The Venus Complex Read online

  And I’m also sure that we’ll be seeing many more terrific novels from Barbie Wilde in the future.

  Enjoy the ride.

  Paul Kane

  Derbyshire, May 2012

  www.shadow-writer.co.uk

  Michael’s favorite paintings and works of art can be viewed at:

  www.barbiewilde.com/paintings.html

  “Most modern men want sex and can’t have it.

  They want success and never get it.

  They want money and never earn enough.

  Everybody has desires and nobody—

  Except the psychopathic few—

  Has the guts to go out and just take what they want.”

  —Professor Michael Friday

  It was another dank spring day in Syracuse, New York. It was raining intermittently, the drops falling down from the heavens like God’s indifferent spittle.

  Michael’s head was aching with one of his periodic migraines and the whiteness of the paper almost blinded him. He blinked and made a conscious effort to stare at the page—willing something, anything, to come to mind. He stared so long and so hard that he began to focus on the shadows of the dead cells floating across the retinas of his eyes. What were they called again? Floaters, that was it. He lost himself in the act of following them on their tiny darting journeys. He remembered visiting the ophthalmologist to ask if there was anything that could be done about the damn things. The doctor said that there was a procedure to get rid of the Muscae volitantes, as he called them, but it was a bit tricky. It involved piercing the eyeball and sucking out the gel, the vitreous humor. Then they would filter out the micro-debris (… through what? a muslin bag? a tea strainer?) before squirting the gel back into the eye with a syringe. It all sounded highly unpleasant.

  Michael decided against the procedure. He resolved to peacefully coexist with his little pals—the dead cell inhabitants of his eyeballs. Maybe he should give them names. Make friends. They would be the only friends he had.

  No. That would be too weird. Where was he? This wasn’t the exercise, was it?

  Write something. His shrink, Dr. Cordess (or “Dr. Clueless” as Michael liked to call him), advised him to start a journal so he could “vent his anger.” He concentrated on the keys of his dad’s old typewriter. Michael remembered all the essays and term papers he had written on the damn thing—even his Art History dissertation. All long before computers were in vogue. For some reason, he preferred the idea of going back to using the typewriter: pounding his thoughts out on the keys, and at the same time, symbolically thumping on his long-lost father’s fat face. He liked the concept of pure thought flowing down upon the page without revision or editing. Pure thought. Perhaps better to say, impure thought.

  Something had to come out of his damaged brain. He squeezed his eyes shut until the floaters became swirling icy pinpricks of light and then he opened his eyes and focused on the page. That was better … and Michael began to write:

  ENTRY 1

  I haven’t told anyone what really happened that night. I suppose if someone ever reads this, they might try to get me arrested for vehicular manslaughter or whatever the charge might be, but I don’t care.

  I’ve been thinking about it and, in my opinion, the worst combination in a relationship is when a guy still powerfully desires his wife physically, but hates her as a person. That was the case with Angie. She had a wonderful body and knew how to use it, but, personality-wise, she made Attila the Hun look like Sponge Bob Square Pants.

  The night of the Accident, we’d been driving back from a Halloween dinner party. I’d had a couple of drinks, but nothing too excessive. I wanted to stay alert because I was convinced that Angie was having an affair with one of my best friends, Charlie Landru. That evening, I looked for secret signs between them, but they were very discreet. Of course, Charlie’s vapid and pretty wife, Tammy, was in attendance, which would dampen down any overt displays of affection. But I knew—I just knew—that Angela was screwing Charlie.

  The drive home started off in silence, then Angie tried to make small talk. God, how I hate meaningless chatter. So, I cut her short. “Do you want to tell me who you are fucking, or should I just guess?” I asked.

  Well, that shut her up—for about two seconds.

  The argument began: vicious, nasty … the usual dance. Then came the full confession. I had been right. It had been Landru, and Charlie had been a better lover than I could ever hope to be … blah, blah, blah. That was that. Angela was leaving me.

