Stained Sheets

Chapter Two-3

When the plane landed and I disembarked, I ran for my father’s arms, letting the comfort of his embrace wipe the entire ordeal from my thoughts. When the long hug finally ended, he hung on and stared into my eyes, intent on ferreting out the truth. “Tell me, Marni, you can tell me the truth. What did they do to you?”

The general was standing off the side, listening, as I cautiously glanced his way and then looked back at my father and rattled off what I’d been told: “My captors were very kind to me, they treated me well.”

He searched my face, not believing what I said. “That’s true?”

“Yes. Yes that’s true. They treated me well.”

His look of relief was guarded, but I saw a faint glimmer of hope in his eyes. He wanted to believe me.

I made the rounds, through all the official channels and all the bureaucrats who had to hear my story for themselves, as if one of them might crack me and I’d tell a different tale. But I lived the lie the general made-up for me until I left the interrogations almost believing what I’d said.

After Morocco, I spent six months as celibate as a nun; not that I enforced it on myself exactly, it came naturally. I’d had enough s*x to last me quite a while and even the thought of it gave me the chills.

Then one night, I came home to the apartment my father provided me. I’d been partying in a bar with friends and was drunk and horny, so turned on, so swimming with lust, that on moving to the window and looking out, I began to sway in time to the heavy beat of music coming from two floors down. I began to play with myself, to run my hands over my body, inside my blouse, and along my belly into my crotch. With eyes blurring and dreamy, I looked across the street into the window of a neighbor’s apartment, where I saw a naked man roaming through the well-lit rooms. My arousal climbed, until my movements became frantic, and I finally raised my dress and pulled it up and over my head. I was as naked as my neighbor, there for him to see as I massaged my breasts and my fingers moved deeply into my crotch between my labia, against the hardened bud of my c******s, and then slipped into the velvety warmth of my v****a. I imagined the dark-haired stranger watching, his eyes glued to my sleazy exhibition.

Imagine my shock when, after having closed my eyes for several minutes, I opened them to see that man standing at his window, staring at me, his c**k in his hand, jacking off.

Adrenaline pumped through me, so that I tore at my body, hands again eagerly squeezing my breasts, and drawing them to my face. I licked them, while at the same time eyeing him across the street. I could feel the rhythm of the hand that worked his c**k, the rhythm of his c**k in me as if it were actually there lifting me off the ground.

I watched him too, seeing his features turn hard and darker still. I realized then, that his hair and beard looked remarkably like those of my captors in Morocco. My mind began to reel backwards in time, still drunk, still filled with drunken lusty thoughts. I felt my desire for the man in the window and all he represented to me billow free like an enormous wind. I began to come so hard that I had to hold on to the window frame with one hand while working my juicy snatch with the other. The s****l liquid poured out over my fingers and ran down my thighs. My eyes glazed over, while my thoughts took me back to the dark room with the lovers who abused and used me day and night. I cried in shame even as I whimpered in ecstasy. My voice rose into that seamy night. When I was finally finished and the last spasms of my climax were just a memory, I opened my eyes again on the night beyond my window and saw that the naked man was still there watching me.

He was no longer jacking off—he’d probably come just as I had. His hands rested on his window frame, while his eyes burned into me like lasers. My cheeks instantly flushed hot with embarrassment and my hand went to my throat. Suddenly, I feared for my life, and turning around, I slithered to the floor, my head below the windowsill, so he could no longer see me. I sat in the darkness, still drunk, still horny, but sure now that the lust spilling from my hungering body began not with the man in the window, but with those terrifying days of rape and abuse in that North African prison.

I faced myself that night, the truth, the awful s****l truth I worked so hard to forget. I could not deny that what happened in Morocco was as much my own savage desire as it was my greatest nightmare.

