to sit beside me. She was totally in black. Her hair was dyed black; every item of clothing was black. Her eyes had black shadow, her lips black lipstick. Her black toenails complimented her black painted fingernails. and every finger and toe was adorned with a black ring. Black beads, bracelets, ear and nose rings completed the ensemble.

She stared rapturously at the painting. When she opened her mouth to speak I anticipated black teeth. I was disappointed.

"Isn't absolutely fabulous," she sighed ecstatically. "The artist has captured so vitally the oppression of women in our patriarchal society. No man could possibly have painted that."

I stood and went closer to the painting. The artist's name was in the corner and it read, "Arthur Stiggles". "Strange name for a woman," I thought, as I returned to the seat. I said nothing to my sable companion.

She prattled on not expecting any response from me, and simply enjoying the sound of her own voice and what she no doubt thought her own cleverness.

Half an hour must have passed, and I began to wonder about Carla. Excusing myself to the girl, I left her still talking, this time to no one, and went in search of Carla.

I did not find her in any of the rooms, but as I passed through the massive hallway I saw her at some distance with Jeremy and two other men going out through the front door.

This exit seemed rather strange, so I walked in pursuit of them. I got to the front door to see Carla climbing into the back of closed van with one man, and Jeremy and the other man in the front seat.

The engine was running so I quickened my pace and called "Hey, what's going on."

A grinning Jeremy struck his head out of the open window of the van, and as the vehicle began to move, he called out, "Don't worry, we're just looking after little wifey for you. Don't go away, be back soon."

I tried to run after the van, but it picked up speed and disappeared down the drive.

I was confused and frustrated. Carla had not seemed to be under any coercion getting into the van, in fact she had been laughing, and I felt sure she had actually seen me but had pretended not to.

I sat on the stone steps that led up to the front door, thinking perhaps Jeremy had meant it when he said, be back soon."

An hour passed and it was approaching midnight. People were beginning to drift away from the exhibition, many of them drunk.

I went inside and started to make inquiries about Jeremy. I wanted to know who he was and where he might have gone with Carla. Most seemed to know him, but only raised their eyebrows and said inane things like, "Hmm, darling, Carla must be having as good time."

As I went around asking my questions I came upon one couple copulating in a passage standing up, the woman against the wall. I opened a door to find two couples having sex on the floor.

There seemed to be no one who was willing or able to help. I went back to the steps and sat waiting, not knowing what to do.

The last of the people left, and a man who looked as if he was an official of some sort came out.

"I'm locking up now," he growled.

I replied, "Humph."

"You gonna wait here all night?"

"I'm waiting for my wife, she's gone off somewhere."

It was his turn to humph. He went off and I heard a car start, and he drove past me going down the drive.

I was beginning to panic. I thought I might go to the police, but what could I tell them. "My wife has gone off quite happily with three men in a van"? They would laugh at me.

It must have been about three thirty in the morning when I saw the van's headlights swing into the drive, focusing on me at it approached.

I stood up and went to meet it, and it pulled up in front of me. 

Jeremy, clad only in his jeans, stepped out.

"Where the hell have you been, and where's Carla?"

"Don't get your knickers in a knot, Peter darling, she's very happy," he sneered.

The backdoor of the van swung open and the other two men got out. Like Jeremy, they too wore only jeans.

"Where's Carla," I asked again in a fury."

"Calm down, sweetheart," Jeremy said derisively. "She's nice and comfortable in the back, go and see."

I walked to the open back door of the van and looked in. The sight that met my eyes stunned me.

In the overhead light of the van I saw items of male and female clothing scattered across the floor. Carla, naked, was partially propped up against the back of the seat, her eyes half closed and mouth hanging open slightly. 


Life & Art



Her legs were open and drawn up almost as if she were frozen in that position.

The shock was such that I could not speak, but I entered the back of the van and moved towards Carla. Suddenly I stopped. She stared at me glassily, saying nothing. Over her face and hair I saw a white creamy substance, some of it already caked dry. More of the substance was drying between her breasts, and as I looked down I saw the same substance oozing out of her vagina, and from what I could see, also from her anus.

Her body was covered from neck to thighs with savage bite marks rapidly turning into vicious bruises, and her breasts were badly marked and her nipples were raw.

I turned savagely on Jeremy. "What the hell have you done to Carla, you bastards."

