Today, I am going to talk about Antichrist. Not the apocalyptic über-villain, no sir. My very own personal flavour. This may not be very interesting for the rest of you, but I am desperately trying to collect my thoughts. Maybe. Just a little. You will have to bear with me.
So what did he do, this man, to deserve the name of a BBG (Biblical Bad Guy)? I am not really sure. He is kind in his own way, I suppose. He is relatively dependable and not easily angered. And he scares the ever living crap out of me. I mean, seriously. How is it even possible to be so frightened by a man who is not in the immediate business of trying to kill me?
We met online a few years ago, on a relatively vanilla site. Did the dance.
“Don’t be fooled by my eloquence. I am a perverted bastard. The nice kind.”
“Eloquence is the only thing that can sweep me off my feet. As for the rest, I am not convinced.”
“Read my blog entry about fantasies. It’ll give you a hint.”
“Interesting. Wonder if this might scare you away, then…”
It didn’t. Not then, not now. I was shy when we met. He laughed. Took the lead. We did not see each other again after that one night. I was not in the best of places and, as it turned out, had no room for perverted bastards. He, on the other hand, had no room for distressed and confused bitches. Occasionally, he would drop me a line. Nothing consistent, just whatever came to mind, whenever he felt like it.
“I want you to fantasize with me.”
“I’d love to force you to do it.”
“I really can’t do that.”
“I’ll pay you.”
Then six months without another word. Maybe a year. It makes no matter. Sooner or later there would be another message from him, a drop out of his stream of consciousness.
“I’ve bought a share in a tantric clinic.”
“You want to be a student?”
“If you take the course, we can offer you a job afterwards.”
Not another word. Three months. Six. Then twelve. Sixteen. I do not have his number anymore. I have stopped frequenting his profile to see what he has been up to. Just another man. Maybe he could have been interesting, but the timing was bad. It does not really matter.
“We should write a book.”
“Is that so?”
We start talking. Online, on Skype, as geography is working against us. About the book at first, where we could take it, how our different forces will complement each other. I am wary. No doubt there are possibilities in the project. It could be interesting. He scares me. I say as much and immediately regret it. He is a journalist. Thrives on conflict. His questions are direct, imploring and relentless. For a while, I avoid all venues where I might run into him. Checking Facebook becomes a speed run, quickly in and out before he realizes I am online. Skype is left to collect dust. It makes no difference. I can run, but I can’t hide. He does not even have to chase me. I am drawn back.
“What makes you want to avoid me?”
“Why are you scared?”
“How come you find it so hard to disobey me?”
“Why not give in to it?”
“Why do you deny the darkest parts of your desires?”
“Does it make them go away?”
“How can you decide what is right and wrong?”
“Are you scared now?”
“Are you aroused?”
I call him my Antichrist. Man of Sin. It amuses him. Sin does not exist, he says. Nothing is ever wrong. He contemplates becoming a priest. I fret for his parish.
Then he is gone. Days become weeks. The contact is scarce and waning. Part of me is disappointed. I had grown accustomed to his presence, invading and persistent as it was. Part of me is relieved.
I sit down to write a blog. Trying to get my thoughts in order. I wonder if he is still involved in that tantric thing, so I google him. The first ten results are from newspapers.
Journalist accused of smuggling cocaine.
Journalist taken into custody.
Journalist is tried in court.