From that day on, the pent-up energy in me came out unrestrained. I went after men, pursuing their darkest fantasies while I pursued my own. I went stalking the feelings of arousal and debasement I’d felt in my hours bound and my hours used. With fierce determination, I took on the world of men to conquer them, in a way I could not conquer my Middle Eastern rapists. I took on the world of men so that they would finally conquer me—although that motive was something that took some time for me to realize.

I only began understanding the truth when I met Carlton five years later, six years after the incident that turned my life on end. It has been my hope that with my marriage, the desperate yearning would disappear.

I felt safe with Carlton. Perhaps his wealth was part of it, but I’m sure it was his temporal power as well that made me feel secure. He noticed my disabling fears right off, the night he tried to take me to a movie that was filmed in Morocco. I refused to go with such vehemence that he began to grill me on why.

“I can’t tell you!” I finally sobbed in his arms, which left him completely stunned. “I promised. I promised. No one knows.” I rattled on senselessly.

But my protests were as bad as baiting a bull and Carlton would not be deterred from his answer.

“What the hell is this about?” He pushed me away from him and shook me a little roughly to get my attention.

I stopped crying briefly and looked at his compassionate face, but that only made my tears return.

He had to slap me to make me sober up, and the shock of his hand against my cheek registered immediately. My eyes opened in amazement.

“You can tell me what this is about, Marni. I don’t care who the hell you promised otherwise.”

At that moment, Carlton’s order superseded all else, including the general’s stern imperative. My captors were very kind to me, they treated me well. The words reappeared in my mind to remind me that I was still bound by them. At last, I realized that after so many years had passed, those words had finally lost their power to provoke my ready obedience. I’d made a vow as a scared eighteen-year-old who’d just been brutally raped. I hadn’t wanted to talk about my captivity then and maybe the General’s edict had been my safety net. But this was a different time and place, and Carlton was my husband demanding of me answers I felt bound to give him.

“Years ago, it was years ago,” I haltingly began, only to stop as my fear seemed to grab me about the throat.

“Years ago what?” He gave me another shake.

“I-I… I was raped.” I’d never voiced that word and it sounded strange to hear myself say it.

He looked at me worriedly. “By whom?”

“By… uh…” this was more difficult… “some thugs kidnapped and raped me. I was held for two days. Something was worked out, a ransom was paid, and I was finally released.”

The expression on Carlton’s face was grim, as if he was ready to go after the thugs right then. I continued on saying with great emphasis, “But please, darling, you can’t say anything to anyone about this. You have to swear to me that you won’t.”

“Why not? Who would I say something to anyway?”

“Never. Never, this is my secret. Please you have to swear to me!”

“Okay, it’s your secret, Marni. Our secret now.” He held me close again. “No one’s ever going to do that to you again. You’re okay. You’re okay with me.” His hand caressed my arm lovingly. At last I’d shared the truth—at least as much of it as I was willing to confess. I don’t think I ever felt so protected as I did at that moment. I breathed in Carlton’s strength and my fears seemed to float away. This had been a huge relief to me, to finally admit the truth to someone who cared. I could have said more, but he didn’t ask. And, really, all he had to do was hold me to him and love me.

Carlton didn’t ask for any details; I think that he filled in the gaps in my story in his own way. In his mind, it helped to explain my promiscuity. I told him I was forever tainted by the incident, but he assured me otherwise. He knows I don’t believe him; that I cling to the stain like clothes cling to your skin on a humid day. I’m sure this is why he put up with my affairs and the soulless quickies with strangers. He forgave me of my indiscretions—at the very least, he was kind enough not to mention them to me. When we were first married they all but stopped. And even now, I try very hard to be good, to leave the other men alone and concentrate solely on Carlton. I was good for nearly a year…until my memories swarmed in around me and I was suddenly drowned in a s****l need I couldn’t satisfy with just one man. I can’t talk about this with anyone and I certainly can’t figure it out on my own.

Tonight, I feel a difference in my husband; like he knows I’ve fallen again. Like someone told him secrets about my secret affairs, all the ones I’ve tried to hide.