I swung a punch at him and felt myself grabbed by the arms by the other two men.

"Dear oh dear, we mustn't get violent, sweetheart," he sniggered. You're a big strong boy, but there are three of us and one of you and it's no use going screaming to the cops about rape, because we've only done what she asked us to do to her. You can ask her yourself." 

"My God, darling, you're lucky lad to have her to fuck. We only get her occasionally. Though why she got herself married to a bloody office boy I don't know. Now you ask Carla whether she's had a good time or not."

Still held by the two men, I called out to Carla, "Did you want the…did you ask them to do this to you?"

She seemed to have difficulty speaking, as if her tongue was thickened, but finally came out with, "Of course I did, stupid."

As she said this, more of the creamy substance came dribbling out of her mouth. Sperm, of course.

"There you are Peter, darling, Jeremy said, "Now, we are going to let you go, but don't try anything or you'll be the one who gets hurt."

I was released, and he went on, "Now be a good boy and take little wifey home. She's feeling a bit tired, so don't try to fuck her tonight. She's already been fucked about nine or ten times."

I felt utterly helpless, and as much as I wanted to kill Jeremy, I saw my chances were hopeless.

I got into the van and started to put some clothing on Carla. The three men stood watching, amused. Carla winced and moaned as I touched her. There was the stench of stale sex about her as if it were seeping from every pore of her body, and her breath was foul. Here hair, matted with sperm, hung down like ragged rat's tails.

My goddess not only had feet of clay, she smelt as if she had a body made of decaying garbage.

"Hurry up and get the cow out of the van," Jeremy snarled, "I can't wait all night."

I managed to get Carla moving and standing on her feet behind the van. I turned to Jeremy.

"One day, bastard, I'll meet you when you haven't got your boyfriends with you."

"Don't count on it, sweetie," he jeered.

Every step was agony for Carla, so I sat her on the steps and went to get the car. As I walked away, I heard the van start and drive off. 

I got my car, drove to where I had left Carla, and put her onto the back seat. Even if she could have managed to sit in the front seat, I now had such a sense of repugnance I didn't want her near me.

I got her home and half dragged her into the shower. She seemed incapable of helping herself, so I had to wash her, removing other men's sperm from my wife's body. Drying her as gently as I could, I got her into bed, fetched her a drink and aspirin, and sat by the bed until she fell into a noisy restless sleep.

I left her and as is so often the case in the face of a shocking event, reaction started to set in. I was shaking all over, and only just made it in time to the bathroom to vomit. I vomited so hard and long I thought I would bring my heart up. 

When I finally stopped being sick I showered as if I wanted the cleanse myself of some defilement. I went and lay on the bed in what we called our "second bedroom," but there as no chance of sleep. Not only the ghastly events of that evening, but the realisation that things had been happening with Carla and other men, and it must have begun soon after we were married.

Humiliation and self-loathing accompanied a feeling of revulsion regarding Carla. I felt I should have tried to beat Jeremy to a pulp despite his two bullyboys, but what would have been the point. The deed or deeds had been done at Carla's behest, and I would have ended up a bloody mess, unable to help Carla and needing help myself.

At first light I got off the bed and went to the kitchen to make myself some strong coffee. Wondering if Carla was awake I went with a cup of coffee and looked into the bedroom. She was awake, propped up against the pillows in much the same way as she had been slumped against the back of the car seat, her eyes half closed as they had been then.

I stood beside the bed looking down at her. "I've brought you a cup of coffee."

She looked at me blearily, and said in a hoarse whisper, "So you're not going to be silly and make a fuss, are you?"

I made no response to her question and simply asked, "Why, Carla?"

She was obviously having difficulty speaking, and I conjectured that the men had thrust their penises so far down her throat, damage had been done.

She swallowed some of the coffee and winced as if in pain.

"Oh God," she rasped, "you are going to be difficult. If you must know, for the life experience."

"Experience!" I exclaimed.

"Full on, no boundaries, no hold's barred. Being fucked and physically abused, made to suffer. Bloody wonderful." 

She lapsed into silence for a moment, then she pushed back the bed covers, and exposed her weal and bruise battered body. Opening her legs she said, "Like to fuck me now darling? Just think, three other men have fucked me until I could hardly stand. Be exciting for you."

I emotionally and physically recoiled.

