by Don Hall

HE WENT COMPLETELY BLIND IN BOTH EYES THE SECOND HE LOOKED INTO HERS. No one had an explanation for it. His friend drove him, panicked, to the Emergency Room the night of the reception. The doctor kept him overnight and, after a battery of tests, still had no reasonable diagnoses. No stroke. No physical problem with his eyes. They merely ceased functioning the moment she had looked up and over her drink at him.

It took him a few months to finally accept two things: he would never see again and that the last image in his mind was her face. She was sympathetic. Once a week, she'd swing by his place, pick him up, and take him on walks through the city, describing things he could remember but would never actually see again.

"What's that sound?" he asked as she guided him across the street.

"Busker. Saxophone."

"And that?"

"C'mon. At least try."

"OK. That's... kids playing soccer?"

"Right! Now another!"

"I hear... a pretty girl walking a blind guy around."

"Did you practice that line or just come up with it on the spot? And how would you know I'm pretty?"

"Last thing I saw was your face. You'll always be that beautiful to me."

She took a hard look at him. He wasn't bad looking. He wasn't abusive—she'd asked around about him before deciding to take him on walks around the city—and she had been involved in a string of abusive men. The last lover she had escaped from she found to be amazing in bed but such a drag on her, such an antagonistic self esteemed-deprived representative of so many men she found herself attracted to, that she couldn't trust her judgment anymore. The equation began to form in her mind that posited the more physically enamored she was of a man, the more likely he would be a bit of a monster.

This last guy was still in her life. She was done with him—when he trashed her bike out of jealousy she decided that the balance between his horse cock and having him continue to fight to control her had tipped. She was looking for someone else to replace him as she had when she hooked up with this asshole.

The one before was a photographer of pornography and the allure of that lifestyle fed her almost addictive need for sexual conquest and feelings of value based almost entirely on her physical beauty. The problem became that she was only an object of sex to him and then he got bored and stopped acquiescing to her feminine power over him. So she found a guy twelve years older than her in a Borders Bookstore, a man so wounded that he was thrilled that a porn model would deem him worth her time, and jumped into a sexual circus with him. Only until she felt comfortable with the new guy did she dump the photographer—covering her bets.

She knew how fucked up her life seemed. Sometimes she even felt an unrelenting stream of nihilism that left her wondering what difference anything she did meant. These men, so used to dominating women in their lives, deserved to be used up and discarded. They were just old, horny assholes, desperate for a sign that they were relevant in a world that treated everyone as anything but essential.

So, she took a long look at her blind friend. He didn't view her as a sexual object but as a person. He couldn't focus on her physical features because, unlike most men, he couldn't see that part of her. Funny that, despite his instantaneous blindness, he didn't seem needy. He had kept his job and figured out how to adapt to his injury so quickly, people in his life almost forgot he was sightless. One friend told her it felt like he had always been blind, that this affliction had hit him long ago, such was his almost remarkable optimism and sense of purpose.

All of these thoughts happened in an instant. In the next instant, she decided. She would go along with her blind paramour's approach. She needed an escape and he was offering her that very thing.

"You're amazing, you know." she responded.

"You think so?"

"I do."

✶

THE FIRST TIME THEY HAD SEX, SHE WEPT LIKE AN ITALIAN WIDOW. He immediately went into the mode of comforting her. He said nothing. He held her and let her cry. He had no idea what had happened. He didn't think he'd been too aggressive as that wasn't his style nor desire. He had dated a woman once who, after a month or so, asked him to choke her during sex. He stopped seeing her because he simply couldn't deliver the kind of kink she desired.

After her sobs wound down he ventured to clear things up.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes."

"Did I do something wrong?"

"No."

He waited, If she wanted him to know what was so troubling, she'd tell him without his prompting.

A few minutes passed and she decided to lie to him.

"It's just that so many of my hook ups have been one night stands. So many of my relationships start this way and they never work out. I don't want that for you and I."

