HUNGRY FOR PAIN - PART 2My Life as a Rubbish Bin
THE OIL RIG WORKER
The next guy I met was a huge oil rig worker with charmingly crooked teeth. When I came to his house I was surprised that it was pretty neat and orderly. He had a bunch of dress shirts hanging from a rod out in the open, but they were all pressed. It was a little apartment at the very top of the building, big Union Jack on the wall, a sad-looking treadmill. His dinner table had a big box of assorted tea bags which kind of made me want to laugh. He had a lot of records. I glanced through them, and he was impressed that I knew who A Certain Ratio was. We kind of got on right away, he was talkative. I asked him about his job, he told me about what he did, his family, showed me a picture of him with a mohawk as a 14-year-old.
He chain smoked and drank vodka straight from the bottle.
And then 10 minutes later we were in the bathroom where he took my whole body and threw me into the shower corner, then pulled me up by my hair, but in a terribly awkward way so that I was neither standing nor kneeling. He had really big hands and they came up the side of my face and slapped me, over and over.
He had a pretty good speed going and got a bit out of control, splitting my lip. He took the end of my hair, yanking and forcing my head back and forth and then pushed me back, lifted my chin, and brought me in closely and spat on my face. He thrust his hand to my neck and chin and slammed me into the wall, I slipped a little, and he just slammed my head into the wall, again and again. He picked up a wooden slat, broke it over his knee and came closer and started whacking blows that propelled me forward. Those left marks and I didn’t sit down for quite a few days.
THE YOUNG GUY
I was in London when I was dragged to a horrible bar by a friend where some guy actually stuck his hand up my dress and felt my ass. I was drunk, and it felt kind of good, and he was cute. Sort of. He was working the London street kid look hard. He was like, “Do you want to go to my place?” but had to repeat it about five times because his English accent was so heavy I could not understand anything he said. I went with him not really knowing why. We waited for a taxi. I felt worse and worse. I figured I was probably going to throw up now or on the way. When we got to his apartment, it was the most abandoned, industrial-looking complex I’d ever seen and I seriously thought he might kill me. It was a strange feeling. When I came in the door, he slammed it behind him and tore my dress off and started ripping away his own clothes. Then he literally screamed at me in this heavy accent. I was drunk and I think both of us were passing out, because I recall being roused by the sound of him screaming and pulling me around. Then suddenly he started to put it in my ass. It hurt and I yelled at him, but he ignored me. I was kind of feeling like I was getting raped or something, because he wouldn’t let me move and wouldn’t stop pounding me. It was like this really sharp pain and whenever I tried creeping away he’d start screaming in his accent at me. When he finally stopped, after a couple hours of this, he pushed me away, and the bed was covered in blood. I wasn’t right for about five days, physically or mentally. He told me to go, and I missed the last train home and had to take a taxi and it cost a fortune.
I don’t know why I don’t want what other girls want, the stability, the boyfriend. I have no need or sensation of wanting to own anyone in that way, or want anyone in my way. It’s a lot more intense to meet strangers, it’s stupid, it’s naïve, it’s dangerous, yeah, it’s all of these things. But only when I’m in the presence of this intensity, only then can I get a release. It’s not about the orgasm.
It’s a licence to be whatever you want, do whatever you want, cancel your past and your future.
You just walk away.
MARY MUSTAPHA as told to VICE STAFF
HUNGRY FOR PAIN | 1 | 2 |
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