  “You can’t leave me,” I said, and she laughed.

  “Can’t I?” she asked. “Just watch me, you worm.”

  I can never remember what the trigger had been: her laughter or being called a worm, but I reacted instantly.

  I jammed my foot down on the gas and turned the wheel sharply to the right—heading straight for a copse of sugar maples. Angela started screaming and it was like music to my ears—a fucking symphony. At that moment, I didn’t give a damn and, God, was it liberating. I turned to her briefly and the vision of her face illuminated by the dashboard lights—mouth open, eyes bulging—burned itself on my brain. We were heading for a large tree. Angie—arms waving wildly like a demented crab—was scrabbling at the steering wheel, but to no avail, as I was holding her back with my hand firmly placed on her chest. Just seconds before impact, my hand dropped down and undid Angela’s seat belt. “Bye, bye, honey,” I managed to blurt out, and then we hit the tree with the force of a freight train. I remember her flying through the windshield before what felt like an atomic bomb exploded in my brain. So many bright colors, it was beautiful. Then oblivion.

  I woke up briefly. Red was the dominant color now. Red was everywhere: in my eyes, on the windshield, drenching my shirt. I somehow managed to crawl out of the car, despite feeling indescribable. I was bleeding from a wound in my head, my legs weren’t working so well and something had gone very wrong internally, I could feel it. I looked around and tried to see where Angela had gone, but it was as if she had flown out of my life like a witch on a broomstick. That imagery struck me as funny and I started to laugh, but that was a big mistake. It hurt like hell.

  I reached into my pocket for my cell phone. Amazingly, it was still working. I was thankful that I had bought a Nokia. Trust the Finns to be so reliable. I dialed 911 and then remembered nothing until I woke up in Crouse Memorial three days later.

  I didn’t feel any guilt. I was relieved to get rid of Angela and I’d avoided the possibility of an extremely messy divorce. No one ever suspected the Accident to be anything other than just that: an accident. Of course, Angie’s money was an added bonus, not that I’m the mercenary type. My only regret was writing off my car, a 1968 Mustang GT that always started—no small thing in a classic car.

  No, the agony was in surviving. Surviving the Accident to undergo the torture of physiotherapy. All those sadistic, so-called angels of mercy tormenting me every day with their good-natured cruelty. God, how I hate nurses. Nowadays, even spotting a woman in a white dress is liable to send me off into a silent rage of anger.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck them all.

  ENTRY 2:

  I feel a lot better today. Writing about the Accident helped, I’m sure. I slept like a baby the whole night through and didn’t wake up once. No nasty dreams either.

  Anger vented successfully, Doctor, for now anyway.

  ENTRY 3:

  When I came home four weeks ago (aptly on April Fool’s Day), my housekeeper, Mrs. Tochlovski, was waiting for me—arms open wide as if she wanted to clasp me to her enormous bosom. I had missed the old girl. She was the only person to faithfully visit me in the hospital; bringing chocolates that were so sweet they made my teeth ache, magazines more suitable to a beauty salon than to a bored and broken art historian, and the occasional kielbasa to keep me warm at night.

  Mrs. T. had made sure that no one had touched anything and my house looked like The Mary Celeste—the crew having absconded, leaving no forwarding address. I was
surprised that tumbleweeds weren’t rolling down the hallways as I passed through them. Just six months ago, Angie and I had gone off to dinner at the Landru’s place and never returned. Or at least, Angie hadn’t.

  During the last month, I’m sure that I would have cheerfully murdered my physiotherapist, Sandy Dudstein, if Mrs. T. hadn’t been there to restrain me with her benign and calming influence. Now that I am supposedly on the mend, Mrs. T. only comes in twice a week and “The Dud” was given her marching orders three days ago. After barely having a minute to myself after all that time in hospital, with nurses and doctors fussing over me every second, it is blissful to be alone at last.