"No, the bloody little office boy doesn't want to 'experience', does he! Too fastidious. Bloody prig. No wonder I had to get my real fucks elsewhere. Only married you because I was hard up."

"You married me because you were pregnant."

"Oh God," she gave a painful gasping laugh, "you're so bloody naïve. I thought even you would be able to work that one out."

"You knew you weren't pregnant?"

" 'Course I knew I wasn't, stupid bastard." 

I felt my guts start to contract again wanting to vomit. I fled to the bathroom, but there was only coffee to bring up.

I washed my face and returned to the bedroom.

"Poor little boy can't stand a bit of reality, eh?" she sneered. 

I looked at her lying on the bed, legs still open. I saw the goddess now for what she was a squalid ugly idol. All that had made me desire her, I now saw for what it was, a delusion. What had always been there on the inside, but covered by the mask of physical beauty, was now on the surface and actually marring that beauty.

Perhaps if I had been a better man, some sort of saint, I might at that moment have had pity on her, but I was so caught up in my own misery, I had no pity to spare for her. For long afterwards I was to remember that my last act of love had been to take her a cup of coffee.

That morning I telephoned the office to say I was too sick to attend work. I packed what personal possession I could into the car, and telling Carla I would send for the rest later, I went to a motel and booked a room.

Throughout my preparations to leave, Carla kept a barrage of abuse interspersed with pleadings.

"Peter, darling, don't be so silly, you're just being old fashioned," would change to "How am I supposed to pay the rent for this fucking flat, you shit?" 

Her last words as I departed where, "You're a fucking slug that crawled out of a primordial swamp, you useless bastard. What woman will ever want an arsehole like you unless she's hard up like I was!"

The sting of those words was to stay with me for a long time.

There now began a time of inner torment for me. However much I tried to tell myself that Carla was mentally unbalanced, there lurked within me a feeling of inadequacy. I thought I had given all I could to Carla and our marriage, but it hadn't been enough. I felt as a heavyweight boxer must feel who has just landed his best punch, and his opponent simply shakes his head, and comes on for more.

Carla had said that I did not want to "experience," but she was wrong. I had experienced – experienced her, and the effect on me proved devastating.

I found myself to be sexually impotent, almost as if I had been emasculated. I was wary of every woman who came my way. I went to work and came home to sit in front of the television day after day. I wanted the minimum contact with people and women especially. I nursed my bitterness and pain as a child might hug a teddy bear.

I went on in this state for nearly two years. I filed for divorce, and Carla did not even bother to turn up for the hearing. In fact, I neither saw of heard anything of her.

One tiny glimmer of light came into my darkened world when a colleague, Steve, asked me to attend his thirtieth birthday party. My first inclination was to make some excuse not to go, but for whatever reason, he seemed so keen that I should go, I decided it would be churlish to refuse.

At the birthday celebration, I found myself in the midst of a happy family gathering. Along with the relatives were some other colleagues from work, neighbours and other friends.

The good cheer and laughter I found to be almost unbearable as it contrasted with my own inner state so markedly. I found my mind going back to the night of the art exhibition, with all its artificiality, "dear", "darling" and "sweetheart", mouthed so readily and meaning so little.

I tried to find corners in which I could remain unnoticed, yet felt an appalling loneliness. I looked with bitter envy at the husbands and wives, the sweethearts and the children. "If only…" I thought. If only what?

"Come and meet my baby sister," a voice behind me said.

I turned to see the smiling face of Steve, my host.

"Wendy keeps asking who the sad looking man is, so I thought she might as well meet you."

He led me into another room and up to what at first I thought to be a young girl, perhaps fifteen or sixteen. She was small – perhaps five feet one inch tall, and slender. She was talking to a couple, but turned as we approached. I had looked at her without any particular interest, but then the sight of her full faced was startling.

I have since then tried to find the phrase that would describe the impression she made on me, but everything I have come up with has seemed inadequate.

She was like a burst of sunlight on a gloomy day; a lovely flower; a maiden out of some medieval romance. Perhaps it will sound foolish, but I associated her with an experience I once had during a lunch time break at work. 

It was Springtime. It had been a bitter winter, and the dreariness had lingered on into Spring. I had had a rather depressing morning at work, with problem after problem arising. At lunchtime I took my sandwiches and went for a walk. I went up a lane that ran beside the building I worked in. There were the remains of an old hedgerow with hawthorn bushes. As I passed, I paid no particular attention to them. 

