Nocturnes and Other Nocturnes (8 page)
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Authors: Claude Lalumière
The Secret Seduction
of the Subtle Serpent
You are lying, relaxed, on a thick rug. Your legs are stretched out. Your bare feet enjoy the heat of the open fireplace. You are sipping an aromatic tea, whose flavour is exotic and unfamiliar, but soothing and enchanting. You swirl the hot liquid in your mouth before swallowing it. You look up and consider your host.
The Subtle Serpent is coiled around a ridged treelike piece of furniture, his weight distributed on many of its branches. His mute servant slips a pungent bowl under the Serpent’s barely noticeable flat nose, causing a wave to ripple gently through his entire body.
Despite his name, the Subtle Serpent is not truly a snake, not quite. His scaly, coiling body measures roughly two metres from head to tail. His only limbs are two short, undigited arms that slither constantly. His head bulges into a sphere, ringed by a narrow black mask resting on his tiny ears, with slits cut out for the eyes.
The Serpent closes his eyes, inhales deeply from the pungent bowl. He holds his breath. He is visibly concentrating, keeping his body from rippling in the wake of the inhalation. He repeats this several times, in a slow, ritualized manner. Eventually, the Serpent can no longer hold the waves back and his body thrashes ecstatically for two or three minutes.
When the Serpent’s thrashing subsides, the mute servant retreats to the corner from which he watches the room, attentive to the needs of its occupants.
Suddenly, the Serpent’s voice booms out loudly, its rumbling tone and timbre at odds with his sinewy body. His eyes remain closed, and he starts recounting his tale, as if in a trance.
“The Subtle Serpent was an alluring, passionate, suave young snake. He discarded lovers like so much dead skin. He saw lovers not as prey, as the casual observer might have concluded, but as works of art, to be savoured to the fullest until every drop of meaning, every shade of emotion had been experienced. But afterward, once the final page of the affair was turned ... to be shelved away, like a book. Not out of disdain or boredom, but because one was done with it. Afterward, it could still be loved in memory, perhaps occasionally fondled if its spine should strike the eye from the bookshelf, but rarely to reopen its pages and abandon oneself again to its pleasures. There were so many other books to savour. So it was with past lovers: an occasional fondling was pleasurable, but to share once more in sexual communion distracted from the quest to explore fresh new bodies. The young Serpent worked for the diplomatic corps. He welcomed diplomats with his curious, eager body. He revelled in experiencing the sexual rituals of alien bodies. His xenophilia extended beyond his professional and sexual interests. His life was xenophilic. His sexual success could be attributed to his passionate interest in everything alien – not only alien to his species, but alien to himself in any way. His sexual conquests included not only aliens, but many members of his own species. His unfeigned, intelligent, absolute curiosity was an irresistible aphrodisiac. He studied alien art and literature with erotic zeal, learning as many languages as possible. His life was an infinite cornucopia of pleasure. Art, parties, sex, people ... All at his disposal, to be cherished and loved. One diplomat captured his love like no other before him. Their affair started like many others, the Serpent inviting the foreign envoy to an intimate meal, showering his attentions on the new object of his erotic desires, asking careful questions to indicate his interest, the conversation turning toward his guest’s native sexual customs, sexual experience, and – eventually – sexual curiosity. Even during their first coupling the Serpent felt something new. The alien’s sexual curiosity seemed as intense as his own. Thus, the seed of tenderness was planted within him. The two lovers met whenever possible, their mutually alien bodies learning to please each other more and more intensely. The Subtle Serpent was hopelessly in love. Slowly, insidiously, the character of their relationship shifted. Smitten as he was, the Serpent was oblivious to this change. The alien was taking control of their sexual encounters, casually but certainly dominating his lover, the young Subtle Serpent. Eventually – the Serpent never knowing when the boundary had been crossed – their sexual communion was transformed into sessions of ritualized, eroticized abuse from which he emerged with his identity severely wounded, but to which he grew emotionally addicted – an addiction that fuelled his growing sense of self-disgust. Inevitably, his work suffered. He was no longer the genial, suave diplomat his department had learned to depend on. His self-involvement caused him to blunder too often, sometimes nearly resulting in serious diplomatic incidents. He was ordered to leave his post after many warnings failed to elicit any change for the better in his professional performance. His affair with the alien had destroyed the career that he had cherished so much, that had brought him pleasure upon pleasure. Characteristically, he blamed only himself. He went to his lover, in shame and desperation – hoping to find comfort and love. The alien refused to see him and promptly complained to the proper authorities that he was being harassed by a bothersome native. Further humiliation ensued when he was publicly reprimanded for this diplomatic offense. Irrationally, he still yearned for his lover’s sexual abuse, his mutilated mind interpreting the attention as affection. He eventually left his homeworld in disgrace, neglecting to inform anyone of his departure. Over the years, he had amassed considerable wealth – his generous salary supplemented with gifts from grateful, wealthy lovers. He established himself on Earth, where he has since lived as a recluse, in comfort and shame, a shallow echo of his former self.”
