Catherine’s Night Out
An Anti-Story Composed in Sex Scenes
Catherine didn’t know what masturbating was. In fourth grade she’d read the big dictionary in the school library when she was bored, and the definition she came across said it was preforming on yourself sexually. She’d also seen the word dominatrix, but it wasn’t as exciting as it looked. Without context she couldn’t be totally sure what either word meant, but luminous, radiant, sepulcher, and disavowal were more interesting at the time.
She’d pretty much forgotten the word when she climbed up on top of the washing machine to read. Then the heat rose to her cheeks, and she started shifting her weight and the word sprung up again. She was pretty sure that’s what she was doing. She climbed down because she had to pee and then came back and stared at the shaky porcelain colored machine too afraid to try her luck with the sound of her mother’s footsteps downstairs. She went back to her room and tucked the book about Joan of Arc under her bed. Her cheeks burned as she tried to quit thinking about women with short hair and banners flapping in the wind.
*
Bright unbearable reality, she’d read that somewhere, or seen it in a video essay, Catherine couldn’t remember. Searing light sapped tears from her eyes. She savored the glare of the mirror, the novel pain more exciting than Stefan “blowing her back out” or whatever he thought he was doing. “I love you baby,” he grunted. Catherine ignored him. Dancing phosphors overtook the room, kaleidoscopic greens reds and blues all sharp swirling and dazzling. Catherine didn’t like drugs, but she’d always wanted to alter her consciousness. Her favorite color was Stygian blue. When she was old and about to die Catherine figured she’d try out the McCollough effect. She was the type of person who’d think she’d be colorblind forever if she had to wait two months for her vision to return to normal. “Oh God! I’m Cumming,” cried David, or was it Stefan? Catherine was starting to think she didn’t like men. He squirted in her a little, which was warm and mildly entertaining, but she turned around in time to realize he’d taken the condom off before entering. She blinked at him, and he smiled at her.
“I hope you get schizoaffective disorder and kill yourself,” said Catherine.
“What the—”
*
“I said gently,” Morgan whimpered on the dorm-room floor. Truthfully Catherine hadn’t even hit as hard as she wanted to. The bunkbeds on either side of the cramped room made it hard to stretch her arm, and the dresser on the left had taken most of the brunt. Catherine had anger issues.
“I’m sorry,” said Catherine. “It’s hard to control.”
“It’s okay,” said Morgan. “Can I eat you out?”
“Sure!” said Catherine. She thought about when she’d play toy swords with her brother, and the inevitable movement when she’d just whack him and watch him fall, blubbering and begging for their mother. He always picked the sword back up eventually. That’s probably how she ended up paddling Morgan the rest of Sophomore year. She kept it reigned in for the most part, but there were a few bruises.
“Catherine!” she’d moan. “Hurt me Catherine!”
She meant hurt me in a way that feels good which wasn’t really hurting anybody at all. Catherine decided they were going to break up as Morgan lapped like her life depended on it. Women were better, but they were still very annoying.
*
“Female psychopathy,” said the alpha-male podcaster Catherine liked to hatewatch. “That’s what nobody’s talking about.”
Catherine’s guts twisted when she thought about it. She knew people would think she was a monster. She didn’t think she was a psychopath. She was pretty squeamish most of the time, but the rage was part of her even if she didn’t let it out, and it was worse when she didn’t. Catherine really hated people, which was a problem because she also really wanted to fuck them. Sara slapped her ass while Catherine reflected on that, the well-lubed strap on gliding in and out. “Yeah,” said Catherine. It was more of a “what do you want?” yeah than an “oh yes baby please.” Catherine had noticed Sara spanked her when she was getting excited.
“You like that?” asked Sara.
“Yeah,” Catherine repeated.
“Good,” said Sara and she went harder.
Catherine yawned and tried to make it sound like pleasure.
*
Catherine loved her bob. It went well with the cutoff trucker vest, and tight black pants. No matter how many spikes she added to the vest people took it as her trying to look sexy. “You’re in a band,” some guy at the Magnolia drooled, his spittle reflecting the dim blues and pinks of the stage lights.
“Yeah,” said Catherine.
“What do you play?”
Catherine shrugged and showed him. A few drinks later she agreed to go home with him. She didn’t think he was trying to get her drunk. He’d actually suggested stopping after the first beer, but Catherine couldn’t go to a bar without Raspberry Absolut without getting a few shots and he tried to keep up, so when they piled out of the Uber and stumbled up the stairs to his shabby apartment, and unfolded the messy futon with mismatched sheets sandwiched in the middle Mark or whatever his name was had trouble keeping it up.
Catherine kept it in her mouth as he wailed about how he was having the time of his life. She thought about the old tootsie pop commercial and wondered how long it would take to burrow to the center of his penis if she had a rough tongue like a cat’s. She thought about tonguing a little pearl button at the center and turning his whole body off as he came in her mouth.
*
I don’t need sex! The government fucks me every day. Quotes got stuck in Catherine’s head the way words did. She vacillated or oscillated (knowing which word was perfect took lots of practice and Catherine wasn’t skilled yet) between hating and loving Kurt Cobain. It was the same way she felt about radiant imaginary colors rather than stygian ones like Stygian Blue. She could hear him saying it as the woman under her squeezed her buttocks and circled her labia with her tongue. Catherine liked not having to look at the people she had sex with. It didn’t matter if someone was hot staring at their face too long dehumanized a person for Catherine. They looked like big dolls. The buzz of the rabbit, and Kelly’s moans were sort of like television static, annoying on its own but interesting in the right dreamlike headspace.
Kelly moaned underneath her as Catherine gyrated. “I love bi women so much,” Kelly moaned. “You’re such whores.”
Catherine got off her and pointed at the door.
*
Catherine had lived in a daydream for most of her life. Her parents always said it was the lake but she knew better. She was touched by something weird. The Weird insisted that everything around her was real but that she couldn’t touch it. Everything was a movie. Catherine was just the camera. Anything she thought or felt was an illusion because the real Catherine was little person in a scratchy theater seat munching popcorn while she watched it all.
“Is that good?” Catherine asked.
“Yeah,” said Lucy.
“Good.”
She and Lucy teased each other with soft circular motions staring at the ceiling. When Catherine closed her eyes she could see Stygian Blue, when she opened them there were tears in them so she kept them closed. Reality was too sharp today, best to focus on comforting things like Stygian Blue the most wonderful and comforting color. Still something swelled in her heart. She’d barely spoken a word to Lucy because Lucy understood. Was this what it was like to be loved?
“Sorry I’m spaced out,” said Lucy. “The ketamine’s wearing off. I’ll be more attentive soon.”
“What?” Catherine let the tears roll down her cheeks.
“Are you okay?”
“You don’t need to change anything.”
“Don’t you want to at least look at me? Wait are you even on anything?”
“Get out!”
“What?”
“I thought you understood me!” Catherine wailed. “Why are all of you like this!?”
“Take it easy—”
Catherine punched her in the nose and never saw her again.
*
Catherine lay in her bed crying, trying to paint a mental portrait of Joan of Arc in soothing Stygian Blue so it wouldn’t sting her eyes.