I finished my lunch and walked back. As I approached the bushes, they seemed to have burst into pink and white blossoms between my first passing and my return. Spring had come and I felt my spirits lift. 

A long forgotten verse from the bible came into my mind: "For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of singing is come, and the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land."

As my colleague said, "This is my sister, Wendy; Wendy, my work colleague, Peter, the words resounded in my head once more, "For, lo, the winter is past."

Wendy smiled and extending her hand said, "Hello Peter."

I felt her hand, warm and firm in mine.

I think for a moment, I must have stood gaping at her, taking in her features. I could see that she was older than the fifteen or sixteen I had taken her to be. "Probably nineteen or twenty," I decided. 

She had a heart shaped face with ash blonde hair cut short but obviously carefully styled. She had a slightly turned up nose and a bow shaped mouth. She looked at me with laughing blue eyes. Her figure was slim, with no signs of large breast development. 


I could not help but recall when I first saw and lusted for Carla, with her enticing garment barely concealing her large breasts. By contrast, Wendy was dressed modestly, as if seeking no salacious male attentions.

Wendy looked fresh and clean, and had nothing of the heavy sensual odour that Carla exuded. I felt no lust for her, but I did feel embraced by warmth.

I stammered some response to the introduction and hoped that it did not sound too inane. If it did, Wendy was equal to dealing with it. Excusing herself with the people she had been chatting with, she said, "Come and talk to me Peter, you seem to have been on your own all evening. Let's go into the garden."

She actually took me by the hand and led me out into the garden to a seat where we sat.

The conversation that ensued was nothing heavy or demanding. Wendy played no coquettish games. She asked about my work, were I lived, did I like music, had I seen any good films lately. 

God knows how I answered. Since I had been shut up in my world of grief for so long I had seen no films and taken no interest in music or anything else. 

As Wendy chatted on, I learned that she was studying to be a speech therapist, and since her graduation was only twelve months off, I had to revise her age upwards again. She had to be twenty-three or four. Wariness was still with me, but when after about an hour Wendy said, I really must go and talk to some of the other people now, to my amazement she added, "Since you haven't seen any films lately, how about coming with me to see one on Saturday?"

Instantly I recalled Carla's invitation to the ballet and its outcome. Yet looking at Wendy, she seemed so ingenuous, so…so artless in her invitation, I accepted. We made the necessary arrangements for me to pick her up, and she left me to attend to other guests.

I left the party soon after and made my way to the flat I now lived in a bewildered man. How had I come to accept Wendy's invitation, and why did she make it in the first place. 

Away from the influence of her eager friendliness, the light she had shed seemed to fade, and my defense mechanism came into action. No woman was going to dupe me ever again. I began to think of ways I might excuse myself for not going out with her on Saturday.

Next day, my birthday boy colleague, Steve, asked me how I'd got along with Wendy.

I said something like, "Very well."

He went on, "You know, although she's my sister, I must say she's about the nicest woman I know, short of Pauline (his wife). That's one of her troubles, you see. There's been plenty of blokes after her, but as soon as they try anything and won't take 'no' for an answer, she ends the relationship. She's going to make some lucky sod a wonderful wife one day, but she's so particular when it comes to men."

What he said did not seem to fit with the fact that Wendy had tried to date me within an hour of our first meeting. I made no comment except to agree that yes, "she will make someone a wonderful wife," and felt a bit of a hypocrite because my suspicions made me sceptical about her. 

My Saturday evening with Wendy produced no passionate hand clasping or kissing, and no invitation to take her to bed. Distrustful of what might seem to be maidenly virtue, I decided the lack of such an invitation could be put down to the fact that she still lived in her parent's home.

Never the less, for all its seeming lack of sexual ardour, I found myself once more bathed in the light and warmth of Wendy's presence. It may have been this, or merely the felt need to return the invitation, that led me to invite Wendy to go out with me the following day.

I offered her the choice of what we should do, and was dumbfounded when she said, "Could we go up to one of the mountain streams and do some fly-fishing?"

I explained to her that I had never been fly-fishing and therefore had no tackle. This was met with an offer to loan me some tackle and the reassurance that she would show me what to do. 

