Itching and Scratching

My ex-girlfriend was a masochistic witch. I was drawn to her in the beginning by her charismatic air that only I could see and recognize as charisma. To every other person in the rooms she stepped into she had a quiet and introverted appearance, and was often ignored in bars and parties. I heard one time she stuck a small microphone up her ass which attracted the attention of many guys at our school, but some girls just happen to seem more strange than sexual when developing hobbies for anal object insertions. There were no boys in her life and I was happy to be one, since I was bored to death with the rest of the female attention I was receiving. It was more entertainment and interest than genuine affection, so when she asked me what I was doing after school one day I said “you”. The idiot seemed to be flattered by it, which I deemed a sign of low self-esteem.

At this point of time I had no idea how deep the rabbit hole went, both in the terms of her mental deviance as well as her anus, but I was willing to give it a chance and find out, rather than go home and watch TV or lie to my mum about why I smell like cigarettes. So I went to her house, which resembled a run-down shack that would disintegrate with a soft kick to the wall or a lit match on the floorboards. It wasn't the most fortunate household. It smelt sickeningly of dogs every time I went there, and I found hair stuck to the couches, bed sheets and carpets. There was no dog at the house however, never was apparently, which made me wonder what the fuck was going on. There was something strange about the place, nothing obvious enough to mention, but I would always get these itches in certain places, where I would go to scratch, but as soon as I scratch them I would find that that the itch was somewhere else, etc. For example, I would scratch the back of my head, but instead of achieving a sense of satisfaction like I would normally, I would find that it was in fact my leg that itched, and so on.

The first time at her house, she took me for a tour around the house and showed me each room with a brief description: “this is what my room looks like, this is where my father sleeps, this is where my mother sleeps...”. I never met her parents, oddly enough, but I gathered her hints and figured they didn't get along. A photo on the mantelpiece was the only description of their appearance I could get. It was a boring topic and I decided not to ask. If I didn't have to hear about them it was all the better.

So, after several months of going to her house and killing time together, it turned out she was actually fairly charming and girlish despite being the crazy slut that she was. She listened to dumb music but watched decent films, I remember, and she surprised me when she seemed to sincerely enjoy “Synecdoche, New York” when we watched it together. Anyway, I thought she was an alright chick, and sex came about several times a week which was never a bad thing.

One time, after we fucked and were lying around on the bed, me attempting to locate my itch while she tried to a tie a knot in the rubber, she asked me to hit her across the face. I stopped scratching and looked over to her with an empty head. I asked her what she said and she said it again, so I bent forward and gave her a big slap across the face. The condom flew out of her hand and splattered on the carpet. She looked up with tears in her eyes without saying a thing, and after several long seconds of silence I decided it was my cue to leave. Just as I was about to get up, however, she crawled over to me and stuck her tongue in my mouth.

Our sadomasochistic relationship continued on like this for several months. I slapped her, choked her, tripped her over with my feet. Every time she'd grab me with some immense strength that would put the local bullies to shame, and fuck me or kiss me or tell me how sexy I am.

We broke up during the summer when we had an argument over Yamataka Eye's musical credibility, and when I slammed the fly-screen door behind me it fell right off and landed on the dusty front deck. I paused for a minute wondering if I should fix it, taking more time to think about it than the first time she asked me to hit her, but decided “fuck it” and walked home. Next year we went to different universities so I never went to see her again. Besides, my bike chain was broken.