  Yesterday, I went for my first walk outside by myself since the Accident. I felt a bit shaky, but it wasn’t as traumatic as I thought it would be. I wandered around in the woods behind my house, so no one could spot me from the road. The spring sunshine warmed my face. The sky was a shade of violent blue and the leaves of the elm trees were the color of emeralds: mysterious and jewel-like. I think that I must have suffered more brain damage than I previously thought, because I am sure that the colors of the world look much more saturated and intense to me than they were before the Accident. It is as if I am living in a painting by Vincent Van Gogh and, frankly, his over-rated and over-priced daubs always made me feel queasy.

  As I walked, or rather tottered around, I felt unbelievably self-conscious, as if the whole world was checking up on my progress. What a mess I am. I wish I had never survived the Accident. What’s the point when you have to live like this? The doctors said that I would make a full recovery, but they lie. I’ll always have the scars—perhaps not on my body (all that expensive cosmetic surgery had to count for something), but in my mind. Still, I feel more energetic. Writing doesn’t tire me out so much today.

  ENTRY 4:

  I was thinking about work. About whether I should try to set a date for going back; to have some kind of goal to shoot for. I used to like teaching, but now the thought of it revolts me. Tutoring the brats of affluent businessmen in the History of Art seems to be such a totally pointless exercise. Talk about pearls before swine.

  Maybe I’ll drive over to the University and take a stroll around the campus. No, I’ll wait until I am stronger. Next week. I will do it next week. I don’t want all the students staring at the crippled guy.

  Until then, I am going to start working out in the gym in my basement. I have to get back into shape. I am sure that it will alleviate my depression. The doctors said that if I did some mild exercise the limp would go in time. Hell, maybe having a romantic limp will make me look Byronic. With my luck, more likely moronic.

  ENTRY 5:

  I haven’t written anything for a week. I just decided to concentrate on my body, such as it is. I worked out for as long as I could each day and the difference in my energy levels is amazing, although I thought that I was going to pass out in the beginning. I just wish that I could exercise my mind. I still feel mentally sluggish and deeply depressed. I hate my life. I’d like to shed my skin and turn into something else.

  Saw Dr. Clueless again on Monday. I wish that I didn’t hate him so much and I wish I felt that going to him and paying a small fortune in fees was going to do some good somehow. Actually, hate is the wrong word. I don’t hate him. I just don’t think anything of him. He is neuter, nothing, zip, zilch.

  Psychiatrists are so full of shit. Who can truly understand the workings of the human mind? It is all fruitless speculation. Theorems and suppositions. I can’t even be bothered to remember whether Dr. Clueless is Freudian or Jungian, or whatever. It is a farce. He can’t help me. No one can. But the doctors are insisting that I go to him, and so, like the good little boy that I am, I go, even though I cannot relate to him on any level. But truth be told, I can’t relate to anyone anymore. It’s as if I’ve been cut off from humanity. I feel like I’m living under a glass jar being stared at by entomologists; like a bug on a plate. I have never been more isolated in my life and that is saying something.

  Still, at least I am communicating, if you can call it that, with another living creature, even if that creature is just a psychiatrist. I called a couple of my old friends the other evening and attempted to have a conversation, tried to make contact. It felt so stilted, so artificial. Were these people really ever my friends? What has happened to me? What has happened to them? I couldn’t care less what they thought or felt.

  Maybe there was one good idea that Dr. Clueless had and that was to suggest writing this journal. I’ve spent my life bottling things up inside me, being a man, big boys don’t cry, etc., etc., etc. Never bothering to get in touch with my feelings, and all that warm and fuzzy New Age bullshit. But all that I’ve been really doing is playing the part of a man. What I really am, I don’t know and I don’t know if anyone will ever know. One thing is for certain; Dr. Clueless will never figure it out.

