Hot Blood: Tales of Erotic Horror

MEAT MARKET John Skipp and Craig Spector

A rustling on sheets. The sliding of flesh over flesh, softly merging. Wetness, spreading slowly from the center of the bed. All motion. All flow.

Above, always above, the clock is ticking. Ticking off seconds that turn into hours. Slicing time into measured increments with a sound that cuts like a scalpel's blade. Cutting staccato gashes across the near-perfect stillness of the room.

They try to ignore the ticking. To be lost in the motion.

And the flow.

When Doreen left him, Tom Savich was in some serious pain. His chest ached. His balls ached. His spine felt as though it had been yanked out, bone by knobby bone, then sewn back in the wrong way. His guts felt mangled and ravaged from the inside. His eyes burned. His lips chapped and bled.

In his brain… in all the soft places where he stored his memories of her, his estimates of her worth, his plans of a future together… there were black, puckered holes. They bled so tangibly, so profusely, that he found himself wondering when all thought would be drowned and buried by the copious flow.

Once again: he was in some serious pain.

It was painfully obvious. Anyone could tell that he'd just been hit, and hard. They stayed away in droves: the women, particularly. Tom found that he really could not blame them a bit. He knew how unappetizing he looked.

So he toughed it out. He waited for the wounds to scab over and heal. He gave himself the time and the solitude he needed to recover, to get his bearings, to go out and love again.

It took about a month.

And then his friend Jerry called up to ask if he felt like hitting Dio's after work on Friday. Maybe pick up a couple of sweet little pieces.

"What can you lose?" Jerry asked.

"Everything," he replied. "My heart. My mind."

"Name of the game," Jerry said.

Moving, now. The ticking, forgotten. Nothing but the waves of passion and immersion. Rushing over them, now, with mounting fury.

As they move.

Tom Savich thought about it. He gave it some intense consideration. The idea simultaneously attracted and repelled, which was pretty much what he had come to expect, considering how much emotional baggage he was carrying around with Dio's name written all over it.

Because Dio's was the pickup spot in the garment district, the stretch of Manhattan that gave Fashion Avenue its name. It was the place where hawkers of overpriced clothing went after hours to find their partners for the night. It was the place where business and pleasure, predator and prey came together in an atmosphere of dim light, alcohol and smoky haze to consummate their endless affairs.

It was the place where Tom first met Doreen, in fact. And Kirsten. And Molly. And the one before that. And the one before that. Ad infinitum. It was the place where he had always gone when the need became too great, because it was designed to meet such needs, and it had never failed him.

The question is, he told himself, do I really need it that badly? It was not a question that could be answered rationally. It could only be measured in terms of scar tissue and hunger. How much of one, to appease the other? And was it really worth it?

In the end, Jerry persuaded him. It wasn't that hard. Tom Savich had gone a month without. He had pulled himself back together, admirably, from a nasty piece of circumstance. The hunt must go on. If he wanted it, all he had to do was go out and get it.

And as it turned out, he really did want it very badly.

More than that: he needed it.

Inside, now. Dark. Deep. Firm parts over firm parts touching soft soft parts, probing deeper. Pushing, pulling. Into each other.

While the clock. Is ticking. Ticking.

Overhead.

Inside Dio's, insanity reigned. By 6:30, there was no more room to stand. Warm bodies vying not only for attention, but for a square foot of floor space to call their own. Large color screens curled over the corners, flashing jump-cut images of perfectly undulating flesh. The big neon clock over the entrance swept round and round, reminding all players of the need for speed. From the balcony, Dio's looked like an army ant farm: a swarm of expensive suits and low-cut blouses, limbs and backs and faceless heads, swaying with the beat, crawling all over each other.

"It's a jungle down there," Tom said. "I'd forgotten what a jungle this is." His eyes flickered between the videos above and the spectacle below and the sweeping, glowing hands; his drink sat, unattended, on the table before him. He might as well have been talking to himself.

"You're just wired, Tommy." Jerry, too, was staring over the rail; but he grinned, white teeth showing under the flat gleam of his eyes. "You just need to loosen up some. Get your thumb out of your ass. This is supposed to be fun, remember?"

"Yeah, right." Down below, somebody had finally scored with the gorgeous blond by the cash register. A dozen men turned despondently to look for other prey. Tom Savich felt suddenly very tired. Of it all. He sighed deeply. The clock swept round. The bodies writhed. The music throbbed on.

"Listen. Killer." Jerry's tone was derisive, a wee bit impatient. "I'm not going to babysit you, man. If you're bound and determined to have a miserable time, there's no sign up saying you have to stick around. I just thought you had yourself patched up better than that." Tom looked over sharply, stung. "I just thought you were ready to get over that shit."

