Удушье (Choke)

One of my hands is holding her arm behind her back. She's grinding her butt against me, and she's got a kick-ass tanned little bod except her face is pale and waxy with too much moisturizer. In the mirrored closet door, I can see her front with my face peeking over her shoulder. Her hair and sweat pools in the crack where my chest and her back press together. Her skin has that hot-plastic tanning-bed smell. My other hand is holding the knife, so I ask, does she want me to hit her with the knife?

'No,' she says. 'That would be stabbing. Hitting someone with a knife is stabbing.' She says, 'Put the knife down and use your open hand.'

So I go to toss the knife.

And Gwen says, 'Not on the bed.'

So I toss the knife on the dresser, and I raise my hand to slap. From behind her, this is really awkward.

And she says, 'But not in the face.'

So I move my hand a little lower.

And she says, 'And do not hit my breasts unless you want to give me lumps.'

See also: Cystic mastitis.

She says, 'How about if you just slap my ass.'

And I say, how about if she just shuts up and lets me rape her my way.

And Gwen says, 'If that's how you feel, you can just take your little penis and run along home now.'

Since she's just out of the shower, her bush is soft and full, not matted down the way it is when you first take off a woman's un­derwear. My free hand creeps around to between her legs, and she feels fake, rubbery and plastic. Too smooth. A little greasy.

I say, 'What's with your vagina?'

Gwen looks down at herself and says, 'What?' She says, 'Oh, that. It's a Femidom, a female condom. The edges stick out like that. I don't want you giving me any diseases.'

Is it just me, I say, but I thought rape was supposed to be more spontaneous, you know, a crime of passion.

'That shows you don't know shit about how to rape any­body,' she says. 'A good rapist will plan his crime meticulously. He ritualizes every little detail. This should be almost like a reli­gious ceremony.'

What happens here, Gwen says, is sacred.

In the bookstore coffee shop, she'd passed me the photo­copied sheet and said, 'Can you agree to all these terms?'

The sheet said, Do not ask where I work.

Do not ask if you're hurting me.

Do not smoke in my house.

Do not expect to stay the night.

The sheet says, The safe word is POODLE.

I ask what she means by a safe word.

'If the scene gets too heavy or if it isn't working for one of us,' she says, 'you just say 'poodle' and the action stops.'