Drawing by Judith Wolfe

Vic Fortezza

Pigs

Grimacing with revulsion, he hurried to the bathroom, unbuttoning his flannel shirt, leaving a trail of boot prints on the dark tile floor. He didn't think he would be able to stand another moment in such soiled clothing without screaming. It reminded him of his childhood.
Sand, cement and dirt slid from his flesh under the warm spray of the shower. The fresh cuts he'd incurred seemed to howl. His hands, heavily calloused after three months of toil, also stung. How he hated the job - and his boss. He cursed his luck. Of all the crews in the city, he'd landed in one that had a bitch as foreman, or forewoman, or foreperson, or whatever the politically correct term was. And he had to take her ridicule silently. The job market was dry. He was lucky to be working. He didn't want to end up like the homeless men he used to pass in midtown each day. Had they all been brought low by women? he wondered. It wouldn't surprise him.
How his foreman, a high school graduate, revelled in humiliation, as if she were superior to others. Dyke, he thought. They were everywhere now, taking work from men. It hadn't been a woman who'd been "excessed" at the firm, it'd been three males, each with seniority. She'd learned the business from them. Obviously, it paid to sleep with the boss. Women. And when he'd been unable to find work for a year, his wife dumped him, although she had a high-salaried position capable of supporting them indefinitely. And how she'd used that in the proceedings, not to mention his troubled adolescence - just when he'd thought he'd conquered it forever. Now the doctor had recommended a return to medication. Well, he wasn't going to do it. He would conquer his problems his own way. For all he knew, the medication might have been the problem in the first place.
Towel in hand, he hurried to a portable cassette player that stood atop his dresser. He needed to relax, to calm down, if he were going to do it again. And there was nothing like Sinatra to clear the head, to soothe. Even the second-rate device, which he'd had to purchase after he'd lost everything in the settlement, was unable to diminish the healing power of that golden voice.
He'd done it twice so far, once in Queens with a nylon stocking, once in Staten Island with a high heel shoe. Accounts stated that robbery appeared to be the motive. Neither was linked. Although the deeds had given him great satisfaction, he needed a fresh lift.
Trembling having abated, he dressed at a leisurely pace, choosing one of his favorite suits, a light one to match the glorious spring day, She'd been unable to take them from him. She'd even won the car, although she lived in Manhattan, where driving was unnecessary and more nuisance than convenience. Now residing in Brooklyn, he certainly needed it more than she. He was forced to take mass transit each day, to suffer the fear that a former colleague or client would recognize him, see how far he'd fallen. He used to walk to the office from their apartment near Central Park. Now he was in a cramped basement, a bunker, only minutes from the mean street on which he'd been raised, which he'd thought he'd left behind for good.
He berated himself for not having chosen a male attorney. How was it the woman had come so highly recommended? She'd done nothing for him. He suspected they'd all conspired against him, a male. Bull dyke, he thought, seething.
He took several deep breaths to calm himself. He would seduce no one in such a state. He sang along with the tape, and his anger gradually diminished.
He paused at a mirror to give his dark good looks a final scan. Before leaving, he straightened his degree, his prized possession, which was framed and hung on the wall. No one, not family, friends, teachers, counselors or physicians had expected him to make it through high school let alone all the way to an MBA. He'd shown them. And he would do so again, his own way. He didn't need anyone's help. Attache case in hand, he hopped up the stairs to street level.
"Hi, Andrew," a middle-aged woman called from a rear window of the two-story dwelling, which was attached to another just like it. "Wheah ya goin' all dressed up like that?"
"An interview."
"So late? Ah, yous men - yous can't fool me. Yous awways got somep'n goin."
Pig, he thought, they all are. How he hated the condescension with which women spoke of men, of which even the educated were guilty, probably more so. "Men!" so many sighed, as if there were nothing to be done about them. He spat at his feet.
His landlady reminded him of his mother, whom he hadn't seen in years. He had no desire to see her, although she was now only a few blocks away. This too had come out in the proceedings, although his wife had wanted nothing to do with his mother. That had never phased him, as it was precisely as he felt. What had she ever done for him? She'd always taken her husband's side. Why should he do anything for her? Let her fight her way out of ignorance and poverty as he had. Perhaps it'd been she who had driven his father to drink.
