with you, or maybe you'll discover you don't want to be living with him. And then you'll break up and go on to something else. So what? That's all life is, coming together and splitting apart. What are you holding on to anyway?'
'I don't know,' she answered. 'I feel attached to him. I love him. We have a heavy sex thing between us.'
The young man lifted an eyebrow, the gesture making him appear cynical far beyond his years. 'I know that kind of sex trip,' he said. 'A lot of huffing and moaning, thrashing around, shouting "no", getting fucked up the arse and slapped in the face. It's very low-level, a dead end. Pretty soon you'll be using leather. It's because you aren't straight with each other and can't just fuck right out and dig it. It's just a lot of noise.'
Her lips tightened and her eyes narrowed. His dismissal of three years of intimacy with a few cold phrases infuriated her. 'How do you know that?' she said, her voice icy.
He crumbled a few pieces of hash into the bowl of the pipe. Without looking up at her he said, 'I listen outside your window, how do you think?' And before she could respond he glanced up and into her eyes and added, 'Several nights I've put a ladder against the building and climbed up to look at the two of you. And I know everything you do. I know what your face looks like when you're on your knees and getting rammed from behind, I know what you do with your mouth when he's sucking your cunt lips and can't see the expressions on your face, I know how you roll your hips when you're tired of fucking and are just trying to get him to come, I know that you don't always swallow his sperm.'
The room tilted crazily in front of Cynthia's eyes. His words had the effect of demolishing all the solid points of reference by which she manoeuvred through her perceptions of the world. In a stroke her privacy had been brutally invaded, its contents examined and evaluated, and the intruder had shown no more interest in having seen the most intimate aspects of her sexual and emotional being than he would in watching a passing cloud. She didn't know whether she hated him more for what he saw or for his refusal to be excited by it.
'You fucking faggot/ she said, not even aware that she was going to say those words.
From the next room came the opening strains of Bach's First Suite for Unaccompanied Cello, played by Casals, the resonant sound seeping through the walls. Conrad lit the pipe with elaborate slowness, holding the match over the deep brown chunks until they glowed, and then abruptly blew it out, and sucked the resulting white smoke deep into his lungs, holding it a long time, and exhaling with a soft explosive puff. He toked again, and held the pipe in front of him, offering it to Cynthia.
Resistant, on edge, she nonetheless brought her hand up and took the stem between her fingers, held it to her lips, and sucked a mouthful of the smoke. From the first taste of it she relaxed, and toked three times before sending the pipe back. She had smoked marijuana sporadically after being introduced to it at a party she attended with Aaron, and like most people under thirty accepted it as a staple, although minor, pleasure in life. But after smoking with Conrad, she began to develop a different orientation to the weed, using it as a tool for explorations into her psyche, allowing it to work its potent magic on her mind. It was through Conrad that she first tried hashish, and she rapidly became addicted to the sensation it produced. She entered into a battle with the entire army of inner prohibitions and outer regulations to have more of the drug. Mornings after a heavy smoking bout she would promise herself to use it no more, and like a Puritan after visiting a whorehouse, was filled with recriminations, wondering whether she was sliding down the path to ruin.
One night she had voiced her fears to Conrad, who brought her to a crisis by saying, 'Only you have the right to tell you what to do. Maybe you need to
'I don't know,' she answered. 'I feel attached to him. I love him. We have a heavy sex thing between us.'
The young man lifted an eyebrow, the gesture making him appear cynical far beyond his years. 'I know that kind of sex trip,' he said. 'A lot of huffing and moaning, thrashing around, shouting "no", getting fucked up the arse and slapped in the face. It's very low-level, a dead end. Pretty soon you'll be using leather. It's because you aren't straight with each other and can't just fuck right out and dig it. It's just a lot of noise.'
Her lips tightened and her eyes narrowed. His dismissal of three years of intimacy with a few cold phrases infuriated her. 'How do you know that?' she said, her voice icy.
He crumbled a few pieces of hash into the bowl of the pipe. Without looking up at her he said, 'I listen outside your window, how do you think?' And before she could respond he glanced up and into her eyes and added, 'Several nights I've put a ladder against the building and climbed up to look at the two of you. And I know everything you do. I know what your face looks like when you're on your knees and getting rammed from behind, I know what you do with your mouth when he's sucking your cunt lips and can't see the expressions on your face, I know how you roll your hips when you're tired of fucking and are just trying to get him to come, I know that you don't always swallow his sperm.'
The room tilted crazily in front of Cynthia's eyes. His words had the effect of demolishing all the solid points of reference by which she manoeuvred through her perceptions of the world. In a stroke her privacy had been brutally invaded, its contents examined and evaluated, and the intruder had shown no more interest in having seen the most intimate aspects of her sexual and emotional being than he would in watching a passing cloud. She didn't know whether she hated him more for what he saw or for his refusal to be excited by it.
'You fucking faggot/ she said, not even aware that she was going to say those words.
From the next room came the opening strains of Bach's First Suite for Unaccompanied Cello, played by Casals, the resonant sound seeping through the walls. Conrad lit the pipe with elaborate slowness, holding the match over the deep brown chunks until they glowed, and then abruptly blew it out, and sucked the resulting white smoke deep into his lungs, holding it a long time, and exhaling with a soft explosive puff. He toked again, and held the pipe in front of him, offering it to Cynthia.
Resistant, on edge, she nonetheless brought her hand up and took the stem between her fingers, held it to her lips, and sucked a mouthful of the smoke. From the first taste of it she relaxed, and toked three times before sending the pipe back. She had smoked marijuana sporadically after being introduced to it at a party she attended with Aaron, and like most people under thirty accepted it as a staple, although minor, pleasure in life. But after smoking with Conrad, she began to develop a different orientation to the weed, using it as a tool for explorations into her psyche, allowing it to work its potent magic on her mind. It was through Conrad that she first tried hashish, and she rapidly became addicted to the sensation it produced. She entered into a battle with the entire army of inner prohibitions and outer regulations to have more of the drug. Mornings after a heavy smoking bout she would promise herself to use it no more, and like a Puritan after visiting a whorehouse, was filled with recriminations, wondering whether she was sliding down the path to ruin.
One night she had voiced her fears to Conrad, who brought her to a crisis by saying, 'Only you have the right to tell you what to do. Maybe you need to
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