IMPACT;


A FAR FETCHED FANTASY



God is a three-letter verb. An ultra-faceted figment. The all-pervasive arbiter. A ghost lost in the labyrinths of lonely lives.
John Irvine’s wife had “run off” with his best friend. We watched him slide from anger and disbelief into anger, boredom and isolation and I sensed his yearning for domesticity and companionship but to acknowledge it or act upon the spontaneous feelings which friendship engendered seemed to invite an intrusion into my own family life. I remembered my husband’s attitude the first time he came home and saw John and me in the kitchen. It was though it was a bedroom!


Between suspicious boyfriends, gossiping girlfriends, and disapproving Mums, John didn’t stand a chance. The best I could do was to keep telling him to cheer up, 
“Put the past behind you John. Start life anew." I kept telling him. "Things’ll cool down with Jenny. You’ll see the kids, but for the time being just lighten up and take a fresh look at the world. Dave’s birthday's on Friday and we’re having a party. My sister's just moved up from Melbourne and I know you two will hit it off immediately. As long as you promise to just enjoy yourself and let things happen.”


It turned out to be just another boring party, for John. The sister hadn't shown. He was drinking too fast and started getting angry with a pair of dikey jokers, “Hey, what’s the difference between a man and a dildo?” one of them asked. An embarrassed silence followed as fuzzy minds looked for unlikely answers. “A dildo can’t take out the garbage!” she answered herself with gusto. There were plenty of laughs but not from John. “Hey, what is the difference between a man and a toilet?” the uglier one asked a small amphitheater of blank looks. “A toilet doesn’t follow you around after you’ve finished using it!”  
Plenty of laughter, but not from John. Instead he left, full of inverted energy, sublimated sex, and repressed rage.
It was good to be alone in the car. He was speeding but there wasn’t any traffic so he didn’t really care. 
“Life’s a bitch and then you die”, thought Johnny. “Funny 'bout that! But some people manage to have everything. Just think of those couples who lived and died together on the frontier.” John pondered.


So, John was driving and sort of dreaming, while heading north, just cresting the Gladesville bridge, was “the sister” who hadn’t turned-up because she’d been entertaining who she thought was the right person to get her foot onto the next rung of the corporate ladder.
She was a whore to Mammon, no qualms, yet the worst of it was, after a mediocre dinner and too much wine she’d let him shift her to his place where no more than some uncommitted flimflam came from the dickhead before he’d ejaculated prematurely and fallen asleep on top of her.
Lying there beneath the sweaty deadweight of her snoring ‘partner’ with suit pants around his ankles, she heard the angry voice within her rejoin the voice of history’s embittered women as she extricated herself and went downstairs to find her car.
She’d left with her pants stuffed into her handbag, and began to masturbate roughly as she sped along the river road feeling resentful, bitter, and disappointed with herself, him, and the world in general. She thirsted for power and control, and it seemed long overdue, but her life was full of paradoxes because quite often her greed was what compromised her, and despite the fact that she’d become more at ease picking up the tab, even if it sometimes turned out to be an unrewarded attempt at ingratiation, she still preferred to hold images of herself as a slave girl being anally raped, experiencing the excited thrust of the penis as an attack on her propriety.
In her fantasies she was most often overpowered and submissive but as she drove fast with her hand between her legs she felt the desire to be powerful and sadistic so she imagined herself holding a knife to a man’s throat before tying him and treating him as a faceless sex object who could force her into the forbidden sex she desired, leaving her the blameless victim.
Years ago her priest had told her that she was not responsible for her dreams so she pinched and rubbed her clitoris as she let roll her favorite gang-rape fantasy, before deciding that what she really needed was to control the fate of slaves and hurt them so badly they prayed for death, knowing that she could deny responsibility for whatever acts of cruelty she imagined committing because, after all, it was only fantasy.
Men must be her dolls that she could punish, as sometimes-cruel mother had punished her. She was the full frontal bitch, the dominant killer woman who tied arms and legs to bedposts and vomited her bile onto his face as she came down so hard on his penis that he begged for mercy.
“You lousy motherfucker!” she yelled like a character, cause that was all that it took to make her cum once she was heated up, but that was when her eyes flickered open and she realized she was still driving the car.
The inside front wheel caught a gap in the median strip and sent the car onto the wrong side of the road just as John was coming from the opposite direction.  They connected headlight to headlight, like buffalo girls, and her lighter coupe rolled over as his spun around and jammed against a pole.
Everything stopped bouncing as broken glass spread across the bitumen. John’s head slammed the front pillar that almost knocked him out as he landed, smashed and stung. He slid from the car and limped over to where the silver Mazda was lying on its roof with one wheel still turning, with the glove-box light dimly illuminating the inside where a young woman who’d not been wearing a seat belt was badly injured, with blood coming from a wound below her sternum. Her pulse was strong but she didn’t appear to be breathing.
John dragged her from the wreckage while his buzzy head  remembered the first-aid learned many years before.
He unbuttoned the front of her dress and whipped off his shirt to use as a wad to stem the blood as he brushed her auburn hair from where it wasn’t stuck to her face, and began to give her mouth-to-mouth on her big red lips.
After thirty seconds she suddenly regained consciousness, put her arms around his neck, and began babbling silly things like “My hero. Where have you been all my life?” And then began slapping her hands around trying to find her wallet. John tried to keep her resting where she was, shocked and very agitated. “Just lie there, someone must have heard the crash.” he reassured her. “There will be an ambulance here soon. Just lie there Miss. Don’t move. I think you are a bit dazed and confused.”


“Dazed and confused?" she enquired, "I’ve never been so clear.” She insisted. “All I ever wanted was a man to love and respect me. And now here you are!”


She pulled his head down and spread upon his ready lips a passionate kiss while undoing his pants with her free hand. She pulled out his tool, and without too much conscious consideration they embraced. Despite being strangers in a strange place, surrounded by the smell of hot rubber, smoke, blood, with petrol spilling and broken glass smashed in yellow light on warm bitumen painted with dashes and arrows, they really were making love!


Their fuckstyle was fast, frantic, and furious, so within a hundred slippery seconds they’d reached the end of the world. The orgasm was like a beautiful friend from a fragrant garden, like galloping horses driving up over a crest into silhouette, like a burning sun pushing through a storm-wreaked ocean. Blasts of flame-like sensation swept through their minds and bodies and sent them spinning into an encapsulating vortex of ecstasy. As the pleasure and pain intensified and reached its ultimate crescendo it set them adrift in a formless space patterned with a static symphony of sexual delight.
John held his weight with his arms as Ursula fell back, totally spent and exhausted. Actually the orgasm has killed her but John hadn’t realized that yet because he was a bit overwhelmed by the whole experience and didn’t really know what was happening. And the lights, strange lights; flashing lights.
Two cars had arrived simultaneously from different directions and the police were out and ready for action.
“He’s raping the bloody corpse!” The first cop yelled in disbelief. “What kind of animal is this? Get off her!” he shrieked as he pointed his pistol; shaking.
“Quick! Quick! Get off, NOW! Or you die!” the second cop yelled dramatically,  like he was watching himself on late night TV.
John saw the cigarette lighter on the wet road in front of his face and considered; “I can’t trust cops. I can’t trust women, and I can’t trust myself.” He flicked the cigarette lighter so a flash of fire engulfed the spotlight, the cars, the cops, and a big patch of road as the lovers joined the eternally youthful and charming Karmadeva and his wife Rati through the flaming gateway.