Bear Eats Girl

The first pornographic images I ever saw were in a magazine my father had stashed in his sock drawer. I was 11 years old, and they had finally let me stay at home after school without supervision. I rummaged through everything in those days, from the bowels of the dank basement to all of the boxes in the stifling hot attic. But it was my father's drawers that always offered the most interesting in finds. I think it must have been a Hustler magazine but maybe not, maybe it has just come to be that in my memory. At any rate it was that type of girly mag with every page featuring a glistening and impossibly well-groomed, pink slit belonging to an equally impossibly flawless young beauty, who proudly displayed it for the viewer, in this case, for my wide unbelieving eyes.

I knew that the center photo spread of a woman being eaten out by a bear, yes a real, live bear, was oddly exciting, and completely forbidden. Not just for me, but especially for the ecstatic woman in the images. I knew enough about sex that you weren't supposed to have it with other girls or with bears. I guessed that no body had ever told her this. She was spreading honey on herself in order to entice the bear to lap up the gooey meal that she was offering. Sweets for the sweet. Naked as the day she was born, spread eagle she lay, seemingly so vulnerable, while a full grown bear's head was buried between her legs, its long warm tongue attempting to lick her dry.

The set was faux in the way that the original Star Trek sets were faux: obviously. It was porn for Baudrillard, that Sargeant of Simulation, but then again, what porn isn't? Simulation for stimulation. There was a large boulder, probably paper masier, a wooded image for a backdrop, and a few scraggy fake trees. A romantic camping trip gone really awry, or perhaps, judging by her expression really well.

In hindsight, there really was no mystery as to why this was the volume that landed in my father's sock drawer, nestled under hills of thick wool socks. The kind with the bright red stripe at the top, they were his favorite hunting socks. His intense romance with Mother Nature never ended, but continued until the day he died. It was a twisted and complex love affair, and like many relationships, there was a thick vein of brutal lust at its molten core.

"I'd like to kill those fuckers!" It was a muffled declaration, but still clear as day. The flock of ducks was fore grounded against a bright blue fall sky. The golden light suffused everything. The river was oblivious to it all. He quickly fast-forwarded through the video tape that he was showing me. He was proud of his new contraption, a video camera, and how expertly he wielded it. It was another weapon in his hunting arsenal, but he had forgotten that it is also captured him, trapped him, and revealed much more beyond his cinematography skills. He did have a good eye, and as his health failed him, and he could no longer draw a bow back or hold a shotgun to chin long enough to properly site his target, his cameras, more and more became his weapon of choice.

© Tyra Bombetto

Worst Case Scenario

The book said that the best way to get rid of worry was to accept the worst-case scenario. As I button my shirt and begin the day, I ponder all of the possibilities, the worst-cases. My mind spins. I sit heavily on the edge of the bed, my head in my hands. The mattress compresses. I have to push myself back in order not to slide off and onto to the dingy, carpeted floor. As I touch the bed, the cool, smooth promise of the polyester bed-spread gives way and its true nature emerges. It catches on my calloused hands. Like nails on a blackboard, I shudder every time.

This scene has become familiar, too familiar. I frequently find myself in such places, thinking such thoughts. Alone in dark, dank rooms lit by a single band of sunlight flooding through a gap in the heavy curtains, its promise abandoned. Only the dust is illuminated. It is thick and hovering, transformed into a golden physicality. Finally achieving some status in the world.

I find myself envious of the dust.

Staring at the floor, the lack of light plays tricks with my eyes. The carpet seems to shift and then shake, as do my hands. I try to hold still and consider the task at hand: accept the worst-case scenario. A fly buzzes somewhere nearby. It is almost deafening. Accept the worst-case. Accept the worst.

I get up slowly. The bed creaks and springs back to its natural incline. Without looking back, I walk to the door and open it. Light floods in; it is blinding.

© Tyra Bombetto