He rode the subway into Manhattan. His pace was rapid as he climbed to the street and headed to the South Street Seaport. Slow down, he told himself. He was reminded of how eager he used to be to go to work, to seize the day. There was no need to rush now. There would be women there all night, unwinding after a hectic day of stealing people's money, cheating men out their place in the work force. He didn't have any children, any commitments to which to attend. As if life in the concrete jungle hadn't been tough enough - now women were part of the predatory equation.
As usual, the area was teeming with young male and female turks, among which the tourists stood out as if they'd taken a turn into Bed Stuy. He'd never realized the shallowness of it until he'd become an outsider. How he hated them. The smiles, the laughter, the banter, the bonding all were false. How hadn't he seen through it? He found solace in the fact that he would never be blind to it again.
He bypassed a fashionable establishment. He'd met his wife there. She might have returned to the old haunt in search of another sap. No witnesses, he told himself.
He entered a place that was abuzz with the ever-familiar mating call. He cruised its length. To his disappointment, all the attractive women were in groups. It was imperative he find one who was alone. Suddenly he was patient, confident. He knew the territory, had conquered it so many times.
He stood in a corner, sipping beer. A half hour passed. Suddenly a group left the bar and an alley opened toward a stool upon which a stunning blonde in a chic business suit was seated, legs crossed, an elbow poised upon a an attache case that rested atop the bar, wine glass rising from a black-gloved hand. How absurd the look was, although it was obviously calculated to draw attention. He crossed the alley between them with alacrity. It closed behind him.
"What're the chances a beauty like you'd be alone?" he said, smiling, looking directly into her green eyes.
She chuckled self-consciously, head a-tilt, as if she were shy. He was certain she wasn't a natural blonde. It was an excellent dye job, however. Not a single root was visible. It was going to be a snap, he was sure. How many women like this had he seduced before he met his wife - ex-wife? They were so easy, so accessible at first - until they hooked you. The softness, the sweetness, was entirely contrived. The trick was to hit and run. How had he allowed his wife to fool him? He would fall victim no longer, however.
"I'm a salesman - life insurance. Need any?"
"Only against dangerous men," she said, the thrill of the game in her face.
"Then you'd better purchase some immediately." She chuckled. The conversation went smoothly. He employed lines and quips that were old and stale. It didn't matter. She ate them up or, at least, pretended to. She was there for one reason. The naivete was sham.
Soon they were outside in the twilight. The area had remained active. They strolled away from it, aimlessly it seemed. Her name was Mandy. His ex-wife's was Mindy. It all seemed predestined, right. Even the quality of the air was unusually crisp for the city, clearing the head.
Now darkness had fallen. They were at a corner on Broadway, suddenly quiet, tense.
"What the hell," she said, shrugging. "Let's stop denying the inevitable. I'm really attracted to you. Why don't we take a cab to the nearest hotel?"
He was not at all surprised, although the cloak of wholesomeness had been dropped abruptly. Such was modern love - an hour of charm and off to bed. The world was collapsing, the pace of decay accelerating as more and more women adopted the behavior of men, and no one was doing anything about it. Well, he wasn't going to stand by and allow civilization to decline.
"I was afraid I'd never see you again if I suggested it," he said softly, trying to alleviate any qualms she might have. Did she have even the slightest? He sensed she was the basest of predators. He suspected she would suggest bondage, a thought that filled him with a revulsion he was almost unable to mask.
"Life's short. I knew I wanted you the minute I laid eyes on you - or is it 'lay'?"
"If it isn't it soon will be."
They laughed sheepishly. He wondered how many times she'd used that line.
"Everything you say reinforces my initial instinct about you," she said excitedly, linking arms with him. She lowered her voice. "You have protection, I hope? I don't. I don't really do this sort of thing."
He almost laughed in her face. "Of course. I'm in the insurance business, remember?"
"I'd love to take you home, but I have a roommate, and we have strict ground rules."
It wouldn't surprise him if she were married. How many married women whose husbands had been "out of town" had he had? Their percentage of infidelity was becoming as great as men's. He was certain his wife had been unfaithful. Why else would she have insisted on the abortion at a time when things had been, apparently, so good between them? She'd merely killed something that'd been in her way, as men had been doing for thousands of years. And she'd had the audacity to accuse him of infidelity during the proceedings, based entirely on rumor.
