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AN INDECENT OBSESSION
Mudrooroo
ETT IMPRINT, SYDNEY
This eBook edition published by ETT Imprint 2015
ETT IMPRINT
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Royal Exchange NSW 1225
Australia
This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Inquiries should be addressed to the publishers.
Copyright © Mudrooroo 2015
ISBN 9781925416039
copyright Mudrooroo Nyoongah, 2015
Design by Hanna Gotlieb
eBook distributed by Port Campbell Press
www.portcampbellpress.com.au
PROLOGUE
When I was holding on to my love subject, that woman, my wife, how could I ever think that I would ever end up in such a place, or how could I realize then that I would need it as a refuge from her. You know, she made me do things that were at first beyond my ken, then there came a wild delight in doing them, a certain cool frenzy perhaps much like her father felt when he worked in that abattoir and struck numberless dumb animals with a bolt to the head before the sledge hammer came down in the final ecstasy of death. Yet, what is killing an animal to putting a human being out of her misery. The former is like squashing a mosquito on one’s arm, the latter more subtle, more ingenious and satisfying. Oh, if I had only got her, but she escaped and is out there living a life while I am rotting away in here. Did I really say that I considered this place a refuge? No, never, a trap she set for me and I am caught.
What matter! I am aware that I digress, but then I always had a fondness for the discursive. Also, they give me tablets to keep me calm, but my mind keeps flashing on and off her. My work is incomplete. I may be on vacation, but all holidays end and then it shall begin again. They cannot keep me locked up forever. No, one day I will be out there, resuming my job as a funeral director, handling corpses as is my profession. Yes, I rest here whetting my revenge. I shall get her and others like her. A man must fight back or he is finished.
Well, as I was discoursing, or scrawling, it does not matter, I am proficient in both the spoken and written languages, as she once laughingly said, this was in my bed after we had just had sex, I would give it the term love now, for that is what I am talking about, true love and the impulse to completely possess and dominate the beloved, and to make an end of her. Well, she said that she would like to write the Australian Psycho obviously referring to that putrid book, American Psycho which she had just read, but which I had flung away in disgust. Who, after all, wants to read about stockbrokers?
‘But why,’ I asked, surprised, for I had found her a bit of a prig when it came to matters of cruelty and lust, even to the tamer varieties of pain in love. She didn’t like it as rough as I wished it to be sometimes. She didn’t like her bruises showing or having inflicted on her long body the marks of my nails or teeth. ‘Well, just that it seems, it seems,’ she was unable to finish. Using the old term, she was a square, and I gave her rather large haunches a perfunctory pat and turned over and went to sleep. Little did she realize then, that in time she would write or have written for her accounts of an Australian Psycho -- I, her once husband.
Well, I have begun, though I have no problems with beginnings, it is the endings that drag on and refuse to effect closure, and so I must go into that beginning which proved my downfall and provided me with this pause . . these three dots, which I am enduring day after day, incarcerated in an Insane Asylum. I prefer the old term or if you wish this mental hospital, or to be politically correct, a Hospice for Mentally Impaired People. If I am here, it is her doing. I will never forgive her for it and one of these days I shall have my revenge. Yes, I will, for walls cannot hold me away from her forever. They will fall down or be blown down in a revolution and then just as the Marquis De Sade, I shall be free to take my vengeance. How sweet will be that day!
CHAPTER ONE
Being an academic had its perks, one of which, unfortunately, included my mistress, if I may use that term, then later wife, Darlene. She was an M.A. student of mine and had returned to the university from a short stint as a journalist in London to do her degree in Communication Studies. She was thus older than most and caught my eye and even my hands when we were having one of those private interviews which she increasingly sought and to which I foolishly responded to until I was smitten or at least looked forward to her visits. She was quite attractive in a thin way, tall and angular unlike my wife, Elaine. Perhaps I wanted some variety, perhaps it was that change of life men are supposed to go through, anyway Darlene underneath the usual student garb of baggy shorts and tee-shirt or jeans and a top of some description had a nice body, though her hips were on the largish side and her breasts, well, I had to wait until I could judge them, but not for long. Her tops became skimpier and there was one that she began to favour. It was a low cut thing, perhaps a bustier, no, it wasn’t for later I found that it covered her body and had studs to do up or undo between her legs. What was its name? I should know. I hate it when I forget a word. I’ve been an academic, almost a professor, and if it had not been for her I would have achieved that ultimate goal. What was it? I’ll remember. My memory, in spite of their pills and injections, is still a capable instrument. It only needs jogging.
Well, she wore this bodice, I’ll find the word later, and used to heave her breasts, which I found smallish, but well-shaped, at me when she took a deep breath, or when frustrated about her work essayed a tantrum and flung her papers across the room. Thank God, that wasn’t often. I hated and still do violent women, though she did have a temper on her, but it usually operated in different and more subtle ways, like, like depriving me of sex and then there were her cutting remarks. It was a miracle that I did not attempt to kill her before I fell. I gladly would do it now, and will when I am free. .
Well, there she was pumped up in front of me often and even leaning across my desk so that I noticed those breasts, although hardly her hips or her legs, which were thin, but well-shaped. I saw these later when our affair deepened. Perhaps she sat at my desk most of the time and thus they were hidden. Well, no matter. What I do remember is her first blow job. It was late afternoon when many students and staff had gone home. I had a paper to prepare and there was a knock on the door and she came in, wearing that, that, what is the name of that garment? Christ! Are, yes, a camisole, how could I have forgotten it. Well, she was wearing that camisole which had a leopard skin with a wire frame about the top that pressed into the top of her breasts. I got up and went around the desk for some reason. My room was small and I bumped into her and my arms automatically went around her. That was all. I didn’t kiss or fondle her. She really wasn’t into those sorts of intimacies, but she felt my penis harden, and that was enough for her. She unzipped me. I forgot to add that I had never liked underpants. I had read somewhere that they constricted the privates and rendered one sterile as well as impotent. The testicles had to hang as freely as possible. In fact, the article had declared that skirts should be worn by men as this would give them that free hang. Well, there was my penis sticking out of my pants and without hesitation, she knelt and took it into her mouth. I stood there, letting her work at me. It was pleasurable, but in an abstract sort of way. Only later, did I begin to enjoy it until it became a sort of addiction. But that first time she had all the action. I was surprised more than