The fly-fishing expedition did not produce much in the way of fish. I caught none, but managed to entangle the line in bushes a number of times. Wendy caught one, but said it was too small, and threw it back. In the coming months, further such expeditions took place, and I did actually catch a few fish.

Wendy was caught up in her final years of studies, but we managed to go out together at least once a week. The goings out involved nothing overtly sexual. To what extent this was due to me, is hard to say. To put it bluntly, and using the standard jargon, I could no longer, "get it up." This had been the case since my departure from Carla.

On the other hand, Wendy made no sexual moves, unless holding hands could be classified as erotic advances. She simply appeared to like my company, and I, having started putting aside my early suspicions, found myself basking in the sunshine of her presence.

Not only was being with her very different from how it had been with Carla, it was different from any of the girls and women I had associated with. With them, sex entered into the relationship very quickly. 

I did wonder if had I been as potent as I once was whether I would have continued to date Wendy if there was no sex. That, I suppose, is a question I shall never be able to finally answer.

This low key, "Platonic" relationship, went on throughout the year up until Wendy passed her "Finals." She gained an excellent degree and was quickly snapped up by the Royal City Hospital.

The dating continued, and it included meals with her family, and taking Wendy to meet my mother whom lived in a country town.

"Much nicer than that Carla, you married," was mother's comment. "When are you thinking of getting married?"

"We're not, mother."

"More fool you, then," was her motherly summary of my failure, as she put it, to "Snap the girl up."

It was around eighteen months after our first meeting that Wendy became restless in my company. I thought it might be to do with her work as a speech therapist, but from what I could tell, she seemed to be happy and well settled into what she was doing. She was well paid, and as we always shared the costs of going out, and she had more leisure time, we did a lot more going out.

If popular myths are to be believed, men are predatory creatures in search of sex with any female they can persuade into the act. For reasons I have given, I was not of that bent. I felt I had a lovely warm friendship with Wendy, but was to discover I was as mistaken about her as I had been about Carla. Fortunately, however, not in the same way as with Carla. 

The first intimation about the reality of Wendy's relationship with me came from her bother, Steve.

At lunchtime at work one day he laughingly said to me, "Do you know what Wendy said to me before I introduced the two of you?"

Curious, I asked, "What?"

"She was looking at you sitting all forlorn, and she said, 'He looks very sad, but I think I'd like to marry him'."

"Before she even met me?"

"Yes, odd isn't it, but that's Wendy for you."

Nothing further was said, but it gave me something to think about and inkling as to why Wendy seemed so restless.

After some late night anguishing over what might be going on in Wendy's mind, I knew I would need, in all fairness to her, say something. How I would broach the subject and what I would go on to say eluded me, however.

The moment came during one of our fishing expeditions. The trout were being recalcitrant, stubbornly refusing to swallow our flies. We had given up casting and were sitting on the bank of the stream. I spoke out, not boldly, but at least I spoke.




Life & Art



"Wendy, we've been going out together for almost two years now."

"Yes, so we have."

"I've been thinking, you never seem to go out with anyone else, especially men."

"No. Is there a reason why I should?"

Well, no, but surely…"

"Do you want me to start going out with other men?"

"No, not really, but I thought you might be thinking…well…you might want…might be thinking…I mean…I know lots of girls don't seem to want to be bothered these days but..."

"Bothered about what, Peter?"

This was the crunch point. I felt as if I was walking on hot coals with bare feet.

"I thought you might want to get married, have babies…that sort of thing."

There was a long pause. Wendy seemed to digest what I had said. When she finally started to speak, it was slowly and with something like pain in her voice. 

"So you think I should start looking around for someone to marry and get pregnant with?"

"I didn't mean it quite like that, Wendy."

"Then tell me how you did mean it." 

The pain was clearly there now, and I thought I saw tears glistening in her eyes. I had taken the plunge, and however brutal it might seem, I decided to finish it.

"Wendy, if you thought I might make a suitable father for your children…I can't…"

"Can't what?"

"Give you children."

"I see. You find me physically unattractive!"

"No, no. It isn't you, Wendy it's me, I promise you. Many men would like to…" I almost said, "Fuck you," but pulled myself up just in time. "There are plenty of men who'd love to…"

"Fuck me. Go on Peter, say it, you might as well. Lots of men would like to fuck me, but you're not one of them, right?"

