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From: nick_cassandra@yahoo.co.uk (Nick)
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Subject: {ASSM} The Cabinet (caution)
Date: Mon, 22 Apr 2002 00:10:05 -0400
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The Cabinet (caution)

by Nick (e-mail nick_cassandra@yahoo.co.uk)

It is, of course, quite despicable that men, who purportedly love
their wives or girlfriends, take 'erotic' pictures of them and splash
them all over the Net?  Even with the consent of these women, it seems
like a betrayal of trust to me.  In any case, what kind of consent is
required for a person to have their right to privacy and dignity taken
from them?  These are just ordinary women with ordinary lives, jobs,
even children to look after.  They aren't professional models who
appear on billboards, TV or mainstream men's magazines, for whom
living with male fantasies is an occupational hazard.

Not that that stops me seeking out those pictures.  I'll spend hours
studying them and using them to feed my own personal fantasies, my
penis comprehensively overruling my morality.

****

When the time came for me to leave home and put down roots of my own,
my mother fussed over me like a hen.  For a start, she hated the seedy
little bed-sit I found.  It suited me, but she reacted like some
over-fastidious antibody to the virus of my grimy comfort.  She would
have spirited me away back home and placed me under house arrest where
she could keep an eye on me, if she could.  As it was, she made
constant visits, equipped with her vacuum cleaner, black bin-liners
and nutritious food parcels to make sure her 'little boy' was taken
care of, as he clearly couldn't do it for himself.  I hated this,
regarding it as a breach of my human rights not to be allowed to gorge
myself on cheap burgers that would have turned my brain into a sponge,
or to leave my clothes until they evolved into a dangerous life form
of their own, before dragging them kicking and screaming down to the
launderette.

Her attitude was hardened by the fact that I chose to spend my meagre
earnings on a top-of-the-range PC, an assortment of games, and full
Internet access, before considering even getting a table to put it on.
Women, it seems, just don't understand a young mans priorities, which,
thinking about it, is probably just as well.

"For God's sake, Jerry!" she said when she saw it.  "You really need
to get your priorities straightened out.  What would your girlfriend
think?" She paused, and I just knew she was about to say something I'd
regret. "Oh, I forget, you haven't got one!" she finished snidely.

That was nasty, and it made me rebellious.  My love life, or lack of
it, was no business of hers.  Besides, this was my own place, and I
was proud of my purchase.

"Mum," I said,  "leave me alone. I don't criticise the way you live,
do I!"

She looked mildly shocked, but said nothing, so I decided to push my
luck.  After all, for once I was on my own territory.

"I mean you come here dressed like some... visiting royalty with your
face caked in make-up wearing those... those earrings...  You
embarrass me mum!"

She stared at me open-mouthed.  I don't know why I mentioned the
earrings, but now I looked at them they were pretty hideous.  Little
green jade fairies dangled from her ears like snot.

"Now listen to me, my boy," she said finally, "you'll keep a civil
tongue in your head, if you know what's good for you!"

I would have answered back, but internal alarm bells, embedded in my
psyche at the age of two, had started ringing.  A primeval sense of
self-preservation held sway, and I felt it wise to back off.  "Sorry,
mum," I mumbled.

She stared hard at me for a few moments, consolidating her victory,
then relaxed.  

Looking around, she sighed in exasperation.  "There's just nowhere to
put anything!"

I relaxed slightly, but I was still anxious to defuse any further
source of conflict.  She felt I needed to furnish my bed-sit a bit
better, and that thought set me thinking.  In one of the pictures I'd
been looking at recently, I'd noticed a familiar looking cabinet.

"Mum," I said, "you remember that old cabinet we had in the living
room years ago?"

I don't really think it was the same one, but it would have been
interesting to see.

She looked thoughtful.  "Yes, the one with the big scratch on one of
the doors.  You know, I told your father when we moved in to be more
careful with it, but he never listened.  You don't either!"

She stopped and smiled wistfully.  "You were four years old then."

"Yes," I said. "I grew up with it.  It was a part of my childhood, I
guess."

"It's unlike you to get sentimental."

I shrugged.  "It's just being away from home," I said, "you miss
things."

"Well," she said gruffly, "you're not a kid anymore, and its time to
grow up a little!"  She eyed the computer balefully.

