Divorce and Divine License: Answered Prayers


by Homeless T
2012-04-15.  My romantic relations with the woman who would become my second wife at first took place only in my mind, cropping up almost unnoticed in the peripheral areas of long philosophical meditations and prayers made to the Virgin Mary on topics of my loneliness and Her need to forbid any second crucifixion of the Christ yet to come.

In the lonely oversized bed I purchased to defeat the humiliation of my first divorce, my thoughts teemed with the lubricious young beauties I saw and smelt each day--and had to restrain myself from petting, as never should a proper college instructor.

Yet one of these erotic phantasms was long persistent in her teasing. Its imagined presence was to me a powerful erotic simulacrum. So powerful, I knew it would materialize soon in reality.

I diversified the gods to which I prayed for love of her, petitioning powers both dark and light, day and night--supplicating both Lucifer and the Virgin Mary, my beloved Female Creator of All--for love, for a lonely man's justice, and to engage in perversion by their hallowed leave.

Raebel not long after appeared as one of my students. We became better acquainted by making gambling trips together, to a remote Native American casino where neither of us were known, and where years later she would be driven and tortured by men far worse than me into the vegetative state where she presently breathes, sleeps, and eats, but scarcely lives--only laughs madly at strange humours possessing her mind.

But her sickness came many years later, after our long years of courting, marriage and divorce without rancor. Back during those happier times, in cozy proximity midst circles of fools at one riotous crap table or another, I yielded further to ancient lust by singing prayers in a foreign tongue, voiced unabashedly with each roll of the dice, petitioning both for my point and rights of sexual ownership over the female Rabael.
I succumbed fully to dark forces at those tables, praying for a mate who earnestly craved the sensations which caused angels to sink ancient cities into the salty waters of dead seas.

I cared not a whit about my fortune lost, for my blood coursed with darkest poetry--imagining the poetical enjambments of her every glistening line, the rhapsody that would follow our game upstairs to a rented hotel suite. She proved entirely cooperative, and my heart beat in alternating rhythms of crude ancient passion, in response to her dove-like moans; and modern-day repercussions of shame and self-hatred for detestable things I so loved.

When Raebel shot the dice, no player left the table. The dealer short-sticked her on every roll, by pushing the dice just short of her reach, making her overlean the green felt labyrinth, inspiriting dealers and gamblers alike with a breath-taking display of cleavage. Some so relished the show of high-rolling breast that they would pass their turns to her, sacrificing their own rolls just to watch her shoot.

She would throw the bones like they had just fallen out of her privates, spinning them over the green felt with a coolness just hot enough to sear the house, and multiply the temporary fortunes of devotees to her ineffable tits--although not necessarily to her personage, which they knew not came from another dimension.

Innocent Raebel had no conception of the odd game she was winning for others. In truth, she would have preferred a rousing game of Candy Land. None knew the truth of her soul, not even me. That would be long in coming.

If I had any power, it was to demand that the tit-crazed stick man pay for his peep-show by tapping his magic wand on the green felt three times, clack, clack, clack. This summoned all gambling mojo to attend--for once so tapped, every player piled their all onto the felt, betting on the unwitting luck of one who seemed a lucky harlot.

The action confounded real odds, and filled the joint with wild war-whoops--the noise of losses its Native American managers dreaded--the triumphant winnings of evil lots cast beneath crucified local ancestors. I should have tipped the centurion stick-man with more than dimes.

*

I learned to love my role at the hands of an expert such as Rabael. But more than anything, I loved the novelty of a fully grown woman who refused any food other than mashed potatoes and great blobs of mac and cheese upon fine china, washing it all down with great gurglings of chocolate milk which she would spurt from her nose at persons of self-supposed refinement when we dined at $100.00 a head buffets, the best offered in better houses of gambling.

Whatever quirk she could pull from her panties, I accepted. I was able for the first time in my life to love with an utter lack of restraint this curious younger woman. I came to regard her as my soulmate. Once bound together by ubiquitous, sardonic Old Nick, who had long been watching us amused, she merged her desires so completely with mine as to become a seamless whole.

Acts requiring a lack of inhibition that would have sent the ordinary woman scurrying for the nearest lawyer--there to file for divorce, at the mere whispered mention of what I was about to do to her--produced in Rabael only evil, childish giggles. She satisfied every darkening wish with smiles and a bottle of pain killers.

I had never known such honesty, and never thought to participate in such love which I knew only from books hidden in my naughtiest corner.

In my arrogance, I sought to groom my much-younger sweetheart to work her Monroe-like money-pump in the deeper pools found at higher levels of society--a narcissist's dream of pandering to presidents that never materialized. She could merge and submerge, diverge and then suddenly reemerge to me after a fast bout at the behest of a strange man, done quickly a public restroom with a locking door--while I was still outside, parking the car--but it was not done for a motive of profit.

Geez, being nuts was fun. We both were out there, as they say, although we sometimes ventured too far into regions of inverted love, only to discover realms ruled by spiteful divinities--spaces in which alcohol and obscene photography were far less erotic than screaming at each other and slamming doors.


So good senor Satan had answered my prayers with a vengeance. Courtship and marriage ensued, but the infernal irony wrought by this sardonic god was not immediately perceptible. However, within a matter of months, it had become palpable, and I knew that I must break faith with him. He had snarled my answered prayers with such bedevilments! Love turned into a preying-mantis-like feeding-frenzy; and in the world beyond sin's private chambers, he had buffed to a dark pitted gloss the outward appearance of my marriage and my person.