"I swear to you Wendy, it's not like that."

"Then for God's sake tell me what it is like, Peter."

"It's not you or any other woman, it's me, I can't…can't get an erection."

"Why not?"

"I can't tell you."

"Peter, since the first moment I saw you, I knew there was something wrong. Steve told my about your divorce and how you suddenly changed from being bright and happy, and became depressed. Was it the divorce?"

I had never told Wendy anything about my life and marriage with Carla, and Wendy had never probed, any more than I had asked her about her sex life. All I knew in that respect was what Steve had alluded to, that there had been none through Wendy's own choice.

In the midst of emotional crises, with Wendy in a mixed state of tears, anger and hurt female pride, I was at a loss to know how to go on. I hovered on the edge of telling her the whole story. Wendy settled my dilemma for me.

"Peter, we've been friends for nearly two years. I thought we might have been more than friends. If I'm mistaken about that, then I'm sorry, but if you'd like to tell me just what happened to hurt you so deeply, I'm here for you."

I had told no one, not even my mother, the precise nature of my break up with Carla. Even if I had spoken, who would believe such a fantastic story? Yet now I felt there was someone I could tell – wanted to tell, if only to account for my pathetic inability to get an erection, even with a woman as sweet as Wendy.

Even so, the story I told was a modified account of what had really happened. Ridiculously perhaps, I felt as if to tell the worst details would somehow be to pollute the friendship I had with Wendy. More to the point, I did not want it to touch her decency. 

When I had finished, Wendy sat looking at me for a long time. Her anger had gone, her hurt pride mended, only the tears remained, but this time they were tears for me.

It was at that moment I saw just how much she did love me, but even more, I could see how her presence in my life had lifted me from endless depression and self-pity, into a worthwhile existence again. I felt shame at the coin with which I had repaid her, near rejection.

Wendy dried her eyes and looked at me steadily. Then in a firm voice she said, "There's nothing wrong with you physically Peter. It's an emotional or psychological problem. You gave yourself to that woman totally, and she cut your testicles off emotionally in the most horrible manner possible. Now, you only have to say you find me physically repugnant, that you have no love for me and never will have, and I'll not bother you again, only say it now, not in another week's or month's time, but now."

She would "never bother me again." Those words opened yet another black void for me. No Wendy in my life, no more of her laughter, no touch of her hand, never see her face again. Yet, as with the lust I had felt for Carla, the selfish desire to sate myself with her body, so in another form I was being selfish again. It was my desire to get and not to give. 

I said, "Wendy, I don't find you physically repugnant. I can't think of any man who would. I'd like to say I love you, but I'm too self-centred. If I say, I should be devastated if I never saw you again, then that is only to say I want you for my needs – to take and not give."

"Well, Peter, that's a start anyway. At least you give me something to work on. Let's take it a step further, shall we?"

"What do you mean?"

"Would you like to be daddy to my children?"

"You know I can't…I told you…"

"I know what you told me, and I think I know the cure for what ails you."

"What?"

"You knowing how much I love you and want you, you silly man. Now, do you want to be daddy or not?"

"You know I would if I could…"

"Don't let's start that business again, Peter. You really would wear down the patience of a saint. Now, putting aside all the ifs, buts, maybes and if I could, do you want me, yes or no?"

"Yes."

"Thank God that's settled. Now all we have to deal with is your little problem. One lady has already led you into marriage with a "false alarm" pregnancy, so I'm not going to do the same. I'm not on the pill, you're not likely to be carrying a condom, I'm a virgin and I shall insist on your taking my virtue in comfort and security. You know what that means?"

"Not until we're married?"

"Right. I know that you'll be taking a risk with me, and I may not be as well trained as Carla, but I'll bet I can get that manhood of yours standing up fairly quickly. You'll be fertilising me in no time."

We both burst out laughing, and or the first time we kissed, not passionately at first, but with growing ardour and, damn it, the woman had me stiffening for the first time in a couple of years.

"Blast you, woman," I chuckled, "do you know what you've done?"

"Yes, I can see. I think we'd better get married very soon, my love."

"I think so too, darling."

We kissed again.

We did get married soon, and by the time we had escaped from all the handshaking, kissing and backslapping of the reception, we were both dead tired. 

"Not tonight, darling, Wendy said."

We slept in each other's arms, and for the moment, it was enough. 