"So what happened to it?" I persisted.

"I don't know, probably got thrown out... no, wait.  Yes, your Uncle
Simon took it."

"Has he still got it?"

"How should I know? I think you'll just have to save your money and
buy one.  I'll come down to MFI and help you choose if you like."

"No, mum, that won't be necessary."

After she left, I fired up the PC.  Now I had my own space back, and I
could relax and do the things I wanted. My instinct inspired me to do
the things I knew she would disapprove of most.  I went to my
favourite sites and started downloading.

What I don't like about the professional images of pneumatic models
with their 'come hither' smiles, is that you see only what they want
you to see.  Within set parameters, the women are chosen by a
conventional standard of beauty.  The scene is carefully planned.  The
lighting is set just so, and they are posed to show you only what the
limited imagination of the photographer can control.  This applies to
all genres from soft core erotica to what can only be described as
reference material for wannabe gynaecologists.

I do find these attractive from time to time, but for me the real
thrill comes from those pictures which are characterised by the
overexposure of white flash on a white body.  They are taken by
amateur photographers who are often so consumed with desire for their
subjects that all technique is thrown to the winds.  As a result,
there is so much more to see, if you look.

There are all kinds of women, from the dubiously young to the
grotesquely old.  Some are frankly revolting, but I'm not looking for
conventional beauty.  Beauty has already been sold to me. I have
bought it and enjoyed it, but now I want more.  I look at one woman;
her body is long and her legs are short.  Another has one breast
larger than the other.  The crinkled belly of the next shows the
battle-scars of motherhood.  All these things are supposed to be
flaws, but for me, they are the essence.

The models might be seen in the act of fingering themselves, all
eroticism lost as their sex appears as a red gash under the glare of
the flash.  In many of them there is an air of compromise.  'It has to
be tasteful', or 'I must keep my panties on'.  Most don't show the
woman's face.  I wish they would, not because I want to know who she
is, but because I want to see into her mind.  This, I suppose, is
extreme voyeurism.

This time I sought out new images, then I picked up some of the old
favourites. Finally, I started looking for the one with the cabinet in
it, but despite searching far into the night, I failed to find it.

The next day, I paid a visit to my Uncle Simon.  He is one of life's
fixers.  If you had a problem, then if he couldn't sort it for you, he
knew a man who could.  A young oriental looking housemaid took me
through to the garden of the big house that the Inland Revenue had
unknowingly bought for him.

"Jerry!" He grinned broadly, clapping his hand on my shoulder.  "This
is a rare pleasure.  To what do I owe it?  Are you looking for a job?
I'm sure I could find an opening for someone of your talent."

I don't think Simon would ever have given me a job by choice, but
being family he felt he had to offer.

"Not a job," I said, "a cabinet."

He frowned.  "A cabinet?  Antique?  Well, furniture isn't really my
scene as you know, but I do know of..."

"No, it's a particular cabinet.  Do you remember that cabinet you took
from my mother years ago? The one with the zig-zag scratch on the
door?"

"Can't say I do," he said.

"Mum gave it to you when she was clearing out all the old stuff from
the house.  It was shortly after Faye moved out."

"Ah yes," he said, "poor Faye.  You know that boyfriend of hers is
still living in that flat I found for her."

I thought of my big sister Faye, and the raging arguments she had with
my mother, which culminated in her tearful eviction from the family
household.  Simon took her in, and had let her stay in one of his
flats rent free.

I was too young to understand what the arguments were really about.
Faye's boyfriend Eric, the one Simon referred to, seemed to be at the
centre of it.  Although he was older than her, old enough to be her
father, according to mum, I couldn't see what the big deal was.  They
were always fighting about something, though, and I guessed that this
particular point of contention had been the straw that had broken the
camels back.  I did know that questioning either of them too closely
would result in their flames being turned on me, so I learned to be
content with leaving my questions unanswered.

I had to say I never liked him, but sometimes, when my mother was
angry with me, she'd tell me I was just like him. I don't know if she
knew how much that hurt, but it did.

I knew she had gone to Simon because she told me, but I was under
strict instructions not to tell mum, who, as far as she was concerned,
had gone from her life forever.  That was, apparently, fine by my
mother who insisted that I never spoke of Faye again.  As far as she
was concerned, she had no daughter.   Of course, I would meet my
wayward big sister whenever I could, but now she had moved away,
settled down with someone else, and started a family.  My mother still
didn't know she had a granddaughter, but I wasn't about to tell her.
That was up to Faye.

