Mark Antony Rossi | December 7th

Call me strange but I expected much more from making love to a woman in a German castle. I don’t mean fireworks or lurid fantasy scenarios. We did the deed in a prison cell. Maybe the location should have no bearing on my expectations.

Something seems different. Nothing I can put a paranormal finger on. No ghostly specter interrupted coitus. No guilt reared its intrusive head. Neither party was committed to another person. In essence we were free to frolic sky-clad under an amber crescent. And we did.

But the experience caused a psychological pause. Her moans echoed in my dreams like a lousy eight track tape. Nocturnal emissions are not my strong suit. Good sex to me is like good writing, you do it; you don’t dream about it. Nevertheless a change has occurred in my demeanor.

I do not want to see her anymore. I am not hurt or disappointed. I am shut off by a force beyond my comprehension. In the morning my soldier would not rise to the occasion. Not in the mood to drink or target practice with my gun. My metal music on digital discs has no effect. I power down the stereo and sit alone in the living room. A cigarette burns to the filter on the coffee table.

At the edge of my eye I see the airport brochure lying on the carpet. And I flash back to the interrogation office a few weeks ago. Two East German women recounted their daily lives of ritual rape and long food lines. I made the stories part of my report. Yet I felt nothing more than the academic exercise of completing a profile.

I buried my revulsion and started lunch on expense account with a full view of lovely stewardesses passing by in tall stockings. I thought I left those interviews at the airport. It’s damn sure inconvenient yet somehow their evil content has followed me home. I need my life back or at least an erection in the morning. Shit.