It was next morning after breakfast and showers that Wendy came to me. She was not clad like the traditional first time bride, in something lacy and see-through, but wore a rather heavy woolen dressing gown. 

I don't think I looked anything like the ardent groom either, in a sloppy T-shirt and jeans.

"Peter," she said very quietly, "come with me now."

She extended her hand to me, I took it, and we went into the bedroom. 

Her practicality showed as she laid a towel on the bed. We were stopping in a motel unit, and as Wendy pointed out, there was "Going to be some blood, and we can soak the towel afterwards."

With this unlikely preparation and our singularly unsexy clothes, she said to me, "Peter, would you take my dressing gown off, just so I can feel you've undressed me?"

I obliged willingly, and for the first time saw Wendy naked.

She stood there looking deceptively small and fragile. Her breasts were what might be described as medium sized, with small, pink nipples surrounded by darker pink circles. A little sliver of blonde pubic hair ran from her mound to just above her neatly defined cleft.

If I had any doubts left about my ability to get an erection, they were now dispelled. She looked as sweet and vulnerable as a child, and I was assailed with a mixture of desire for her and an equal desire not to hurt her.

I told her of my not wanting to hurt her, and she said, "It's part of the deal, darling, especially if you're going to be daddy. Now take me to bed."

I picked her up and laid her on the bed, and kissed her, gently touching her breast at the same time.

"Darling," she said, "I'm ready for you, I've been ready for along time. Take me now, but let me tell you when to…to…"

"I know my love, I'll be very careful."

I came over her and positioned the head of my penis against her vaginal entrance. I pushed carefully, and she suddenly gasped. I stopped and waited.

"Now, darling, only do it quickly."

I thrust in hard and felt her convulse, and she clung to me tightly as she gave a little scream. I stopped, not knowing whether to withdraw or stay with her.

Her hand started to stroke my chest and she said, "Don't leave me just yet. I want to feel you in me."

I lay unmoving within her experiencing feelings of tenderness that I had never known before in the sexual act. I was able at last to give full expression to the feeling that now welled up in me, my desire to tell her of my love and devotion, my passion for her. 

It was a first time for Wendy, but in another way, it was a first time for me as well. At other times, I had thought I was in love, but in fact, as far as love was concerned, I was an emotional virgin. Wendy had broken through to me, just as I had broken through her hymen. 

Still aroused and with an erection I withdrew from her, having deliberately not ejaculated lest my movements caused her more pain. There was blood already drying on my penis and the towel. I could see the traces of blood round Wendy's vulva and upper thighs. 

"Did I hurt you much, darling?" I asked.

"Not nearly as much as you would have if you hadn't broken through. I wanted to give you that so badly."

I picked her up in my arms. She was so light. I carried her to the bathroom and washed her blood away for her, then washed my still erect penis.

It was another two days before I entered her again and this time to both our satisfactions. 

Thus began our life of lovemaking. Even when we had explored each other, and I had encouraged Wendy in giving wider and deeper expression to her sexuality, our coupling always retained its element of tenderness. With Wendy it was a yielding and giving, with me it was the desire to make our coupling an expression of love rather than lust.

It might be kind of me to stop my tale right here, at the point of happy conclusion. To do so, however, would not tell the full story.

One Sunday morning five years after we had married, and two children had been, produced with another on the way, I was browsing through the newspaper. Scanning down a page my eye was caught by the name, "Carla Drovnik". I looked at the heading of the article, and found it was a critical review of an art exhibition. I read on.

The article made some general and not altogether complimentary comments about the exhibition, and then focused on three particular paintings, one of them being "Night Bang" by Carla Drovnik.

As far as I can recall, it said something like this. "Drovnik's work is perhaps the last gasp of the degenerate school of Experiential Art. A disciple of the founder of the school, Jeremy Higgs, who died recently of an undiagnosed ailment, Drovnik's work epitomises all that Higgs and his followers stood for, namely the gutter sweepings of the human subconscious." 

The writer had nothing further to say about Carla's work, and moved on to another artist.

I sat staring at the print but no longer seeing it, as memories of Carla and "that night" came flooding back. 

Fortunately Wendy came in at that moment and said, "Peter, Ben wants to go to the toilet, but I'm busy with Cathy, would you help him?

I departed to perform my paternal duties, and in the process Carla and the newspaper article got lost.