Eyes still shut, the Serpent takes several deep breaths, announcing the end of his narrative. The mute servant once again raises the pungent bowl to the Serpent’s face. The Serpent gently breathes in the aroma and, after a subtle wave ripples through him, he opens his eyes and stares calmly at you.
Neither of you speaks for several minutes. The Serpent’s tale has left you filled with revulsion for your host.
You watch as the Serpent, with the help of his servant, disentangles himself from his perch. He approaches you, but stays out of reach.
You are disgusted to notice that you yearn to touch him. The Serpent stands upright, supported only by his tail. In silence, he stares at you. Your disgust turns upon itself, upon you. You are no longer disgusted by your desire, but rather by your reaction to it and by your lack of compassion.
Slowly, the Subtle Serpent sheds his old skin. You avert your gaze, turn toward the fireplace.
Is it the fire that colours your cheeks?
Someone to Watch
VIOLENCE
The three friends are beating a man to death. Frank Loban is one of the three young men doing the beating. For what it’s worth, the other two are Steve Karn and Miller Archack. We never find out the name of the man being killed.
The man is not quite six feet tall. His longish ash-blond hair is thinning. There’s not much fat on him, but he gives an impression of health, not hunger. He is clean-shaven and elegantly dressed, although not expensively.
When they first spotted the man, the trio thought he looked weak, an easy victim. In silent agreement, the three friends – aroused by the prospect of violence – walked up to the man. They held out their knives and pushed him into an alley.
Give us your watch. Give us your wallet. We’ll cut you up.
I have no watch. I have no wallet. Do what you will.
And then they felt his unexpected strength. The air was charged with its intensity. They were too cowardly to back down once their threats had been issued. They were scared, not only of this unsettling victim but also of the violence that now seemed inevitable. They were all three experiencing the same emotions, each of them thinking of himself as the only one, the only coward.
If pressed the young men couldn’t have identified the unpleasant writhing of emotions within them. They would have savagely denied the existence of any such feelings.
The man refused to empty his pockets. He held out his wrists. See, I have no watch. I have nothing to give but myself.
Each passing moment made the trio increasingly nervous. Each assailant’s fear was increased by the anxiety of having his cowardice found out by the other two.
Stop fucking with us. We want your money.
The three frightened assailants were struggling not to piss themselves. Miller broke the tension by suddenly kicking the man in the crotch. They all dropped their knives and started pummelling the man with their fists. He fell to the ground, amid the discarded pizza boxes, broken beer bottles, dog turds, and torn garbage bags.
Bastard. Bastard. Don’t fuck with us bastard. You bastard. Fuck. Bastard.
The three friends kick the fallen man, stomp on him.
At no point does the man offer any resistance.
Eventually, the violence peters out. The three assailants are breathing hard, exhausted by their physical outburst.
The man is still alive, barely. His clothes are torn and his flesh ripped. He is bruised and bleeding. His breathing is jagged and wheezy. He breaks the morbid silence by saying: “I could have hit you and killed you.”
Steve grabs the man’s head by the hair, yells, “You fuck!” and smashes the man’s head against the ground. More blood gushes from his skull, and he dies.
