Istanbul Noir - Mustafa Ziyalan [23]
He was about to unleash another punch when he thought better of it. It occurred to him that he had never talked with a real woman, besides his mother. If it were a woman standing across from him, and not a man who looked like a woman, would he still beat her? Would he still have run to the woman’s rescue if he’d known when she was being beaten that she wasn’t a woman, not really? He didn’t know, his mind couldn’t handle it, couldn’t process it. He’d let his stepfather, his prey, that bastard, he’d let him get away! And for what, for who?!
“Come on, let’s make up, sweets,” the transvestite said, extending her hand.
His fists landed on her shoulders. The look in her eyes said she’d put up with anything, anything from him; with each blow to her shoulders she took a step back, but she didn’t resist. She didn’t say a word.
“Get the fuck out of here … Go! Don’t get me messed up in your fucking bullshit!”
Late that night, he lay in a cold bed in another bachelors’ room when his dick, the existence of which he was almost completely oblivious to except for when he had to pee, stood straight up in some kind of rebellion. It was screaming, defying him like some neglected child. The transvestite’s thick lips, painted blood-red, her sullen eyes peering out from beneath those long lashes, her legs shining beneath the streetlamp, her panties and ass peeking out from beneath the skirt that rode her hips, were all frighteningly real, right there before his eyes. That look she’d given him, as he’d been shoving and tormenting her, he thought it might rip a hole in his thin skin. Perturbed, he rolled over.
There he was, never having slept with a woman, never even having held a girl’s hand, and though there were dozens of female models, singers, artists that he could be dreaming of, it was the dream of some faggot that had awoken his lust, and this infuriated him. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t banish those stubborn thoughts from his mind, couldn’t make his cock, which stood rock-hard before him as if to question his authority, submit to his will. A saying he’d heard during his military service came to mind just then: A soldier is like a cock: If you pet it, it stands up; if you beat it, it sits down. As the image of the transvestite danced before his eyes, he wanted to beat the shit out of his dick. But his sperm sought release; it wouldn’t stay put. In a huge explosion, the sound of which he could have sworn he heard, he came onto the transvestite’s face, his liquid flowing in streams like blood from a bullet wound. As the semen, its stifling scent rising to his nostrils, flowed down between the transvestite’s fake eyelashes, her entire body trembled in small spasms.
The next night, he had positioned himself at the corner of the street where the hotel was, feeling the malice in his bones, and the switchblade in his pocket, when he took a nasty blow to the neck and fell to the ground. Before he could even open his eyes, two thugs had beaten him unconscious, sending him on a slow descent into a deep well, lulled by a barrage of expletives.
In a dream, wrapped in tulle-like desire, he was innocently kissing and sucking his mother’s breasts, as he lay on her chest. Until the warm, peaceful dream was interrupted by the pain in the back of his neck and a salvo of bitter curses.
When he opened his eyes, he couldn’t tell right away if he was in the lap of reality or still in the lap of the dream. A hand with long red fingernails was wiping away his tears. His head was on the chest of the transvestite he’d wrestled with the other night, and his hand was on her breast. He looked at the transvestite’s large hands, her blond hair, and her eyes, both excited and content, radiating the confidence of a lover who only a few hours before had unveiled her repertoire of sultry games. Then he saw the transvestite’s naked body, and the shriveled cock in a mass of long pubic hairs. When he saw that he, too, was naked, he leapt out of bed. He wasn’t dreaming!
When had he gotten naked? Who had he ever shown