"It's just…" Tom knee-jerked, suddenly on the defensive. He found that he couldn't look at his friend for a moment; there was something in Jerry's expression… something ugly and feral… that made him distinctly uncomfortable. "It's just that this place is such a meat rack, man. I…"

"Oh. And you're above that sort of thing, I take it." Jerry laughed. Tom felt stupid. Jerry continued. "Come on, Savich. Cut me a break. The Virgin Mary has never been your patron saint. I've been in this bar with you more times than…"

"It's just been a long time," Tom countered. "And I don't see anything that really gets me going. And I just can't seem to feel it."

"Well," and now Jerry sat beaming like a Buddha, convinced that he'd finally broken through. "You might want to start by finishing your goddam drink," he said, indicating the untouched glass on the table. "A few more of those, I'm gonna start lookin' good to you!"

And it was true: at least halfway. Though Tom made it clear that Jerry would always be an ugly sucker, he did find that Dio's became far more appetizing about two drinks down the road. He began to loosen up. He began to have fun. He began to ignore the dull pangs that went off, deep within.

And that was, of course, when he spotted her.

Building up. Sharp breaths. Sharp movement. In. Out.

In. Out. Consuming.

The wet spot, slowly growing in the center of the bed.

Her name was Linda. She said that she worked for Murjani, International. "I wanted to be a model," she continued, "but they told me I was too short. So now, instead of modeling clothes on the cover of Vogue, I hustle 'em in the showroom."

"That's a damn shame," he told her. "I mean it." And he did. She must have been tremendous as a kid, he thought. When she was fresh. Wish I could've been there.

That would have been some fifteen years ago. Linda wasn't a kid anymore. Very faintly, he could see the scars that the years had left on her. She'd borne them well. She was still a looker. And there was something tough about her… a worldly wisdom, a sense of having learned to survive… that he found very appealing. With Linda, he knew, there'd be no need for bullshit and fancy dances. She wouldn't stand for it. It made him happy.

He wanted it to be with her.

Perhaps they'd find it.

In each other.

Moaning, now. Breath coming in firebursts. Backs arching. Eyes flashing. Teeth glistening. Loins pounding. As the climax builds.

And the moment draws near.

And the clock slices holes in the night.

They spoke for a while, of a number of things. Her eyes were large and dark and penetrating. Her face had a slight flush, blood tip-toeing gingerly to the surface. When she smiled, her lips were red and full. They made themselves clear.

She wanted it as badly as he did.

After that, there was nothing left to say.

Hoarse cries in the darkness. The animals, revealed. Flesh sliding over flesh over tensed muscles, writhing.

As he nibbles at her throat.

And she digs into his back.

And the rhythm drags them forward, like the pounding of their blood. Like the ticktock scalpel slashing at the warm body of Time.

While the wet spot grows. And grows. And grows.

They went to his apartment on Riverside Drive by taxi, nuzzling each other and the hip-flask that she carried in her bag. The pain was gone now… the hunger firmly in its place… and all seemed propelled by a drunken exhilaration, pounding through him like a thousand primitive drums.

And then they were in the apartment, where they quickly dispensed with formalities, as well as their clothing. He was startled, but not surprised, by the red gash that ran the length of her soft underbelly, dwarfing the scores of other old wounds that pock-marked her flesh.

Tom Savich glanced down at his own scars for a moment: some as recent as Doreen, some dating back to his very first piece in high school, all those many years before. Some of them gleamed whitely, like bleached bones, like that fabled picket fence; others blushed red, embarrassing memories that he didn't want to think about. Not now. Not now…

And then he was looking at her again, as she moved toward him. Memory drowned in the sight of her body; the sagging breasts, the tightening nipples, the hips that undulated in a dance as old as the first woman, converging with the first man, on the day of the birth of human hunger.

And as they descended on the bed together, he only knew that it was all right. That the past was irrelevant, as irrelevant as the future, in the face of the moment itself.

It was only natural.

Now.

The first scream. Ten thick grooves, carving lengthwise down fleshy expanse. Jaws, clamping down. A hot spray. Muffled howl.

Taste of meat, raw and steaming. An audible tearing away. Head, whipping from side to side while its mouth bellows agony. Twists with rage. And attacks.

In the moment.

In the flow.

While the clock ticks off seconds that slice like razors into the soft parts that no claw could reach, no tooth impale, no casual glance reveal.

And the dark wet tendrils stream outward from the center of the bed…

Linda was gone when he awoke. It was better that way. It was hard enough to face his own wounds, in private. He didn't want to see what he had done.

She had left very few traces of herself behind. A bit of blood, on the bathroom floor. She was meticulous. He was glad. It meant that she still had her presence of mind; she would be okay; she would make it.

Of course, there was still the bed. There would always be the bed.

Later, after breakfast, he would definitely have to burn the sheets.

And put on clean ones.

For the next time.