He instructed the cabbie, a woman, to take them to a hotel of reasonable rates where no questions would be asked. They necked in the backseat, faces flushing hotly. Their longest kiss was interrupted by arrival. He tipped the driver generously, although it pained him to do so. Within minutes, they were in a small, modest room. He was certain there were roaches scurrying about.
"Is that body as good as it looks from out here?" he said eagerly, parting from her lips.
"Better," she said, tossing her jacket aside. "I work out. Do you? Your hands are so rough."
He lowered his head in false modesty.
"I love a man who's physically fit, who can go at it all night."
Peeling his clothing away, he watched her undress. She had the body of an Olympian. She left the gloves in place. They stood out starkly against the pale flesh. Was their purpose arousal or a hiding of a skin disorder? He wondered. He actually considered making love to her, but quickly reasoned that she was unworthy. He didn't want her to have any pleasure. He would have her after the fact, while she was still warm. That would be best. There would be no complaints, no requests - just a hell-bent rush to orgasm.
"Isn't it a shame that we can't go at each other completely?" she said as he slid a condom into place. "And I bet neither of us has a thing to worry about."
He smiled, despite the venom within him. He would bet she was HIV positive. How many men had she had before she'd begun taking precautions? He'd known her little more than an hour and here she was surrendering herself completely - sexually, at least. There was no telling what perversion those gloves indicated. No doubt she was bisexual, as so many were becoming. He was certain his ex-wife had indulged. Somewhere along the line this woman had to have come into contact with someone who was infected. All the more reason....
"What the hell," she said, rushing forward; "take it off."
He balked, although it would only take a moment to put it on again, once he'd.... He'd already determined how he was going to do it - her neck. It was long and thin. His hands and forearms had become so strong. It would snap like tinder. How he longed for that sound. He would have to do it quickly. She was strong and would fight, he was sure. He regretted that he wouldn't have time to hold her, to whisper in her ear what was coming and watch terror fill her eyes, as he'd done with the others.
He tensed as she unsheathed him.
"Don't be afraid, baby," she said, throwing her arms around his neck. "I'm as clean as a whistle." He was afraid she was an HIV psycho determined to infect the entire male populace before she died. Rising on her toes to kiss him, her firm nipples grazed against his chest. Tingling forced his eyes shut. He'd forgotten how pleasurable sex could be. Lingering at her lips, he felt a burning sensation in his chest. His breath grew short. Was her kiss that good? The burning spread outward. She backed away a step, smiling wickedly. He looked down. There was a dagger protruding from his chest, a thin red line flowing from it past his navel. He stared at it, puzzled. What was it doing there? Where had it come from? He gazed at her. "Die," she whispered with hoarse contempt.
His eyes remained upon her as he fell to his knees. Stunned, he wavered, fighting for balance, for life. He collapsed onto his side. She turned him onto his back with the force of a bare heel.
"No clever last words?" she said, straddling him. His eyes were now glassy, eyelids beginning to flutter. She fought the temptation to urinate, as she'd done to the first, as a deviate had done to her long ago. She sneered at the sight of his phallus, which remained erect. She wanted to cut it off and feed it to him, but she'd done that too somewhere along the line. What pigs they all were - hard even until their dying breath.
His eyelids closed slowly. His quiet death rale evoked a shudder from her. Here was another who would never ridicule, abuse, dominate, oppress, be unfaithful, have a mate face abortion alone, abandon a lover who'd been raped, rape himself. She would bet all she owned that he was married. She felt no regret. His wife would get over it, perhaps even come to realize she'd been released from bondage, as she herself had been released. And, hopefully, the woman wouldn't make the mistake of taking another male.
She scoffed upon opening his wallet and finding less than $70 - and not a single credit card! No doubt he would have asked for help paying the bill, invent a flimsy excuse about being short. It was so typical. Even his attache case was empty. At least it would appear as if it'd been rifled. Apparently he'd been just a low-level lothario. That explained the calloused hands. She wasn't disappointed. Sometimes those were the most dangerous.

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