FEAR
Frank whispers: “Holy shit, Steve, you killed him. He’s dead. He’s dead. Look at him. He’s—”
Frank realizes that he has soiled himself. Wet shit sticks uncomfortably to his buttocks, the fresh piss on his jeans stings the skin of his thighs.
How did it come to this? The man seemed like such an easy mark, a quick way to get a few bucks, a few thrills. It was supposed to have been fun.
He looks around. Steve is trying to wipe the gore from his clothes, oblivious to anyone. Miller is jittery, jumping up and down, his head snapping back and forth in every direction.
Frank cannot remember ever having felt fear this intensely. Tonight, terror has seeped into him, leaving a cold wet trail on his bones.
FASCINATION
Steve clutches Frank’s shoulder with a bloody hand. “We have to get away from here before someone sees us.”
Miller is shouting, “Steve’s right! Frank! Let’s go!”
Steve and Miller run off. Perhaps they assume that Frank is running with them; or perhaps they notice that he isn’t, but their fear of getting caught is stronger than any bond they might share with their fellow assailant.
Try as he might, Frank can’t move. The corpse holds his stare and his unwilling fascination. He is disgusted by what has happened. He had never imagined that his violent escapades would distress him in any way. He wants to leave and forget tonight, forget Steve and Miller, forget himself. He surprises himself by thinking that this is not who he wants to be: someone who could be in any way responsible for this act, the stealing of someone’s life. Something is keeping him here. He finds himself observing every detail of the lifeless body: the angle of the limbs, the state of the clothes, the number of wounds, the expression of the smashed-in, blood-smeared face—
Unexpectedly, the corpse jerks and in one jump it is standing face-to- face with Frank, its wounds healing rapidly. The resurrected man grins mischievously.
ALL IN A NIGHT’S WORK
The resurrected man leans forward, his nose almost rubbing Frank’s. He stares deeply into Frank’s eyes. With both hands, he violently grabs the hair on the back of Frank’s head, nearly ripping it from its scalp. His grin relaxes into a smile, and his mouth closes on Frank’s. His smooth tongue caresses Frank’s teeth, gums, tongue, palate, the inside of his cheeks. He bites down hard on Frank’s lower lip, stopping short of tearing the flesh, and releases him with a final, loud smack on the lips.
Frank snaps out of his trance, stares at his erstwhile victim, and calmly mumbles: “Thank you.” He doesn’t know exactly why those words find their way to his mouth, but, also, he can’t deny the depth of his gratitude. Panic suddenly overwhelms him, and he runs away, as fast as he can.
The man whose name we never learn laughs heartily, satisfied.
The Four Elements: Water (Scars)
He closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath. A melancholy smile spreads across his face.
I love to look at him: his square jaw, his dimpled chin, his thick eyebrows, his mane of golden hair.
He’s smelling the sea. They say smell is the sense most strongly linked to memory. A lifetime ago, the sea was his.
I touch his face. My lips brush his lips, and then his ear. “Watch me. And wait for me.”
Basking in his gaze, I take off my shirt, slip out of my shorts and underwear.
I walk toward the waves and plunge into the ocean.
When I emerge, my fists are carrying seaweed.
Rejoining him, I hand over the seaweed, and then I lie on the sand. On my back, my legs spread.
He decorates my body with the strips of seaweed.
He removes his clothes. His cock is huge and dripping. For me.
I moan.
He rubs the seaweed into my wet skin: my face, my neck, my arms, my breasts, my stomach, my legs, my toes. He runs his face against my naked body. I hear him breathe me in, smelling the ocean on me.
I’m so eager for him.
One last strip of seaweed he brushes against my cunt.
He buries his face between my legs, pushes open my labia with his tongue. He takes a deep breath of my smells mingled with the sea’s, and then releases his hot breath over my clit.
I gasp.
He moves up to kiss me. As his salty tongue finds mine, his cock spears me.
He nuzzles my neck, sniffing furiously. His thrusts are strong, savage. I come, pulling at his hair.
After his orgasm, I tenderly kiss the scars on his neck, the remnants of his gills.
