The Narrator

  

                                                                        

                               FOUR

 

    I realize that I have contradicted myself in explaining the birth of Baddy. Earlier I said that I couldn't make up a character; later I implied that I invented Baddy to do the things I couldn't myself do. Both ideas, though they seem totally opposite, are nonetheless true. I wanted badly to be a writer, to invent characters, but I was unable to. I was addicted to truth in the most obvious and narrow-minded way. This prevented me from letting my imagination go to work.
Yet I had invented Baddy. Or I should put it in another way--Baddy had invented himself and used me as a pretext for his existence. When one tries to be creative in a deliberate way, one fails; but when creativity itself takes hold of one, then one is powerless to resist. I know this explanation seems a trifle too clever, quite unconvincing, really. But what could I do. Baddy was a fact. It was also a fact that I was quite incapable of inventing a single character, let alone make up a story, complete with plot, situation, and action.
Baddy happened to me in a manner in which I had no choice. I simply could not prevent him from coming into being. He penetrated my consciousness with compelling urgency. He left vivid signs of his presence, tell-tale marks which could not be otherwise denied or explained away. Without allowing for Baddy,
I wouldn't have been able to live with myself, let alone with others. Perhaps, I was abnormal, in some sort of trouble, sort of sick, you know. But I thought so myself. I was perfectly all right in every way; I wasn't violent, wasn't prone to socially unacceptable behaviour, wasn't neurotic or paranoid, wasn't mentally disturbed, wasn't disorderly or unruly in my conduct or thoughts. I was a good student, a good son, a good friend, a good citizen. I was just like everyone else, perhaps even smarter--except for this shameful secret.
I can never forged how Baddy first came unto me. His sudden and spectacular efflorescence took place in a dream I had one night. I saw this utterly breathtaking woman who was pulling a young man into her arms. Her skin was quite golden--glowing, shimmering, radiant, and unearthly. She wore a long diaphanous gown, through which her breasts showed. How firm, globular, and noble they were. The erect nipples were visible under the thin cloth. Her left breast was somewhat more visible through the slit that ran down her chest. She wore two strands of large white pearls which incandescent in the semi-darkness of the room.
The woman was in her early thirties. She looked kindly, yet coquettish. The boy was wearing black pants, but no shirt. He was fair, with long supple limbs. The hairs on his chest were soft and brown, while the tufts under his armpits were darker and thicker. His face was smooth because he had just shaved, though he was obviously too young to shave every day. He had large brown eyes and thin, but sensual lips. His voice was a hoarse crackle and there was an awkwardess to him which could only be ascribed to adolescence.
The woman was very sure of herself, very secure and poised. She began to stroke his chest, very softly. Her fingers were long, her nails coloured a light pink and perfectly manicured. She drew her fingers up to his neck.
"Where is your shirt, you naughty boy?"
The boy looked nonplussed, ready to burst into tears. He fumbled with his words. "I...I...don't know....I am sorry, Ma'am...."
The woman laughed in a thin, tinkling, treble.
"What is your name? How did you come into my room?"
"I...I...don't know, Ma'am.... I must be a very bad boy....I don't know what I am doing here....I was outside....I swear...."
"Baddy, Baddy," she crooned to him softly, "you must be punished." She laughed in a crystalline, metallic way. Her eyes glinted in the soft lighting. Imperceptibly she shuffled her feet out from under her. A long, smooth stretch of leg, a shapely calf, and a perfectly round kneecap revealed themselves.
Baddy felt perspiration breaking out on his forehead. He didn't know where to look. The woman still held his hand. She pulled her face nearer to his. She put her fingers behind his neck, drawing him closer, "Do you want to be my friend?" Her voice was a deep and husky whisper. He looked up, confused and
startled. There was something oddly familiar about her. He began to feel very aroused and very uncomfortable.
The woman pulled his hand to herself and put it under her dress. Tremblingly, his fingers felt her breast, its wondrous contours. It felt warm and full, like a small puppy inside a blanket. It heaved up and down gently. He could now feel her breath, he could smell her. Her sweat, her perfume, her sex mingled, seeping into him, dazing him. He swooned in her arms.
He began to feel an uncontrollable tension between his legs. He felt weak. There was something hard and uncomfortable throbbing inside his underwear, pushing, pushing at his shorts. He was aching. He felt a sharp pain and he moaned.
"A-h-h-h-a," the woman whispered. She dragged his hand lower, lower, lower, down her soft, undulating abdomen, over the intimate dent of her navel, down, down, down, into a warmer, dangerous, unknown, forbidden, zone, lower and lower...
"No, no, no," he said, "please, please. I want to be a good boy. I want to be good and clean..."
"Y-y-es, yes, ahaha..." she countered, pulling him lower. He felt his fingers inside a hot, ripe fruit, whose skin had burst. His fingers were soiled. The skin of the fruit was rough and scaly like that of a custard apple, but the inside was soft and sticky. He felt her hands grip his in a tight urgent grip. His fingers hurt from the pressure. Up and down, she moved his fingers, up and down, again and again, faster and faster....
He opened his eyes in panic to find the woman's face close to his. She had opened her mouth. Her lips, painted red were drawn back, revealing a deep, cavernous, pink opening. He felt his legs thrashing like fish out of water. He screamed but only a small squeaky sound emerged, thin and scratchy.
The woman laughed harshly.
"Now you're bad, you're bad, you're bad," she intoned like some mantra.
"No, no, no. Let me go...please...." he gasped.
She laughed again, hoarsely, huskily. "Look at me," she demanded, pulling up his face, her fingers under his chin, "do you still want to leave?"
He looked up, confused and frightened. The face was vaguely familiar. The perfect features, the styled hair, the dusky eyes, the painted lips....
"W-w-ho-w-ho are you?" he asked.
"Don't you recognize me? Everyone knows me..."
He felt a horripilation as she revealed her identity. A thrill ran down his spine. He felt frightened, panicked. He began to stare at her like a dumb, unseeing zombie...
Her mouth closed on his. He felt exhausted. His underwear was soggy. It was as if someone had dipped it in honey. He felt a huge sweetness overpower his crotch, a touch of soft silk on his organ, drawing out a long, shudder of happiness from him. His body was limp. He found himself drifting into a dreamless, peaceful sleep.
Next morning when I awoke I felt a huge, damp patch on my bedsheet. Embarrassed, I reprimanded him, "Look Baddy, look at what you've done."
Just then my mother knocked and entered. "Get up, Rahul, you're late for school."
"I'm sorry, Ma. I had a bad dream. Look, my sheet too is...er...spoiled." I gave her a helpless and appealing look.
She looked embarrassed as she hurried out. "Don't worry, that's all right. I'll get it cleaned right away."
"It's all Baddy's fault," I explained patiently.
"Huh?" she paused for a minute before slamming the door behind her.

 
  Copyright © 2005 - Makarand Paranjape