The truth she kept from him was that the sex wasn't right. She didn't feel that spark, that ineffable natural animal gratification. She was struggling with how important that was to her, whether or not she could compromise this lack of electricity with the gentle and kind nature of this man. She'd always settled in the other direction which provided great sex with an unsafe and antagonistic coupling.

This man, lying next to her, would never try to smother her with a pillow or ask her to dress up like 'Hello Kitty' to satisfy some twisted fantasy. This man would not hurt her, demean her, or make her feel less. This man would also never scratch that itch of her overactive libido.

So, she lied.

She was right about this man. Instead of a typical male reaction, a petulant demand for satisfaction, he got up, put a blanket around her, put on his boxer shorts, got her a glass of water, and sat with her. He said nothing. He simply was present and comforting.

After what seemed liked an hour but was probably ten minutes, he asked "What is that sound?"

"That's the music from the bar around the corner. I'm sorry for the way I am."

"Never apologize for who you are. I love you exactly as you are. Wouldn't change a single thing."

She smiled.

✶

THEY WERE MARRIED WITHIN FOUR MONTHS.

She discovered quickly that his blindness, while a disability and an increased amount of caretaking for her, also gave her a certain amount of permission to be exactly who she was without judgment.

He was self sufficient (he navigated blindness better than most sighted people lived and was even then twice as productive) so she had freedom she hadn't experienced in a relationship before. He wasn't jealous or controlling. He was a bit like a dog—always thrilled when she was present, rarely complaining, wagging his tail for any little kindness she provided.

He was, for her, the perfect husband. Loving, supportive, unquestioning. "Do you trust me?" she'd ask once a week.

"Of course I do. Why wouldn't I? Should I not?"

"I don't know. Maybe you shouldn't. I'm not a stable person. I love chaos and I kind of like creating it just to see what happens. I don't know if I'm entirely worthy of trust."

"Stop being so hard on yourself. Trust is given, not earned. I give you my trust without question. Besides, if you decide to lie to me there isn't anything I can do to change or influence that choice. I mean, I'm freaking blind!" And he laughed.

Yet she was still unfulfilled. She wanted to be lusted after, to be prey to the kind of men who fetishized her. She understood that kind of power over men. Her husband was not susceptible to that sort of control and, she imagined he might not be even if his eyes functioned.

"What are your plans for tonight?"

She lied again. "I'm just going to the bar around the corner to grab a drink and read a book."

She did go to the bar, she did order a drink, she did bring a book of erotic poetry but that's not what she was doing. She was there to feel the eyes of the hungry men in the bar. To have them clumsily try to pick her up. To flirt with them, offering the potential for a quick blowjob in their car, only to snatch it away. It gave her an ounce of that power she craved.

She discovered that her wedding band was like bait. Not a deterrent for the drinks bought for her, the hand resting on her knee hoping to creep up, but an accelerant. Turned out that presenting as unavailable to these weekend warriors was almost too tempting to ignore. Unlike her husband, these men liked the challenge of the chase, of the pursuit. To prove themselves. To later boast about the conquest.

She never slept with these men. She would string them along, high on the desire, then go back to the apartment and masturbate to the sensations she'd experienced. It wasn't the same but it managed to quell her need for the kind of aggressive sex she almost desperately wanted and was used to in her past unions.

The couple still had sex but her husband increasingly seemed unhappy about. She was as well.

"It feels like you're just looking to get laid. It doesn't feel like there's any love in it. I don't know what's wrong."

"Sometimes I just want the D! Sometimes I am just looking to get laid. You always want intimacy. Sometimes I just want someone to fuck me!"

To get him to understand, she would become more and more insistent that he treat her like an object. She became more openly sexual and challenged him. "C'mon, Vanilla! Be a man! Get it up and bone me!"

This tactic backfired as he was simply not wired to respond to that sort of admonition. He simply retreated, bought her vibrators and dildos, and avoided the subject. She had become so volatile about sex and so demeaning to him, he wondered what was wrong with him because, so often, she indicated this was his fault.