  I think that I will go out of town for a few days. Syracuse is stifling me. I don’t know why I stayed here in the first place—godforsaken upstate New York. What a hellhole. You freeze your ass off in the winter, die of heat prostration in the summer and, on top of everything, it is dull as ditch water. And will they ever fix the potholes in this jerkwater berg? Maybe I’ll go down to New York City for a few days when I am stronger. Catch a few shows. No, I hate the theater, what am I thinking? Hey, maybe I’ll go to one of those lap-dancing clubs. Try and get a hard-on. Ha, ha, what a joke. Everything is a joke.

  We are just toys in the hands of a prankster God.

  Anyway, all the best sleaze joints have been chased out of Manhattan and the last thing I need is a night in Brooklyn.

  ENTRY 6:

  I had a very disturbing dream last night.

  I am in a large industrial-sized kitchen with huge chrome fittings. It is late at night and I am alone. I open an immense stainless steel refrigerator and the body of a young woman falls out of it. She is dead. She is naked except for a pair of white panties. Her skin is blue with the cold, but she is still very beautiful.

  I panic, thinking that if I call the police, they will suspect that I’ve killed her, so I try to stuff the body back into the refrigerator. Of course, a dead body is hard to handle and I’m not having much luck putting her back. Then, something happens. I just manage to place the body in the refrigerator so it stays put and the girl’s legs swing open. I stand back and stare at this beautiful, dead, blue-skinned woman with her legs wide apart and I become aroused.

  I look around and I see that I am still by myself. I carefully pull the girl out of the refrigerator and lay her out on the shiny, black, tiled floor and stare at her some more. She is so beautiful, so exposed. She is all mine.

  I get undressed. I pull off her panties. I kneel at the head of the body and put my hands on her breasts. They are cool and smooth and firm. Her nipples are erect, permanently. Her mouth is open in an “oh” of surprise, like an inflatable sex doll. I get more excited. I look down and I see that I have an erection, the first since my Accident.

  I pinch her nipples and it’s almost as if there is a direct connection from her nipples to my cock. I lean forward and touch her, caressing her surprisingly pliable limbs. (No Rigor Mortis in my dream.) I move her legs farther apart, as wide as they can go. I opened her mouth a bit more and put my cock between her lips and then I start pumping. I can feel her stiff, velvety tongue against my penis. I put my face between her legs and I suck her cold pussy. I remember thinking that it still tasted sweet, even though she was dead. I pump and pump, and suck and suck, and it feels like nothing I have ever experienced before in my life.

  Then I come.

  The orgasm was so profound that I woke up moaning in ecstasy. I had come in my dream and all over my sheets, but I didn’t care. I reveled in it. I grabbed the sheets and pumped them some more, exulting in the sticky wetness of them. My orgasm seemed to last forever.

  When it was over, I turned on the light and felt disgusted with myself. I cleaned up, changed the sheets and tried to
get back to sleep, but the memories of my dream kept coming back to me in little jolts, like electric shocks.

  The more I thought about the beautiful, blue-skinned, fridge girl, the more sexed up I got until I had to masturbate. And so I came again.

  They were the first sexual feelings that I’ve had since the Accident and they had to be about a dead girl.

  What does this mean? I’d ask Dr. Clueless, if I had any anticipation of him coming back with a coherent answer.

  Maybe it just means that I have become some sick, sad fuck.

  ENTRY 7:

  I have decided to coin a new phrase. You’ve heard of road rage? Parking rage? Air rage? Well, how about world rage?

  It’s not that I hate the world exactly. It’s just that the things in it—people, for example—constantly put me into such a condition of unrelenting wrath that it is a triumph for me to go through the day without contemplating killing someone.

  My rage is focused mostly on the world of men and mankind in general. Women, with the exception of my dear departed wife and nurses and Mother and the Dudstein bitch and women drivers and those dim bimbos on TV, are such vulnerable little things. They are creative beings and all they want to do is to nest and have babies. Men, on the other hand, are only creative when they are being destructive. Just glancing at the headlines of a newspaper is enough to kill the whole day for me. The absurdity of this farce makes me nauseous.