These changes and others began to dim our real prospects. My new spouse's long-expressed desire to work in Nevada's legal industry of harlotry--high-paying work she had professed to embrace before we wed--was suddenly reversed, and its very thought became repugnant to her.

She would have earned a fortune for me, but suddenly the grossness of strange men's desires for things better left unmentioned turned her off. Her about-face was probably inspired by the same irony-loving devil who had bound us together for eternity in the first place. Her new purity did not seem to apply locally.

A mere six weeks into our nuptials--by then I was living in a homeless shelter, and could reach her only by phone--the message on her answering service had been changed to a sarcasm-drenched taunt delivered by another man.

"Hey there. You've reached Raebel and her new, real man Dick. You know what to do." Beep. Stranded amidst a new cohort of bums at a Cedar Rapids Homeless Shelter, I had no trouble refraining from overreaction, although it would have inspired murder in a less-chastened sinner. I took a sleeping pill, climbed into my cot, and passed out. I had developed immunity somewhere along the line.

Just a few days after that new voice came on line, my wife took me to gaze upon its source--her new marvel of steeliness. He never learned who I was, for she so arranged our meeting that I encountered the two of them talking together on the street, where I stopped to inquire as to their faith, passing myself off as a religious pamphleteer.

She introduced me to other of her psychopathic boyfriends in much the same way. They never knew who I was, although she had told me every intimate detail, in vivid anatomical idiosyncrasy, regarding their strange loves and hates. She was just a show-off.

It may have come from the constant foul treatment I received from her family, or from being thrown out of her car at strange street corners so often. Also, my hardening endurance for the shocking insults her witch-like mother heaped upon me, and the ban from her family home may have played parts; as very likely did her barking-dog father's role in hounding me out of my job ("he gave my idiot daughter an 'A' and she never even went to class or turned in a paper" growled he)--but I became numb to the pain.

Also contributing was a new world for me, where friends of long standing turned their backs. (By the way, fuck you guys.) That I had gambled away a small fortune and prestigious professorship seemed to ice the cake of my faltering narcissism. A man can live under only so many curses, and through only so many episodes of humiliation before he develops immunity to ordinary human voodoo. He learns that the pride of man is mere superstition.

So I let fate run its course, and pursued with studious diligence the principles of life disenfranchised, as an urban wanderer--moving as the mood struck me between homeless shelters and soup kitchens, religious missions and public libraries, where I dared to discuss my bleak postulations with tight-assed librarians, whose bums I longed to crumble, and with crumbums who had fallen into the sewer for no reason other than their awesome stupidity. Then again, the same was commonly said of me, and is probably true.

Nonetheless, everybody must aspire to something. I began to envision myself as a writer of social and sexual misadventures, a turgid Bukowski for masses of cowardly lions wishing to taste hell's torments without having actually to go there in person. Like soap opera addicts or fans of prison rape stories, my readers could spare themselves the actual pains, while tacitly allowing perverse thoughts to tingle in mute fascination along the peripheral edges of their own sewn-up minds. The only problem: telling truth hurts.

The unjealous hubby I had become voiced no complaint about living mostly apart for an entire marriage. I learned that taunting phone messages don't amount to much when her proud stud hung himself. She and I couldn't cohabit for more than a few days at a time--six or seven, tops--before toe-curling sex got boring and she would grow impatient for something new.

I would signal my imminent departure back to the world of lost souls by preparing for her a nourishing sacrament of macaroni and cheese. She couldn't cook herself--or chose not to, I never learned which--so my culinary offerings let my exit proceed unreviled.

It also let her resume her sad life's calling. My young, sexy wife's vocation--if you haven't already guessed it, and I'm sure you haven't, though you may think you have--was one of magnetic (if slothful) minioning for local demons.

She was badness itself, charged by the dark Lord to eviscerate all strutting men of straw for the willfulness of their human arrogance. Her hung-like-a-horse lover's suicide, dangling a basement beam, had accomplished more than the mere unstuffing of him, and others had turned dead too, or gone mad as hatters. I alone failed to drown, despite many falls overboard.

Just look out the window if you don't believe in the independent existence of evil, or read any newspaper if you have even a shadow of doubt about humanity's prideful self-misconceptions. Their easy conversion into tools of self-destruction was her specialty.

I had gambled on my second marriage--wagering more than money, betting my trust and reputation--and lost. But I had been forewarned. Somehow I had known since the age of twelve that life held this ordeal in store for me. I found its reality not so terrifying as irritating in mundane ways. 

The townsfolk of her miserable burg labelled me wannabe pimp and laughed, knowing that Rabael was a most unlikely prospect for whoredom. A lethal slut, yes. But a regular working girl? Never.

Old hags of the village depot refused to refund my empty soda bottles once they'd learned of my association with her. Local police forbade me picking through ashtrays for smokable butts. A stranger who had opened a restaurant once fed me a free meal, and went out of business within a month.

In the end I was content to walk the 17 miles from that misery-loving patch of sour earth to less-haunted realms. But these are high points of the marriage I describe. In the next episode, you will see how separation from a soul magnet can be worse than cleaving to marriage-vows professed before Satan.

It was the evil season of my life, very persistent, but soon to end in a state of grace.