"Hey. What is that sound?"

"That's the sound of my pussy screaming! That's the sound of your limp dick crawling back into your body! That's the sound of my horniness crying out into the wilderness, hoping for some cock!"

✶

THE STALEMATE LASTED UNTIL THEY DECIDED TO LEAVE THE CITY AND MOVE SOMEPLACE ELSE. Most of the time, her sojourns to local dive bars with her books and teasing was enough. She had, however, exhausted all the dive bars and all the men. The men knew she was a tease and stopped lusting after her. Sometimes, despite being dressed like a fuck doll, she was almost wholly ignored.

She suggested they move after a night he found romantic and she found boring. The marriage of a Bull Durham romantic and a 50 Shades of Gray romantic was starting to wear on her. She was unhappy but lied when asked because it was just too much work to explain it to him. He subsequently believed things in their marriage were fine, even healthy.

As she organized the move, the opportunities of living with a blind husband started to tickle her mind. They could live anywhere. He wouldn't know the difference between living in Atlanta or London. She merely had to figure out how to mollify any potential curiosity on his part to open up her possibilities.

She had seen in a play once a scene where a blind woman was attended to by a foley artist. A foley artist was the person who, in the days of the Golden Age of Radio, provided the sound effects on-air to create the illusions of everything from crowds to street sounds. As she thought about the play, it occurred to her that she might be able to pull it off.

✶

HE SAT IN A CHAIR THAT WAS SO COMFORTABLE, HE RARELY MOVED FROM IT. His braille computer was off to his right. A table for food was on his left. She attended to his every need so all he had to do was work remotely, bring in the cash necessary to pay for everything, and relax.

He heard what he thought might be the sound of a street car.

"Honey? Is that the sound of a street car?"

She was in the corner, shuffling two pieces of metal together in a rhythmic motion. "Yes, dear." She faded the sound. "Would you like me to open the window a bit so you can feel the sun?"

"Yes. Please and thank you!"

She walked over to the sun lamp next to the wall and flipped it on.

"Oh. Yeah. That's nice." He felt the light on his face and hands. It was warm and felt good.

"You alright for now? I was thinking about going out to the park to read."

"No sweat. I'm great." And he was. Since moving to Edinburgh, he spent most of his time indoors but he didn't mind. It was rainy and wet most of the time. Once in a while, he could hear bagpipes coming from outside.

She kissed him on the mouth briefly and walked out of the room. As she started out, she took a quick look at herself in the mirror. She wearing a tight pink mini-dress that barely covered her ass. No bra so her nipples were obvious. Her make-up was on point, hair was looking good if not a bit longer than she liked. She was fucking hot.

She left the apartment and down the stairs. Once outside, she looked out into the Nevada horizon. She was still amazed at the fact that she had convinced him they were living in Scotland. Las Vegas was far more to her tastes and the parade of men, brimming with lust and money, was ever-changing. It's a tourist town, after all, and men came here to gamble, drink, and fuck.

She didn't even know (or care) if Scotland had street cars. She had purchased books on radio sound effects and could manufacture the sounds of almost anything he might want to believe. She even found a few CDs of bagpipes that she'd play on low volume from the other room for him.

It helped that he was blind and trusting. She had found herself filled with a mild disgust of him as of late. He was just so stupidly in love with her that he couldn't see that she had abandoned her previous restraint. Teasing men simply gave her less and less pleasure. Here, in the desert city, she could sleep with many men, most she'd never see again. They were all in town for the weekend and home to Iowa the following Tuesday.

She didn't really know what happiness might be but, for now, things were working. He was happily oblivious and felt taken care of—she'd even give him a handjob once in a while to make sure he felt desired. She was, perhaps not happy because living three lives was a lot of work, lest restless. She was a wife. She was an expert foley artist. And she was a single woman living a sexually liberated life in a city that did not judge her for it.

She had her cake. She was eating it, too, because why have cake if you can't enjoy it?