That might have been the last I ever heard of Carla, but for another odd twist in events.

Various organisations brought in publicity advertising concerts, shows, books and so on, to our offices at work. The material was usually left in a heap in our lunchroom, and one day about three years after I had seen the newspaper article, I was poking through the pile of adverts.

One leaflet was advertising an exhibition of "Fantastic Art of the Twentieth Century." A list of artists followed giving their names and the titles of their works. Again, I saw the name "Carla Drovnik – Night Bang."

Over the next few days, I was haunted by that advert, and knowing I had to finally lay a ghost to rest, I went to the exhibition.

I bought a catalogue, looked up Carla's name, and went to the room indicated. What glimpses I got of the other works suggested that "Grotesque," rather than "Fantastic," best described them.

I found Carla's painting and stood before it.

The central figure was a naked woman lying in the back of a van. Her body was purple with legs spread wide, and from her vagina protruded the head, not of a child, but a man she was giving birth to. The face was that of Jeremy and his mouth was twisted into a ghastly leer.

There was something strange about the woman's breasts and it took a few moments for me to see that they were not breasts. They were two huge penises standing erect where the breasts should have been. 

The woman was faceless except where mouth should have been there was another penis hanging loose and dripping green sperm, and writhing in it were small worm like creatures, presumably meant to be spermatozoa.

The woman's body was covered with blood red marks, and at some distance stood the shadowy figure of a man who, like the woman, was faceless.

Swirls of savage colours surrounded the central feature, the whole giving the impression of violent degeneracy.

I stood looking for a long time interpreting what I saw, and feeling the horror of that long ago night well up in me again.

A hoarse voice behind me said, "Hello, Peter."

I turned and saw a woman standing there. I almost asked, "Do I know you?"

Wisps of black hair were plastered over her scalp to try to hide the balding pate. The eyes were sunk back to almost appear only sockets. Cheeks were collapsed in like those of a toothless old woman, and there were hollows at the temples, giving a skeletal effect. Her body under her clothes seemed bent and skeleton like.

"Don't you know me, Peter?" She asked in her hoarse voice.

"Carla!"

"Don't ask me how I am, Peter, you can see plainly enough."

"You look very ill, Carla."

"I am very ill. Jeremy gave it to me,you know. Another few months after he died, they knew how to diagnose what was wrong with him. Unfortunately, they still don't know how to cure it."

"I'm so sorry, Carla."

"Are you, Peter. Are you sorry, or are you gloating?"

"No, I'm not gloating, Carla." 

I spoke the truth. I was recalling the woman who could have lured any man she wanted to her. I could still picture the beauty that had captivated me, and what I had thought had been my love for her. Looking at the ruin she had now become, I felt only pity for her.

"No Peter, I don't think you'd gloat," she said. "You might lust or hate, you might be bitter and angry, but it's not in you to gloat."

"Is there anything I can do for you, Carla?"

I saw tears flowing down her cheeks and wanted to touch her, to comfort her in some way, but she started to turn away.

She was about to move away from me when she turned back and said, "I could have had love, couldn't I Peter?"

My throat felt swollen and I couldn't get the words out. I nodded my head.

The skull that was her head nodded in return, and as a final word she whispered, "Live well, love much, and forgive me, Peter."

She moved away, going towards the door like a shuffling arthritic old woman.

Tears were running down my face.

Three months later, again during lunchtime at work, one of the other men came to me with a newspaper. He was a chap who always took a somewhat ghoulish interest in the death columns, and he said, "I say Pete, weren't you married to a Carla something or the other years ago?"

"Yes, Carla Drovnik."

"Look here, old chap, she's dead."

He pointed to a small piece in the death column. It was a simple statement of Carla's death. There were no words like "Dearly beloved daughter of," or even "Dear friend of." Only the bare words announcing her death, and the time and location of the funeral.

I went to the funeral. Apart from the funeral director, his staff and myself, there was no one else. 

There was no clergyman or anyone else to say something, so I said a silent prayer for her peace, then aloud, "Goodbye, Carla." I dropped a red rose on to the coffin. 

I turned away from the grave and went my way towards where I had found love and peace. 

I had hardly gone a few paces when I heard the first clump of earth being dropped on the coffin.

With the thump of that earth on wood, the ghost of the past was finally laid.