"I don't like the bastard," Simon continued. "Apart from anything
else, he seems to think he has some right to live rent free, as Faye
did, and it's a bugger getting money out of him.  People like him
devalue property, you know, and if I could evict him easily, I would."

"Did Faye get the cabinet, by any chance?"

"Yes, I think she did," he said, "as far as I know it's still there.
She didn't take much with her when she left."

I had never been to Faye's flat.  She wouldn't let me have the address
in case mother found out.  However, by now, I figured I could ask.
Simon scribbled it down on a piece of paper and handed it to me.

I smiled.  "Thanks, uncle Simon!"

There was no time like the present, so I went straight there.  I had
met Eric a few times, and even then the word 'boyfriend' seemed to
hang heavy.  Now, I wondered what she could possibly have seen in the
seedy, rat-like man who answered the door.

"Hi, I'm..." I started.

"I know who you are, what do you want?" he asked suspiciously.

"Can I come in?"

He looked this way and that, as if I was some kind of policeman, then
stood aside.

"I just want to know..." I said.

"It's none of your fucking business!" he hissed.

I was taken aback for a moment, then realised what he must be
thinking. 

"It's OK, I haven't come from Uncle Simon to demand..." I said.

"Did she tell you all about it, then?" he sneered, ignoring me.

"I... er, no!"  I really didn't want to get involved with Faye's
exciting love life.

I glanced into the living room.  There was the cabinet, with that
familiar zig-zag scratch.  I took it in, in those few instants, along
with the layout and condition of the furniture in that room.  The
image was filed in my head like a polaroid snap.

"Well, what are you doing here?"

I opened my mouth to answer, but he interrupted.  "Piss off!  Piss off
home then!"

I thought it was pointless to ask him about the cabinet, so I left.  I
had what I really wanted anyway.

If you look at enough web sites, you can lose track of where things
are, so easily.  I was now more determined than ever to find that
missing picture.  I skimmed thumbnails that I would previously have
inspected greedily as I searched.

Finally I found it.

There, on a worn sofa lay a woman, her legs parted, her fingers buried
in an unkempt bush of dark pubic hair.  With her other hand, she
squeezed at a milk white breast.  Her head was thrown back, and I
could make out the taut tendons in her neck.  The face was lost over
the border of the picture.

I wasn't looking at her, though.  I was peering into the background
where the intensity of the flash had faded.  There was no mistake.
The furniture was just how I'd seen it earlier, together with what had
triggered my search to start with.  The door with its familiar zig-zag
scratch told its own tale.

Of course the woman wasn't Faye, she was older for a start. I know
Faye was wild, but I liked to think she had higher standards than to
let herself be photographed like that. Perhaps his 'hobby' was why she
had left him. Even so, if the dirty sod had taken pictures of women in
the flat and posted them on the Net, I had to admit that there was a
good chance that Faye would be out there somewhere, and the thought of
seeing my sister like that filled me with horror.

Relaxing slightly, I studied the woman now.  The blue veins formed a
tracery on the underside of her foreshortened thigh, and there was a
little red pimple near her groin.  The flash picked all this out
ruthlessly, along with the dark downy hair that covered her shin. 

I savoured the quality of the image, drawing in the sense of her
essence, that these pictures yielded, and resenting, as so often, that
I couldn't see the face that would have completed her as a person for
me.

The power of the glare faded further up, as I continued probing her
with my eyes, but I could clearly see the wrinkles on her belly, and
make out a tiny mole just to the left of her navel.  I began to feel a
sense of unease, and for the first time I felt a sense of guilt at
what I was doing.  My hand on my hardened penis ceased its rhythmic
movement.  I tried to bring my reason to bear, but the unease wouldn't
diminish.  I wanted to look a way, but I needed to know why I wanted
to look away first.  I felt trapped by the picture, searching every
detail, now, for the source of my discomfort.  

Suddenly, my heart lurched, as my subconscious suspicions were
shockingly confirmed.

Although I couldn't see the face, I could see an ear.  Almost lost
against the background,  a jade fairy earring, hanging like snot from
it, was unmistakable.

END

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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